Spring o'er the eastern champaign smiled, As Spring parades her new domain, The flowers are wither'd;-sun nor dew The tainted flocks, the drooping kine, The house was thoroughly embowered. From the road, looking through the trees, you saw nothing but a quaint gabled end, bright with honeysuckle, and, perhaps, a swinging casement should the wind be high. But this was enough to suggest how sweet a place it was, and strangers would sigh as they looked for envy of its beauty, its quiet, and the placid repose and happiness of which it seemed the retreat. In all the village there was nothing like the Grange for picturesqueness, and with this it lacked nothing in point of comfort. It was a home. To those who lived in it a pleasant home. They loved its quaint old rooms, gloomy from foliage at the windows, and the bright garden, in which all things flourished with a sweet luxuriance. They loved it for itself and for its memories; for to them it had been a world in which much of their lives had been gladly spent: a narrow but a pleasant world of abundance and of infinite quiet and repose. The rumour in the village went that the early life of Colonel Horlock of the Grange had been a stormy one. He had seen service in the Peninsula. Had been somewhat of a fire-eater, it was surmised; a ready duellist, certainly, if only in keeping with the fashion of his day, and there were not wanting rumours of some meeting of romantic interest. Was it true that he had shot the lover of the Spanish lady whom he afterwards made his wife, and had in consequence been obliged to flee from Spain and seek seclusion in that village home? None knew for certain why it was that Horlock threw up his profession in the face of brilliant prospects. None knew for certain why he accepted the quiet life of the Grange so placidly; immured there apparently without a thought of anything but of his wife, for whom he had a passionate regard. Many affected to be in his secret: none were so. When the wife died, as she did before many years after the marriage, his breast was the sole repository of the mystery, whatever might have been its nature. A portrait of the beautiful Spanish woman, so deeply loved, so early lost, hung in the great parlour. Horlock himself seldom gave a glance toward it, for every feature of the original was engraven on his heart; but it had a strange fascination for others. Most of all it acted like a spell on those close and dear to Horlock, on his two daughters, the joy and delight of his life. In these his children their mother lived again. In Doretta, the younger one, more especially, the eyes which looked from the portrait met their counterpart. The black orbs, with their strange intensity, were simply reproduced, lending a peculiar charm to a beauty otherwise wholly English. On the other hand, Isabel had the features but not the tone of her mother's face. There was nothing either romantic or severe in the style of a beauty which meant distraction for those who gazed upon it. The tangled gold tresses and merry blue eyes of Isabel were irresistible: so were her joyous laugh and the pretty abandon of her ways: nothing in either suggested the land of her mother's birth. But the colonel could read below the surface, and he knew that the face of Isabel belied her nature. That was like her mother's. The blue eyes could on occasion blaze with a fervour which told its tale of the hot blood of the south, fierce, impatient, and revengeful. Year after year the village had been familiar with the sight of the tall, slightly obese colonel, with his white hair and iron-gray moustache, sitting under the acacia on the lawn with a daughter on either hand, talking or reading to him. From children in their little black frocks-in mourning for their mother-they had passed into girlhood: then came the sudden and subtle transition, and they were women! A day or so, it seemed, in that sweet time had wrought the change. The charm of womanhood had imperceptibly supplanted that which had so endeared them in a father's eyes. Yet now they were more precious than ever. The colonel regarded them with a proud heart; but there was a serious look in his face. The time of responsibility had come. The future had thrust itself into the paradise of the present. There was a world to be faced anew, and the duty of facing it was inexpressibly painful to the recluse of the Grange garden. In the drama of life the first scene often determines all the subsequent action. It is like the first move of the skilful chess-player. The game depends upon it. In this instance Horlock's forebodings took their first definite form under the guise of an invitation which Isabel received to spend a few days with a wealthy relative. It was the first separation of any importance at the Grange, and tears glistened in the father's white eyelids as he clasped his child to his breast, and the next instant bade her adieu. Doretta sat down and sobbed. The only consolation was that the separation would be for a few days only. In reality it extended to months. The rela tions, delighted with Isabel, would not think of her return. She was compelled to participate in a round of pleasures at a mansion of the first magnitude, pleasures which for her had the inexpressible charms of novelty. A season in town succeeded, and proved, if pos sible, even more