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 20, 1863.] man’s speech had another signification; the blood mounted to her face, and her heart beat violently. “He is thinking of Launcelot Darrell,” she thought; “he will leave his fortune to Launcelot Darrell. He will die before he learns the secret of my father’s wrongs. His Will is already made, no doubt, and he will die before I can dare to say to him, ‘Your niece’s son is a trickster and a villain! ”

This was the only occasion upon which Maurice de Crespigny ever spoke of his intentions with regard to the fortune that he must leave behind him. He said, plainly enough, that Eleanor was to have none of his money; and the sisters, who had until now kept a jealous watch upon the old man and his favourite, were henceforward content to let Mrs. Monckton come and go as she pleased. But for all this Eleanor was no nearer the accomplishment of her great purpose.

Launcelot Darrell came to Tolldale, and in a certain easy and somewhat indifferent manner paid his homage to his affianced wife. Laura was happy by fits and starts; and by fits and starts utterly miserable, when the horrible pangs of jealousy—jealousy of Eleanor, and jealous doubts of her lover’s truth—tortured her breast. Gilbert Monckton sat day after day in the library or the drawing-room, or Eleanor’s morning-room, as the case might be, keeping watch over his wife and the lovers.

But though the days and weeks went by with an unnatural rapidity, as it seemed to Mrs. Monckton, with a wearisome slowness in the opinion of her husband—the progress of time brought George Vane’s daughter no further onward, by so much as one step, upon the pathway which she had chosen for herself.

Christmas came; and the girl whose youth had been spent in the shabby lodgings in which her father had hidden the poverty of his decline, the patient young housekeeper who had been used to eke out ounces of tea, and to entreat for brief respite and grace from aggrieved chandlers, was called upon to play my Lady Bountiful at Tolldale Priory, and to dole out beef and bread, blankets and brandy, coals and flannels, to a host of hungry and shivering claimants.

Christmas passed, and the new year struggled into life under every disadvantage of bad weather; while the spring, the dreaded early spring, which was to witness Laura’s marriage, approached with a stealthy footfall, creeping day by day nearer and nearer.

Eleanor, in very despair, appealed to Richard Thornton.

She appealed to him from the force of habit, perhaps: as a fretful child complains to its mother, rather than from any hope that he could aid her in her great scheme.

“Oh, Richard,” she wrote, despairingly, “help me, help me, help me! I thought all would be so easy if I could once come to this place. But I am here, and I see Launcelot Darrell every day, and yet I am no nearer the end. What am I to do? January is nearly over; and in March, Laura Mason is to marry that man. Mr. de Crespigny is very ill, and may die at any moment, leaving his money to his niece’s son. Is this man, who caused my father’s death, to have all the brightest and best things this world can give? Is he to have a noble fortune and an amiable wife? and am I to stand by and permit him to be happy; remembering what happened upon that dreadful night in Paris—remembering that my father lies in his unconsecrated grave, and that his blood is upon this man’s head? Help me, Richard. Come to me; help me to find proof positive of Launcelot Darrell’s guilt. You can help me, if you please. Your brain is clearer, your perception quicker, than mine. I am carried away by my own passion—blinded by my indignation. You were right when you said I should never succeed in this work. I look to you to avenge my father’s death.”

the time of Hugh, thirty-seventh Bishop of Mons (for such is the species of date which is given to the tale), Dangerose, a lady so fair that she was commonly styled “La Belle Fille,” or “La Belle Nymphe,” resided at the Castle of Chemiré le Gaudin, in Maine, a building which to this day has retained the name of “Le Château de Belle Fille.” The lady was courted by Damase, lord of Asnieres, but as he was too near of kin to obtain her hand in marriage, the lady’s delicacy yielded to her attachment. The pious bishop, after in vain attempting to dissolve the union, launched the bolts of excommunication in the most awful manner, with bell, book, and candle, against the seducer. But Damase, who seems to have been much too powerful a baron to care for the terrors of religion, ridiculed the good prelate’s menaces, and answered vauntingly, that “fire and water would stand him in stead as much as ever, in spite of the bishop.” The prelate in his turn replied, that “fire and water would avenge the cause of Heaven on the haughty lord within six months, unless he repented.” The baron continued obstinate; but one day as he was hawking, a violent storm came on, and he found himself obliged to betake himself, with his falconer, to a little boat, and to seek shelter across the river. A flash of lightning, however, struck him and his vessel, and killed him and his companion, before he had passed the stream. Though the falconer s body was soon found, that of Damase could never be heard of. The fair Dangerose, terrified at the fate of her paramour, straightway threw herself at the feet of Bishop Hugh, lamented her sin, and withdrew to a remote part of her estates where she spent the rest of her long life in unceasing penitence. After this alarming interposition of Providence, the example of Dangerose’s misfortune was in everyone’s mouth, and those who are acquainted with French will know that “Ceci sent la Dangerose” is a natural expression to persons who wish to allude briefly to something involving great peril. The expression no doubt was not long in extending itself to the English provinces in the vicinity of Maine, and hence, probably, are derived the French “dangeroux,” and the English “dangerous.” Let Dr. Johnson’s history of the word “danger” be examined before