uneasy; they might terrify me, perhaps, if I were the weak fool some women are."

In spite of her bravado, however, the consciousness of the deadly unflinching scheme of revenge he was cherishing in his breast did cause her a vague terror, a feeling as if some great and terrible evil were going to come upon her. All through the day she thought of it at intervals, in spite of the bustle of departing and arriving guests, which was incessant. Sir Philip liked to keep the house full, and on that point at least she had no mind to quarrel with him; she was resolved, indeed, not to quarrel with him on any point at all. An hour later they were presiding over a large fashionable dinner party. He, gay and debonair, outwardly the most jovial, open-hearted man in the company; inwardly tormented with remorse and self-reproach, attached to one woman and married to another; tortured by anxiety, and by the failure of his dark schemes of retaliation and revenge. She, brilliantly beautiful, the affable, wellbred hostess, with traits of character hidden beneath her sparkling vivacity of manner, that would have somewhat astonished the staid dowagers around her, could they only have read them, longing, as she turned from one to another, for the slow hours to pass away and leave her free to carry her new anxieties to her only confidant, her father. It was not till after breakfast, next day, that she could find an opportunity of making her escape. The moment it was swallowed, she rushed upstairs, put on her habit, and cantered over to Cumlagh. Her father noticed her troubled air at once. "Something has bothered you, Ettie. What is it?"

"A very absurd matter, papa. One I have nothing to do with. I cannot imagine why it should vex me so, but I cannot help it. It is so annoying to see Sir Philip's absurdity. I think he is going mad."

"Likely enough; but on what point?"

"He thinks he has a mission to discover his father's murderer. He will maintain that old Sir Maurice was murdered, when every one knows that he committed suicide; and it seems he has been bent on finding this mare's nest of his ever since he was a boy. But what is the matter, papa? You are ill-one of those troublesome fits again!

"Open my cravat, dear. No, don't! Call Nelly. You will find some brandy on the sideboard, give it me."

Very much alarmed--for it was a worse fit than she had ever seen him take before--she went to the sideboard and brought him the brandy, and poured him out a glass. He swallowed it, and faintly whispered, "More, more." She filled him another, and he drank it, and seemed more composed, and lay down when she asked him to do so. After a while the painful trembling ceased, and he called her to him.

66

Ettie, my darling, you were speaking of your husband, Sir Philip Connell, were you not?"

"Yes; I was telling you of the strange, horrible hobby he has got."

"I remember now: tell me every word, every syllable he said."

"I will. I can remember it all, it impressed me so disagreeably. Not all the noise and flirtation last night banished it for a minute. He has got a Mr. Smith, you must know, papa, a hateful, low creature, coming to the Castle to paint his father's portrait from that one he has got."

"Yes, yes, dear; but never mind Mr. Smith. Tell me what Sir Philip said."

"I will." And she told him all the conversation that had passed between them, word for word. "Isn't it

horrible?" she said when she had finished, looking round at her father, for she had been looking intently at the fire while she spoke. He made no answer, and she rose and bent over him, and found to her surprise, and terror that he had fainted quite away. When he revived, he attempted to laugh at her fear, and pretended that he was quite strong-that these fits always did him good, and told her not to annoy herself about Sir Philip's hobby. "It was not wonderful that he should be a little peculiar, his mother being what she was, but that if he ever said any more upon the subject she was to come and tell him."

"I shall hear more, I am sure, for he can talk of nothing else, and I will come and tell you be sure of that, papa, every word; I have no one in the world to tell my secrets to but you;" and then the father and child embraced each other, and felt, that however disappointing the world had been to them, it had not wholly denied them a pure and disinterested love. Both were happy, comparatively happy at least, as they sat with hand clasped in hand, until there was just time left for her to ride home and dress for dinner. Then he kissed her and told her to go.

"You are the light of my eyes, Ettie, but I must not be selfish and keep you here too long. You must go back to your guests. Do not let them say that the attorney's daughter forgets the duties of her station."

She laughed, not merrily as usual, but rather bitterly, "Oh! papa; if you could only guess how false this life is below the glitter and the show! the gloss is only on the surface, and deep down there are, oh! such tragedies! That is, there might be, but we turn them into comedies. Are you sure you are better now, papa? You, my dearest papa, are always gentle with me. You never reproach me for the pain I caused you, never

remind me when I bring you my complaints that it is the life I chose."

"My pet! you will make your old father vain. Now go!" and she went, and by the time she reached Castle Connell the brisk ride and the bracing air had quite restored to her that delightful flow of spirits which in general was as unfailing as her perfect command of temper.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

BROKEN FAITH.

HENRI DONALLY wrote but few letters to his betrothed, and these few were inspired rather by pique than love. Mary Connell was a good, sensible woman; but she was but a woman, and any woman in the circumstances would have felt slighted and aggrieved, even although she had had a very passionate love for her betrothed, and a passionate love Mary knew well that she had never felt for her fiancé. She was beginning to be afraid that she had been deceiving herself when she had imagined that she felt any love for him at all. Love for her aunt, desire to comply with Philip's will, to make amends by her obedience to him, as the head of the family, for the pain she had caused him: these must have been the feelings uppermost in her mind when she consented to be Monsieur Henri's bride. She was unconscious of them at the time, but she suddenly began to comprehend now what her real feelings were, and the discovery caused her acute pain. She reproached herself unceasingly for the falsehood of which she had been guilty. She could not laugh it away as many girls would have done, and say, "broken faith is but a trifle; I like this Mr. Smith best, and mean to marry him if he gives me the chance; as for Mr. Donally, he is but a cold lover, who deserves any disappointment he may chance to get ; and, after all, if I marry the one and resign the other, I shall be doing a noble thing—making quite a sacrifice, for