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CHAPTER XXVIII.

HE either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch,

To win or lose it all.

Marquis of Montrose.

"NEXT Tuesday is Evelyn's birthday," said Lady Cecilia, one morning, à propos to nothing.

Lady Wentworth sighed, but Lord Wentworth threw aside the paper he was reading, and said briskly, "We will give a fête in honour of the day."

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Impossible, my dear lord!"

"Dear mamma, give a gala to the school-children in the park."

Lady Wentworth shook her head, but Cecilia persisted,-"The children can dine al fresco."

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Suggest a more refined species of entertainment,” said her mother, coldly. "You know my excessive repugnance to vulgarity, above all, to vulgar children."

Lady Cecilia's colour rose, but she wisely dropped the subject; unable to conceal her disappointment at the non-success of a petition on which she had set her heart, she hastily quitted the room. Lord Wentworth said, with unusual gravity, "You speak like a very young lady; do you know after all the meaning of this word vulgar? 'Tis only common; nothing that is common, except wickedness, can deserve to be spoken of in a tone of contempt. My dear Constance, agree

with me in thanking God that nothing really worth having or caring about in this world is uncommon.” * He turned to leave the room; Lady Wentworth detained him. "Let the children come, but, for Heaven's sake, give them a cold repast." Lord Wentworth laughed. chette, if you like, fair lady. or reeking joints shall 'poison the gale.'

"A déjeuner à la fourNo steaming puddings

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Lady Wentworth shuddered, with a look of ineffable disgust; she was only half a convert to the scheme. Lord Wentworth left the room, repeating with provoking emphasis,

"She minced each morsel into frustrums fine,

And wondered much to see the creatures dine.'

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Evelyn was delighted at her sister's proposition, and overwhelmed her mother with thanks and caresses for the consent she had given. Lady Wentworth, to do her justice, was a liberal patroness of the schools, and, indeed of every charitable club in the neighbourhood; but, if lavish of her gold, she was chary of her presence; she shrank, with morbid refinement, from poverty and disease. Up to the present time, Lady Wentworth had carefully guarded her daughters from contact with their inferiors; they had never been allowed to set foot in the village-school, nor to visit the cottages upon their father's estate.

In keeping up the line of demarcation, her ladyship was persuaded that she was doing her duty in that line of life to which it had pleased God to call her; but

"A change came o'er the spirit of her dream,"

when the mist of patrician pride and prejudice slowly rolled away beneath the broad beams of truth. Practically, she realized the hitherto (in her eyes) theoretical proposition that man, whether prince or peasant, lofty or mean, stands upon the same platform in the eye One, who is no respecter of persons. Lady Wentworth

* Sir Walter Scott.

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had indulged in some such theory as Catherine de Medicis-princes, read nous autres-would not be judged like other men. Fashion was her idol; the world's law her creed; virtue and vice were resolved into a tangled web, the clue to which was expediency; in short, there were things in her ladyship's philosophy, which would have staggered herself had they been revealed in their native deformity. Naturally impetuous and impatient of contradiction, she expected her children to conform to her thoughts, wishes, and opinions, as wax takes the impress from the seal. But in her altered views, she met with opposition' where she least expected it-from Charlotte. This young lady seemed in imminent danger of sinking into the unenviable position from which Evelyn, phoenix-like, had arisen. Lady Wentworth, won by Evelyn's sweet temper and endearing qualities, loved her with an intensity proportioned to her former coldness; moreover, she respected her little daughter for the great and good points she had displayed in recent scenes of trial. Charlotte's brilliant attainments and factitious graces were powerless to soothe hours of suffering, above all, the sharp sting of remorse. Moreover, Charlotte was vain, selfish, and capricious-faults which had found no censor in her mother during the halcyon days of prosperity, but to which her ladyship was wonderfully clearsighted in the hour of adversity. Lady Charlotte was surprised and mortified when she made the unwelcome discovery, that those airs and graces which had won applause or provoked a smile before her mother's illness, now called forth expressions of strong and even bitter disapprobation.

