could become an ill-used, suffering, snivelling wife. I detest the picture as I utterly despise all weak and whimpering women. I have no sympathy whatever for your abused wives—even for your dethroned or beheaded queens. Why should a wife permit herself to be abused, or a queen suffer herself to be dethroned or beheaded, without first having done something to redeem herself from the contemptible role of a victim, even if it was to change it for the awful one of criminal—”

“—Hush, Sybil, hush! You know not what you say. The Saviour of the world—”

“——Was a divine martyr, father,” said Sybil, reverently bowing her head—“was a divine martyr, not a victim. All who suffer and die in a great cause are martyrs; but those who suffer and die for nothing but of their own weakness are victims, with whom I have no sympathy. I never could be a victim, father.”

“Heaven help you, Sybil!”

“You need not fear for me, father. I can take care of myself as well as if I were a son, instead of a daughter of the House of Berners,” said Sybil, haughtily.

“You may be able to protect yourself from all others, but can you always protect yourself from yourself?” sighed the old man.

Sybil did not answer.

“But, to come back to the point from which you started, like the fiery young filly that you are—Sybil, I greatly desire to see you married to some worthy young gentleman whom you can love and I approve.”

“Where can you find such an one, father?” murmured Sybil, with a quick, strange, wild hope springing up in her heart.

What if he should speak of the young lawyer? But that was not likely. He spoke of some one else.

“There is Ernest Godfree. No better match for you in the county. And I’m sure he worships the very ground you walk on.”

Sybil made an angry gesture, exclaiming:

“Then I wish he would have respect enough for the ground he worships to keep himself off it altogether! I hate that man!”

“Well, well, hate is a poor return for love! But we’ll say no more of him. But there’s Captain Pendleton, a brave young officer.”

“I wish his bravery were better employed in fighting the Indians on the frontier instead of besieging our house. I cannot endure that man!”

“Let him pass then! Next there is Charles Hanbury—”

“Ugh! the ugly little wretch.”

“But he is so good, so wise, for so young a man. And he is your devoted slave.”

“Then I wish my slave would obey his owner’s orders, and keep out of her sight.”

“Sybil, you are incorrigible,” sighed the old man, but he did not yield his main point.

One after another he proposed for her consideration all the eligible young bachelors of the neighborhood, who, he knew, were ready upon the slightest encouragement to renew their once rejected suits for the hand of the beauty and heiress.

But one after another Sybil, with some sarcastic word, dismissed.

“Sybil, you are a strange, wayward girl! It seems to me that for any man to love you is to take a sure road to your hatred! And yet, oh, my dear! I wish to see you safely married. Is there not one among those whom you might prefer to all the rest?”

“No, my father, not one whom I could endure for an instant as a lover.”

“And oh! when I feel this fatal rising of the heart and fulness of the head—this Wave of Death that is sure to bear me off sooner or later to the Ocean of Eternity—Oh, then, my Sybil, how my soul travails for you!” groaned the old man.

“Father! do you so much wish to see me married?”

“I wish it more than anything else in the world, my child.”

“Father, you have named every young man in the neighborhood whom you would like as a son-in-law?”

“Every one, my daughter.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, my love. Why do you ask?”

She slid down from her low ottoman to the floor, and laid her arms upon his knees and her beautiful black ringleted head upon her folded hands, and whispered:

“Because, dear father, there is one whom you have forgotten to name: one who loves me, and is altogether well worthy to be called your son.”

“Ah!” cried the old man fiercely, under his breath—“a fortune-hunter, on my life! the danger is nearer than I had even apprehended!”

“No, father, no! He is as far as possible from being what you say!” fervently exclaimed Sybil.

“He is wealthy, then?”

“No, no, no! he is poor in everything but in goodness and wisdom!”

“Oh, no doubt you think him rich in these! But who is he, unhappy child? What is his name?”

Very subdued came the answer. Old Bertram was obliged to bend his gray head to his daughter’s lips, and put his shrivelled hand behind his ear to catch the sound of her low voice.

“He is the young lawyer newly settled in Blackville, whose praise is on everybody’s lips.”

“John Lyon Howe!” exclaimed the old man, throwing up his head in astonishment.

“Yes, father,” breathed the girl.

“And he loves you?”

She nodded.

“And you love him?”

She nodded again.

“A briefless young lawyer, with a long list of impoverished brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins! Bad enough; but not as it might have been. She can gain nothing by that connection! But then she need not lose anything either,” murmured the old man to himself. After reflecting for a few moments, with his head upon his breast, he suddenly raised his eyes and exclaimed:

“But I have never seen the young man at this house!”

“No, father!”

“Nor at any other house where we visit.”

“No, father; for although he receives many invitations to visit his friends, he accepts none. Father, I think he cannot afford to do so.”

“Cannot afford to visit! Why?”

“Visiting requires dress, and dress money. And he does so much gratuitous work now in the beginning of his career that he has but little money; and his father will not help him at all, because they differ in politics.”

“Yes, I know they do; but the young man is quite right. I agree with his views perfectly. He will make his mark in the world some of these days, and then his father will be proud of him.”

Sybil blushed with delight to hear her lover so praised by one in whose hands their happiness rested.

“But, my child, he was wrong and you were wrong to have entered into any engagement without my sanction,” said the old man very gravely.

“There is no engagement, father,” gently answered Sybil.

“Ah! no engagement? that is well! By my soul, though, it was not right for him even to have wooed you without my consent! Nor can I conceive what opportunity he has ever had to do so. He never comes here.”

“He has never wooed me, dear father.”

“Eh!”

“He has never sought my hand.”

“But I thought you gave me to understand that you love each other!”

“So we do, father.”

“Then, if he loves you, why don’t he come and tell me so like an honorable man?”

“Father, he has never even told me so.”

“Eh!”

“He has never breathed a word of love to me.”

“Then how the deuce do you know that he loves you, girl?”

“Oh, by every glance of his eyes, by every tone of his voice, and by my own heart! Oh, father, do you think I would bear to tell you this, if I were not sure of it.”

“Umph, umph! But why don’t he speak?—that’s what I want to know! Why don’t he speak?”

“Dear father,