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"I saw you coming," she said: "this is the third time I have opened the door for you, remember."

She brought him in, and she gave him a chair: she brought out wine, and dosed him with two brimming glasses of port. Give me the lady who will think of such substantial comfort as this last, when I am sad. There was altogether a gentleness in her manner, a softening in her eye, which was very fascinating and becoming. Pity in a woman's face is really almost as charming as a diamond tiara. Yet Chantrey did not seem as moved as he might have been; all his enthusiasm seemed to have burned out.

He thanked her for her kindness to his little invalid at home.

"You are a Sister of Charity, Miss Wertley, all but the dress. The poor wee woman will thank you for the fruit. She is such a thirsty little body when she is ill."

"She shall have plenty," said Emmie; "we were so glad to hear she was better this morning." She here returned without apology to the occupation in which she had been interrupted, dusting the precious china with an ostrich-plume.

"Here is such an indignant advocate for your mother's novel, Mr. Chantrey; I brought you up just to hear her talk; for, egad, I was getting to feel bullied. She couldn't catch the critic, so she insists on making me play deputy, and giving me all the knocks."

"Both papa and I were so indignant; it was so unjust," said Emmie, with a blush on her cheek and a tremulous pity in her voice.

Chantrey laughed, and assured her he had put it from his mind.

"Of course," said he, "I was savage enough at first; but I had my passion out. It's all over now."

"Take care, my heart, take care of that crackle porcelain; see how near the edge you have left it! But, my dear Chantrey, it's so flippant. Is that what you'd dignify by the name of a review? You can see the man had formed no integral opinion throughout; his judgment is all patchwork; and the jokes, why, bless ye, I've heard them all before."

David found some tickets to London sights in his pocket, and he presented them to Miss. Wertley. He said he had picked up a few bits of china, thinking of her father-got them at a mere trifle; and with some abruptness he avowed that he could never thank her enough for her kindness to poor Liz; altogether his gratitude was very coarsely evinced by these gifts. Miss Wertley was evidently a little abashed before his fiery gratitude upon so slight a matter, for she began tipping at the porcelain again. It is noteworthy to remark that never a comment fell from him upon her condemnation of the review. Had he indeed put that trouble from him?

"Take care of that crackle, my heart; it is the pillar of my happiness and pride."

"I flattered myself, that I was the pillar of your pride," laughed

Emmie. "Papa expects me to treat my rival here with tenderness, when such a little tap would break its hideous green neck."

"Why, Chantrey, as for that joke about the apes, I'm certain I heard it or read it before to-day. What was I reading last, eh? what was it?" He went over to the hearth-rug to ponder. It was one of old Wertley's miseries, this pertinacious hunt after an escaped idea; he could not be resigned to relinquish the quest. Head aside and eye on the ceiling, he would stand, his ferreting mind chasing that idea through a hundred burrows, up and down, till he ran it down, and pinned it against the wall. "What was I reading last? where was I? who was it?"

Chantrey kept his attention upon him quietly, whilst he seemed to talk to Emmie. She now took courage to soothe him; for, notwithstanding his quietude and patience, with a woman's delicate tact she thought she saw an angry paleness settled upon his cheek.

"We know two families who never dreamt of reading the book till they saw the review, and now they are chained to the story. You'll find, Mr. Chantrey, this unjust attack will only do it good."

"Well, it has done mischief," said Chantrey, quietly; "but these mischances cannot be helped. I put it from my mind."

"That joke about the apes, it is not new to me," murmured old Wertley, with his back to the hearth and his head on one side.

David, whilst seemingly engaged by Miss Wertley's conversation, watched the old gentleman covertly.

"I never read so cowardly and cruel an attack; no gentleman could have written it."

"I don't know that, I don't know that; I daresay he is a very fine gentleman. I'll be bound he has the conscience to pay his bills, and perhaps is only dishonest in his jokes," said David listlessly, and watching Mr. Wertley's meditations.

"But his jokes, was there ever any thing so stupid?"

"I'm not so sure of that," said Chantrey. "People here in London laugh at that sort of thing."

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"I'm sure there were parts I cried over that were specially selected for ridicule. Now was not that the same as calling me a goose? In fact, I considered the whole thing as an insult to the readers as much as to the book; you should have heard papa and I groaning in chorus at every paragraph."

There is this delightful bigotry in women when you have their sympathy-they are such thorough-going partisans. I love to hear them at their loving exaggerations and their merciful little falsehoods, told in such a glow as to be more than half-believed in as they are forged.

"I am sure I should hate the man if I knew him," said Emmie, zealous to console her friend.

"No, no," said Chantrey; "poor toad, we could not hate him. Well, it is past and gone now; I have put it from my mind."

"Where was it? was it in town, or in Edinburgh, the other day?" murmured old Wertley; "hippocampus-hippocampus-I remember that word; nearly knocked over my argument; I heard that joke before." "You heard it?" said Chantrey in stern agitation. "From whom?" "Egad, I believe it was Johnny Wayre," said Mr. Wertley dreamily. At this moment, whether by design or accident, a piece of Wedgewood escaped from Emmie's hands, and fell in halves upon the carpet.

The catastrophe brought down old Wertley from the clouds like a winged bird, to flutter over his cup and mourn for it; his grief was always whimsical; you might fancy he was half-laughing at himself.

"Oh dear, oh dear, my beautiful Wedgewood set! It's a judgment on me for trusting you with them, you little milkmaid. Ah, Chantrey, a joke never yet broke a china cup; there's more mischief in a lady's white hand, my boy, than all the satires that ever were written."

Here he took up the precious fragments, and apologising to Chantrey for leaving him a moment, went upstairs to his workshop to repair the injury with cement.

