unflinching. Opinions were divided as to his guilt or innocence. Still the yeomanry pressed on, and now, as they neared Beaumont House, discerned upon the rising ground of the park, hidden from time to time by the intervening trees, a disorderly crowd of men pushing forwards in the direction of the mansion.

CHAPTER IX.

PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF A RAILWAY DIRECTOR.

"RICHARD, my dear," said Lady Maud at breakfast that day, holding up two letters she had in her hand, "I have some satisfactory intelligence for you to-day."

Gertrude, we should explain, was late, and her ladyship and Mr. Usherwood were tête-à-tête.

"Glad to hear it," rejoined her husband. "It is high time something pleasant turned up. Just by way of variety. I'm fond of variety."

He uttered these words in a tone of despondency unusual with him. For since his first introduction to the reader a good deal of alteration might have been noticed in Mr. Usherwood's general aspect and demeanour. He was not only thinner and his brow more wrinkled, but he looked restless, feverish, and excited. At the moment his wife spoke to him, he crammed two or three unopened letters into his pocket. He had lately fallen into the inconvenient habit of postponing to read his letters for days, and sometimes for weeks.

"Ah, my dear!" exclaimed Lady Maud, "you are still brooding over those horrid railways! That I see clearly. Now, pray don't think of the share-market just now. Put it away in some little snug corner of your mind. After all, we know how much we have invested. We cannot lose more, and that will not ruin us. Banish the whole subject, love. This morning I have heard from my dear friend, Miss Hawkshaw. She informs me of the death of poor young Clinton. I am sorry for him." And Lady Maud's beautiful eyes

seemed for a moment almost moistened.

prime!" Then added, more cheerfully,

"Cut off in his "And there is a

note from Sir Eliot Prichard. Satisfactory, but a little perplexing. Read it, dear!"

Mr. Usherwood, having fortified his nerves by two or three cups of strong coffee, took the letter which Lady Maud held out to him, but with a trembling hand. It was the way with him now, he said, whenever he received a fresh letter, whatever its contents were. The letter was long, but might have been compressed into a very few lines; the purport being that Sir Eliot was profoundly affected by Miss Usherwood's rare intellectual qualities and amiable disposition. As for her personal charms, though of the most dazzling order, these were of secondary importance in his eyes. He begged, therefore, through the medium of her natural guardians and protectors, to throw himself at her feet as the humblest but sincerest of her admirers, and propose himself as a candidate for her hand.

"Well," said Mr. Usherwood, putting his hand to his brow, "so far, so good. But my little girl may not fancy him. And, besides, I thought you had fixed upon Mr. Nugent. Is he to be turned adrift again, after all the trouble you have taken ?"

"My dear," replied Lady Maud, in a tone of gentle reproof, "you mistake. My trouble has been very insignificant. We have only shown civility to Mr. Nugent, as the probable representative of a powerful and wealthy family. I restricted myself to the most cautious advances. I did not wish anything decisive to take place. It might have been premature and embarrassing. Now the case is different; but I could wish poor Clinton had postponed his decease a few weeks longer."

"And what are we to do with Sir Eliot?" asked her husband.

66

Why, we must consider about it, and feel our way a little. He is a suitable match. Clever, rich, not ill-looking if he would plaster down that woolly black hair of his, and roll his eyes rather less. But, then, you see, his fortune is nothing to the Clinton property, and Nugent is twice as presentable a man, agriculturist though he be!"

"Which of the two does our little girl like best?" asked Mr. Usherwood.

Why, I have my private impression, but we must not be in a hurry."

"Let me see Miss Hawkshaw's letter."

"Wait an instant, I have not finished reading it myself yet." And Lady Maud, opening the letter, recommenced reading it with an air of tranquil interest. Suddenly, the languid expression of her countenance changed to a look of impatience, almost of anger. She threw down the letter and exclaimed, "What a tiresome, provoking woman! I give her up entirely."

"What's the matter?" asked her husband.

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Why, only think. She adds in a postscript, that 'tis old Clinton-old Sir Lawrence-who is dead, and not his son. And what is more, she says, the common opinion is, Sir Reginald is much better, and will recover!"

"Is it possible?" rejoined Mr. Usherwood. "Well, poor fellow, we ought to be glad of it, and I really am glad. But I wish he would not keep us in such villanous uncertainty, but would do one thing or the other."

Lady Maud drank her tea very slowly, as if philosophically meditating on the occurrence, and desirous of regaining her

composure.

"One thing is clear," she exclaimed at last; " into an ineligible farmer."

Nugent sinks

"So

"He's a good fellow, too," observed Mr. Usherwood. clever at all sorts of things. We never got any ice better than dirty snow until he had our ice-house reconstructed. And then the hothouses, what a glorious improvement he made there! Only think of the pines we had, Maud-only think of the pines!" And the old gentleman smacked his lips at the recollection of them.

