handsome girl; the second, a slighter, more timid looking edition of her sister. Both were dressed alike, in light summer materials, trimmed with silk of the same shade, and unexceptionable as to make and style.

They greeted him quietly, and asked a few questions about his journey and his visit to the Ansleys. Presently the door opened, and his youngest sister, a child about eleven, appeared, who had been released for a few moments from the schoolroom to go and see her brother. He kissed her, and remarked he thought she was grown, whilst she remained standing looking shyly at him, and evidently not knowing what to say until Margaret dismissed her to the schoolroom again.

Edmund felt a sort of chill as he contrasted Mabel's behaviour with the way in which the Ansley children flocked round and hung about Jack on his return home; perhaps he forgot how little his usual demeanour towards her seemed to invite such familiarity. When Edmund after preparing for dinner returned to the drawing-room he found his father there, reading the paper.

Colonel Lindsaye was a tall, fine-looking man, much resembling his son Edmund, and it was easy to see from whom the latter had inherited his upright military bearing and courteous manner. He was really very proud of his clever son, but his fondness found no expression in words, and to him as to all others he was reserved and cold in manner.

Dinner was rather a long affair; Miss Lindsaye, the Colonel's eldest sister, who had lived at Garnston Court ever since Mrs. Lindsaye's death, sat at the head of the table; and under the influence of her dry sarcastic manner both the girls were even more constrained than usual. Edmund, as he took his place at the dinner-table, with its shining glass and glittering plate, waited on by a man-servant, ready to anticipate his slightest wish, contrasted it with the scrambling meal going on about the same time at the Ansleys' tea-table. Yet somehow, in spite of the luxurious comfort of the former, he could not help thinking a little regretfully of the latter merry party, with its jokes, and stream of chatter. He pictured to himself the large bowl of wild flowers, the very one Nelly had arranged from amongst those she had collected during her walk home with him, and as he glanced at the pelargoniums and maiden-hair fern that filled the handsome epergne in the centre of the table, he recollected their discussing the

superior free grace of wild flowers over cultured, and thought the simile might be applicable here. There was plenty of a certain kind of conversation, that is to say the topics of the day, the leading articles in the "Times," &c., were discussed, and the weather was remarked upon, but it struck Edmund forcibly they were talking exactly as they might have done had half a dozen strangers been present. A few questions were asked Edmund about his visit, but rather as though to make conversation than from any real interest about it. At dessert Miss Lindsaye remarked,

"You certainly seem to have found your visit an agreeable one, although I should not have thought a poor clergyman's family with a heap of children in the wilds of Yorkshire exactly an entertaining place." 'Yes, I liked my visit extremely," answered Edmund, ignoring the latter half of the speech.

“Indeed I wonder at it, but some people like anything by way of a change, and I should think from what you told us your friend's household was a complete contrast to ours."

"It certainly was," replied Edmund, with a slight inflexion of sarcasm in his voice, but aimed at whom it was difficult to say.

The old lady, however, perceived it, and whilst giving the signal for moving, said somewhat tartly,

"Few people care for what is provided for them."

As Edmund recollected the many things which had jarred upon him at the beginning of his visit to the Ansleys, he could hardly help smiling at the extreme inapplicableness of the reply, whilst he politely held open the door for his aunt to pass out. The evening seemed rather long to him; his father read the newspaper and his sisters were employed with some fancy work. Presently Colonel Lindsaye asked for a little music, and they went to the piano and played several pieces with a good deal of execution; they also sang, for both of them possessed good voices and had been well taught, but somehow Edmund thought he preferred the old Scotch ballads which the whole family of the Ansleys used to join in. He stood patiently turning over the leaves of his sister's music a little while, and then suggested something of Mendelssohn's or Beethoven's instead of the modern music they were playing. They readily complied, and so the last part of the evening passed more pleasantly for him than the former. But that night when in his own room he could not help feeling as though he had for the first time discovered a great deal of stiffness and exclu

siveness in his own family. And why, he wondered, was he always comparing his own sisters, their dress, their music, their speeches with Nelly Ansley under like circumstances? Why did he do it?

CHAPTER V.

So passed the first few days of Edmund's return home. Quietly and with uneventful regularity, the many refinements of his surroundings contrasted strongly with the plain style of living at Needthorpe, and Edmund was not insensible to the comfort of them. Yet somehow he missed the bright hearty busy life amongst the Ansleys. His own family seemed to him so very self-engrossed. The fact was the Lindsayes always had been what is called exclusive; they held aloof from most of their neighbours, entirely ignoring the "town set," as they named the Garnston people, and would visit none but the county families, and as these were few with distances far between, the Lindsayes had not many acquaintances, and no friends. The consequence was they had few interests outside their own circle, and this produced,— as it will ever do even amongst sensible cultivated people,―a certain monotony and paucity of ideas, which pervaded their conversation and entire tone of thought.

