"This is the second time you have sent some ill-tempered, over-bearing servant into Ethel's service, instead of doing what I asked you. Why in the world my mother dismissed Edwards, I can't conceive. If she was a little behind the day, she had good sense enough not to attempt things she did not understand. Ethel is no more able to manage that woman, with her flaunting ribbons and finery, and her saucy tongue, than a baby."

"The truth was," Barbara said, with her eyes very meekly cast down, mamma and the rest of us got a notion into our heads that of course Miss Atherton, the daughter of a clergyman, would have been taught all sorts of housewifery. One always has an idea that those sort of people are proverbially domestic; and, moreover, coming from Lady Liddington's, who is so very particular and recherché—”

"If Lady Liddington had found her good for any thing, she would never have parted from her. And if ever you or my mother favour us again with such creatures as this woman or old Frippery, I'll forbid your interfering in my household."

"Well, upon my word, you are grown very ferocious, I think, Master Philip. Neither you nor Ethel are such very bright specimens of connubial felicity as one expected to find you. She looks thinner and paler than when she first came from Italy; and as to you-but, good night," she added hastily, "I won't wait for the storm which I see brewing, lest I should absolutely lose my head." And, taking up her candle, she went lightly up the silent stairs to her own room, leaving Philip in a towering passion with his mother and sisters, and the Athertons, and every body

else.

In crossing the hall the next morning, Ethel's eye was caught by three cards lying on the marble table. They were Ralph's, Katie's, and Grace's. "Has Mr. Atherton called here?" she asked nervously of Stephens. "Yes, my lady. Mr. Atherton and two ladies called just now; walked over from the Moss, I think, for they are all great walkers, I know."

"I hope you said I was at home," Ethel said hurriedly.

"I told them you were at home, my lady; but Mr. Atherton said at once they did not intend going in. I even ventured so far as to say I thought, maybe, the ladies would need a rest; but they said nothey would leave their cards."

"And where was I at the time?" Ethel asked, foreseeing quite plainly that Philip's behaviour on Sunday had effectually barred the door to her own people.

"You were writing in the morning-room, my lady. I don't exactly know where Sir Philip was. They inquired very particularly for you, my lady." Ethelind said no more; she only passed swiftly up the stairs, and, having locked her door, eased her troubled heart by a sudden and violent burst of tears.

On Sunday, Ethelind and Lady Gwynne, and her daughters, drove

over to Leigh-Delamere to church. Philip, Barbara, and the rest of their guests, drove to Leigh. In the afternoon Ethel again found her way to church; but this time she drove herself in her pony-carriage, with Nest Gwynne as her companion. Neither morning nor afternoon had she been able to do more than give Grace and Ralph a kind look, as she left her pew. The parishioners seemed to wait for her to precede them out of church, and the rectory-pew was near the chancel, and consequently those in it were the last to leave. She could only take her seat in the carriage and drive away, as she had no plausible excuse to offer her companion for lingering in the churchyard.

In spite of her nervousness, Ethelind could not but feel she was falling gradually into her place in the stately home her husband had brought her to, and among a houseful of people utterly unknown to her. But she could not shut her eyes to the fact that a misty gulf, never dreamt of by her a short fortnight ago, had opened somewhere between her and Philip, which clouded all her pleasure, and weighed upon her like a nightmare. It was not that he was less kind,sometimes she fancied he was more so than he had ever been,—but there was now one subject neither ventured to approach. One set of people neither ever mentioned; and if by chance they became the topics of conversation among others, both Philip and Ethelind instinctively felt that each tried in their own way to lead it away to some other. Ethelind had never dared mention the call which the Athertons had paid them; though she knew, indirectly, that Philip was aware of it. Neither had he ventured to inquire if Ralph and his wife and sister had been included in the invitations to the ball, though he had almost hoped they had, when he heard the whole neighbourhood ringing with the indefatigable labours and capital sermons of the young curate at LeighDelamere.

"You are very early in your dressing," Barbara said, as she came into Ethel's room; "half the people have not gone up-stairs, and I have my hair and every thing to do."

