recollecting herself, " Mr Rivers has brought his nephew, Mr Stephen Rivers. My daughter-my nieces."

Much to their aunt's astonishment, Edith and Violet shook hands with the strange young man, and Edith sat down beside him and began to talk eagerly.

"And you are old Mr Rivers' nephew," she said. "How strange! Why did you not tell us?-we have known him ever so long. It was funny we never should have thought of it."

"I did not know it myself till two or three weeks ago," said Stephen, "so I could not tell any one." As he spoke, his eyes were following Violet, who seemed to be cross-examining his uncle.

"Bless my soul! what does all this mean?" exclaimed old Mr Rivers. "I bring my nephew here to introduce him to my old Indian friend, Mr Cheveley, and I find the young Sly-Boots is already on intimate terms with all the ladies! Young scamp; and he pretended he had no friends!”

"Mrs Melville and her daughters were my kindest friends," said Stephen, "in the days when I first went to Chiltern."

"And he was one of my best friends," spoke up Edith bravely; "for if it had not been for your nephew, Mr Rivers, I never should have learnt to paint."

There was a general hubbub of explanation, and in the midst of it all in came Mr Cheveley, and his sister Mrs Melville.

"Well, well, you and your nephew must stay to dinner, and then you can explain everything," said Mr Cheveley, whom the sight of his old chum, Mr Rivers, always put into good spirits.

"Yes, pray stay, Mr Rivers; you know you are always welcome, and I am sure we shall be delighted to become better acquainted with your nephew," said Mrs Cheveley, never behindhand in hospitality. "We dine at six on Saturdays."

In a few minutes they were all seated at the dinnertable. Stephen was placed between Edith and Miss Cheveley, for his uncle would take Violet down himself. It seemed like a dream to the young schoolmaster to be opposite Violet at a friendly dinner. Every minute he expected to wake up and find himself in his little room at Chiltern.

After dinner there was part singing among the young people in the back drawing-room, while their elders gossipped in the front; but old Mr Rivers was in a state of unusual excitement, and every ten minutes came to the end of the piano and rubbed his hands with a chuckle.

The uncle and nephew had to leave early, that Stephen might catch his train.

"Well," said the uncle, almost as soon as the housedoor had closed on them, "and what do you think of my young woman?"

"I know she is one of the kindest and best of ladies," replied Stephen.

"And do you think she will have me? I have not popped the question yet."

"Well," said Stephen, rather embarrassed, "I should hardly think she would marry again."

"Marry again, man!- that child can never be a widow!"

"I was thinking of Mrs Melville," replied Stephen.

"Ah! ah! you thought of the mother, did you?— and a very nice woman she is, too; but it's the daughter I'm after-I like fresh violets."

Stephen said nothing-he thought his uncle must be a little daft.

Well, boy, why don't you speak? What do you think Miss Violet will say to me?"

"I think she is rather young for you, uncle," replied Stephen.

"That is her charm. I like to train young colts; as you bend the twig the tree is inclined."

But Stephen was very silent; he could not see the joke, and began to feel a dislike to his old uncle, who kept on chuckling to himself.

'Well, my boy," the old man said presently in a grave tone, "I have fallen in love with the child, that's the fact, and I'm bent upon having her too. If I can't get her for myself, I want her for a niece! you say to that?"

But Stephen said nothing.

What do

"What do you say to that, sir?" persisted the old man, taking Stephen by the arm.

to that little flower for a wife?"

"What do you say

"It's not for me to think of a wife for years to come," replied Stephen. "And when the time comes, I would rather chose for myself."

"An independent young beggar, I see; and so you don't admire my Violet?"

"I have expressed no opinion about the young lady," replied Stephen, anxious to drop the subject.

They walked on in silence for some time, then the old man said, in almost a sad tone,

"So you won't confide in your old uncle, Stephen— but you cannot hide your secret from me for all that." "I don't understand what you mean, uncle," said Stephen, getting very hot.

"You understand well enough. And I don't want your life to be ruined, as mine was, my boy; so here's a bargain for you. I like Miss Violet, and I want you to get her; and if you can manage to do that part of the business, I will undertake to make it all right with the mother. Now, do you understand?"

Stephen grasped his uncle's hand.

"But she would never think of me. Every one would look upon it as mere presumption."

"Not at all, not at all. Bless my soul; presumption indeed! My nephew should be a good enough match for any girl."

"Well, uncle, I must speak plainly," said Stephen with a struggle; "you are very good and very kind; but, but, I would like a girl to take me for my own sake and not because I am any one's nephew."

Mr Rivers gave a grunt.

"Ah, I see; you like to manage your own affairs, and don't want your old uncle to interfere. Well, win the girl if you can; and you will be a lucky dog. You may depend upon it that if you succeed, I shall not quarrel with you about your way of doing it. So off with you, you will have sharp work to catch your train."

CHAPTER IX.

A POOR LITTLE GOVERNESS.

THE news that the old schoolmaster, who had gone away to become a great man, had come back to Chiltern, soon spread to Bareton, and report also said that he had grown wonderfully learned during his absence.

It might have been in consequence of this report that, not long after his arrival, a deputation of youths waited on Stephen to ask him to renew his evening classes at Bareton. The schoolmaster explained that he was only going to stay in the neighbourhood for a time, but the youths were persistent, and begged for "just a dozen lessons," if he could not give more; and, with the Rector's advice, Stephen consented to go over to Bareton twice a week as long as he could. classes were crowded as before, and his fame increased so that he soon had to give up three evenings to these pupils, and some of them, more earnest than the rest, took it into their heads to walk over to Chiltern themselves and beg for private lessons.

His

"It seems to me," said the Rector, "that you need not go to Melbourne for pupils; you will soon get as much work as you can manage to do in this part of the world, and then I shall not lose you."

It was a new idea to Stephen, but he saw the force of it at once.