you ought to consider the matter seriously."

"We cannot keep our children," said the Madam, with a sigh; they weary of the nest; I was thinking latterly that Ethna was not so contented as she used to be."

"Natural instinct, my dear madam; they like to have a nest of their own. Natural instinct. You may as well let Ethna in with us in the morning; of course you need not tell her of this conversation. For the present let things take their course for a while."

CHAPTER XV.

"In visions of the dark night,

In dreamed of joy departed;
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted."

While the elders were discussing gravely the weighty subjects of way and means consequent upon matrimonial alliances, the young pair whom they so nearly concerned had a confidential conversation also. In fact Vincent was initiating Ethna into the mysteries of racing matters, and divulging secrets that were to be carefully kept from the parental ears. He was half owner of the mare George Martin had in training, and was going to ride her at the September races at Beltard.

"If the governor finds it out, Ethna, there will be no end of a row," he said, "but Daisypicker is bound to win; she was never in such form; I was up at daybreak yesterday and out at Martins to see her. I'd back her to any extent."

"Ah! 'tis a shame for you, Vincent," replied Ethna, you'll get your name up about horses, and no one will believe you have an atom of sense. 'Tis only those who can afford to lose money by racing that ought to speculate on winning money by it."

"Oh! I know what I am about, Ethna. The mare is a good one, thoroughbred, own sister to Babbling Fanny; the only thing I'm afraid of is that gripe at the second last jump, but by Jove! doesn't she take the fences without laying irons on them?"

"Well, the idea of your keeping a racehorse!" said Ethna. "Shut up now, I must make her pay if I can after all she cost; not but we bought her for a song at Kinsley's auction twelve

months ago. Kinsley never tried her. She was only three off. I knew her pedigree and saw she was a good one, and I am no bad judge, Ethna, I can tell you."

"Is there anything in the world that you don't think you are a good judge of?" said Ethna.

66

'Well, except about the weather and a few other small matters, I think my perceptions are unusually accurate," answered the young man complacently. "But, Ethna, you're to stand to me and palaver the governor if he inclines to make himself disagreeable, which I regret to say is possible. An attorney in a crimson jacket and cap will outrage all his preconceived ideas of decorum; but you can smooth him down, Eth; he swears by you. We shall have no end of fun at the race and ball; and if I come in front, won't I be in humour for a dance? I wish you came into town at once; haven't you to get your 'tulle illusion ong robium ong flower for harium ?' You have only ten days to goad your dressmaker. Mind the races come off on the first."

"I have not made up my mind to go at all," said the girl. "What is coming over you?" he asked in astonishment. "Is it to lose a race and a dance? You don't feel grim death approaching, do you? Make up your mind at once then; you haven't such a gigantic one that it should take much time, for I won't leave the house until your coming is one of the settled questions of the day. Why, Eth, I would not have you miss seeing me in my silk jacket for anything, and that jacket leading, mind you. Say the word you'll come."

"I'll see about it," said the girl.

"Why, there's no seeing about it. What the mischief is there to see about but your dress. I'll settle it."

The young man jumped with his usual impetuosity, and in three steps was in the other room.

Ethna followed him. Mr. Taylor backed Vincent with great emphasis, and told the girl to get her things together and go in with them in the morning to see after her dress, and remain till the ball was over. The Madam, smilingly, advised her to yield to their wishes, as it was certainly time to order her dress.

That night Ethna shut the door of her own room, exclaiming to herself: "Thank God, I can cry enough now!" She flung herself on the bed, and passionate sobs shook her, the outcome of love, disappointment, and wounded pride. Philip had been

making a fool of her, amusing himself with one he thought an inferior during his summer holiday, Oh! no wonder he made a fool of her, when she made such a fool of herself, letting him see every thought in her brain, every emotion in her weak, throbbing heart. Why was she not strong like other girls? Why did she not keep him at a distance until he had spoken to her mother? But he never intended speaking to her. He was secretive, because he was not in earnest. She covered her burning face in an agony of shame and humiliation, when she thought that a couple of times she had permitted him to kiss her. How could she ever lift her head again, or be the old spirited girl she had been, with, as she had boasted, nothing to conceal in her life? In the deepest selfabnegation the girl passed a few hours, weeping remorseful tears, as if her feeling for Philip had been a guilty passion, instead of that most pure and exquisite emotion, an innocent girl's love for a lover she imagines worthy to be loved.

"She would never recover it," she thought, "never. Her heart was dead; life would henceforth be weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable. But she would not let him see how he had ruined her happiness. She would bring her pride to her aid; she would go into town, appear at race and ball, and be the gayest of the gay. It would be time enough to indulge her grief when he was gone away altogether. She would first show him she could forget their summer wooing as quickly as he did."

