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we should regret it, or throw any obstacles in the way from motives of compassion to one who is a perfect stranger to us. You seem to have taken quite a fancy to this haughty heiress, Max," Mrs. Dormer added with an arch smile.

"I admire her exceedingly, but admiration is not love, aunt," and Max gave a little embarrassed laugh.

in the power of preaching, hoped he had made the desired impression; but on glancing towards her near the conclusion of his sermon, this illusion was dispelled, for he detected a gleam, half scornful, half defiant, in the brilliant eyes fixed on him so intently. The sermon, like most others, did no good. The demon of pride retained possession of Eva Barrington; there was the same chilling hauteur in her manner, the same imperious look in her dark, handsome face, and Max felt that his oratorical display was in vain. However, in all his plans for doing good in

"But it may become love, Max, and I fear the poor parson of Carraghmore would have little chance of winning the proud mistress of Barrington Height." "She may not always be the heiress, the parish, she was his able supporter, her aunt."

"No," she said, coldly, "but, in that case, what a stain would rest upon her birth!"

The Rev. Max winced at this, but made no reply, and Josephine now joining them, the subject was dropped.

purse was ever open to the claims of charity, for, with all her pride, she was kind to the poor.

It was about a month after the arrival of the Dormers at Carraghmore that Josephine received an invitation one morning to spend the evening at Barrington House, and take part in some tableaux vivants got up by Sir Gerard Trevor and his cousin. This was a great event in the quiet life of Josephine, and the evening was looked forward to with intense excitement, in which Max participated not a little, for he, too, was an invited guest. The pony carriage was kindly sent by Miss Barrington for the clergyman and his cousin, and as it drove slowly up the steep approach to the house, they had leisure to admire the magnificent view its elevated situation commanded. At the pillared entrance stood Lady Trevor and her son, looking seaward through a tel

Some weeks passed on very pleasantly for the Dormers, especially for Josephine, before whom a bright new path in life had opened. At the request of Sir Gerard Trevor, Max had introduced him to his aunt and cousin, and he became a frequent visitor at the cottage. Lady Trevor and Miss Barrington made a formal call on the clergyman's family, and this acquaintance with the heiress was extremely gratifying to Josephine and particularly pleasing to Max. In their intercourse, however, the proud girl was often too supercilious, making them feel her condescension in noticing them, and the difference in their positions. This was rath-escope, watching some outward-bound veser exasperating to Max-suspecting what he did-in spite of all his admiration for the haughty beauty, and he prepared to exorcise the demon which had taken possession of her. Therefore one Sunday morning he preached an eloquent sermon on the sin of pride, describing in forcible language its sinfulness in the sight of Heaven. Eva Barrington listened with profound attention, as she always did, to the handsome clergyman's clever discourses, and he, in his simple faith

sels gliding in full sail over the calm ocean. Lady Trevor's reception of the Rev. Maxwell Butler and Miss Dormer was very courteous. She seemed much struck with the singular beauty of Josephine, and Max observed that her eyes dwelt frequently on her with a wondering expression. Once he heard her whisper to Sir Gerard: "The likeness is certainly striking, but she is handsomer than Eva.”

Among the guests was a young lady who,

as well as Josephine, had only lately arrived in the neighbourhood. She was the daughter of Mr. Crofton, the agent of Miss Barrington's estate. He also had other agencies in the county, and one of a very large property belonging to Lord Arranmore, an Irish absentee, who resided chiefly on the continent, travelling from one European city to the other in quest of pleasure, living in a constant whirl of gaiety and excitement. Miss Crofton had been residing with an aunt in Dublin for the benefit of her education. That was now said to be completed, and she had recently returned to her father's handsome home-situated a few miles from Carraghmore-highly accomplished, report said, and certainly very attractive, graceful and lady-like. She was about the same age as Josephine and Eva Barrington, but her style of beauty was different from either. Her hair was of the palest gold, her eyes a grayish blue, clear and brilliant, lighting up with every change of feeling; her complexion was clear, white and red, but the features were not regular, the nose was a little retroussé, and the mouth rather large, the lips well-shaped, disclosing, however, when she laughed, teeth of glittering whiteness. Her laugh, too, was very pleasing, its ring so merry yet so musical. The bright joyous nature of the girl had not yet been depressed by sad influences. To her "life's bitterness was still untried," and the happiness she felt showed itself on her fair young face. She was tall, with a lithe grace of movement, her rich costume-the work of a Dublin modiste-showing off her fine figure to advantage. This was Miss Crofton's first appearance in public since her return home, and she attracted considerable admiration. The Rev. Maxwell Butler was quite taken with this new face; though it had not the statuesque beauty of Josephine, or the haughty loveliness of Miss Barrington, still it possessed an indescribable charm for him. He was rather impressionable, this young clergyHe had been very near falling in

man.

