brass-bound desk, but the gloom of twilight begins to gather round the old chamber, making weird-like, fantastic shadows, and warning him he must bring his inspection to a close for the present.

He draws out a packet of yellow letters from the desk, that had been locked in a private drawer, and he carefully examines the dates and names.

"Ah! here is a packet of the old lady's love letters. What fun to be sure. I'll just carry the whole lot home with me to amuse our people a little," muses he, with a laugh, as he thrusts the packet into his coat pocket.

Then he locks up all the secret places again, shuts the windows and doors, and leaves Grey Towers once more to its silence and solitude.

His work is not over yet, though. Numbers of workmen are outside in the yard, waiting for him by appointment, and to these he gives full directions about what he wishes done. The furniture is to be removed, and the renovating process to be commenced without delay.

Ned Hartley is lingering outside the lodge gates, trotting about, and waiting for his master. He pats the horse, draws the rug more closely over the animal, and every now and then casts furtive glances towards the house, wondering what is keeping the squire there so long.

"Ah! Hartley, you are ready, I see. the station at once; I shall be just in train."

"Yes, your honour."

Drive me over to

time for the next

"And mind, I leave the horse and trap under your charge till I come down again."

"Will you be long away, sir?"

"No, I shall be down again on Monday morning. The Eastown workmen are to meet me then."

"It'll be putting a brave lot of work into their hands, sir."

"You may well say that, Hartley. Grey Towers is in a sad state of dilapidation now, but before long we'll have it put to rights, I hope. I am going to send some first-class hands down from London, to do the painting and gilding, and finishing."

"I suppose, sir, her ladyship and your family will be coming down here to live before long?" suggests Ned, touching his cap, and looking the very model of respectful curiosity.

The squire smiles at the title bestowed on his wife, but he does not correct the man's mistake, as he replies condescendingly,

"I hope we shall all be snugly settled at Grey Towers by Midsummer. By that time the hot, dusty streets of London will be getting unbearable, and we shall be longing for a breath of your pure country air down here. Faugh! I'm getting to detest the city in summer-catch me staying there longer than I can help, this season."

Tom says all this to the man, partly because he is longing to talk to somebody or other about his affairs, and there is no one else there to listen to Then he recollects himself, and adds in a tone

him.

of authority,

'Hartley, groom the mare well, and drive over to the station on Monday morning to meet me. I shall come by

the first train."

The squire takes his seat in a first-class railway carriage with a very satisfied air. He is well pleased with his day's work, for he has put things in a fair training. Ere many more months are passed, he hopes to enjoy some of the sweets of his new position, and to enter with becoming dignity into all the excitement and responsibilities that will necessarily accrue to him, as owner of the long-coveted inheritance.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SQUIRE'S daughter.

N the tiny suburban villa Tom Burges has of late called "home," are seated two ladies anxiously awaiting his return from Grey Towers.

The supper table has long been spread, and Mrs. Burges sits by the fire, alternately nodding and glancing at the timepiece. She is still a comely matron, of a handsome portly presence, with quick black eyes, and long, glossy black hair, that yet bears a purple bloom like that of the ripe plum in the sunlight. She is nicely dressed, though not yet adorned with the new, costly garments she means to wear when they are once settled down in their grand country home.

A tired, happy, satisfied woman is Mrs. Burges, as she lies back in the leather-covered chair, half watching, half dreaming. Her very fatigue has somewhat of gratification in it, for what could have been more enjoyable to one of her stamp than the arduous duties with which she has been occupied on that day?

Hours and hours have sped on, all unheeded in their course, while she has lingered at the counters of the most fashionable shops at the West End, where she has critically selected the rich garments most becoming to herself and Alice.

It was so delightful to be waited on by obsequious shopmen, who soon found out the price was no object to their

customer, and who vied with each other in bringing forth the most costly articles for her approval.

Mrs. Burges had not forgotten her sons either; she bought handsome presents for Philip, some less gorgeous ones for her two boys at school, and she had ordered fitting garments for the other two lads, not yet emerged from the nursery.

What had she not purchased with the contents of her well-filled purse? The very handling of so much money was in itself a new and most delicious satisfaction.

Again she had been in furniture warehouses studying the most elegant make of drawing-room and bed-room suites, looking at the patterns of fashionable carpets, and selecting, here and there, at a price that made her smile inwardly at her own extravagance.

Then she had visited offices where cooks, housemaids, and footmen assembled to be hired, and these had passed in review before her, all eager to obtain a place in her future establishment. They were all of such unexceptionable character, and of such noted skill, that one marvelled where all the incapables had vanished on that particular day.

It had been perfect enjoyment to Mrs. Burges to question and talk to these domestics, it was like the dawning of her coming grandeur and rule.

So it is not to be wondered at that she gives way to a degree of the dolce far niente. She is a little tired, a little drowsy, and the well-earned sensation is rather pleasant than otherwise.

Alice, a slim, pretty girl of about twenty, has not entered into the pleasures of that day of excitement with anything like the zest her mother has displayed. She really is tired, and wishes supper was ready, and has more than once expressed her wishes aloud to her mother.

We will glance at the young lady for a minute, as she bends her gracefully-formed head over the banner-screen on which she is at present employed.

Her hair is pale brown, her eyes a deep blue, with just the faintest shadow of sadness in their expression. Her features are delicate and regular, and her cheeks bear the pale pink tint of the early hedge-rose.

"Not a strong-minded woman by any means!" some one exclaims, as they notice certain traits of indecision in the fair young face, and in the plastic formation of her mouthand the judgment is quite correct; Alice is gentle, and yielding, affectionate and confiding, and rather too apt to be influenced by those who have stronger wills than her own.

Not unlike is she to the flower of her favourite plant of woodsorrel, that stands over yonder in the window. Sunshine, and warmth, and brightness, will bring forth all its beauty, it will expand in the soft light; and thus her heart is ready to give forth all the sweet, frank confidences of her generous nature at the smile of love and sympathy. But let the cold wind of hardness, or distrust, or unkindness sweep over her, and the little flower, with its tightly-folded leaves, is not more unapproachable, and drooping, and closed-up, than she can become.

Mrs. Burges is too drowsy for much conversation with her daughter just now, so Alice goes on rapidly with her dainty work.

She is forming groups of white lilies with opal-looking beads on a scarlet background. It is a banner-screen for the drawing-room of Grey Towers. The thoughts, ideas, occupations, and industries of the whole Burges family merge in that direction now, and one wonders how they can possibly find room for anything else in their lives at present. The timepiece ticks away on the bracket, and at last strikes ten. Then Alice looks up from her work.

"Isn't papa very late to-night?"

"The train is only just due. He'll be here directly. Did Philip go to meet him?" replies Mrs. Burges with a

yawn.

"Yes, he told me he was going to King's Cross, and said