"you stood before me like a thought,

a dream remembered in a dream."

—coleridge.

it is five o'clock in the afternoon, and herst is the richer by one more inmate. molly has arrived, has been received by marcia, has pressed cheeks with her, has been told she is welcome in a palpably lying tone, and finally has been conducted to her bedroom. such a wonder of a bedroom compared with molly's snug but modest sanctum at home,—a very marvel of white and blue, and cloudy virginal muslins, and filled with innumerable luxuries.

molly, standing in the centre of it,—unaware that she is putting all its other beauties to shame—gazes round her in silent admiration, appreciates each pretty trifle to its fullest, and finally feels a vague surprise at the curious sense of discontent that pervades her.

her reception so far has not been cordial. marcia's cold unloving eyes have pierced her and left a little cold frozen spot within her heart. she is chilled and puzzled, and with all her strength is wishing herself home again at brooklyn, with john and letty, and all the merry, tormenting, kindly children.

"what shall i do for you now, miss molly?" asks sarah, presently breaking in upon these dismal broodings. this antiquated but devoted maiden has stationed herself at the farthest end of the big room close to molly's solitary trunk (as though suspicious of lurking thieves), and bears upon her countenance a depressed, not to say dejected, expression. "like mistress, like maid," she, too, is filled with the gloomiest forebodings.

"open my trunk and take out my clothes," says molly, making no effort at disrobing, beyond a melancholy attempt at pulling off her gloves, finger by finger.

sarah does as she is bidden.

"'tis a tremenjous house, miss molly."

"very. it is a castle, not a house."

"there's a deal of servants in it."

"yes," absently.

"leastways as far as i could judge with looking through the corners of my eyes as i came along them big passages. from every door a'most there popped a head bedizened with gaudy ribbons, and i suppose the bodies was behind 'em."

"let us hope so, sarah." rising, and laughing rather hysterically. "the bare idea that those mysterious heads should lack a decent finish fills me with the liveliest horror." then, in a brighter tone, "why, what is the matter with you, sarah? you look as if you had fallen into the very lowest depths of despair."

"not so much that as lonesome, miss; they all seem so rich and grand that i feel myself out of place."

molly smiles a little. after all, in spite of the difference in their positions, it is clear to her that she and her maid share pretty much the same fears.

"there was a very proud look about the set of their caps," says sarah, waxing more and more dismal. "suppose they were to be uncivil to me, miss molly, on account of my being country-reared and my gowns not being, as it were, in the height of the fashion, what should i do? it is all this, miss, that is weighing me down."

"suppose, on the contrary," says her mistress, with a little defiant ring in her tone, stepping to the glass and surveying her beautiful face with eager scrutiny, "you were to make a sensation, and cut out all these supercilious dames in your hall, how would it be then? come, sarah, let me teach you your new duties. first take my hat, now my jacket, now——"

"shall i do your hair, miss molly?"

"no," with a laugh,—"i think not. i had one trial of you in that respect; it was enough."

"but all maids do their young ladies' hair, don't they, miss? i doubt they will altogether look down upon me when they find i can't do even that."

"i shall ring for you every day when i come to dress for dinner. once in my room, who shall know whether you do my hair or not? and i faithfully promise you, sarah, to take such pains with the performance myself as shall compel every one in the house to admire it and envy me my excellent maid. 'see miss massereene's hair!' they will say, in tearful whispers. 'oh, that i too could have a sarah!' by the bye, call me miss massereene for the future, not miss molly,—at least until we get home again."

"yes, miss—massereene. law! it do sound odd," says sarah, with a little respectful laugh, "but high-sounding too, i think. i do hope i shan't forget it, miss molly. perhaps you will be good enough to remind me when i go wrong?"

a knock at the door prevents reply. molly cries out, "come in," and, turning, finds herself face to face with a fine old woman, who stands erect, and firm, in spite of her many years, in the doorway. she is clad in a sombre gown of brown silk, and has an old-fashioned chain round her neck that hangs far below her waist, which is by no means the most contemptible portion of her.

"i beg your pardon, miss massereene; i could not resist coming to see if you were quite comfortable," she says, respectfully.

"quite, thank you," replies molly, in a degree puzzled. "you are"—smiling—"the housekeeper?"

"i am. and you, my dear,"—regarding her anxiously,—"are every inch an amherst, in spite of your bonny blue eyes. you will forgive the freedom of my speech," says this old dame, with an air that would not have disgraced a duchess, "when i tell you i nursed your mother."