"I have not seen Philip yet," Ethel replied; "and besides, I have to receive my guests. I hope I shall not make any very stupid blunder, it will so annoy Philip, I know."

"Now, never you care about Philip; just go your own way, and leave him to his. 'Tis the worst policy in the world to be always fretting and fidgeting about your husband,-and, let me tell you, they don't like it half as well as a stout, sturdy wife who maintains her rights."

Ethelind sighed. "Perhaps not," she said sadly; "but for all that your advice sounds very hard and unnatural."

"Well! if Philip is not proud of you to-night, I am mistaken," Barbara broke out, in a more honest burst of kindness and admiration than was usual with her. And the heart must have been hard which withheld its full meed to such transparent and fragile-looking beauty as Ethelind's appeared to-night. Philip came into the large ball

room, where Ethel was standing to take a last survey of the splendid tiers of hothouse plants, and coloured lights gleaming, out of rich wreaths of flowers, up the marble pillars and around the cornice of the lofty room. She was standing by the fireplace, beneath the soft light of a chandelier, the full white lids falling partly down over her large violet eyes, made deeper in colour by the thick fringe, which cast its shadow on her rounded cheek, while a soft halo glimmered round her head from the bandeaux of opals which bound up the deep rich coils of her golden hair. Her white rounded arms fell down upon the full folds of her mauve dress, round each of which was clasped a massive jewelled bracelet. She seemed lost in thought.

"Why, Ethie, you look a queen of the revels," Philip said, coming up to her, and almost making her start. "But I don't think you are wise to be standing about so early. You will have plenty to do by and by. Not that you must dance much, remember. The opening quadrille, I suppose, you must stand up in with Lord Marwick; but I cannot let you do more. Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear," Ethel replied, "and, at present, I have no wish to do When the dancing begins, it may remind me of the first and only ball I was ever at. I will not promise what I I will not promise what I may do then."

So.

But we are old

"Ah, that Repworth affair," Philip said. "Yes, I remember that ball well enough. I danced with you then, Ethie. My last dance, I suppose. I hardly knew what I was about that night. All I cared for was getting possession of your hand." He put his arm round her waist, and, for a moment, her head rested upon his shoulder. "Was that what you were dreaming about when I came in just now? married people now; we have lived long enough together to find out there is something else to do in the world besides dreaming one's life away. The theory is, I believe, that, as the first enthusiasm of love subsides, a harder and sounder, and wholesomer state of feeling, which people designate as affection,' takes its place. I don't know whether the awaking from that first dream is not rather mournful, especially if the shock comes suddenly, however much more healthy the second phase of one's matrimonial experience may be. What say you, Ethie, with the little experience you have had?" And Philip looked down upon the half-closed eyelids, and the flushed cheek, and the tremulous lip, which still rested against his shoulder.

"We do not stop to ask ourselves what the future will be," Ethelind said, in a low tone, and not without some effort to keep back her tears. "Women are very weak, and very trustful; it is their nature, I suppose; and when their hearts are full, they have no desire to lift the veil which mercifully obscures the future."

Philip put his head down, and gave her the warmest kiss he had bestowed upon her since that unlucky Friday night, the week before. He turned to go away; then he came back to where Ethel was standing. "Will the Athertons be here, do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know. I have received no reply; but I should think not. I asked them, as I thought you wished it. I hope I did right?”

not.

"Quite," he replied. "I hope they will be here."

But Ethel, though she said nothing, sincerely hoped they would

CHAPTER XVII.

THERE had been a long discussion at the Rectory whether the Redenham invitations should or should not be accepted. Ralph tossed the little coloured envelope down, and walked away. He felt it was a sort of mockery, when Sir Philip had not condescended to acknowledge him in any way in his own parish.

A girlish and very natural desire seized Grace to be present at this dance, which formed the subject of conversation and speculation to the neighbourhood. She naturally longed to see her sister in her own home.

