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said Nello, shaking his head with the sudden consciousness of a want not hitherto realised. "Then I need not

write copies any more." "Your father is far off, Nello," said Mary; "your poor papa, who never hears any news of you. Some time I hope you will be able to write to him, and ask him to come home."

"Oh," cried Lilias, "you need not be sorry about that, Mary. He will come home. Some day, in a moment when you are thinking of nothing, there will be a step on the stair, and Martuccia will give a shriek; and it will be as if the sun came shining out, and it will be papa! He is always like that-but you never know when he will come

Mary's eyes filled in spite of herself. What long, long years it was that she had thought but little of John! and yet there suddenly seemed to come before her a vision of his arrival from school or from college, all smiles and brightness, making the old roof ring with his shout of pleasure. Was it possible that this would happen over again that he would come in a moment, as his little daughter said? But Lilias did not know all the difficulties nor the one great obstacle that stood in John's way, and which perhaps he might never get over. She forgot herself in these thoughts, and did not perceive that Lilias was gazing wistfully at her, endeavouring with all her childish might to penetrate her mind and know the occasion of these tears. Mary was recalled to herself by feeling the child's arm steal round her, and the soft touch of a little hand and

handkerchief upon her wet eyes. "You are crying," said Lilias. "Mary, is it for papa?-why should you cry for papa?

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My darling, we don't know where he is, nor anything about him," said Mary, with a sudden outburst of tears -tears which were not all for John, but partly excitement, standing as she was in the centre of so many troubles, alone.

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winking rapidly to throw off the sympathetic tears which had gathered in her own eyes, "he is always like that. We never knew where he was; but just when he could, just when it was possible, he came home. We never could tell when it would be-it might be any day. Some time when we are forgetting and not expecting him. Ah!" cried the child, with a ring of wonder in the sudden exclamation. The hall-door was opened as usual, and on the road was a distant figure just visible which drew from Lilias this sudden cry. She ran to the door, clutching her brother. "Come, Nello, Nello!" and rushed forth. Mary sat still, thinking her heart had stopped in her breast-or was it not rather suffocating her by the wildness of its beating? She sat immovable, watching the little pair at the door. Could it be that John had come home? John! he who would be the most welcome yet the most impossible of visitors; he who had a right to everything, yet dared not be seen in the old house. She sat and trembled, not daring to look out, already planning what she could do, what was to be done.

But the children stopped short at the door. Lilias, with the wind in her skirts and her ribbons, half-flying, stopped; and Nello stopped, who went by her impulse, not by his own. They paused: they stood for a moment gazing; then they turned back sadly.

"Oh no, no!" said Lilias. "No, Mary! no. It is a little, something like a very little; it is the walking, and the shape of him. But no, no, it is not papa! "Papa! said Nello, was that why you looked? I knew better. Papa is all that much more tall. Why are you crying, Lily? There is nothing that makes cry."

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"I am disappointed," said the little girl, who had seated herself suddenly on the floor and wept. It was a sudden sharp shower, but it was soon over; she sprang up drying her eyes. "But it will be for to-morrow!" she cried.

Mary sat behind and looked on. She did not think again of the chance resemblance Lilias had seen, but only of the children themselves, with whom her heart was tuning itself more and more in sympathy. She had become a mother late and suddenly, without any gradual growth of feeling-leaping into it, as it were; and every response her mind made to the children was a new wonder to her. She looked at them, or rather at Lilias, who was always the leader in her rapid changes of sentiment, with a half-amused adoration. The crying and the smiles went to her heart as nothing else had ever done; and even Nello's calm, the steadier going of the slower, less developed intelligence, which was so often carried along in the rush without any conscious intention, and which was so ready to take the part of the wise sluggard and say "I knew it," moved Mary with that mixture of pleased spectatorship and profound personal feeling which makes the enthusiasm of parents. Nello's slowness might have seemed want of feeling in another child, and Lilias's impetuosity a giddy haste and heedlessness; but all impartiality was driven from her mind by the sense that the children were her own. And she sat in a pleased abstraction yet lively readiness following the little current of this swiftly-flowing softly-babbling childhood which was so fair and pleasant to her eyes. The two set up an argument between themselves as she sat looking on. It was about some minute point in the day's work which was so novel and unaccustomed; but trivial as it was Mary listened with a soft glow of light in her eyes. The finest drama in the world could not have taken her out of herself like the two little actors, playing their sincerest and most real copy of life before her. They were so much in earnest, and to her it was such exquisite play and delicate, delightful fooling. And until the light in the open doorway was suddenly darkened by some one appearing, a figure which made her heart jump, she thought no more of the passer

by on the road who had roused the children. Her heart jumped, and then she followed her heart by rising suddenly to her feet, while the children stopped in their argument, rushed together for mutual support, and stood shyly with their heads together and lips apart, the talk just hovering about their lips. Seen thus against the light the visitor was undecipherable to Mary. She saw him nothing but a black shadow, towards which she went quietly and said—

"I beg your pardon, this is private," with a polite defence of her own sanctuary.