"ah! did you?" says molly, flushing a little, and coming up to her eagerly, with both hands extended, to kiss the fair old face that is smiling so kindly on her. "but how could one think it? you are yet so fresh, so good to look at."

"tut, my dear," says the old lady, mightily pleased nevertheless. "i am old enough to have nursed your grandmother. and now can i do anything for you?"

"you can," replies molly, turning toward sarah, who is regarding them with an expression that might at any moment mean either approval or displeasure. "this is my maid. we are both strangers here. will you see that she is made happy?"

"come with me, sarah, and i will make you acquainted with our household," says mrs. nesbitt, promptly.

as the door closes behind them, leaving her to her own society, a rather unhappy shade falls across molly's face.

a sensation of isolation—loneliness—oppresses her. indeed, her discouraging reception has wounded her more than she cares to confess even to her own heart. if they did not want her at herst, why had they invited her? if they did want her, surely they might have met her with more civility; and on this her first visit her grandfather at least might have been present to bid her welcome.

oh, that this hateful day were at an end! oh, for some way of making the slow hours run hurriedly!

with careful fingers she unfastens and pulls down all her lovely hair until it falls in rippling masses to her waist. as carefully, as lingeringly, she rolls it up again into its usual artistic knot at the back of her head. with still loitering movements she bathes the dust of travel from her face and hands, adjusts her soft gray gown, puts straight the pale-blue ribbon at her throat, and now tells herself, with a triumphant smile, that she has got the better of at least half an hour of this detested day.

alas! alas! the little ormolu ornament that ticks with such provoking empressement upon the chimney-piece assures her that her robing has occupied exactly ten minutes from start to finish.

this will never do. she cannot well spend her evening in her own room, no matter how eagerly she may desire to do so; so, taking heart of grace, she makes a wicked moue at her own rueful countenance in the looking-glass, and, opening her door hastily, lest her courage fail her, runs down the broad oak staircase into the hall beneath.

quick-witted, as women of her temperament always are, she remembers the situation of the room she had first entered, and, passing by all the other closed doors, goes into it, to find herself once more in marcia's presence.

"ah! you have come," says miss amherst, looking up languidly from her macrame, with a frozen smile that owes its one charm to its brevity. "you have made a quick toilet." with a supercilious glance at molly's quakerish gown, that somehow fits her and suits her to perfection. "you are not fatigued?"

"fatigued?" smiling, with a view to conciliation. "oh, no; it is such a little journey."

"so it is. how strange this should be our first meeting, living so close to each other as we have done! my grandfather's peculiar disposition of course accounts for it: he has quite a morbid horror of aliens."

"is one's granddaughter to be considered an alien?" asks molly, with a laugh. "the suggestion opens an enormous field for reflection. if so, what are one's nephews, and one's nieces, and cousins, first, second, and third? poor third-cousins! it makes one sad to think of them."

"i think perhaps mr. amherst's incivility toward you arose from his dislike to your mother's marriage. you don't mind my speaking, do you? it was more than good of you to come here at all, considering the circumstances,—i don't believe i could have been so forgiving,—but i know he felt very bitterly on the subject, and does so still."

"does he? how very absurd! amhersts cannot always marry amhersts, nor would it be a good thing if they could. i suppose, however, even he can be forgiving at times. now, for instance, how did he get over your father's marriage?"

marcia raises her head quickly. her color deepens. she turns a glance full of displeased suspicion upon her companion, who meets it calmly, and with such an amount of innocence in hers as might have disarmed a machiavelli. not a shadow of intention mars her expression; her widely-opened blue eyes contain only a desire to know; and marcia, angry, disconcerted, and puzzled, lets her gaze return to her work. a dim idea that it will not be so easy to ride rough-shod over this country-bred girl as she had hoped oppresses her, while a still more unpleasant doubt that her intended snubbing has recoiled upon her own head adds to her discontent. partly through policy and partly with a view to showing this recreant molly the rudeness of her ways, she refuses an answer to her question and starts a different topic in a still more freezing tone.

"you found your room comfortable, i hope, and—all that?"

"quite all that, thank you," cordially. "and such a pretty room too!" (she is unaware as she speaks that it is one of the plainest the house contains.) "how large everything seems! when coming down through all those corridors and halls i very nearly lost my way. stupid of me was it not? but it is an enormous house, i can see."