delightful. It was more than a year before Isabel returned to the Grange, a year of the time of life most susceptible to impressions. Was it any marvel that she came back greatly changed? The girl had become the woman of the world. Gay, sprightly, and vivacious, with all the habits and tastes of society, her presence changed the whole aspect of things at the Grange. Horlock regarded his daughter with a puzzled delight. Doretta half shrank from her as from a being of another sphere. As to Isabel herself, the longing she had formed to return to the Grange was soon satisfied. It seemed small, shabby, and strangely dull. The old charm had vanished. She could only sit lost in wonder as to how she could ever have dragged through the uneventful hours in a place so homely and so monotonous. Even the portrait of her mother seemed changed. It was no longer impressive, and the mystery of the black searching eyes had departed. From being part of her exist ence it had come to be simply a portrait, and, as she thought, regarding it critically, a portrait by rather an indifferent artist. The Grange certainly did not look its best on the day of Isabel's return. It was in the dull early autumn: the first day a fire had been lighted in the best parlour, a concession to comfort not to be despised, for the sky lowered heavily, there was a rising mist, and a chill wind swept in gusts through the ragged trees. It needed all Isabel's sprightliness to make the place tolerable to her, and this was only excited by an effort. Town wit has little in common with country stolidity. The bril-pathy. Pouring out her full heart she at once liance which would have delighted Belgravia proceeded to state every incident in the chain sounded like flippancy at the Grange. Besides, it met with no response, and it is hard to keep up the ball single-handed. The colonel listened to his daughter without sympathy, and Doretta heard her lively flights and sprightly sallies with simple amazement. Each felt instinctively that the fireside at the Grange could never again be what it had been in the old, old days. Isabel was the first to give expression to this thought; but not until she was left alone with Doretta. The sigh came from her heart. It was deep and prolonged, expressing more than words could have done of the sense she herself entertained of the disruption of the old ties and old interests. "Life in town is so different," she presently said, half apologetically. "It affects one imperceptibly. I never felt how I had yielded to the influence of society until to-day. It is as if I were a stranger meeting strangers. But all will change by to-morrow, dear: I shall be my true self again, and the old house will be the same to me as ever." Doretta smiled wanly. Her heart had its misgivings, but she did not care to give expression to them. "You have seen so much," she said, "and must have met so many people it was nice to know." "Oh, yes: so many." She paused an instant, gave a quick glance at the frank open face before her, as if to reassure herself of the other's trustworthiness, then whispered abruptly: "Shall I tell you a secret, Dorry?" "Yes, dear, if you 'Hush! I have met one better than all the rest." "Indeed! You mean that "That I love him. Oh, Dorry, you cannot think how good and noble and manly he is. So handsome too: and I am sure, quite sure, that I am dearer to him than any one in the world." As Doretta received this revelation a crimson flush suffused her face: she trembled, and prepared herself to listen with breathless anxiety to what might follow. Isabel was both surprised and charmed with this sisterly sym. of events which had resulted in yielding her so much happiness. There was in reality not much to tell: but embroidered with fancies and heightened in interest by incessant digressions, the story was not only long in the telling, but to Doretta was absorbing in interest. To put it briefly, Isabel had been visiting with her friends at a great country house, to which men of letters, artists, and persons of distinction generally were always welcome. Among those staying at the time was a young artist, rising high in the estimation of the critics, and remarkable also for his great personal attractions. Even men raved of his noble face, his gold gleamy hair, and grand athletic frame. Moreover his mental powers were good, and from long moving in the best circles he had acquired modes of thought and habits of expression which rendered his conversation delightful even to those accustomed to a like tone, but unaccompanied by the brilliance with which he managed to invest even ordinary remarks. That he had been delighted with Isabel was obvious: his attentions had been most marked. On her part she had simply yielded to an irresistible fascination; not admiration only, but deep, ardent love had resulted from their very first interview. Perhaps she had taken no pains to hide the state of her feelings: certainly the young artist had had no difficulty in seeing the impression he had made, and though not unac customed to effects of the kind, this added a zest to the pleasure he took in her society. The consequence was that they were often together, that on such occasions he recited poetry, discoursed of art, examined the philosophy of love, and was generally eloquent and always complimentary. So