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whispers in a corner the curate's wife, whom nobody contests Zaidee's possession of, "Listen, I am not afraid to say it to you—

"Tis vain to seek the gayest crowd,

Though all be glad and all be fair;
Music is sweet, and mirth is loud,
But happiness-it is not there.
But come to the sequestered dell,
Oh seek the pensive shade with me ;
For there alone she loves to dwell,
Far, far from mirth and revelry,"

Only thus far had Angelina proceeded, when Zaidee put up her hand and said, “Don't.”

"Don't!" Mrs Green paused in silent horror.

"Because some of them look quite happy," said Zaidee. "Oh, I wonder what Margaret is thinking of. Hush, pray, and don't be angry. I can't tell whether I am happy or not; but I like to look at them all."

CHAPTER X.-FAMILY HISTORY.

"Yes, you may say there were not many people like your grandfather. I never met with one," said Mrs Vivian. "Sit down, Percy, and I will tell you when I saw him first."

Percy sat down in prompt obedience; the drawing-room lay in a bright warm twilight, glowing with the great ruddy fire which filled the whole fire-place, a mass of red, touched all over with little points of quivering lambent flame. Another side-gleam of kindred warmth came glimmering from the open door of the young ladies' room. The heavy antique window in the front of the house, glittered between its mullions with a ruddy twinkle, which took their chill from the very clouds peering in without, and the long sashes at the other end of the apartment, draped to their feet in crimson curtains, gave back no unkindly light to cool the tone of the warm atmosphere within. Full in the light sat Mrs Vivian in her great arm-chair, sitting very erect, as was her wont, and making the most of her inches. Close beside her, in his gravest dignity, his long shaggy nose relieved against her black gown, sitting up like his mistress, with the conscious erectness of one who sets a good example, Sermonicus held his privileged place, and Zaidee once more, silent and intent, knelt between Sermo and the mantelpiece. The other members of the family were grouped much after their usual fashion -Philip in the great chair-Margaret very musing and meditative, her pretty hands crossed upon her knee, her foot patting the carpet, her downcast eyes gazing into the fire, her thoughts astray-Elizabeth by the table, where she has just laid down

her work, because it is no longer possible to see-Sophy half seated, half leaning upon the arm of Philip's chair

and Percy thrown into a sudden seat slightly withdrawn behind, and only waiting "to hear my mother" before he seeks his own occupation. Mrs Vivian likes a fireside audience, and has quite composed herself for a family talk.

"The first time I saw your grandfather I was quite a young girl myself," said the lady of the Grange, "not quite twenty, newly married, and a little afraid, as you may fancy, of the Squire, whom every one was afraid of. I had been at school out of Cheshire most of my younger days, and when I came home the old gentleman was abroad, so it came about that I never saw him till I was married. We came home here to the Grange after our marriage jaunt: we did not call it a tour in those days, and we had only been to London. You may fancy how I felt, so young, coming to face that dreadful old man. I was afraid to dress too simply, lest he should think me a dowdy; and afraid to be too fine, lest I should get condemned for a fool. Well, descend I did at last to this very drawingroom, and there sat the Squire, as suave and bland!-it was dusk and firelight, something like what it is now. Dear me, Philip, don't look up so! I do believe you have a look of that dreadful Grandfather Vivian, after all."

Everybody looked to Philip; and Philip, turning uneasily in his chair, laughed, and put Sophy away from him. "I suppose, mother, in the particular of blandness and suavity," said the heir,-" I have heard nothing

else in my grandfather resembling
me."

"He sat there in that very seat,"
said the old lady, slightly shrugging
her shoulders with a half shudder at
the recollection, "so polite! but with
such a fierce fiery glow in his red
grey eyes! His politeness was quite
terrible. I don't think I ever was so
frightened in my life; for it was so
easy to see there was not a morsel of
real kindness, and all the while that
tiger glaring in his eyes! My poor
Percy, your dear good father, who
never feared any man, and never had
cause he was always so true and
guileless himself-was quite hushed
and silent before the old Squire; for
Percy had so good a heart, he could
not bear even in his thoughts to be
disrespectful to his father, so he al-
ways took care that his father should
have no cause to expose himself in
his presence-that is, so far as any
man could take care-and people said
there was nothing that kept the
Squire down so much as just that
respectfulness of Percy's. However,
all that evening I sat trembling-I
was so awkward-I spilt my wine at
dinner I scalded my hand when I
made tea-and, I can tell you, I was
thankful when next morning we came
away."