"is it? perhaps so. very much the size of most country houses, i should say. and yet, no doubt, to a stranger it would seem large. your own home is not so?"

"oh, no. if you could only see poor brooklyn in comparison! it is the prettiest little place in all the world, i think; but then it is little. it would require a tremendous amount of genius to lose one's self in brooklyn."

"how late it grows!" says marcia, looking at the clock and rising. "the first bell ought to ring soon. which would you prefer,—your tea here or in your own room? i always adopt the latter plan when the house is empty, and take it while dressing. by the bye, you have not seen—mr. amherst?"

"my grandfather? no."

"perhaps he had better be told you are here."

"has he not yet heard of my arrival?" asks molly, impulsively, some faint indignation stirring in her breast.

"he knew you were coming, of course; i am not sure if he remembered the exact hour. if you will come with me, i will take you to the library."

across the hall in nervous silence molly follows her guide until they reach a small anteroom, beyond which lies the "chamber of horrors," as, in spite of all her efforts to be indifferent, molly cannot help regarding it.

marcia knocking softly at the door, a feeble but rasping voice bids them enter; and, throwing it widely open, miss amherst beckons her cousin to follow her into the presence of her dreaded grandfather.

although looking old, and worn, and decrepit, he is still evidently in much better health than when last we saw him, trundling up and down the terraced walk, endeavoring to catch some faint warmth from the burning sun.

his eyes are darker and fiercer, his nose a shade sharper, his temper evidently in an uncorked condition; although he may be safely said to be on the mend, and, with regard to his bodily strength, in a very promising condition.

before him is a table covered with papers, from which he looks up ungraciously, as the girls enter.

"i have brought you eleanor massereene," says marcia, without preamble, in a tone so kind and gentle as makes molly even at this awful moment marvel at the change.

if it could be possible for the old man's ghastly skin to assume a paler hue, at this announcement, it certainly does so. with suppressed but apparent eagerness he fixes his eyes upon the new grandchild, and as he does so his hand closes involuntarily upon the paper beneath it; his mouth twitches; a shrinking pain contracts his face. yes, she is very like her dead mother.

"how long has she been in my house?" he asks, presently, after a pause that to molly has been hours, still with his gaze upon her, though beyond this prolonged examination of her features he has vouchsafed her no welcome.

"she came by the half-past four train. williams met her with the brougham."

"and it is nearly six. pray why have i been kept so long in ignorance of her arrival?" not once as he speaks does he look at marcia, or at anything but molly's pale, pretty, disturbed face.

"dear grandpapa, you have forgotten. yesterday i told you the hour we expected her. but no doubt, with so many important matters upon your mind," with a glance at the littered table, "you forgot this one."

"i did," slowly, "so effectually as to make me doubt having ever heard it. no, marcia, no more excuses, no more lies: you need not explain. be satisfied that whatever plans you formed to prevent my bidding your cousin welcome to my house were highly successful. at intrigue you are a proficient. i admire proficiency in all things,—but—for the future—be so good as to remember that i never forget."

"dear grandpapa," with a pathetic but very distinct sigh, "it is very hard to be misjudged!"

"granted. though at times one must own it has its advantages. now, if for instance i could only bring myself, now and again, to misjudge you, how very much more conducive to the accomplishment of your aims it would be! leave the room. i wish to speak to your cousin."

reluctant, but not daring to disobey, and always with the same aggrieved expression upon her face, marcia withdraws.

as the door closes behind her, mr. amherst rises, and holds out one hand to molly.

"you are welcome," he says, quietly, but coldly, and evidently speaking with an effort.

molly, coming slowly up to him, lays her hand in his, while entertaining an earnest hope that she will not be called upon to seal the interview with a kiss.

"thank you," she says, faintly, not knowing what else to say, and feeling thoroughly embarrassed by the fixity and duration of his regard.

"yes," speaking again, slowly, and absently. "you are welcome—eleanor. i am glad i have seen you before—my death. yes—you are very like—— go!" with sudden vehemence, "leave me; i wish to be alone."

sinking back heavily into his arm-chair, he motions her from him, and molly, finding herself a moment later once more in the anteroom, breathes a sigh of thankfulness that this her first strange interview with her host is at an end.