Edmund, though himself naturally exclusive and reserved, could not help thinking his family were too much so. He was especially struck by this on Sunday, when after morning service his father and sisters walked down the flagged churchyard path to their carriage without a single friendly recognition from any one, indeed as if they hardly saw the crowd that surrounded them. It gave Edmund rather a feeling of isolated grandeur, and he could not help feeling as if they might at least have exchanged a civil greeting with some of those who for so many past years had been fellow worshippers along with them.

In the afternoon Edmund in the course of conversation remarked on the need the Vicar of Garnston seemed to find for more parish helpers, and asked his sisters whether they did not think that they might be of some use as Sunday-school teachers.

"Oh no," said Margaret, looking much startled at the proposition; "if it had been a village school we might,—but here it would be impossible."

"But why so?" persisted Edmund; "surely it is not the distance which is the objection? both you and Ida are good walkers."

Oh, it is not the walk, but if we taught in the schools we should be mixed up with so many of the town people, whose acquaintance would be most objectionable."

I should hardly have thought Mr. Herbert would have objectionable people among his church workers."

"Oh, quite respectable, of course,-but such a second-rate set."

-

I do not imagine they would consider themselves entitled to call from meeting you there, it could necessitate no more than a bowing acquaintance,” replied Edmund drily; "but as you have such a fear of contamination, perhaps you are right not to like the idea.”

Margaret was somewhat vexed at this way of putting it, and Edmund himself felt annoyed. He rarely interfered with any of his sisters' pursuits, and no man could have been more particular than he would be as to the society in which they mixed, but he saw that exclusiveness as they manifested it was absurd, and again the thought forced itself on his mind, "I am sure Eleanor Ansley would be different were she in their place.

دو

CHAPTER VI.

ABOVE a year had passed, and Edmund Lindsaye was now eating his terms at the Middle Temple. It had been his father's wish that he should study for the bar; and Edmund himself was by no means averse to the idea. There was little doubt that he would succeed in his profession, for besides his own ability he had plenty of interest among friends of his family. He had plunged into his work with all eagerness, attended the courts assiduously, and studied hard. He might have entered a good deal into society, for he had been given several introductions to people in town; but he declined all invitations, excusing himself as being too busy. And indeed his time was fully occupied, for besides his own particular branch of study, he kept himself quite conversant with all the current scientific topics of the day, he had even dabbled a little in literature on his own account, and had written various articles for magazines, where their terse clear language and evident knowledge of the subject caused them to be well received. Yet in spite of all this occupation there were times when he felt very weary and dispirited, and the question "cui bono" rose to his mind. What benefit would it be after all if he rose high in his profession? As the only son of a rich father he was in no way

dependent upon his exertions, neither had he any one else dependent upon him. His was a nature to work to his utmost powers on whatever occupied him; but he would never care for success merely for his own sake.

It was just beginning to dawn upon him that he was leading a very lonely life, and he almost shrunk from the idea that the same kind of existence would probably be his always. He was too reserved and distant in his manner to make friends. Jack Ansley had been his only one, and that friendship had been entirely Jack's doing; it was he who had sought out Edmund in their old college days, he had admired his cleverness and noble upright character, and determined to become intimate with him, and Jack's was a simple fearless nature, not to be easily repulsed. But now Jack was far away, working hard as curate in one of the worst parishes in Birmingham, and he had little time for writing, though his letters when they did come were always as a gleam of sunshine to Edmund.

It is perhaps those who, naturally unsociable, make few friends abroad, that are the most dependent on sympathy and companionship at home, and Edmund had neither the one nor the other. His only recreation was occasional attendance at some of the classical concerts; and nature was taking her revenge for his unhealthy way of living. He was becoming low-spirited and depressed, and morbid in his way of viewing things around him. He was tormented by those doubts which so often beset earnest minds, when at their first entering upon life they see the misrule and sorrow all around them. He plunged more deeply into study to divert his thoughts, but in this only partially succeeded; for had he known it, they were in a great degree due to the overstrained state of his mind and its need for relaxation.

With the exception of Maud's marriage to Lieutenant Baker, he had heard no news of any of the Ansley family save Jack, since his visit to Needthorpe.

One afternoon as Edmund was employing a few spare minutes before going to the court, in glancing over the day's "Times," his eye was suddenly caught by the familiar name Ansley amongst the announcements of the deaths. "On the 29th inst. at 31, Albert Street, Birmingham, John, eldest son of the Rev. Henry Ansley, and Curate of S. Paul's, Birmingham, aged 24."

Edmund stared blankly at these lines, as if he could hardly take in their sense, for the first few moments it seemed to him impossible, and