"Did you only stay one night, mamma? did you never see him again?" asked Sophy.

"I saw him many times again, but I never came back to the Grange in the Squire's lifetime," said Mrs Vivian; "and for years after he was dead, I dared no more sit here in the firelight than I dared fly. I always thought I saw him sitting in the great chair, smiling with his lips, but with that cruel glare always in his eyes. I was young, and I suppose I was fanciful. I never got that look out of my mind." All the audience were as young and fanciful now as their mother had been; and even Margaret, roused from her musings, cast a half-scared glance into the crimson gloom of the curtains, and looked with a thrill of awe round the darkening room.

"Poor Frank had run away just a little time before-poor Frank! everybody remembered him so well," said Mrs Vivian with a little sigh.

Zaidee's kneeling, half-visible figure,

started into fuller light, with a faint rustle, and everybody else starting at the sound, was so glad to be certain it was only Zaidee. Mrs Vivian resumed.

"Such a bright high-spirited boy! I always thought Percy would resemble Frank; but, poor fellow, so tender-hearted and sensitive-he could not bear the life he led, so what could he do but run away? He might have written to us, to be sure, but he was as good as a foreigner by that time, and married to a foreign wife-poor Frank! and he did write Percy such a letter just before he died."

"But, aunt Vivian, you never saw my mother?" said Zaidee, in a very low tone. Zaidee has said these same words a hundred times before.

"No, poor child, I never saw her. She was so young, Percy said-so pretty, and strange, and brokenhearted, with that little chain of yours, Zaidee, on her neck, and your poor father's Bible always in her hand. I looked every day for Percy bringing her home, and he knew I would take it to heart so, that he never wrote me of her death. I never knew, Zaidee, till I saw your uncle leading you into the Grange, all by yourself, poor little orphan, and then I thought I should have fainted. I had so set my mind on comforting poor Frank's widow. Don't cry, child, I'm sure you can't remember your poor mother."

And Zaidee swallowed her tears very hastily and in silence, not acknowledging that this want of recollection was her very saddest grief; yet Zaidee had a visionary remembrance, half imagination, half memory, of this poor young mother, which she cherished in her inmost heart.

"There was a very strange thing said just before the Squire's death," resumed Mrs Vivian; "I don't think I ever told you; though he was furious at Frank for running away-for the Squire had a certain regard for appearances after all-yet he had either grown more furious at Percy afterwards, or else relented towards Frank. The land was never entailed, you know, and it was confidently said that the Squire had made a will, disinheriting your father, and leaving everything to his youngest son. His

lawyer had told somebody, and as no one could calculate what the Squire might do, it was very generally believed. Of course it made us very anxious, for our family then was increasing every year; and though Percy cheered me as well as he could, saying he was a young strong man, and would so gladly work for us allbless him, so he would, I knew thatPercy himself believed it. However, when the old man died, though Percy and the lawyer searched everywhere -for the Squire's papers were scattered over all the house, in the most unlikely places-no such thing was to be found-not a will at all-and everything came to your father in the natural course. I never expected it, I am sure; but so it was."

"He never made the will, then?— or had he repented?" said Philip, with much interest.

"Nay, he had made the will; the

lawyer said so," was the answer, "leaving the Grange, the lands, everything, to his son Frank. I suppose he must have got into a rage with Frank again, and burnt it. It was very well for us he did not give all away to some stranger, or to some charity; and I can't tell you how thankful I was when no will was to be found."

"Oh, mother! if one should turn up now!" cried Sophy.

"Your father took care to look everywhere; your father was too anxious about you all to miss any corner," said Mrs Vivian. "No, no, it is twenty years since,. -no fear now. But I think that will do for tonight, children; ring for tea, Philip. Elizabeth, lift that work from the table; there never is room for the tray. And if any one likes to get the book and give me my sewing, I think we might finish that story, and get through a great deal of work to-night."

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CHAPTER XI.-PHILOSOPHY.

"If it had been so, Zay-if it had only been as they thought," said Sophy next morning, "what a strange difference!-why, you would have been an heiress, and we nothing but your cousins. Should you have liked, Zay?"

