fortune should have so overpowered me; my second was a fervent wish that such pleasant times could fall to every one.

I had finished dinner and enjoyed, for the first time in my life, a really prime cigar, when Hewson came into the library, evidently wishing to see me.

"I thought I had better tell you. Sir Edgar, that Mademoiselle d'Aubergne is in the drawing-room."

I looked at him in astonishment.

"Who is Mademoiselle d'Aubergne?" I asked.

"Do you not know, Sir Edgar?" he said, in great surprise.

"I have never even heard the name," I replied.

"Mademoiselle is the daughter of the late Sir Barnard's cousin; she has been living here for the past five years. Sir Barnard, I believe, adopted her. I thought perhaps Messrs. Moreland & Paine might have mentioned her."

They had perhaps forgotten to do so, and I felt quite at a loss what to do. However, if there was a lady in the house, I was bound to be courteous; so I went to the drawing-room.

I attempt no description of that magnificent room, its treasures of art, its statues, pictures, flowers, its wonders of bric-a-brac. For the first minute my eyes were dazzled, and then I saw—

Well, I had read in the old poets' descriptions of sirens' wondrous language, wondrous words telling of beauty almost divine in its radiance—of golden hair that had caught the sunshine and held it captive—of eyes like lode-stars, in whose depths men lost themselves—of lovely scarlet lips that could smile and threaten. I saw such loveliness before me now.

From the luxurious depths of a crimson velvet fauteuil rose a lovely woman, who advanced to meet me with outstretched hands. Her mourning dress fell in graceful folds around her tall, queenly figure, and from the same dark dress her fair face and golden head shone out bright and luminous as a jewel from a dark background.

"Sir Edgar Trevelyan," she said, "allow me to welcome you home."

Her voice was sweet and rich; she had a pretty, piquant accent, and the play of her lips as she spoke was simply perfection.

"It is very lonely for you," she said. "There is great gloom over the house, it is all sad and dark; but the brightness will come back in time."

I touched the white hand she held out to me; it was warm and soft; the touch of those slender fingers had a magical effect.

"I must apologize for not having seen you before," I said, "but until five minutes ago I did not know you were in the house."

"No," she replied, with a faint sigh, "I can believe that."

"You must know," I continued, "that I am a complete stranger to the family. I never saw any of them in my life. I never heard the name more than five or six times."

"Then, as a matter of course," she said, "you never heard of me."

"I am at a loss to know whether I should address you as kinswoman or not," was my confused reply.

"It would take a bench of lawyers to decide," she said. "My mother was a favorite cousin of Sir Barnard. I think, but I am not sure, that once upon a time he was fond of her himself. My mother married a French gentleman, Monsieur d'Aubergne, and at her death Sir Barnard kindly offered me a home here, since I had no other."

"Is your father living?" I asked.

"Alas! no; he died when I was a child. There had been some quarrel between my mother and Sir Barnard; perhaps he never forgave her for marrying a Frenchman. During her lifetime he never wrote to her or took the least notice of me."

"And then offered you his home?"

"Then he adopted me," she said, looking earnestly at me; "treated me in every way as his own child. I have been with him ever since. I have no home except here at Crown Anstey, and I had not a sou in the world except what he gave me. Ah! I miss him so sorely."

A cloud came over her beautiful face, and her lips quivered. I sat down in sore perplexity with my inheritance. I had not certainly expected this. What was I to say to her—this beautiful and radiant woman, who seemed thrown upon my hands like a child? There was silence between us for some time, then she said, suddenly:

"How sad this is about poor Sir Barnard and his son, is it not? I thought at first that I should never recover from the shock. Miles was a very handsome man; so clever and full of spirits. I am told," she continued, "that the bodies are to be brought home to-night. Is it true, Sir Edgar?"

"I believe so. I am here to receive them and to preside at the funeral."

Her face grew a shade paler.

"I am so frightened and nervous at everything connected with death," she said.

"Your best plan will be to remain in your own room until it is all over," I suggested, and she seemed very grateful for the thought.

"Will you take some tea?" she asked, suddenly. "I always made tea for Sir Barnard and Miles."

Then she drew back shrinkingly, her face crimson.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I forgot; I have no right to take the same place now."

What could I do but hasten to implore her not to yield to such an idea, to consider Crown Anstey her home, as it had been—at least for a time?

"You make me so happy!" she said; "but how can I—how can I stay here? I find it awkward to explain myself—how can I remain here with you?"

I hastened eagerly to explain that I had a sister, an invalid sister, and that I should be delighted if she would take an interest in her; and it pleased me to think how happy Clare would be.

"Then you wish me to remain here as a companion to your sister?" she said, slowly; and there was evidently some little disappointment in her face.

"Unless we can think of something more pleasant for you," I replied. "We can make that a temporary arrangement. In any case, permit me to say that I shall take the care of your future on my hands, as Sir Barnard would have done."

"You are very kind," she said, thoughtfully; "I had no right to expect that. I did not anticipate anything of the sort."

We talked then, in low tones, about the late baronet and his son. Of Miles she said very little. Of Sir Barnard she told me many anecdotes, illustrating his pride, his grave, stately character, his intense love of caste, his conservatism. I felt almost as though I had known him before she had finished.

"And Miles," I said, "the poor young heir; how did you like him?"

Was it my fancy, the light flickering on her face, or did a quick shudder pass over it?

"Every one liked him," she said, slowly. "He was proud and reserved; yet he was a general favorite."

She was strangely quiet after that, and I suddenly remembered the drawing-room was hers. I rose, bidding her good-night.

"You shall be sure to hear the stir of the arrival, mademoiselle," I said; "do not let it disturb you. I should advise you to keep your room tomorrow until the funeral is over."

Yet, although I so advised her, it struck me that she did not feel any great amount of sorrow. I cannot tell why I had that impression, but it was very strong upon me.

Nine o'clock, and the arrival had not yet taken place. The fragrant gloaming was giving way to night; there was promise of a bright moon, and the golden stars were peeping one by one. The night-wind was laden with odors, a thousand flowers seemed to have given their sweet breath to fan it. It would have been profanation to have lighted a cigar, so I went out on the Queen's Terrace and walked under the whispering lime trees, thinking of all that had passed in those few days.

Slowly but surely the conviction gained upon me that I did not like Coralie d'Aubergne. I ought, according to all authentic romances, to have fallen in love with her on the spot, but I was far from doing so. "Why?" I asked myself. She was very brilliant—very lovely; I had seen no one like her, yet the vague suspicion grew and grew. It was not the face of a woman who could be trusted; there was something insincere beneath its beauty. I should have liked her better if she had shown more sorrow for the awful