"I came to look for-my sister,” said the voice which was one which woke agitating memories in her. "I am a-stranger. I cameAh! it is Mary after all."

"Randolph!" she cried, with a gasp in her throat.

A thrill of terror, almost superstitious, came over her, What did it all mean? Good Mr. Pennithorne in his innocence had spoken to her of John, and that very day John's children had arrived ; he had spoken of Randolph and Randolph was here. Was it fate, or some mysterious influence unknown? She was so startled that she forgot to go through the ordinary formulas of seeming welcome, and said nothing but his name.

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'Yes; I hope you are well," he said, holding out his hand; "and that my father is well. I thought I would come and see how you were all getting on."

"It is a long time since you have been here," she said. What could she say? She was not glad to see him, as a sister ought to be. And then there was a pause.

The children stood staring openmouthed while these chill greetings were said. ("I wonder who it is?" said Lilias, under her breath. "It is the one who is a little, a very little, like papa.' "It is a gentleman," said Nello. "Oh you silly, silly, little boy! not to know that at the very first; but Mary is not very glad to see him," said the little girl.)

Mary did not even ask her visitor to come in; he stood still at the door looking round him with watchful, unfriendly eyes. This was not a place for any one to come who was not tender of Mary, and of whosoever she might shelter there. She did not want him in that special place.

"Shall we go round to the house?" she said; "my father ought to know that you are here, and he never comes into the hall."

"I am very well here," Randolph said. "I know it was always a favourite place with you. Do not change your sitting-room for me. You have it in

very nice order, Mary. I see you share the popular passion for art furnishing; and children too! This is something more novel still. Who are the children, may I ask? Good morning; and how are you? They are children from the neighbourhood I suppose?"

"No," she said, faltering still more, "they are not visitors-they-belong Mary could not tell how

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it was that her lips trembled, and she hesitated to pronounce the name. She made an effort at last and got it out with difficulty. "They are-John's children."

"John's children! here is a wonderful piece of news," said Randolph ; but she saw by his countenance that it was no news. Howsoever he had heard it, Mary perceived in a moment not only that he knew, but that this was his real errand here. He stood with the appropriate gesture of one struck dumb with amazement; but he was not really surprised, only watchful and eager. This made his sister more nervous than ever.

"Children," she said, come here -this is your uncle Randolph; come and speak to him." Mary was so much perplexed that she could not see what was best to do-whether to be anxiously conciliatory and convince Randolph in spite of herself without seeming to notice his opposition; or to defy him; the former, however, was always the safest way. He did not make any advance but stood with a half-smile on

his face, while the children drew near with suspicious looks.

"It is the gentleman who is—a little, not very much, just a little, like papa," said Lilias, going forward, but slowly, and with that look of standing on the defensive which children unconsciously adopt to those they do not trust.

Nello hung on to her skirts, and did as she did, regarding the stranger with cloudy eyes. Randolph put out his hand coldly to be shaken; his smile broadened into a half-laugh of amusement and contempt.

"So, they are said to be his children, are they?"

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They are his children," said Mary.

Randolph shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "They look like foreigners anyhow," he said. "My father, I suppose, is delighted. It must be a new experience both for him and you."

"Go away, my darlings, go to Martuccia; you see I have some business with this gentlemen." She could not again repeat the title she had given him. When the curious little spectators had gone she turned to Randolph, who stood watching their exit, with an anxiety she did not attempt to conceal. "For Heaven's sake do not talk to my father about them! I ask it as a favour. He consents tacitly that they should be here, but he takes no notice of them. Do not call his attention to them. is the only thing I ask of you."

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He looked at her fixedly still, with that set smile on his face with which he had looked at the children.

"I am scarcely the person to be called upon to make things smooth with my father," he said. "Come, come; my father is old and can be made to believe anything, let us allow. But what do you mean by it, Mary, what do you mean? You were never any friend to me."

"Friend to you! I am your sister, Randolph, though you don't seem to remember it much. And what have you to do with it?" asked Mary, with a certain amount of exasperation in her

voice; for of all offensive things in the world there is none so offensive as this pretence of finding you out in a transparent deception. Mary grew red and hot in spite of herself.

"I have a great deal to do with it. I have not only my own interest to take care of, but my boy's. And why you should prefer to us, about whom there can be no doubt, these little impostors, these supposed children of John

"Randolph," said Mary, with tears in her eyes, "there is no supposing about them. Oh don't go against us, and against truth and justice! They brought me a letter from their father. There was no room to doubt, no possibility. John himself is most unfortunate

"Unfortunate! that is not the word I should use."