"Yes, my dear, that's all very true-perfectly true; in fact, almost affecting. But it is nothing to the point. When business is on the tapis, we must postpone sentiment."

Mr. Usherwood yielded with humility, and dived into the recesses of an egg.

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My dear," proceeded Lady Maud, "I fear we must fall back upon Sir Eliot Prichard."

"Well, he's clever-decidedly clever, I must say, though he does advocate the abolition of capital punishment. My throat would not be safe an hour!" added the old gentleman, swallowing half an egg at once, as if to assure himself that as yet all was right in that direction.

"There is nothing," continued his lady, abstractedly"nothing to be objected to on the score of fortune, family— (there's a hitch about Sir Eliot's grandmother, but that's ages

ago, and there was a market gardener on the maternal grandfather's side, but that's not generally known)-family, personal appearance, or mind. He was wild, but young men will be wild, and that is all past."

"But," exclaimed Mr. Usherwood, throwing himself suddenly back in his chair, and again putting his hand to his head," the grand point is this: does my little girl care for him? I don't say, does she love him, my dear, but does she not dislike him?

"For that," resumed Lady Maud, "we must give her time. There must be no unnecessary fuss or hurry. There is no cause for it."

Rising from the breakfast table, they left the room.

"My dear," said Lady Maud, shutting the door behind them, and putting her arm gently in his, " you seem to me a little out of sorts. I don't think you look well. I wish you would have a few minutes' chat with Grierson."

"No, I thank ye, Maud-no, I thank ye. Lady Eliot Prichard? What an odd name! Sir Eliot

Prichard.

Prichard! Lady Eliot Prichard!"

And, laughing to himself, Mr. Usherwood walked heavily. towards the library, muttering the word "Prichard" between his teeth in every variety of intonation, as if each time it presented quite a new aspect to his mind.

Lady Maud looked after him with an expression of perplexity in her countenance.'

"He certainly has altered. Grierson must see him. Grierson must positively see him this very day!"

She then betook herself to her usual matutinal rendezvous with Mrs. Millet, the housekeeper; but somehow or other evinced less composure and self-possession than was her wont. In fact, Lucy Weston, who had recently returned to service at Beaumont House, intimated respectfully to Gertrude, whilst she was assisting at her toilette, that she was sure something had gone wrong, for "My lady is in such a way! Not but what," she added, "Paine and Mrs. Millet are as much as flesh and blood can bear-but I never saw my lady so sharp upon them. Something's gone wrong, for a certainty."

Gertrude blushed, as if from a misgiving that she had something to do with the unwonted acerbity of her mother's

manner.

At that precise moment a loud sob was heard at the door, and then an agitated knock.

""Tis Miss Beverley, ma'am," said Lucy, as she opened the door, and the governess entered the room in rather a hurried and with very red eyes.

way,

"What is the matter?" cried Gertrude.

Nothing," said Miss Beverley, glancing at the maid as if she considered her at that moment decidedly de trop. As, however, Lucy did not accept the hint, but only responded by a gentle toss of the head, Gertrude, being now ready to descend, took Miss Beverley's arm, and, leaving the room together, they withdrew to Miss Beverley's apartment.

"I am

"What is the matter, dear?" again inquired Gertrude. "It is of no consequence," answered the other. used to the finger of scorn, and the hissing accents of contempt. I take these things-quietly-now, very-quietly," and, giving utterance to these sentiments in disjointed words, Miss Beverley began to sob.

"Pray, explain yourself," urged Gertrude. "Who has ever treated you with scorn in this house? Have I? Has anybody?"

"Scorn is the portion of the governess! petty insult her daily bread! I ought not to complain.'

And Miss Beverley, with a show of fortitude, pushed a table covered with the remains of an excellent breakfast out of the way, and sat down in a luxurious arm-chair, holding herself resolutely upright, as if she was sitting upon some cushionless, three-legged stool.

"Hardships are my lot!" she added, enunciating the syllables with an emphasis which imparted an oscillating movement to the patent spring cushion upon which she sat, and a corresponding vibration to her whole person—“ hardships are my lot!"

"I must really run and get some breakfast,” said Gertrude, who was growing impatient as well as hungry. Miss Beverley's manner underwent a total metamorphosis.

"Oh, my dear, darling, good Gertrude! I thought you had had your breakfast-I did, really! How selfish I was! Forgive me-pray, forgive me!"

And, so saying, she sprang up from the spring cushion, and would have hurried Gertrude out of the room; but the latter declared she would breakfast off the remains of Miss Beverley's repast, and listen to the recital of her woes meantime.

It was with rather diminished excitement that Miss