"dress me quickly, sarah," she says, as she gains her own room about half an hour later, and finds that damsel awaiting her. "and make me look as beautiful as possible; i have yet another cousin to investigate, and something tells me the third will be the charm, and that i shall get on with him. young men"—ingenuously, and forgetting she is expressing her thoughts aloud—"are certainly a decided improvement on young women. if, however, there is really any understanding between philip and marcia, it will rather spoil my amusement and—still i need not torment myself beforehand, as that is a matter i shall learn in five minutes."

"there's a very nice young man down-stairs, miss," breaks in sarah, at this juncture, with a simper that has the pleasing effect of making one side of her face quite an inch shorter than the other.

"what! you have seen him, then?" cries molly, full of her own idea, and oblivious of dignity. "is he handsome, sarah? young? describe him to me."

"he is short, miss, and stoutish, and—and——"

"yes! do go on, sarah, and take that smile off your face: it makes you look downright imbecile. 'short!' 'stout!' good gracious! of what on earth could teddy have been thinking."

"his manners is most agreeable, miss, and altogether he is a most gentleman-like young man."

"well, of course he is all that, or he isn't anything; but stout!——"

"not a bit stiffish, or uppish, as one might expect, considering where he come from. and indeed, miss molly," with an irrepressible giggle, "he did say as how——"

"what!" icily.

"as how i had a very bewidging look about the eyes."

"sarah," exclaims miss massereene, sinking weakly into a chair, "do you mean to tell me my cousin philip—captain shadwell—told you—had the impertinence to speak to you about——"

"law, miss molly, whatever are you thinking about?—captain shadwell! why, i haven't so much as laid eyes on him! i was only speaking of his young man, what goes by the name of peters."

"ridiculous!" cries molly, impatiently; then bursting into a merry laugh, she laughs so heartily and so long that the somewhat puzzled sarah feels compelled to join.

"'short, and stout, and gentlemanly'—ha, ha, ha! and so peters said you were bewidging, sarah? ah! take care, and do not let him turn your head: if you do, you will lose all your fun, and gain little for it. is that a bell? oh, sarah! come, dispatch, dispatch, or i shall be late, and eternally disgraced."

the robing proceeds, and when finished leaves molly standing before her maid with (it must be confessed) a very self-satisfied smirk upon her countenance.

"how am i looking, sarah? i want a candid opinion; but on no account say anything disparaging."

"lovely!" says sarah, with comfortable haste. "there's no denying it, miss molly. miss amherst below, for all her dark hair and eyes (and i don't say but that she is handsome), could not hold a candle to you, as the saying is—and that's a fact."

"is there anything in all the world," says miss massereene, "so sweet as sincere praise? sarah, you are a charming creature. good-bye; i go—let us hope—to victory. but if not,—if i find the amiable relatives refuse to acknowledge my charms i shall at least know where to come to receive the admiration i feel i so justly deserve!"

so saying, with a little tragic flourish, she once more wends her way down-stairs, trailing behind her her pretty white muslin gown, with its flecks of coloring, blue as her eyes, into the drawing-room.

the close of autumn brings to us a breath of winter. already the daylight has taken to itself wings and flown partially away; and though, as yet, a good deal of it through compassion lingers, it is but a half-hearted dallying that speaks of hurry to be gone.

the footman, a young person, of a highly morbid and sensitive disposition, abhorrent of twilights, has pulled down all the blinds in the sitting-rooms, and drawn the curtains closely, has lit the lamps, and poked into a blaze the fire, that mr. amherst has the wisdom to keep burning all the year round in the long chilly room.

before the fire, with one arm on the mantel-piece, and one foot upon the fender, stands a young man, in an attitude suggestive of melancholy. hearing the rustling of a woman's garments, he looks up, and, seeing molly, stares at her, first lazily, then curiously, then amazedly, then——

she is quite close to him; she can almost touch him; indeed, no farther can she go without putting him to one side; and still he has not stirred. the situation grows embarrassing, so embarrassing that, what with the ludicrous silence and philip shadwell's eyes which betray a charmed astonishment, molly feels an overpowering desire to laugh. she compromises matters by smiling, and lowering her eyelids just half an inch.

"you do not want all the fire, do you?" she asks, demurely, in a low tone.

"i beg your pardon," exclaims philip, in his abstraction, moving in a direction closer to the fire, rather than from it. "i had no idea i was. i"—doubtfully, "am i speaking to miss massereene?"

"you are. and i—i know i am speaking to captain shadwell."

"yes," slowly. "that is my name,—philip shadwell."

"we are cousins, then," says molly, kindly, as though desirous of putting him at his ease. "i hope we shall be, what is far better, friends."