"But why remember it against them, poor little things, who have done no harm? Oh, Randolph, I have never been otherwise than your friend when I had the chance. Be mine now! there are a hundred things in which I want to consult you. You have a family of your own; you have been trained to it; you know how to take care of children. I wanted to ask your advice, to have your help

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"Do you think me a fool then," he cried, "as silly as yourself? that you try to get me to acknowledge this precious deception and give you my support against myself. Why should I back you up in a wicked contrivance against my own interests?"

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What is it you mean? Who has been guilty of wicked contrivances?" cried Mary, aghast. She gazed at him with such genuine surprise that he was arrested in his angry vituperation, and changed his tone to one of mockery, which affected her more.

"Well," he said, "let us allow that it is your first attempt, Mary, and that is why you do it so clumsily. The mistakes good people make when they first attempt to do badly are touching. Villainy, like everything else, requires experience. It is too funny to expect me to be the one to

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“Oh," she said, clasping her hands, "do you think this is what I ask? It is you who mistake, Randolph. It has never occurred to my father, or any one else, not to believe. He never doubted any more than I was capable of doubting. I will show you John's letter."

Randolph put up his hand, waving off the suggested proof.

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"It is quite unnecessary. I am not to be taken in by such simple means. You forget I have a stake in it-which clears the judgment. I warn you, Mary, that I am here to look after my personal interests, not to foist any nondescript brat into the family. I give you notice-it is not to help your schemes, it is for my own interests I am here."

"What do interests mean?" she said, wondering. "Your own interests!-what does it mean? I know I have none."

"No-it cannot make much difference to you whatever happens; therefore you are free to plot at your leisure. I understand that fully; but, my dear, I am here to look after myself—and my boy. You forget I have an heir of my own."

Mary looked at him with a dulness of intelligence quite unusual to her. There are things in the most limited minds which genius itself could not divine. The honourable and generous, and the selfish and grasping, do not know what each other means. They are as if they spoke a different language. And her brother was to Mary as if he veiled his meaning in an unknown tongue. She gazed at him with a haze of dulness in her eyes. What was it he intended to let her know? Disbelief of her, a suggestion that she lied! and something more-§ -she could not make out what, as the rule of his own conduct. He looked at her, on the other hand, with an air of penetration, a clever consciousness of seeing through and through her and her designs,

which excited Mary to exasperation. How could they ever understand each other with all this between?

"I am going to see my father," said Randolph; "that of course is the object of my visit; I suppose he will not refuse to keep me for a day or two. And in the meantime why should we quarrel? I only warn you that I come with my eyes open and am not to be made a dupe of. Goodbye for the present-we shall meet no doubt at dinner the best of friends."

Mary stood still where he left her, and watched him as he went slowly down the slope and round the corner of the house. He was shorter than John and stouter, with that amplitude of outline which a wealthy rural living and a small parish are apt to confer. A comfortable man, fond of good living, fond of his ease; yet taking the trouble to come here, for what?— to baffle some supposed wicked contrivances and plots against himself. Mary remembered that Randolph had taken the great family misfortune as a special wrong to him. How dared the evil fates to intrigue with his comfort or rumour to assail his name? He had said frankly that it could be nothing to the others in comparison. And was it once more the idea that he himself was touched, which had roused him out of his leafy paradise in Devonshire to come here and assert himself? But how did the arrival of John's children affect him? Mary, in her long calm, had not entered into those speculations about the future which most people more or less think necessary when the head of the house is old. She had not asked herself what would happen when her father died, except vaguely in respect to herself, knowing that she would then in all likelihood leave the old Castle. John was the heir. Somehow or other she did not ask how the inheritance would be taken up for him. This had been the conclusion in her mind without reason given or required. And Randolph had not come into the sphere of her imagination at all as having anything to do with it. What

should he have to do with it when there was John? And even now Mary did not know and could not understand the reason of his objection to John's children. She stood and looked after him with a dull beating of pain in her heart. And as he turned round the corner of the old house towards the door, he looked back and waved his hand. The gesture and look, she could scarcely tell why, gave her a sensation of sickening dismay and pain. She turned and went in, shutting the door in the sudden pang this gave her. And to shut the great door of the hall was the strangest thing, except in the very heart of winter. While the sun was shining and the air genial, such a thing had never happened before. It seemed in itself a portent of harm.

CHAPTER XV.

RANDOLPH MUSGRAVE was a squireparson, a class which possesses the features of two species without fully embodying either-which may be finer than either, the two halves of the joint character tempering each otheror may be a travesty of both, exaggerating their mutual defects. He was of the latter rather than of the former development. His living was small in one sense and large in another, the income being large, but the people few and very much given up to dissent, a fact which exacerbated his character without moving him to exertion. He was not fond of exertion in any case, and it was all but hopeless in this. But not less was he daily and hourly irritated by the little Bethels and Salems, the lively Methodists, the pragmatical Baptists, who led his people away. It made him angry, for he was easily moved to anger, and it increased that tendency to listen to gossip and be moved by small matters which is one of the temptations of a rural life. He had become accustomed to make much of petty wrongs, calling them insults and

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