Her paroxysm of despair exhausted itself. She got up, packed her trunk for the morning's journey, and then retired to rest. Long-drawn sighs parted her red lips. She consoled herself by thinking of the pretty dress she would get, and how he would see her at the ball, surrounded by partners. She fell asleep, and wandered away again into that witching love-land where there was neither deception nor doubt, and Philip Moore was the truest knight that ever won a woman's heart.

The sun was shining brightly through the yellow blinds in her room when she awoke next morning. She returned to consciousness with that vague sense of sorrow that makes the sufferer turn with loathing from the light and loveliness of the new day. The cheery voice of Mr. Taylor and a laugh of Vincent's aroused her fully; she got up, dressed herself quickly, and was in the parlour at eight o'clock. All traces of last night's struggle had vanished; her cheeks had their usual fresh colour, and no one

could dream as she sat to breakfast that any tender convulsion had shaken her nature, or any but the pleasantest breeze had rippled the laughing current of her days.

The morning light was radiant on the hill-tops as they drove down the mountain. Vincent and Ethna sat in the front of the trap. Mr. Taylor had no particular faith in his own driving capacities, so he usually resigned his reins to anyone that would relieve him of them.

When they were passing the road that led to the Lodge, Philip Moore appeared with his gun on his shoulder.

"Hullo," called out Mr. Taylor. "The early bird catches the worm. Off to the hills, eh?"

"No; just returning," answered Philip, taking off his hat, as Vincent pulled up. "I thought I'd have a few hours this morning, as I have to be off by-and-by on business."

"You'll be back for the races," said Vincent.

Yes, I dare say I shall. Not for the races exactly; such meetings seem rather slow after one has seen the Derby and Oaks, but I have promised Henry to stay while he stays.'

"Well, au revoir then," said Vincent, touching the horse. "Gypsy is getting impatient."

"Give us a call when you come to town," said Mr. Taylor; "and don't tell anyone of this elopement."

Philip lifted his hat as they drove on, called to his dogs, and proceeded on his way.

"Is there any woman in the world worth considering?" he muttered to himself. "It is well I didn't make an entire fool of myself."

For some time past Philip Moore had gone through unusual mental action and disquiet. He had been playing with fire and found himself badly scorched. The stolen half-hours a-wooing in the sunshine, in the moonlight, in the starlight, had impressed him more than he fancied possible, and he smoked a good deal of tobacco in the effort to tranquillise his nature, and enable him to take cool and dispassionate views of his critical situation. Had he been rich, he would have married the girl there and then; had she been rich, he would have acted with equal decision. But there was the drawback; neither of them happened to be in that desirable state of prosperity. Ethna would be a desirable match for a young attorney, but not for a dragoon officer, whose brother had married

an heiress.

Philip Moore had spent a considerable amount of money inherited from his father; he had a few hundreds a year private property, but as he had a propensity for gratifying his fancies before he counted the cost, he was pretty generally in debt. Henry often stood to him, for they were strongly attached to each other; but Henry was now a married man, and should take enlarged views that would embrace posterity.

It was a case of "love versus prudence," and the young man did not see his way out of the slough of despond he had quietly walked into. Sometimes he would make up his mind to tell all to Ethna, and show the impossibility of their marrying; but his resolution would vanish when he went to Mona and received her glad welcome. Another time would do. Another time would do. Even if I did tell her, he would say to himself, she would not understand, women go in for self-sacrifice and all that sort of thing; she would tell him she would live on nothing, as if he could have his wife appear in worse style than any other lady in the regiment; or, perhaps, say she would wait for the next ten years, as if he would be much better off at the end of them. And yet it was hard to break the spell, and cast aside the summer idyl; so hard, that he made no attempt to do it. He was somewhat surprised, and not quite pleased, to see this other handsome and familiar person of the masculinegender appear on the scene; he felt emotions not unlike those supposed to have agitated the manger quadruped, and felt thoroughly disgusted with what he felt to be the levity and lightness of Ethna; yesterday was bad enough, and here she was now driving into town with him, looking as happy as though she had not a care on earth, and he working himself into a fever thinking of her, and speculating about the future. What a fool he was ! Men are always fools where women are concerned; they are all the same fickle, inconstant, humbugging one man after another with their sickening blandishments; they are all the same. Philip ate his breakfast that morning in a temper that would not have been pleasant, only it was well controlled; he was not a man who gave way to vulgar displays of passion, but gradually he permitted himself to be amused by Miss Butler's merry banter, and repeated internally that he was a fool, but with decreased bitterness.

Ethna parted with him, and feared Vincent would hear her heart beating. The only words that passed between them were, "You are taking a drive?" and "I am going into town for the