"Of course, only to give it to Philip," said Zaidee, quietly. "Ithink I should have liked to give the Grange to Philip on his birthday; that would be something worth while."

"To give to Philip! But Philip could never have taken it; you know that."

"Why not, Sophy?"

"Why not?-how simple you are," said the better instructed cousin. "Of course no one could take such a gift as that, unless it was from a king or some very great person, who had plenty to give. No, no, I would rather have had Philip working hard to make his own fortune than taking the Grange, if it had been left to you; but not to speak of that, Zay, how would you like to be an heiress, all for yourself?"

"I would not," said Zaidee, with sudden animation; "a woman should be poor."

Now Sophy could by no means see

VOL. LXXVII.-NO. CCCCLXXI.

the justice of this proposition. She shook her head.

"Should be poor !-that is all your romance and nonsense. I cannot see why, for my part," said Sophy, "for I am quite sure women make as good a use of money as men."

"One would never know," said Zaidee, "whether it was one's-self people cared about; and particularly, if you were neither handsome, nor clever, nor amiable, but still would like some one to care for you in spite of all; and then to doubt that it was not you, but what you had-Oh, Sophy! you would not be an heiress."

"I could not be an heiress, with so many brothers and sisters," said Sophy, pouting a little; "and I an sure I don't think, besides that, that I am quite so disagreeable as you say.'

"I would not like, even," said Zaidee with great simplicity, going on with her own thoughts, "to be beautiful like Elizabeth-because I should always think people liked me for being beautiful, and not for just being me."

"Upon my word! and if you were neither pretty, nor amiable, nor good -neither like Elizabeth, nor an heiress, nor anything," exclaimed Sophy,

D

"what good would it do any one to like you because you were you?"

Zaidee could not very well answer this question; it was her turn now to be puzzled and shake her head. "I cannot tell," said Zaidee, under her breath; "it would do no one any good, but that would be love."

"Love is not a proper thing to talk about," said Sophy, drawing herself up in womanly state.

The blood rushed over Zaidee's face in deep girlish shame. "I do not mean what you mean," said Zaidee; "it is not love like-like Elizabeth; but why is my aunt Vivian so good to me, and Philip, and all of you? Sophy, why have you been so kind to me all my life?"

"Kind! no such thing," cried Sophy, indignantly, a little moisture creeping to the corners of her eyes at this appeal;" one never thinks of being kind to one's own family,-that is quite a different thing; why, you are our Zaidee such an odd, stupid, spoiled little girl-that's all!"

Zaidee was long silent, pulling the grave ears of Sermo, and something like a tear startled the paw of the favourite hound, falling heavily on its

repose.

"It is not called so in books," said Zaidee, softly, at last; "everybody there is accomplished, and handsome, and amiable, and good; it is always for something that people like them, but I think this is proper love for all that; not because I am worth much, or pleasant, or pretty, but because I am just Zaidee-me-that is why my aunt is always so kind, why all the rest care for me,-and that is better than anything else in the world!"

"I daresay Sermo thinks so. It is no matter how you are dressed, or how you look, or anything, Sermo always chooses you,' ," said Sophy, laughing; "but now, you see I am not so heroical. I should like very well to be an heiress, and I should like still better-hush, Zaidee, you need not tell any one-to be beautiful. I could bear to be more beautiful than Elizabeth, I think. I do believe I could. There's something in Shakespeare,-oh, to be sure, Anne Bullen, and she would not be a queen, not for all the world."

Het I never said it was not very

good to be rich and pretty, too-in a way," said Zaidee; "only not for one's own self."

"She would not be a queen, that would she not,

For all the frogs in Egypt,""

said Sophy. "I wish I had a fairy godmother, like Cinderella. I would not refuse to be as pretty as she liked, if she asked me."