love with the Juno-like heiress, but had been repelled by the chilling hauteur of her manner, which told him as plainly as words could do, that she was only to be worshipped at a distance, and he had too much good sense to pour out his homage before an unattainable idol. As there was no chance of winning the affections of the proud mistress of Barrington House, he turned his attention towards this new and less radiant star which had just risen upon the confined horizon of the little world of Carraghmore. Miss Crofton, unlike the heiress, seemed quite flattered by the attentions of the handsome parson. The evening passed pleasantly, the tableaux vivants were a great success, and Miss Barrington and Josephine looked peerless in the characters they respectively selected. But Max was not permitted to see the close of the entertainment. A summons to attend the bed of a dying parishioner obliged him to leave rather early, and he bade a reluctant adieu to the festive scene, thinking solemn thoughts as he walked along quickly in the summer moonlight, for the painful contrast between that scene of gaiety and the house of mourning he was about to enter struck him forcibly. Sir Gerard Trevor escorted Miss Dormer home, secretly rejoicing at the absence of Max, which gave him this opportunity of enjoying a tête-à-tête with Josephine. The night was one of summer beauty. A cloudless moon was flinging its brilliant light on wooded steeps and secluded glens and wild seacoast, while the restless ocean shimmered beneath the radiant beams. Slowly the baronet drove the pony phaeton in order to prolong this delightful tête-à-tête. His attentions to Josephine during the evening had been marked. There was a charm in Josephine's naïve conversation to this young man accustomed to the society of fashionable young ladies. She had cast a spell around him by the witchery of her manner as well as by her singular beauty, and forgetting her want of birth or fortune, forget

ting everything except his own passionate love, he was ready to lay himself and title at her feet, withheld only by the wish first to gain her pure, innocent affections. He wanted to be loved for himself alone-not accepted simply on account of the rank or station in society which a marriage with him would confer.

On reaching the cottage they met Max, just returned from fulfilling his painful duty at the death-bed to which he had been so hastily summoned, his manner completely sobered by the solemnity of the scene he had recently left, and his mind full of perplexing thoughts whether he had done right in being present at the gaieties at Barrington House in the previous part of the evening. Surely the life of a clergyman should be one of greater self-denial, he told himself repeatedly. Had he not felt how unprepared his mind was to face death, when called suddenly from a place of amusement to administer a solemn rite to the dying. It was the first time that anything of the kind had occurred, and Max determined it should be the last. He would accept no more invitations to scenes even of innocent recreation, but would come out from the world and devote himself to the sacred duties of his profession. Only in that way could he hope to serve God and win souls; for what influence for good can a clergyman have whose life is not unworldly and full of selfdenial?

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ing of the waves along the shore. The sun was setting, and lighting up with crimson glory the broad expanse of ocean, and touching with golden lustre the rugged summits of the tall grey cliffs.

"It's a beautiful evening, ma'am, glory be to God!"

The sudden salutation, and steps crunching the pebbly shore, made Winny turn eagerly round. A woman of respectable appearance stood near her.. Winny recognized her as one of the servants from Barrington House, Nurse Lynch as she was called. Having been Eva's nurse, she was now her most privileged domestic, as the nurse is in most Irish families. On the preceding evening, Nurse Lynch had assisted at the toilet of her young mistress and Miss Dormer when preparing for the tableaux vivants. Josephine's necklace having be come unclasped, she had asked this woman to fasten it for her. As she did so, the peculiar mark behind the girl's shell-like ear caught the nurse's attention. A low exclamation of astonishment escaped her, and her hands trembled so she could with difficulty render the little service required of her. She, as well as others, had noticed the strik ing resemblance between Miss Dormer and Eva Barrington, and this little discovery had given that resemblance a strange importance in her eyes. A deep feeling of curiosity was awakened in the woman's mind, and it was with the hope of having it gratified, and her suspicions either confirmed or removed, that she sought this interview with Mrs. Dormer's servant.

"It's mighty pleasant by the sea-side this warm evening," she continued, taking a seat beside Winny.

"Thrue for you, ma'am," was the laconic answer.

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and she so mighty purty," was Winny's cool rejoinder.

"She's from Galway, I believe?" "Yes, we come from there."

"Have you lived long with Mrs. Dormer?"

“About twenty years."

"She's a kind misthress no doubt?"
"Sorra betther from here to Dublin."
"Is Miss Dormer her only child?"

"No, she had another, but it did not live."

"All about her, av coorse," retorted Winny, rather indignantly.

"Sure, I know that, but what was it?" The tones were now more conciliating.

"Well, one day she called at our house in Galway, and axed lave to light her pipe."

"And is that all ye have to tell me about her?" interrupted Nurse Lynch, in a disappointed voice.

"If you have the patience to listen and not be snapping the words out of one's

"Then Miss Josephine is her only living mouth, you'll hear more, ma'am," rejoined child ?"

"Maybe she isn't her child at all!" said a voice, suddenly, near them; and an old woman, wrapped in a blue cloak, came from behind a huge rock, at the foot of which she had been sitting, before unnoticed.

'Do you know who we're talking about?" asked Nurse Lynch, eyeing the stranger with mingled curiosity and surprise. Winny, too, stared at the woman, having a dim perception that she had seen her face before, but where or when she could not recollect. "Is it know what you're talking about?" asked the new comer, with a contemptuous curl of her thin lip. Maybe I do, betther nor yourself, Nurse Lynch. You came down to palaver her"-with a significant nod towards Winny-" you wish to find out all about it. It's mighty puzzling, isn't it,

ma'am?"

