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borrowed dogs and horses, accepted with unhesitating condescension presents of fowl, butter, everything the Madam's generosity prompted her to send; but when they had shooting parties, her father (when alive) had not been asked to join them, and they made it evident that they were standing on different rungs on the ladder of life. The girl exaggerated this grievance, and gave a great deal of unnecessary thought to the impression she made on them. She pictured them laughing and mocking her and those belonging to her as mountaineers, when in reality their aristocratic relatives never gave them a thought, once the necessity of making use of them was past.

It may be remarked en passant that those people who want for nothing get a good deal for nothing. The hospitality they accept and the use they make of their poorer relatives would jar upon one's sense of justice, only that the poorer relatives seem to be repaid by the mere fact of proximity, and the gratification of being seen in conjunction with them.

We adore fine people.

With what unerring instinct we can trace relationship to the Marquis of Bullion. How difficult it becomes when the blood current leads to Mickey O'Rourke the butcher, who is also a cousin in the fourth degree.

The Madam's family, besides Ethna, included Nora, the child of her dead eldest daughter, a rosy, merry little lassie of five, who was on the best possible terms with the animal creation. She swung out of the dogs' necks; squeezed, and dressed the cats in antimacassors, got under the cow's legs at milking time, was knocked down by the skipping lambs; and held up her little fat hands to be placed on the horses when they were taken to water. She toddled every where-down to the well with the maid, the wooden bowl rattling in the can, riding on the grass-forks when they were being drawn across the meadow into the barn, where the regular beat of the flail was music to her ears, and where she hid from her little attendant in the yellow straw,-out to the dairy from which she issued triumphant with a little pat of butter on her own plate, which she bore across the yard with supernatural caution until the big turkey-cock approached her with unholy gobbles, and her screams brought her help. She was but a baby when her mother died; the Madam had taken charge of the little one, and she was soon a necessary element in the establishment. Between the Madam and her son-in-law existed the strongest affection and confidence.

Mr. Taylor was an attorney in the neighbouring town; an upright, honourable man, who was universally esteemed. He was fortunate enough to be in easy circumstances, as he had a very excellent practice. In the second year of his widowhood his mother-in-law counselled him as to the advisability of a second marriage; his home was lonely, his housekeeping defective; and she spoke to such good purpose that in a few months he became the husband of a young woman for whom the Madam had a special predilection, one to whom she would not be afraid to trust her little Nora.

They continued, of course, their friendly relations; the Taylors came to Mona constantly, and Ethna went to town when any amusement was to be had there at races, assizes, elections &c., and enjoyed herself thoroughly.

CHAPTER II.

ETHNA.

As Ethna was to inherit Mona, she was looked on as an heiress on a small scale, and consequently received a considerable share of those masculine and maternal attentions which contribute not a little to a young girl's social position. However, she had remained heart-whole through her quiet life on the hill-side, and the perusal of novels had tinged her thoughts with the illusive glory of romance. Like the Sleeping Beauty, she waited for the awaking kiss; love was to come by-and-by into her expectant life, clothed in divine beauty, changing the face of all things, giving a wilder sweetness to the perfumed days and fulfilling that self-created vision in which she beheld herself acting a prominent part-happy in the love of one and the admiration of many. As Ethna had a capacity for hero-worship, she felt it would be an easy matter "to live up " to one, if he loved her.

There is something absolutely pathetic in our self-confidence. How amiable we all intend to be when we attain our particular desire! What sweet What sweet cheerful wives, what kind considerate husbands, girls and young men intend to be, though they are rude and trying in their present state and domestic circle, with but abstract consideration for the feelings of others! How confident they are of their ability to rear up children in the way they should go, though going that way themselves seems oftentimes unnecessary!

If we were rich, how charitable we should be! It is not worth while disturbing ourselves to give a penny to the poor woman at the door.

We all flatter ourselves that we shall perform the duties of our state excellently, particularly when we relish those duties, and find performing them a pleasure. We all hope to be good; but if we do not seek it to-day amidst the discordant elements of our lives, shall we be nearer to it to-morrow, though life may have changed into more musical rhythm? If we do not master our natures this week, can we promise to do so next week? Possibly disturbing circumstances may have lessened; but it is also possible that the intolerance of an uncontrolled disposition may have increased, and we may continue to find the same difficulty in bearing lesser crosses that we once had in submitting to greater ones. Perfection will be easy to-morrow when we revolve in a different set of circumstances. Until we are in that position for which we are suited, we cannot be always agreeable. Our souls are cramped in too limited a space. How can we show the brilliant plumage of our wings when our cage forbids their extension? How can we perform lesser things who feel within us the impulse that achieves the greater? Can we tend flowers who aspire to read the stars? Can we give graceful utterance to flowers of rhetoric from a hard and angular tripod ?