Chantrey rose to go, but a sudden parlous spirit seemed to enter into Emmie. She was quite pale, looking very nervous, and she began to chatter in a very random sort of way. He was of course obliged to stand hat in hand and listen. She questioned him about the theatres with a fluttered haste. She flitted from them to the churches. Then she took a flying glance at the late shipwreck. Her conduct and treatment of her subjects were somewhat fighty and insincere. In fact, had Chantrey been in an observant mood then, he would have been in much perplexity. But he, on the contrary, seemed rapt upon some purpose and impatient to be gone.

After these airy excursions on Miss Wertley's part, she suddenly came back to the subject of the review.

"Do you know who wrote it?" she asked.

"Perhaps I may find him out."

"But the harm is done, is it not? In a few days this attack will be quite forgotten, will it not, Mr. Chantrey?" she said, so soothingly.

"It will be a relief, nevertheless, to tell him my mind," said Chantrey, with a sinister smile. "Good-morning, Miss Wertley. I am very much obliged by your sympathy.”

"You-I trust, Mr. Chantrey-you don't mean to do any thing rash!" she said, unconsciously retaining his hand in hers, and looking at him with a startled, not to say anxious, expression.

Now I am not bound to say that Chantrey gave her emotion any flattering interpretation. I believe he was too sick at heart and too sincere to take such curious note; but to an unsophisticated reader it might seem as if she were alarmed for the sake of him whose hand she most indiscreetly retained in hers-that with the instinctive misgivings of love she saw some danger over his path. Instinctive misgivings of love indeed she felt; but not a whit for him.

"Don't alarm yourself," he said, with a careless laugh; "I am not going to challenge the fellow."

"Pray don't go for a few moments," she said, bashfully dropping his hand. She seated herself and pointed to the chair he had lately occupied. He went back, and sat down with aroused attention.

"Mr. Chantrey, are you not taking this a little too bitterly?" He looked at her reproachfully.

"I may have been a little unmannerly, but just at present it is difficult to hide what I feel."

"Oh, yes, just at present; but you will think over it quietly by and bye, won't you?"

"I daresay it will come to that," he said, with increasing reserve. "All I mean to say is this-and I won't be frightened by your ferocious looks," laughed she, with that peculiar coaxing perversity with which woman the siren always treads on dangerous ground-" all I mean to say is, might there not be great injustice and cruelty done in great part out of ignorance? All the pitiful melancholy circumstances. known to you and me, which make us so indignant, might be wholly unknown to the reviewer."

"It grieves and surprises me to hear you defending this reviewer, Miss Wertley, because I respect you so much," said David, with cold obstinacy.

"I am not defending him. I look on his attack upon your mother's book, of course, from your own point of view. It seems dreadful to me," said poor Emmie, resorting to a vague young lady's word in her dilemma.

"Whoever wrote it was a cowardly hound!" muttered David, with masculine expression about which there was no equivocation. Then, in a half-jesting tone, he continued:

"It seems to me, though I have no great experience, that ladies always like to advocate a weak cause. Now, Miss Wertley, I am speculating whether, if you heard that I did-something rash, you would put in a kindly word for me?"

We are

"Do not put it to the test, pray," she said, with a sort of significance. "Oh, Mr. Chantrey, this is what I wanted to say. to have some friends here to dinner on Saturday. I know that is your holiday. Will you give us the pleasure of your company?"

“I should have enjoyed it a few days ago, Miss Wertley; but without playing tragedy-king about the matter, I really have not the spirits just now to make new acquaintance.”

"My brother is to be there. I hope that is an inducement," said Emmie, with a blush like a peony. "What a shame it is to have known us so long and never even to have met him!"

"I had forgotten you have a brother till this moment," said David. "There now! Was papa just in his charge that I can speak of nothing else? We never spoke of him since the first day you came here."

"I can acquit you."

"I want you and my brother to be friends. I have been planning a meeting this long time, and you must not disappoint me now."

"There can be no difficulty on my side," said David, amiably. “To those who take the trouble, I am easily won; and your brother!—a good auspice, I should think, to begin with." "Then you will come. Just be prepared for a little

if chattering against time.

You can't guess how much you'll like him. reserve at first," she continued hastily, as "People who don't know him call him

satirical, but it is only lip-deep: he has such a kind good heart."

"I will take that on your credit," said David, cheerfully. Then with an indifferent air, as he rose once more to go, "Miss Wertley, do you know such a person as-"

She laid her hand lightly upon his arm, and her smile quivered with latent anxiety.

"Mr. Chantrey, you are not attending. I don't know why I should tell you family affairs, but just to give you a clue to my brother's real nature, I will tell you how he acted towards me. I can never forget it. I don't think his kindness to me could be matched in the whole world." "I can assure you I want no inducement to like him," said David. "Why do you mistrust me? I have always been thought a great friendly calf of a fellow, who could swear eternal friendship with any one who would let him, in one day. All this time you should be recommending me to him. Try to make your brother like me, and he'll find me all right."

"But I have reason to think you might not like him on first acquaintance. I must bespeak your regard for him by telling you a noble act of his, which we need not be the least confidential about."

She then told him leisurely, yet with glowing cheeks which belied all pretence of serenity, the whole story of the little Highgate property so manfully relinquished by him to herself.

"You could forgive a good deal to such a man," said she sweetly, as she came to the close.

It was far from David to depreciate the action, and he lauded it heartily.

She listened to his comments with an earnest regard upon her face, and then bade him rather a hasty adieu.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE GREAT MRS. BLENHEIM !

AND how did Mrs. Blenheim conduct herself to this interesting couple of turtle-doves? We know the course many a lady would have taken in a similar adverse mood. Reproaches, direct opposition, summary ejection from the house, threats, and all such waste of energy comprise the vulgar treatment of such cases. Mrs. Blenheim permitted

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