"we must be; we are friends," returns he, hastily, so full of surprise and self-reproach as to be almost unconscious of his words.

is this the country cousin full of freckles and mauvaise honte, who was to be pitied, and lectured, and taught generally how to behave?—whose ignorance was to draw forth groans from pit and gallery and boxes? a hot blush at his own unmeant impertinence thrills him from head to foot. were she ever, by any chance, to hear what he had said. oh, perish the thought!—it is too horrible!

a little laugh from molly somewhat restores his senses.

"you should not stare so," she says, severely, with an adorable attempt at a frown. "and you need not look at me all at once, you know, because, as i am going to stay here a whole month, you will have plenty of time to do it by degrees, without fatiguing yourself. by the bye," reproachfully, "i have come a journey to-day, and am dreadfully tired, and you have never even offered me a chair; must i get one for myself?"

"you have driven any manners i may possess out of my head," replies he, laughing, too, and pushing toward her the coziest chair the room contains. "your sudden entrance bewildered me; you came upon me like an apparition; more especially as people in this house never get to the drawing-room until exactly one minute before dinner is announced."

"why?"

"lest we should bore each other past forgiveness. being together as we are every day, and all day long, one can easily imagine how a very little more pressure would smash the chains of politeness. you may have heard of the last straw and its disastrous consequences?"

"i have. i am sorry i frightened you. to-morrow night i shall know better, and shall leave you to your silent musings in peace."

"no; don't do that!" says her companion, earnestly. "on no account do that. i think the half-hour before dinner, sitting by the fire, alone, as we are now, the best of the whole day; that is, of course, if one spends it with a congenial companion."

"are you a congenial companion?"

"i don't know," smiling. "if you will let me, i can at least try to be."

"try, then, by all means." in a moment or two,—"i should like to fathom your thoughts," says molly. "when i came in, there was more than bewilderment in your face; it showed—how shall i express it? you looked as though you had expected something else?"

"will you forgive me if i say i did?"

"what, then? a creature tall, gaunt, weird——?"

"no."

"fat, red, uncomfortable?"

this touches so nearly on the truth as to be unpleasant. he winces.

"i will tell you what i did not expect," he says, hastily, coloring a little. "how should i? it is so seldom one has the good luck to discover in autumn a rose belonging to june."

his voice falls.

"am i one?" asks she, looking with dangerous frankness into the dark eyes above her, that are telling her silently, eloquently, she is the fairest, freshest, sweetest queen of flowers in all the world.

the door opens, and mr. amherst enters, then marcia. philip straightens himself, and puts on his usual bored, rather sulky expression. molly smiles upon her grumpy old host. he offers her his arm, philip does the same to marcia, and together they gain the dining-room.

it is an old, heavily wainscoted apartment, gloomy beyond words, so immense that the four who dine in it tonight appear utterly lost in its vast centre.

marcia, in an evening toilet of black and ivory, sits at the head of the table, her grandfather opposite to her. philip and molly are vis-à-vis at the sides. behind stand the footmen, as sleek and well-to-do, and imbecile, as one can desire.

there is a solemnity about the repast that strikes but fails to subdue molly. it has a contrary effect, making her spirits rise, and creating in her a very mistaken desire for laughter. she is hungry too, and succeeds in eating a good dinner, while altogether she comes to the conclusion that it may not be wholly impossible to put in a very good time at herst.

never does she raise her eyes without encountering philip's dark ones regarding her with the friendliest attention. this also helps to reassure her. a friend in need is a friend indeed, and this friend is handsome as well as kind, although there is a little something or other, a suppressed vindictiveness, about his expression, that repels her.

she compares him unfavorably with luttrell, and presently lets her thoughts wander on to the glad fact that to-morrow will see the latter by her side, when indeed she will be in a position to defy fate,—and marcia. already she has learned to regard that dark-browed lady with distrust.

"is any one coming to-morrow?" asks mr. amherst, à propos of molly's reverie."

"tedcastle, and maud darley."

"her husband?"

"i suppose so. though she did not mention him when writing."

"poor darley!" with a sneer: "she never does mention him. any one else?"

"not to-morrow."

"i wonder if luttrell will be much altered," says philip; "browned, i suppose, by india, although his stay there was of the shortest."

"he is not at all bronzed," breaks in molly, quietly.

"you know him?" marcia asks, in a rather surprised tone, turning toward her.