in the end Isabel was convinced that he reciprocated her passion with equal warmth, and regarded him as a lover only waiting the opportunity to declare himself with the customary formalities. This was the simple narration, to every word of which Doretta listened with avidity. "And now, dear," said Isabel, as she concluded the story, "there is one thing in which I want your assistance." "Yes." "You know how averse papa is to entertaining strangers? Well, I want him to make an exception in this case, and you must help me to persuade him into it. He must invite Darton Rivers to the Grange. Why, Dorry, Dorry, what is the matter?" There was no answer. Doretta had fainted. II. It was natural that the recluse of the Grange should rejoice in the return of his daughter. Her sprightliness pleasantly diversified the monotonous round of his daily life. Yet even she was surprised to find how great a change came over him before she had been many days in the house. He grew positively gay, and was surprised in the act of humming a tune, one of the joyous airs of his stormy youth. Doretta, on the other hand, was hardly herself. In proportion as her father's vivacity increased her once high spirits subsided. She did not complain, and when rallied on the subject, protested that it was nothing but fancy; but it was feared that she was ailing, and change was suggested; but she would not hear of it. thought Isabel. As she neared the spot therefore she lifted her silken skirt and trod on tip-toe, picking out the spots between the fallen leaves, so that there might not be even a rustle. Stealing on thus she gained the shelter of a tree, and there as from a hiding-place peeped curiously forth. The unconscious girl who was the object of scrutiny, stood with her back to the tree, her face downcast, lost in a reverie. In her two hands she held an open letter. "Caught!" cried the delighted sister, as she detected the fluttering leaves. The next moment she had darted forward. seized the unsuspecting girl by one arm, while her other hand encircled her waist; and so, holding her firmly, stood laughing in her face. The laugh was loud and joyous, the more so as the hand encircling the waist had caught at and seized an unexpected treasure, nothing Isabel did not fail to urge her own reasons less than a miniature suspended from a gold for the step. "You have always played the mistress here," she said, "and papa would never consent to invite Darton unless you were well enough to receive him." chain, which had evidently just dropped from the listless fingers of the dreamer. The smile which irradiated the merry face met with no reflection, the joyous laugh with no response. Doretta was as a marble statue, cold and im "I-I am quite well, dear," was the tremu- movable. lous reply. In spite of this assurance her cheek paled daily, her eyes had a dark, sunken look, she moved about the house with a listlessness quite foreign to her nature, or sat musing idly in the garden. The thing was inexplicable to Isabel. Gradually she became satisfied that there must be some cause for this effect. It was not fancy that Doretta shunned her society, and why should this be, seeing how entire had always been their confidence, and how thoroughly mutual their affection? One day she resolved to clear up the mystery. Doretta had strolled into the park. She could be seen from the casement in the gable, where the honeysuckle swung, making for a scene in the shade which was her favourite resort. Isabel resolved to follow her, to charge her with conduct amounting to unkindness, and then to press the point nearest her heart-the invitation of the young artist of her idolatry to the Grange. It was a bright day for the time of year: balmy as June, though the trees had already taken the autumn tints, and the park showed ranges of orange, red and brown, with only intervening patches of green. Crisp leaves strewed the grass and crackled under the tread. The spot Doretta had chosen was entirely secluded, a little verdurous bower delightful in the cool of overshadowing boughs. "I will come upon her suddenly and startle her," "Oh, Dorry, Dorry!" cried the delighted Isabel, "have I surprised your secret at last! A letter and a miniature! And you would not take me into your confidence? You could not give trust for trust? I told you all my story. and you have rewarded me by keeping yours to yourself. It was unkind, it was cruel." For all that she impressed a kiss upon the lips which made no effort to answer her. They were stone cold. "Why, what is this?" she exclaimed, the mirth dying out of her once cheerful face as she did so. "You are not angry?” "No." It was gasped forth rather than spoken. A look of alarm took the place of the joyous smiles which had rendered the sister's face so charming. "What does this mean?" she demanded. "Why are you so strange? What is the mys tery? Tell me, for I will know all. I am your sister, and have a right to your confidence. Explain to me: I insist on it.' "Let me go!" cried Doretta, struggling to release herself from the grasp detaining her "I can tell you nothing. Let me go!" With an effort she released herself and broke away. A gay laugh rang in her ears. The chain about her neck held her. Isabel retained her grasp of the portrait. While it was in her hand there was no escape. "Give it me, où, |