Lady Mary Temple saw the false position in which the mother and daughter were placed; she expostulated with Lady Wentworth. One morning, when her ladyship had been unusually severe upon what she did not scruple to term Charlotte's vulgar love of admiration and selfish vanity, Lady Mary undertook her defence.

"My dear friend, believe me, nothing but the warm

affection I feel for your children could induce me to provoke such a discussion. Dear Lady Wentworth, Charlotte does not understand you; I fear she attributes your altered sentiments to caprice. Remember, Charlotte is not altered-the change is in yourself."

It was a home-thrust. The blood mounted to Lady Wentworth's temples,-" Alas! my poor Charlotte is a melancholy witness of her mother's folly. Vain, ignorant, and frivolous, her highest ambition is to captivate the idle and frivolous. No generous sentiment finds an echo in her breast. I have sown the wind, and I reap

the whirlwind."

"My dear Lady Wentworth, do not exaggerate the evil. The good seed is choked, not destroyed. Root up the tares gently, lest you pull up the wheat also."

"Lady Wentworth smiled sadly,-"Physician, heal thyself! ought to be my motto.'

Lady Wentworth did not neglect Lady Mary Temple's advice; she curbed her imperious temper, and dealt gently with her daughter's errors-errors which she herself had fostered, if not developed, by injudicious praise. She strove to raise the tone of Charlotte's character; to eradicate the leaven of worldliness with which she had stamped it. Hard task! Fortunately for Lady Wentworth, a firm hand upheld her faltering steps; a steadfast will directed her wavering resolutions. She would have thrown up the reins of government in disgust, had she not been ably seconded by her husband and her friend.

To return to our story. Evelyn's birthday came, bright and beautiful-one of those glorious summer days when mere existence is a boon. The village children, a joyous band, were gathered around the wellspread board, which half filled the ample tent pitched in honour of the feast. Flags, banners, evergreens, and wreaths of roses, waved in gay confusion from every practicable and impracticable point. Lady Wentworth's fastidious taste was in no wise shocked when she entered the tent; nay, she so far conquered her aris

tocratic prejudices as to embrace, perhaps for the first time in her life, the child of a peasant. But then Rose Green was a lovely little creature! Her blue eyes, golden hair, and fair skin, might have moved the heart of a stoic. Rose was very proud of the honour conferred upon her—"My lady's salute!" It was a salient point in her uneventful existence.

The rector of the parish blessed the meat-which, in compliance with Lady Wentworth's stipulation, was not hot-his wife and daughters assisted the young ladies of the Castle in waiting upon the little visitors; the village band played its gayest strains; altogether, the scene was one of unaffected enjoyment. Florence was in her element: she spoke to all; with many she was familiar, thanks to her stolen visits to the village school. She looked to great advantage, as she flitted to and fro, reassuring the timid and chatting merrily with the more confident. She had flung aside her straw hat, and twisted a wreath of roses round her head; the sombre hue of her black silk dress was relieved by a garland of roses thrown over her shoulder; this badge of office, as she laughingly termed it, was worn by all the young ladies. When the children had dined they were allowed to wander through the park and gardens, attended by their teachers. At six o'clock they were to reassemble in the tent, to partake of supper.

Lady Wentworth and Lady Mary Temple lingered long upon the grand terrace, unwilling to quit the animated scene. Lady Wentworth listened, with a languid smile, to the hum of children's voices and the echoes of their joyous laughter, or watched the blithe figures darting to and fro among the brilliant parterres which lay beneath the terrace.

Her eye wandered restlessly from the lordly castle to the princely gardens, and onwards over the magnificent park, then returned to dwell with complacency on the merry groups of the village children. Cecilia, her younger sisters-where, alas! was the flower of the noble line?—were ever and anon mingling with the

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