Few of us are so bad but we flatter ourselves we should have been better, only for some unfortunate obstruction that turned our steps aside into lower levels.

As has been said, in spite of the amount of attention paid her, Ethna Moore sighed that Heaven had not made her for such a man as King Arthur or Galahad, rather than for any of the flesh and blood unpoetic specimens of the opposite gender whom she saw having such a hearty relish for tobacco smoke and whiskey and water. Yet she treated them with no extreme disdain; she rather liked to be paid attention; and it was only in her cynical moments she found the odour of the weed overpowering. She was entertained by her young admirers when she met them at races or evening parties; it was when she got back to the hillside, and dreamed over "The Idyls of the King" in her little rustic seat under the big drooping ash, that she found them painfully commonplace, and speculated on that mysterious He "who would touch her finer fancies."

Her most favoured knight was Vincent Talbot, the son of an

old friend of her father's. They had a frank, natural affection for each other, the seed of which affection had been sown when they were little children. The sentiment was like what may exist between two boys, only that the consciousness of sex influenced their manner to each other. Vincent would pretend to be jealous of Ethna, telling her at the same time with perfect candour of his tilts in the tournament of love. Ethna would laugh at him and scold him and remain quite satisfied that she was his first friend. Vincent Talbot was a fine, generous-natured youth, enthusiastic and impulsive, full of reckless courage and ardent emotion that did not as yet permit him to count the cost of anything; he was eager about everything-cricket, boating, hunting; but he was as changeable as a chameleon, and one taste superseded another with marvellous impetuosity. He was the only child of his father, who shared with Mr. Taylor the profits of the law in Beltard; and he had at length succeeded in passing his examinations; so he was now a full-blown solicitor himself, ready to make an honest livelihood out of rogues and fools. Mr. Talbot was considered a wealthy man; his residence was a little outside the suburb, and every morning his neat trap was to be seen driving into town, with its steady grey-haired occupant. The impetuous disposition of his son caused him many misgivings; but on the whole he treated his unbusinesslike proclivities with forbearance, and trusted that the influence of time, and by-and-by, a sensible wife, would make him a man after his own heart. He alluded to other young men who were a credit to their families, and spoke with pathos of Richard Grubb, who never had a thought but of business.

"Why, father," Vincent would exclaim, "I wouldn't be such a mean beggar as Grubb if I never made a penny, He wouldn't give one a match to light a pipe."

"Because he will not waste money or time, smoking, himself," answered the father.

"He will not, before you; he would if he got it for nothing," said Vincent. "You think he has all the cardinal virtues because he is good at work; but he goes in for sin when 'tis cheap enough, I can tell you. I would not come out on him so hard," he added, laughingly, "only you hold him up as a model."

Mr. Talbot's desires were at last accomplished; the young man at last concentrated his attention on his studies and came home in triumph to the paternal arms.

CHAPTER III.

A DINNER PARTY.

It was assize-time in Beltard. The town was crowded, by those having business, and by those who are drawn by the odic force of a crowd; and there was a pleasant stir and bustle as if the world had suddenly waked into a fuller existence.

The first night there was to be a dinner party at Mr. Taylor's, and Ethna Moore, looking very fresh and pretty in a black net dress and silver ornaments, sat in the drawing-room waiting the arrival of the guests. Mrs. Taylor had not come down, having been busy superintending. She was bending over a book of engravings absorbed in the contemplation of one figure named "Purity," from which seemed to exhale an inexhaustible kind of beauty, a cool virginal fragrance that seemed to steal upon the senses and calm the pulses of more passionate rhythms, awaking admiration at heart, for those rare natures who will not feed on "flesh pots" but among the lilies. She was aroused by a movement near her, and looking up saw a dark, handsome young man, looking down on her with critical eyes.

"You are Ethna Moore," he said, stroking his long moustache. "Yes that is my name," she said looking at him rather haughtily, "but I am usually called Miss Moore by strangers.'

"Quite right, but I don't intend to be a stranger, Ethna, so I am only just taking a little advantage of time, 'taking time by the forelock'-is not that what some poet fellow has said? Mr. Taylor told me you were here, and I hurried my toilet-a deuced bore hurrying anything-to meet you before the natives come in to feed. Do you feel flattered?"

"Not in the least," answered Ethna icily, astonished, yet conscious that her free-mannered querist was very handsome and did not look like a madman, but was not treating her with proper respect.

"Not in the least!" he repeated. "Strange, I should feel touched to the heart if you hastened your movements for me." He sat down tranquilly near her, with an amused expression on his face, as he took the book out of her hands.

"I should be very sorry to hasten my movements for any man," said Ethna, growing indignant.

VOL. XXV. No 283

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