At the respective ages of seventeen and sixteen they had assured their parent, who willingly took their word for it, that their education was complete-and that a nursery governess, whom they had themselves selected, and who, strange to say, was really a sensible person, if not precisely superior, was all that was necessary for the younger ones.

Kate was thus free to read poetry and make extracts, and Alice to ruminate before her looking-glass.

it;

Not that Alice was the handsomer of the two-far from but she was a full year and a half older than her sister, and had learned to know that she had a nose, a neck, and a chin.

Moreover, the time she thought was at hand for her to display such charms, and it was natural that they should be of more moment to her, in consequence, than if she had been still drudging over her books.

Books were a nuisance; she had had enough of them; she wanted to dress, chatter, and dance-to see and be seen; and, so far, she was not certainly unlike others of her age. Kate might look scornful, but, nevertheless, the feeling was natural enough; it was the root of the matter which was somehow not straight, the shallowness and vacuity of mind which induced the vanity.

Aware that she was surpassed in appearance by her next sister, it was Alice's intention to excel in other points of attraction. She would be more amiable, prettily behaved, obliging, and attentive. She would not openly demand "Love me more than Kate; think more highly of me than of her,"—but her mode of extorting a preference amounted to little less. It was her right to proffer civilities; to be at home when visitors called. An opportunity of showing her smiles and her thoughtfulness was courted. She liked to be the single one of the four to strike out a new thing, tread a new path,—and would go to church twice on a Sunday in order to show that she was the only member of the household who did so.

Kate was different: a curious, unexplored, reticent girl; sometimes so amusing that her sisters shrieked over her sallies; but usually grave, absent-minded, and lost in her own thoughts. When roused from these, it was too often by something which excited her contempt or indignation. Nothing sly, nothing slippery dared be attempted if the second sister were by any chance likely to hear of it, since

to face her wrath was more than the other three severally, or in unison, cared to run the risk of doing, even while, behind her back, they would shrug their shoulders and raise their pretty eyebrows, thanking their stars that they had not her temper.

It was an unfortunate possession in the eyes of all, and gave them, each one, a superiority over the unpopular member of the family. Even Maidie, a typical spoilt child, who was wont to obtain her own way by dint of tears and piteousness, would be shocked at Kate; while Bertha would prim up her lips, and look meek, by way of contrast.

Bertha was the least noticeable of the four in every way, and, poor girl, was sufficiently aware of being so, even at the age of thirteen, to make her peevish and fretful, since she had not humility of mind nor sweetness of disposition sufficient to enable her to accept her inferiority without repining. Without Alice's good looks, she had a resemblance to her eldest sister, which, had fortune been equally kind to her in the way of outward gifts, would probably have manifested itself strongly as it was, she could only long, with equal intensity, to be admired and approved, and have the constant mortification of feeling that neither admiration nor approval was likely to fall to her share. The little Marjorie, -a great girl of eleven, who, after the manner of family fictions, was still called " 'little," though on a larger scale than any one of the others, and likely soon to overtop them all the little Maidie, as she was called,-was the favourite among the rest. She was a smiling, sunny-faced mischiefmonger; and the understanding was that she could do no wrong, a tradition easy to keep up, since words and deeds alike became lawful when stamped with her authority. Such were the four daughters to whom Mr Newbattle of Carnochan was about to give the Lady Olivia Evelyn as a step-mother. How little idea any one of them had of any such impending catastrophe, and indeed how far was it from their parent's own contemplations but a few weeks previous to his meeting with the lady in question, may be gathered from the following.

"Papa," from Alice, one day early in March, "how lucky it is that you have at last got through your horrid lawsuit, and that we should be so comfortably settled with the servants and all, just when it is so important on my account! Everything will be left in good order, and you will have no

anxieties to disturb you when the time comes for you to bring me out."

He made no answer, and it was too probable that he had understood nothing. She must try again.

"Do you not think, papa, that it would be an excellent idea to have this green damask transferred to the library when we are obliged to have new covers for the drawing-room? I am a great economist, you know, papa, and I have thought it all over. The damask is really not too old and shabby for the library, though it is far too much worn for the drawingroom. It has done very well so far; but of course by-andby, when we begin to have people about, and to give dinners, we must have things a little nice."

Why cannot she say, 'Papa, I want new furniture, and I want company, and to lead a different life'? Why cannot papa tell her to speak out, and not try to wheedle him into consenting to he does not know what?" muttered the downright Kate, in scorn.