"oh, yes, very well," coloring a little. "that is, he was staying with us for a short time at brooklyn."

"staying with you?" her grandfather repeats, curiously. it is evidently a matter of wonder with them, her friendship with tedcastle.

"yes, he and john, my brother, are old friends. they were at school together, although john is much older, and he says——"

mr. amherst coughs, which means he is displeased, and turns his head away. marcia gives an order to one of the servants in a very distinct tone. philip smiles at molly, and molly, unconscious of offense, is about to return to the charge, and give a lengthened account of her tabooed brother, when luckily she is prevented by a voice from behind her chair, which says:

"champagne, or moselle?"

"champagne," replies molly, and forgets her brother for the moment.

"i thought all women were prejudiced in favor of moselle," says philip, addressing her hastily, more from a view to hinder a recurrence to the forbidden topic than from any overweening curiosity to learn her taste in wines. "are not you?"

"i am hardly in a position to judge," frankly, "as i have never tasted moselle, and champagne only once. have i shocked you? is that a very lowering admission?"

mr. amherst coughs again. the corners of marcia's mouth take a disgusted droop. philip laughs out loud.

"on the contrary, it is a very refreshing one," he says, in an interested and deeply amused tone, "more especially in these degenerate days when most young ladies can tell one to a turn the precise age, price, and retailer of one's wines. may i ask when was this memorable 'once'?"

"at the races at loaminster. were you ever there? i persuaded my brother to take me there the spring before last, and he went."

"we were there that year, with a large party," says marcia. "i do not remember seeing you on the stand."

"we were not on it. we drove over, john and i and letty, in the little trap, a norwegian, and dreadfully shaky it was, but we did not care, and we sat in it all day, and saw everything very well. then a friend of john's, a man in the sixty-second, came up, and asked to be introduced to me, and afterward others came, and persuaded us to have luncheon with them in their marquee. it was there," nodding at philip, "i got the champagne. we had great fun, i remember, and altogether it was quite the pleasantest day i ever spent in my life."

as she speaks, she dimples, and blushes, and beams all over her pretty face as she recalls that day's past glories.

"the sixty-second?" says marcia. "i recollect. a very second-rate regiment i thought it. there was a captain milburd in it, i remember."

"that was john's friend," says molly, promptly; "he was so kind to me that day. did you like him?"

"like him! a man all broad plaid and red tie. no, i certainly did not like him."

"his tie!" says molly, laughing gayly at the vision she has conjured up,—"it certainly was red. as red as that rose," pointing to a blood-colored flower in the centre of a huge china bowl of priceless cost, that ornaments the middle of the table, and round which, being opposite to him, she has to peer to catch a glimpse of philip. "it was the reddest thing i ever saw, except his complexion. but i forgave him, he was so good-natured."

"does good-nature make up for everything?" asks philip, dodging the bowl in his turn to meet her eyes.

"for most things. grandpapa," pointing to a family portrait over the chimney-piece that has attracted her attention ever since her entrance, "whose is that picture?"

"your grandmother's. it is like you, but," says the old man with his usual gracefulness, "it is ten times handsomer."

"very like you," thinks the young man, gazing with ever increasing admiration at the exquisite tints and shades and changes in the living face before him, "only you are ten thousand times more beautiful!"

slowly, and with much unnecessary delay, the dinner drags to an end, only to be followed by a still slower hour in the drawing-room.

mr. amherst challenges philip to a game of chess, that most wearisome of games to the on-looker, and so arranges himself that his antagonist cannot, without risking his neck, bestow so much as a glance in miss massereene's direction.

marcia gets successfully through two elaborate fantasies upon the piano, that require rather more than the correct brilliancy of her touch to make up for the incoherency of their composition; while molly sits apart, dear soul, and wishes with much devoutness that the inventor of chess had been strangled at his birth.

at ten o'clock precisely mr. amherst rises, having lost his game, and a good deal of his temper, and expresses his intention of retiring without delay to his virtuous slumbers. marcia asks molly whether she too would not wish to go to her room after the day's fatigue; at which proposition molly grasps with eagerness. philip lights her candle,—they are in the hall together,—and then holds out his hand.

"do you know we have not yet gone through the ceremony of shaking hands?" he says, with a kindly smile, and a still more kindly pressure; which i am afraid met with some faint return. then he wishes her a good night's rest, and she wends her way up-stairs again, and knows the long-thought-of, hoped-for, much-dreaded day is at an end.