Some one just then emerged out of the open window of the drawingroom, and came through the sheltered garden-path to where the girls held their sitting; and Zaidee, looking up, condemned herself as irreverent, for thinking that no better representative of the wished-for fairy godmother could be found, than in this small, delicate, vivacious personage, advancing towards them. Mrs Vivian wore a large apron with pockets over her thick dim black silk gown, and had a shadowy shawl, white, soft, and lacelike, a sort of cloud embodied in fine Shetland wool, and delicate knitting, over her cap,-for Mrs Vivian was full of prudent cares on the score of taking cold. Mrs Vivian's full and ample skirts were not so long as to hinder you from defining clearly the black velvet slipper, soft-paced, yet with a very creditable thickness of under leather, and a most distinct and unmistakable high heel, which kept Mrs Vivian's foot in warmth and comfort, and added an inch to Mrs Vivian's stature. The soft, white, floating drapery and fringes of the shawl fluttered over her shoulders, and a handsomer little old lady than the mistress of the Grange never buckled neat belt round trim and slender waist-so light of foot and alert of motion,-the prettiest fairy godmother that ever oppressed maiden was fortunate enough to see.

"Dear me, girls, when will you learn to be prudent?" said Mrs Vivian; "not a branch but drips with this wintry dew, and you linger here as if it was summer. I shall have you both laid up with cold before Philip's birthday."

The idea made Sophy pale. "I don't believe there is a single dewy branch in the garden, mamma, but that one that has brushed against your shawl," said Sophy; "and we were just coming in."

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"I want some one to carry a message to the vicarage. Will you go, Zaidee?" said Mra Vivian; "for every one is busy, and I have something ready for Sophy, which must be done immediately. Mrs Wyburgh will like to see you-Zaidee, will you go?"

"I may take Sermo, aunt Vivian?" asked Zaidee, eagerly. The little lady nodded, and Sermo, though he, good fellow, had no bonnet to put on, stalked after the flying footsteps of his companion through hall and staircase and winding passage, to the very inner recess of Zaidee's room. A few minutes more and they emerged, walking together as near hand and hand as their different modes of locomotion would allow Sermo's long shaggy ear held lightly in Zaidee's fingerswith great gravity and thoughtfulness, occasionally, but very seldom, indulging in the ordinary exchanges of conversation-for the most part in friendly silence pursuing their own thoughts.

Just descending the hill where the breeze was sharpest, and where the

trees did actually flirt a drop or two of pendent moisture upon Sermo's averted head, and against the cheek of Zaidee, there was a decided chill of winter in the air; but the low-lying paths under the hill were warm in the sunshine,-dry and sandy, and glittering with minute crystals, as sandy paths do glitter in the sun. Zaidee, who neither looked before nor behind, went on steadily, full of thought, wondering about that old Squire, wistfully thinking of the father and mother gone, turning over her own girlish philosophy, or roaming at large over her general discursive field of imagination and thought. What Sermo's mind was busy with did not appear; but as he, too, had been present on the previous evening, and heard aunt Vivian's recollections, there was at least a possibility in his favour that he pondered these family stories too. However that might be, the pair of friends went on in friendly harmony, respecting each other's silence, and not interrupting each other's thoughts.

CHAPTER XII.-THE VICARESS.

The vicarage stands beside the church in the single street of Briarford. Briarford is by no means a model village; sundry barns turn their long blank sides to its causeway, walls of old solid mason-work, supplemented with brick patches; and in sight of the Vicar's drawing-room itself is a grey gable, with a wisp of straw projected from the round eyelit hole, high in its wall, and hay littered on the pavement below. The vicarage, too, stands close upon the street, with only the smallest strip of garden, almost filled with a trim bolly hedge, separating it from the common thoroughfare, though in itself it is almost picturesque in its antique homeliness, and dates farther back than the very church. It is a onesided house, looking askance upon the village, and turning the respectful aspect of its full front towards the ecclesiastical establishment of Briarford the low venerable squaretowered church which stands high upon a grassy mound of graves. Rich old velvety far-descended grass, full

of little nests of daisies, and minute hollows which the sun searches into with such a wealth and warmth of glow, covers the sloping bank before the side windows of the vicarage; but the Vicaress, for the sake of the "stir" without-to call these languid rural echoes stir!-and the greater cheerfulness, prefers to sit in the little parlour facing the front in the long afternoons when the Vicar is from home.

This parlour is a cosy little parlour, full of soft seats, and easy footstools, and a homely luxury-nothing that misbecomes in the smallest degree the modest and suitable gravity of the country clergyman, who is neither wealthy nor of great expectations, but. a plenitude and abundance of simple comforts adapted to the age and to the habits of the simple couple who have attained to their own utmost range of ambition, and look for nothing higher in this life. Mrs Wyburgh, round and soft, with rosy fingers which it is pleasant to touch, and a cheek that has not lost its

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