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 . 17, 1860.] which the bright white light shone in all its power. Here Lygon stopped, pointed out to Clara a few of the points in the landscape, and then told her to wander about, if she liked, as he would lie down, and look at something he had to read.

“Don’t go too far from me, and keep out of the sun, darling. Call out to me, if you miss your way.”

“But you will take care of the poor little hedgehog, papa?”

“All care, dear.”

And the happy child departed on her exploration, singing gaily, and with her head full of hedgehogs, squirrels, snakes, caves, and all the wonders of the new world into which she had been brought.

“Papa! papa!”

It was, however, only a cry of delight and excitement that roused him from his own thoughts. A few steps brought him where he could see her, above him.

And a prettier little fairy of the forest had not been seen on the old hill. In a setting of green leaves, her light dress stood out like some strange new flower, and as her dark hair fell over her shoulders—the hat on the ground was much too full of wild-flowers, coloured stones, and other treasures, to be at all available for its ordinary purpose—and stirred in the slight breezes, her bright face, flushed with heat and delight, quite glowed while she stood intently watching some object below. Even her father’s troubled eye could not fail to note her rare beauty.

“I see the house, I see the telescope!” she cried, “and a gentleman at the door is waving a handkerchief at me.”

And she waved her own in return, with infinite energy, and her eyes sparkled as she perceived that her fairy signal was recognised.

They returned to the lodge, and found not only Mr. Berry but his wife, and were heartily welcomed by the former, and were received with all proper and decorous attention by the latter.

“But how shabby to come without Laura,” said Mr. Berry. “Clara, how could you let papa leave mamma behind?”

“But mamma has gone into the country herself, so we couldn’t bring her,” explained Clara.

Foreseeing the question, Mr. Lygon had prepared himself with the reply. Mr. and Mrs. Berry had known his wife from girlhood, and the half explanation which Lygon had made at home would, he felt, be hardly sufficient for the Berrys, who were tolerably well acquainted with the names, at least, of all her intimate friends. He had come down to give his full confidence to Mr. Berry, but had not the slightest intention of entrusting it to the solicitor’s wife, whom indeed he loved not.

“Yes,” said Mr. Lygon, promptly—perhaps a little more promptly than would have been quite natural had there been no secret to keep. “Poor j Mrs. Cateaton—did you not meet her at our house, Mrs. Berry, when you came to town the year before last—”

“I do not seem to remember the name,” said Mrs. Berry, looking him very straight in the face with her cold, light, but not very clear eyes.

Mrs. Berry was some ten or twelve years younger than her husband. In earlier life she had seemed passably pretty, when seen in a group of young girls, a sort of partnership which, to a careless eye, invests all the members of the firm with shares in the personal advantages of each. But when an observer, drawing back from the party, calmly and silently limited the partnership, and assigned to each young lady her own portion of the united assets, he did not make much of the contributions of Marion Wagstaffe. Against a pleasant though cold smile, a clear blonde complexion, rather a good figure, white, but not small hands, a readiness of speech, some neatness in language, and perfect self-composure, which one might transfer to the wrong side of the account by calling it self-complacency, the accountant had to set the light eyes that have been mentioned, and to add that they were objectionably watchful, and never in repose. He had also to note that the voice which proceeded from those unsympathetic-looking lips was, though clear, liable to become too high for a sensitive ear, and though this would have been of no consequence, had the habitual utterances been kindly, he would have remarked that Miss Wagstaffe’s forte was in retort, and that even in the lightest conversation her share was usually the detection of a friend’s ignorance, or the correction of a friend’s English. Marion was tall, and height is a merit in its way; but not especially so when one avails oneself of it as a tower of espial, and rejoices in the ability to look down with undue ease upon the misdoings of a shorter world;—and so did Marion Wagstaffe use those extra inches. Certainly she was not an amiable girl, but, dressing well, smiling readily, and keeping her light braided hair very neat, she somehow took her place among amiable girls, and used to be invited a good deal by people who would scarcely have cared to say that they liked her. She could not sing, but had grappled determinately with the keyboard, and what mechanical labour can attain there, Marion had seized, and marked the time with commendable precision when she played quadrilles—everybody has some virtue.

This was the account as it would have been made up, errors excepted, when she was two-and-twenty. In completing it, to be rendered at the date of our story, the age had to be doubled, and important additions had to be made. Among them was her having become possessed of about four hundred a year in her own right (by the bequest of a distant relative, who was most anxious to leave her property not only away from her near relations, but in a quarter whence it was morally certain that no weakness would send back a shilling to the baffled expectants), and her having secured the hand of the prosperous solicitor of Lipthwaite. How Edward Allingham Berry was induced to marry a woman who was certainly about as unlike himself in character as possible, it is not for me to try to explain. He was rich, and therefore the addition of riches might have been an aid in bringing about the union. But he was a thoughtful man, and could scarcely have admired her shallow smartness; a kindly man, and could