Alice, however, knew her cue; and she succeeded so far, that whereas a blunt request would have been met by a blunt denial, her delicate insinuations knocked nobody over. They began to work, moreover.

First of all was exhibited an attention not often paid; to this succeeded uneasiness, and finally depression.

What was the meaning of all this about "going away," and giving dinners, and damask, and things? What was that hint about a new carriage? that whisper of an increased allowance?

Could it be that there was more in all this than mere girlish love of tormenting? They always had tormented him, those girls of his; but he had generally settled them by giving in, bidding them, for goodness' sake, please themselves, and let him alone. Then they had let him alone, and he had inquired no further.

It seemed now, however, it actually seemed as though no such easy conclusion to the matter were to be permitted. The threatenings grew more ominous daily.

The air felt heavy with portentous rumblings.

Was it possible that some deep-rooted fell conspiracy was on foot wholly to disturb and break up the even tenor of his life? Could his own flesh and blood be, in stern reality, meditating a course so vile?

He looked at his daughters, and thrills of apprehension trickled through every vein.

Good heavens! they were grown up-they were women. They wore long gowns, and had knotted up their hair.

It was no longer a case of a new pony or a book; it was a question of dressmakers, balls, lovers, settlements—misery upon misery.

"Do let papa alone.” Kate was the speaker, and she had a flush on her cheek and a frown on her brow as she addressed her eldest sister. "Do let papa alone, Alice. Surely you have worried him enough for the present with you chaperones, and your fidgets, and your nonsense."

"That is all very well for you; you would never think of such a thing as a chaperone. You would think that I could go about everywhere with only poor dear papa. As if I could! Besides which, it would be really cruel to him. He must escort me to certain things; but there are others to which it will be absolutely necessary that I should be taken by a lady. That's what Mrs Popham says, so I suppose you

will believe it."

Now, what Mrs Popham said was dogma in the Carnochan household. When papa, who was listening to the last remarks, though he tried hard not to show it, heard the name of Mrs Popham, he groaned aloud.

"What, papa?" said Alice, attentively.

"Nothing, my dear-nothing." ("Ah," sighed the poor gentleman, inwardly, "it was Mrs Popham, was it? That was an ill turn of Mrs Popham to do me.")

He had just before been turning over in his mind the expediency of seeking counsel from this old family friend; but her name, thus introduced between the combatants, struck that ground from beneath his feet.

He saw pretty well how it was. Pretty Susie Popham, who was just one year Alice's senior, had, he knew, been taken up to London the summer before, and had made her entry into society there. She had been much with his girls subsequently,-oh, far, far too much. She must have had a hand in all the brewing of this atrocious browst.

Cruel Mrs Popham! Foolish parent of a frivolous child! could any one have believed that she, his own familiar friend, I would have served him thus ?

And as to his own girls, he was altogether now at a loss. Feelers, thrown out in fresh directions daily, harassed him, till he knew not what to do or say; for though he would fain not have listened, and certainly did frequently

permit the broadest allusions to pass unchallenged, he had never been so quick in hearing in his life. Let him be in the very heart of his newspaper or his book, the first word let drop on one or other of the dreadful topics, like the first boom of the enemy's cannon before an engagement, fell on his ear, a knell of horror.

He was wide-awake in a moment, and shivering.

Bertha's ill-used airs and Marjorie's questions bore to his excited fancy as evil presages as did their eldest sister's endless side-hints and her wranglings with the more considerate younger. He hated to hear Alice on the defensive, as much as Kate expostulating. All seemed to his astonished and enlightened spirit to bear on the one theme, and he could not endure the sight of Mrs Popham's shawl in the

avenue.

CHAPTER VI.

MR NEWBATTLE SUCCUMBS TO HIS FATE.

"I myself, vanquished, with a peal of words
Gave up my fort of silence to a woman."

-Samson Agonistes

Matters stood thus when the Squire fell in with Lady Olivia.

He thought that he had never seen so fine a woman. Everything she wore was pretty, and everything she said was pleasant.

She was charmed with Scotland and the Scotch people; she wondered how anybody could ever care to leave the dear romantic country, with its beautiful hills, woods, and glens. Glens? was she not right? Were not those exquisite, wild-looking, heathery valleys called glens? She thought so,-yes.

Oh, she must taste the whisky. Only a very, very little -dear! stop! that was far too much.

But how good it was, though it did make her cough! Everything indeed was good about Scotland, just as everything was beautiful.

She was sure it was a beautiful part of the country where

D