calculating, or indeed caring, how obtained; she was an unconsciously dangerous woman—in her heart meaning no harm, certainly. Juvenal quitted her, resolved to watch for and seize the first excuse given, to coerce Minnie to his wishes; and a more erring path a man never selected. Minnie would do any thing—might have been induced to take any step (not faulty), by kindness, or from affection; but her spirit was of that nature which would make her stoutly rebel against oppression. Mrs. Gillett smoothed her white apron, puckered up her mouth, folded one hand over the other, and composed herself to take her afternoon's nap; and Juvenal walked away, strengthened in mind by his counsellor's advice, and like a galvanic battery, full charged, prepared to electrify poor Minnie the first moment they came in contact. In this state of affairs days went by: Juvenal watched in vain for open rebellion; his niece was too well occupied elsewhere, to give herself the trouble of opposing any attention the squire might choose to pay her. When our minds are fixed upon one object, minor things (even if they, under other circumstances, would be considered evils) pass us by almost unnoticed. However, the squire had paid only hurried visits to Gatestone since the day we last saw him there: he seemed pre-occupied about something, and this apparent coolness on his part, agonized Juvenal, who revenged himself by persecuting Minnie, and interrupting every conversation, with either the lawyer or curate, which he fancied possibly agreeable to her. But she, with perfect indifference, smiled on, unruffled and gay. Minnie had something better at heart. We have said she was a little self-willed; and not all the angry expostulations of Sylvia, who had discovered it, could prevent her visiting the cottage of Mary Burns, who now was enabled to quit her bed. Accompanied by Dorcas, she went thither almost every day, to speak comfort to, and fortify that unhappy girl in her good resolutions. Dorcas was one of those sensible women, who, though they would not plunge a young, pure mind in impurity, or familiarize it with crime, yet deem it right and healthful to teach it the beauty of virtue by its comparison with error, guardedly, advisedly, but practically shown. Moreover, in this case it was a duty, and that Dorcas inculcated above all else, to succour and strengthen those in affliction or temptation. Poor Mary forbore to name her seducer, neither did either seek to unveil this hidden corner of her heart: the wrong had been done—how could it alter the case to know his name? The poor girl said, "Oh, when I knew he had deceived, and never meant to marry me—when he told me so, coldly and scornfully, I became mad; for that I must have been, to seek death in my sin!" Then she told Minnie how she had been brought up, almost entirely, for years at the manor-house, while Madame Tremenhere (so she called her) lived: but this seemed wrung from her heart; for, with the words, the clenched hands stiffened, so bitterly she wrung them, and her lip sternly compressed itself together, to keep back her tears. She was a girl of manners and bearing far superior to her station; not decidedly pretty, but quiet, well-looking, and far above what is termed "genteel." She was ladylike in tone and manner, showing evidence of gentle teaching and association. Her mother had once kept the village school; and when she became paralyzed, years before, Mary had supported her by her work, plain and fancy, which she disposed of in the neighbouring town, Harrogate, some six miles distant. She was, at the time our tale commences, in her twenty-fifth year. Dorcas had taken a deep interest in this girl, and was endeavouring, through some friends in London, to obtain a situation there for her, whither she might remove with her poor old unconscious mother. Juvenal could not lock up Minnie, as Mrs. Gillett had advised him to do, for visiting this lonely cottage, however much against his wishes, because Dorcas was a consenting party: he could but grumble, and consult with his old crony, the housekeeper, who advised him to bide his time; and he too felt, at her foretelling, that that would soon come. "The Countess of Ripley and Lady Dora will shortly arrive," she said, "and then Miss Minnie can't run about as she does." He felt this, too, and waited. But, in the mean time, his refractory niece sped almost daily to the Burns's cottage, where, not unfrequently, her young, fresh voice paused in its gentle, though almost childish, counsellings, or readings, to salute Mr. Skaife, who came also to visit his poor parishioner; and (truth must be spoken) a little self-interest attached itself to his visits, for he was almost certain of meeting the one he sought and loved there. One day they met as usual: Minnie was alone, Dorcas had not accompanied her: he had preceded her in his arrival. When she entered the cottage she found much tribulation there. Evidently, Mr. Skaife was in the confidence of Mary Burns; it was natural he should be, as the one who had rescued her from so fearful a death, and also, as her spiritual master, one she was bound to respect. Minnie found the unhappy girl in a state of the most fearful excitement. Acting upon what he had said, of their being improper characters, an order had been brought them that morning by the squire's steward, to quit the cottage of which he was landlord as soon as possible. It seemed almost beyond the power of Mr. Skaife to control the girl's emotion to the standard of reason. When Minnie entered, Mary stood before her pale and speechless: she stood—yet she seemed almost incapable of supporting the weight of her body, and, still greater than that, some heavy affliction. For some moments she could not reply to the other's kind question of, "What had occurred?" Mr. Skaife hastened to reply:—

"Oh!" he said hastily, fixing his eye on the girl to subdue her bursting feelings, as if he dreaded her giving utterance to something; "Mr. Burton deems it advisable another tenant should have this cottage, and 'tis best thus; Mary must leave; absence from this place is necessary, for many reasons. I have seen Miss Dorcas this morning, and she tells me she has succeeded in obtaining an employment for this poor girl in town, where she can support her mother, and in more healthful scenes and occupations redeem the past, and forget——"

"Forget!" she almost shrieked; "forget! and now to-day, when I am ordered away, and by——"

"Hush!" interrupted the curate sternly; "remember you are called upon to suffer; you have purchased that right, however cruelly administered to you; it is only by pain inflicted that physicians heal."

"Forgive me, Mr. Skaife," she cried, in a scarcely audible tone; "I have merited all, but I am only human, and it is very hard to bring down the spirit to subjection, more especially in my case, when——"

"Hush!" he said again; and Minnie felt that her presence silenced the girl's speech.

"And must you leave this soon?" asked Minnie; "before my aunt has arranged all for your departure?"

"Yes," uttered Mary, through her half-closed teeth; "we are ordered to quit now—at once—to-day!" and, despite her efforts, the excitement of her previous manner again overcame her. "I am very wicked," she said at last, in deep affliction and humility, "for I have deserved all; but oh! Miss Dalzell, may Heaven keep you from ever suffering—though innocent, as you must be, with your strong, pure mind—what I am enduring; even guilty as I am, it is almost more than mere human force can bear up against."

"You have a kind, good friend here," answered Minnie, looking up in Mr. Skaife's face; "one whose guidance has led you to better and surer hopes than those you had relied upon. Think of this, and be comforted. You will soon leave this, and meanwhile you shall not quit this cottage; I will ask Mr. Burton to permit you to remain; surely his steward acts without his concurrence, and when he knows this man's order, he will——"

"He!" cried Mary; "he, Mar——, Mr. Burton, I mean!"

"Pray, Miss