faltering purpose, and confirmed his resolution. It had long been a fixed, settled purpose of his heart to marry Marcelletta Doyle in spite of, and in opposition to, her father's will. His whimsical dislike of Martin Doyle was as strong as ever; and now that Mary's frank, noble face had dropped out of the picture, his revenge recurred to him again.

Then he liked the gay, beautiful, demonstrative coquette-he liked her volatile spirits, her fits of abstraction, her restless, charming, pre-occupied air; he was the next thing, in his piqued, hopeless misery, to falling in love with her; but although he ventured to the very verge, his heart remained untouched.

Marcelletta Doyle never guessed the thoughts which were passing through his mind. She had been too much accustomed in her short career to admiration and flattery to doubt that her lover was very much in love with her indeed; and if certain doubts did intrude, they but helped to interest and pique her, and give her that stimulus and excitement without which she felt life would be a very dull, insipid affair. As it was, she was to be Lady Connell. The great point of her ambition was gained, and she was wild with pleasure—actually radiant with delight. Bounding upstairs, she threw herself into Lady Daly's arms. "Give me joy, dear Lady Daly ! Give me joy! Sir Philip has asked me to be his wife."

Placid Lady Daly looked up rather surprised, not at the announcement, she knew it was coming, but at the girl's excited joy. She had not suspected her of so much love for Sir Philip. "I do congratulate you, dear,” she said, returning the embrace. "He will make you a capital husband, I do believe."

Marcelletta tossed her beautiful head and laughed "It will be very nice being Lady Connell, at all

events," she said; "and having such a fine property. I will alter that old gloomy-looking castle of his that papa used to write so much about, and re-furnish the drawing-room; and I will make him bring me up here two or three months every year."

"But Mr. Doyle," began conscientious Lady Daly, "I hope he will not object, or think I have been careless of you." Her ladyship had a dim idea that she had somewhere heard that Martin Doyle did not care much about his daughter's engagement, but the idea was too preposterous. Not like the prospect of her becoming Lady Connell! Why, it was downright folly : and with that she dismissed the subject.

Marcelletta did not seem to have heard her question; she was examining with minute attention a book of prints, and Lady Daly did not repeat it. She was one of those easy women who never take much trouble or seem much interested about anything.

That night they went to the theatre, and Sir Philip Connell came into their box for a few minutes, and a short, whispered conversation passed between him and Marcelletta. She was leaving Dublin next day, and he bade her farewell in smiling Lady Daly's presence, who had no more conception of what they meant to do than the child unborn. How could she guess that under all the fair outward wooing they had a little intrigue to carry out, a plot to execute, the delightful romance of which quite took Marcelletta by storm.

Martin Doyle had told Sir Philip Connell when he asked him to allow the engagement again to go on between him and Marcelletta, that he would not allow it on any account; he had even said in his passion that he would rather see her in her grave than married to him; and Sir Philip had answered with equal anger that his wife she should be. The insulting rejection

decided him. He would marry her without Martin Doyle's knowledge or consent. Accordingly, next morning after breakfast she went up to Lady Daly, kissed her in her usual demonstrative fashion, and told her she was going upstairs to pack.

"Isn't it soon yet, dear?" asked her ladyship, languidly.

"Not a bit," said Marcelletta; and neither was it a bit too soon for what she had to do. When she went upstairs she went to the mirror, looked meditatively at herself for a minute or two, and then put on her shawl, tied the strings of her bonnet, and went softly down, and out at the hall door, and straight to the Catholic chapel at the end of the street, where Sir Philip was waiting for her. The pew-opener stared a little at them as they passed, so handsome, so aristocratic-looking, and one so beautiful and quite alone. Who could they be?

It did not make the least matter in the world to her; she pocketed the guinea Sir Philip put into her shrivelled hand with a low curtsey and a fervent muttered blessing, and thought no more of them. Lady Daly was not so unconcerned. She had gone up to superintend her young friend's packing, and have a gossip with her over things in general, and her own prospects in particular; and not finding her in, had gone to Sir Charles in what might be called quite a panic of fright for her.

She met her at the door. "Where have you been, dear? I have got such a sad fright about you?"

"Have you? I am so sorry. It was so thoughtless of me. I have just been at Lyle's for some little things I wanted. Now I think I shall go up and finish my packing," and with quite the air of a successful general who has achieved a great victory, and feels he may rest a little upon his laurels, she went upstairs accompanied by her simple hostess. In another hour she had left

Dublin. Seated in the coach, well wrapped up and comfortable in her corner, there was a temporary lull in her endless scheming. She sat quiet, her eyes fixed on the rainy landscape, her thoughts wandering away to the only object that ever took them off herself-her old father. What if after all he should be very angry! What if after all there should lurk a charm in the simple, peaceful, unknown life she had so gladly thrown from her, untried!

VOL. II.

K

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CHAPTER XXX.

MARCELLETTA DOYLE'S HOME-COMING.

MARTIN DOYLE sat in his dining-room at Cumlagh. It was a long, low apartment, tastefully papered, and furnished in a picturesque style, with massive chairs and quaintly-carved cabinets. One or two good paintings hung in favourable lights on the wall, and the ruddy firelight threw a cheering glow over the whole. It was a dull room through the day, for the narrow windows and thick walls kept out the light; but at night it was very cheerful, and on this night it was particularly so, for Martin Doyle was expecting his daughter. He was sitting before the fire, his large white hands supported on a gold-headed cane, his brows contracted, his eyes fixed on the glowing coals—his whole aspect betokening deep and painful thought. Not of her, though she was dearer to him than anything else in the world, he had actually forgotten her in his absorbing, harassing thoughts. He looked fearfully haggard, and worn, and old. "Right is right," he murmured, "and wrong is wrong; and as sure as it is itself, it brings its punishment. Who is that?" he spoke quickly, almost angrily, and started violently. "Is it you, Nelly?"

"No, father. It is your own child."

With a wild cry he caught her to his heart. He loved her well, with a depth and intensity she seemed