"Had Sir Philip ridden over, and said simply, 'Atherton, do as you please, come, or stay away,' I would have gone," Ralph said indignantly. "But Ralph Atherton, the curate of Mr. Clifford, the but lately Fellow of his College, the son of Ethel's father, steals into no man's house because, for very shame's sake only, he cannot be excluded. Besides," he added, cooling down from his burst of temper, "I should not dance. I gave that up when I took orders. I shall not go. At the same time, if you, Grace, can persuade Katie to chaperone you, I won't say a word against it; and, as far as that goes, if your dress stands in your way, I will give you whatever is needful for the occasion."

Grace's tearful eyes were bent on Kate. A faint remembrance flashed across her, rather unpleasantly, of a caution Margaret had given her, never in any way to come between Ethel and her husband. Would Ethie have asked her if she had not wished to see her? Could it be, after all, that Sir Philip meant nothing, and that Ralph, in his over-sensitive feelings, had needlessly taken offence? And so Grace planned and contrived, and thought it all over, and tried to close her eyes against her own long-maintained impressions of Philip's intentions towards them, which she had hitherto stoutly maintained against all arguments.

Supported by Lady Gwynne's motherly presence, to prompt her where her own knowledge of her guests failed her, Ethelind found her task by no means so arduous or difficult as she had expected; and, by the time the dancing had commenced, she had entered as thoroughly into the excitement, and joined as heartily in the gaiety, as any one in that large and brilliant party. It did Philip good to stand by, and watch her animated face, and listen to her sparkling repartee, and her soft, trilling laughter. And he could not resist asking Barbara, as they stood together for a moment, if he really had ever over-stated her beauty in describing her to them.

In spite of his calm, unmoved face, his sister's unqualified admiration gave him intense gratification.

Amongst the three hundred faces which had passed in review before her, Ethie had not recognised any one from the Rectory; and wondering whether they had indeed been too conscious of Philip's shortcomings to accept her invitation, she almost started when Stephens, in a low voice, announced "Mrs. and Miss Atherton;" and Ethelind turned and followed the servant nervously across the room to the hall.

"They are in the small ante-room, my lady," he said. "They begged to see you alone first; and I thought, my lady, I had better take them there."

"Oh, Gracie!" she said, "I had quite given you up. Why did you not come earlier? and where is Ralph? Surely he has not sent you here alone?"

"We are come, Ethie dear," Grace replied hurriedly, and with a bright colour, "only to see you! I had a feverish longing for one glimpse of you in your own home. I wanted to see you dressed, as you are tonight, in jewels and lace and velvet, -to feast my eyes upon your face, to get it all stored up in my memory; and then I think I shall be better able to settle down to my own quiet life."

Ethel laughed. "Dear Gracie," she said, "there is not much for you to see in me, I think. I am just the same 'Ethie' I have ever been. Nothing can change me, even though I do wear all this finery; but it is not a bit prettier than your pretty white dress;" and she looked at her scarcely less lovely sister, in her simple white folds of muslin.

"Grace, we ought to apologise to your sister for coming at this late hour," Katie said; "but we wished, Lady Leigh, to avoid notice. We leave early for the same reason."

And pray, Ethie," Grace broke in, "don't come near us, or try to get us partners. Katie won't dance; and I just know enough people among your guests to have the chance of a quadrille, if I wish it. But we do not come to dance. We are here just to see you once in your own home, among your new friends."

Ethelind's colour rose at the remembrance that all these excuses should be thought needful by her sisters, who ought to have been the honoured guests in Philip's house. She was grieved to the heart that she could not-dared not-bring Philip peremptorily to forbid such a phantom visit.

"Come in with me, now," she said, "and I will introduce you to my friend Lady Gwynne; I am sure you will both like her; and Katie can sit quietly by her side while I find a partner for you.”

But Grace shrank back nervously, and would not consent to what her sister urged. At this moment Barbara's voice was heard calling for Lady Leigh.

"You are wanted," Grace said. "Go-do go! dear Ethel, or you will make me repent that I came."

Again Barbara's voice reached them. "I must go," Ethel said hurriedly. "But I will tell Stephens to take you through the conservato