gloom within. He went in and sat down in the choir on a carved oaken bench just beneath the choristers' stalls. The service had begun, the people were kneeling for the Confession. Paul knelt too. His thoughts were prayers, though he heard no word of all the priest was saying. His heart was tender as a child's. He felt again his mother's kiss upon his forehead, as he had felt it the day she sent him forth to sing for the first time in the choir. Around him again was the grey magnificence of that stately temple, with its solemn memories of bygone centuries, its wealth of carven work and rich device which hands dead long ages since had wrought, its mingled splendour of crimson, gold, and purple, flaming from the storied windows. Paul glanced upwards for an instant. The virgin face was looking down upon him with the same unchanging, sweet serenity as when he had been wont to turn from it to the yet sweeter face below, the face that he had never seen since then save in his dreams.

Nay! was he dreaming now? for at that moment the congregation rose, and there, in the stall opposite to him, was the Evelyn Vaughan of twenty years ago! The same oval countenance, the same coronal of golden hair, the same bending grace and gentle stateliness; no longer a far-off memory, but a living presence, his early love stood there before him! He looked at her bewildered. Once she lifted her eyes from the book that lay open on the cushion, then dropped them suddenly as she met the long, deep gaze that was fastened on her. It was Evelyn herself. His memory had kept her very faithfully; there was no mistaking the expression of those soft, clear eyes. Only where were the twenty years that lay between this hour and that when he had seen her last? The Evelyn Vaughan, for whose sake he had been content to live lonely and unloved, must be a staid matron now, and this young girl was still in the first freshness of her youth. It was a mystery that he could not fathom. But in truth he scarcely cared to break the spell that was upon him. He let it rest, and allowed the sweet strangeness of the delusion to possess him as it would.

If Paul, however, through the whole service, saw only one fair face, he himself had been seen by several present, who recognised in the distinguished-looking stranger the great musician whose services had just been secured as organist to the Cathedral. No sooner had the congregation begun to disperse than the Dean himself came up to speak to him. He was a tall, spare man, with a touch of nervous hesitation in his manner, and nothing except his costume to point him out as a Cathedral dignitary. Perhaps if Nature had had her own way with him altogether, she would not have made him Dean of St. Bede's; for he had the broad, full temples which mark the musical temperament, and was indeed

himself no mean proficient in the art. Paul and he fraternised at once. Their common love for music was as a masonic sign between them, nor did they part till Paul had promised to waive ceremony and dine that evening at the deanery.

And there Paul found what without knowing it he had been waiting for all his life till now. When he entered the deanery drawingroom an hour or two later, there were two ladies in it with the Dean; one a fair, gracious woman, who came forward with a ready smile as to an old acquaintance, to greet her guest; the other, the same young girl whom he had seen in the minster that afternoon. They were the Dean's wife and daughter, and the gracious matron was the Evelyn Vaughan of twenty years ago!

"I was a true prophet, you see," she said to him, with a smile. They had been talking, as they lingered over the walnuts and wine, of his early struggles, and of that first morning when she had spoken to him in the minster. Paul was too proud to be ashamed of owning that he had begun life at the beginning; the Dean himself had done the same. "I foretold that some day you would become a great musician."

"If I am one, it was you who made me so," said Paul, in a low voice; and, looking up as he spoke, he saw the eyes of the second Evelyn fastened on him; and this time, as they fell, she blushed.

Need we tell how after this the organist of St. Bede's, by speech and music, wooed his second love; how the good Dean and his wife looked on consentingly, content rather that their child should be sought by one of noble life than of noble name; or how at last the young Evelyn, won by the strong tenderness that would not be denied, laid her hand one day in Paul's, and gave him the promise that he asked? But so it was that when the winter had gone by, and the elm-trees that stood by the minster gates put out their emerald buds, and the rooks came back cawing to their nests, and all the earth was gay with promise of the spring, Paul took his wife home to one of the sunny, old-fashioned houses in the Close, where from time immemorial the "quality" of St. Bede's had made their abode.

And there, rich alike in the sweetest gift that man or woman can receive or give, they two are living still. Not quite the same Paul and Evelyn who went to it at first, for changes have come to them, as they do to all, though these are less noticeable, perhaps, in the grave musician than in his wife. The rounded slightness of her form has gathered into it already somewhat of matron dignity, and the eyes that look up with wifely pride into her husband's face look down as proudly on the little Paul and on the baby Evelyn, who have come to make the old house gladder still with the ring of childish voices and the patter of tiny feet. The Dean's wife declares

that the boy will certainly grow up to be, like his father, a great musician; and Paul the elder, as he watches the dawn of genius in his child, and listens to the pure carolling notes that blend so sweetly with the mother's voice in their evening psalm, smiles to think of the day, so far back now, when he himself felt a soft hand upon his shoulder, and heard the Dean's daughter uttering the same pleasant prophecy to the Chorister of St. Bede's.

CHAPTER XXXI.-A GENTLEMAN OF FAMILY.