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"Blessed Virgin! who are you at all?" The old woman smiled grimly at Nurse Lynch's astonishment. "You'll know one of these days," was the curt reply, as she turned abruptly away.

Both women watched her tall figure till shewas out of sight. Then Winny remarked she had seen her before.

"Where?" eagerly demanded the nurse. "In Galway, about ten years ago. I couldn't remimber at first where it was I seen her, but it's come to me quite sud

dint."

Winny, with an important air. "Well, as I was saying, she axed lave to light her pipe; and while she was smoking it, Miss Josephine come into the kitchen, and when the woman saw her she started and axed so many questions about her bedad, that me tongue was tired answering them. She's a cute one, I tell ye. She got round me so with her palaver, that I tould her widout maning it.'

"Tould what?" was Nurse Lynch's eager question.

"Faith, then, I'm not going to bethray the saycret the second time," said Winny, with determination; and, rising suddenly, she took up her pailful of shell-fish.

"Stop a moment! where's the hurry!" and Nurse Lynch laid her detaining grasp on Winny's arm, the eager curiosity to learn more gleaming in her gray eyes. "Sit down again, woman dear, and let us have a confab together. That's a good young man-the parson I mane. He's a kind masther, no doubt; he'll be for marrying Miss Josephine, maybe?"

"No, he won't. They're too much like. brother and sister for that," was Winny's blunt answer, as she seated herself once more, yielding to the wishes of her new acquaintance.

"Miss Josephine will look higher, perhaps?" observed Nurse Lynch, significantly. "The young baronet is greatly taken with "What's come to you? Arrah, spake her, they say; but I'm afeard there's no plain, woman."

chance of his marrying her."

"And why not?" asked Winny, sharply. "Isn't she good enough for him?"

the door, and kept at bay by a gossoon with a stout stick, lest it should dare invade

"Purty enough she is, anyhow," was the the kitchen while it was honoured with her cautious rejoinder.

"Ay, and good enough, too, why not?" said Winny, with an offended air.

"But, you see, there's a saycret about her birth," put in Nurse Lynch, quietly, with a

meaning smile.

ily.

presence.

"Sure it's glad I am to see you intirely, ma'am ; and how is the young misthress and the quality up at the house ?”

While Nurse Lynch was replying to this question, the gaunt, weird figure who had so

"Who said there was," asked Winny, test- abruptly accosted her on the sea-shore passed

"Yourself, woman alive; sure there's no use in getting so angry about it."

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Well, if there is a saycret, it's none of your business, ma'am," retorted Winny, stiffly, as she rose to her feet; and bidding Nurse Lynch a cold good evening, she turned abruptly away.

"She's cuter than I thought," was the nurse's mental observation as she stood watching Winny's sturdy-looking figure hastily retreating in the direction of the cottage. She felt irritated at being baffled in her attempts to get at the truth about Miss Josephine's birth. "There was a saycret in it, anyhow, that wasplain enough," she told herself, exultingly. Winny had let that out unknown to herself. Her suspicions were not groundless. That conviction was so much gained, at any rate, and she hoped yet to ferret out the whole affair. That strange woman in the blue cloak had said she would know all about it some day. But who was that woman, and what had she to do at all in the matther? what concarn was it of hers? It was all mighty quare intirely, and as she returned slowly to Barrington House, she pondered deeply upon all that had been said on the sea-shore that summer evening.

On her way home she stopped to rest awhile at a cabin on the roadside, and have a chat with Nance Dillon, the "dacent" woman who owned it. Nance felt herself highly honoured by a visit from Nurse Lynch from the big house. The best chair was carefully dusted before it was offered to the welcome visitor, and the pig was driven from

the cabin door, and she eagerly inquired who she was.

"That's Dinah Blake, the Lord be good to her, the craythur!" was Nance Dillon's pathetic answer.

"She's a sthranger in these parts. I never remimber seeing her afore."

"Och, she isn't a sthranger at all, ma'am. She used to live here onct in her life—that was afore your time, Mrs. Lynch. Indeed she was a sarvint up at the big house when the ould masther lived there long ago. But when the black throuble darkened her door, she left the counthry all of a suddint, and never showed her face here for many a day. She is come back agin, but I'm thinking she won't stay long. She'll be off on the thramp agin in no time. The grief about poor Nora turned her head, and sure no wondher.” "Who was Nora, and what happened to her ?"

"A young daughther of Dinah's that went to her grave in shame and sorrow. She lies beyant there in St. Bride's this many a year.”

"And what became of her child ?—she had one, I suppose?" asked Nurse Lynch, with eager curiosity. A new light was dawning upon the mystery that perplexed her.

"It died, Dinah said; and sorra word more could anybody get out of her about it."

"Are you sure it died? Can the woman's word be depinded on ?"

"Faith, I dunno; but that's what she said, anyhow."

"How long is it since she left here ?" was Nurse Lynch's next query; the subject seemed to interest her.

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