WE stood looking upon each other in silence, we three; for several minutes no one spoke, no one stirred. For myself, I felt as if some unearthly spell were upon me, freezing me into a numbness which almost deprived me of the use of my faculties, and which, strangely enough, seemed also to confuse the sense of my identity. Did I dream, or was I the victim of some singular delusion? Could it be that that which I had feared so long had actually come to pass? Was this ever repelled, yet ever recurring presentiment of years at length fulfilled? There was the small, dim room; there was Lady Olive in her white gleaming robes, with her whiter face, and terror and astonishment in her proud, dark eyes. There was the tall, stern, fierce man, Dovercourt's haughty lord, in the shadow of the rich, heavy curtains. And there were the lighted rooms beyond, where yet they were unconscious of the terrible presence which had frozen us two into something like absolute despair. I could hear Lord Felixstowe's boyish laugh; I could hear the low merry tones of Lady Lucy and Lady Maude, who were chatting together girl-fashion, with their arms round. each other's waist. Charlie was at the piano with the Eton fellows, trying to make out some tune they all remembered, and the Marchioness and Mrs. Craven were still on their sofa talking quietly together. The intermediate rooms were empty; on this side of them were darkness, doubt, and dread; on the other, still peace, hope, and bright content.

I was the first to speak. "I beg your pardon, my Lord Marquis; I did not, in the uncertain light, recognise you. We were not looking for so speedy a return."

"I dare say not," he replied, sneeringly, and with the preface of an oath. "You see I wished to give my lady there a pleasant surprise on Christmas-eve, for what could be pleasanter to a

devoted wife than the unexpected return of an adored, longabsent husband? Knowing my lady's strength of mind, and the excellence of her nerves on trying occasions, I ventured to return home without announcement, trusting that the sudden access of happiness would not be injurious. There she is, I see; rather gone off in looks since I saw her last though. I am afraid it is all bosh about the instincts of love, or my lady would somehow become sensible of my vicinity, and rush into my embrace, for which, as an affectionate wife, she must be intensely yearning."

I cannot describe the bitter scorn and sarcasm of his tones, and his sneer was truly horrible. Suddenly he changed his note; he drew himself up, threw back his haughty head, and looked every inch the Marquis. He addressed me, "Young man, what are you doing here? How is it I find you sitting thus intimately with my daughter? How dare such as you approach ladies of rank and birth? Yes, sir! I know who you are; you need not take the trouble of lying to me; my memory is not yet so defective that I have forgotten the name of Vassall, and I know you to be Hugh Vassall, and not as you call yourself for your own purposes-Hugh Travis. I need not ask you if you know who you are?"

"I do know, my lord."

"Of course, that is understood. But do you know, Hugh Vassall, that you are a most consummate rascal?"

"I am nothing of the kind, my lord. I am an honest man, and I believe in all respects as honourable as yourself."

"Honourable! You deem it honourable to take advantage of a foolish, weak woman, who, for your sake, dares to perjure herself? Presuming on my absence, you steal in here among my children, you eat and drink at my table, you sleep night after night under my roof, you dare to pay court to my daughter, and all the while you know yourself, as I know you, to be a vile, abominable impostor, a base adventurer, a thief, a swindler, a consummate hypocrite."

He had been deliberately working himself up into a fury; his voice, which at the first had been lowered to a whisper, gradually rose and rose as his vehemence increased, till at length it became plainly audible in the further room, and there was a sudden lull in the buzz of talk and laughter, and Craven's amateur performance broke off in the middle of a bar. The last words were shouted rather than spoken. Everybody rose, and Charlie came towards us. I saw the wild terror in my mother's face, for too well she recognised those loud, angry tones; too quickly she divined the unwelcome presence of the man she dreaded. One electric flash of thought gave her all the light she needed. She knew that the Marquis and I had met, and that I was denounced as the basest and most intriguing of scoundrels.

The Marquis passed swiftly to the great drawing-room, Charlie and I following, Lady Olive hanging behind, as if the spell which had enchained her could not yet be broken. Into the midst of the startled group strode the lord of Dovercourt; he came close to his wife, who seemed turned into marble, as pale and stedfast, yet holding fast Mrs. Craven's hand in her own, she met the fierce gaze of her incensed husband. With a strange sort of appeal in her lovely, frozen face, she looked straight into his wrathful eyes, and her colourless lips moved slowly, but no sound came from them,

“Well, madam!" was his greeting; "have you no word of welcome for the husband over whose absence you have mourned so long? Methinks I am received but coldly after my three years' wanderings! And you do not appear to have been extremely disconsolate as a quasi widow, for you have assembled a goodly party for the due observance of your Christmas festivities. May I beg the honour of an introduction to this goodly company here assembled ?"

The Marchioness tried to reply, but no distinct utterance came from the trembling lips. Mrs. Craven interposed. "I have the honour, I believe, of addressing the Marquis of Dovercourt. I am Mrs. Craven, of Cravenshaugh, and this is my son, the Master of Cravenshaugh. Lady Dovercourt has been weak and ailing for some months past. You will, therefore, easily comprehend that this sudden and most unlooked-for event has been quite too much for her. I think it would be better that I should attend the Marchioness to her own room?".

"I thank you, madam," he replied, with freezing haughtiness; "but you must excuse me if I do not accede to your proposition. An affectionate wife is naturally overpowered under such unusual circumstances; but joy rarely kills, and, of course, it is only the sudden access of joy which has so much affected my lady. She will be better immediately. But, in the mean time, I choose to watch her recovery. Perhaps I may be allowed to remain alone for a short time—alone with my wife and family? I regret the seeming want of courtesy of which I am constrained to be guilty; but I am sure Mrs. Craven, of Cravenshaugh, will fully appreciate the strong desire of a loving husband and father to renew immediately, and without restraint, his intercourse with those from whom he has so long been parted."

Mrs. Craven curtseyed, saying, as she withdrew with Charlie and Lady Lucy, "Be assured, my lord, that I should not have intruded had I guessed your intention of returning so speedily."

Speedily!" he muttered, as she disappeared. "Very speedily, indeed! when it is over three years since I set foot on my own soil! It seems to me that if I had not returned at all, my wife and her