married, for you are the cause of discussion and dissension every day, not here alone, but between friends. There's Marmaduke Burton and Mr. Dalby, who were inseparables until you returned six months ago from school, and now they scarce speak civilly to one another!"

"Were they friends?" asked Minnie, opening her eyes, "Oh, then—" she did not finish the sentence, but the curling lip spoke what she meant.

"Can the child help that?" said Dorcas, deprecatingly. Sylvia felt as if she had been an indiscreet general, and was on the point of retorting with acrimony, when a step was heard on the gravel outside the window, and one of the subjects of the recent debate walked in—the squire.

"Here I am again," he said, familiarly leaning on the window-sill; "came round through the shrubbery. Oh! Miss Dalzell," and he moved his hat, "this is indeed a pleasure; one seldom sees you."

Had love called up the blood from her heart to her cheek, a lover might indeed have rejoiced in the glow; as it was, the bright flush, coloured brow, cheek, all, and the lip curled, and eye fixed cold and stern, shedding an icy hand of scorn over that young face, as she merely bowed her head in reply. Marmaduke bit his lip, then turning to Dorcas, said, blandly smiling, "And you too, Miss Dorcas, are a stranger; I trust I see you well?"

"Quite so, I thank you," she quietly rejoined, "Minnie and I have been strolling out together."

"Did you call upon Mrs. Lilly?" asked Sylvia. "I promised to do so: she will think it unkind."

"No," replied her sister; "we did not go near the village."

"We went," said Minnie, raising her head boldly, "with Mr. Skaife, to see a poor girl he saved from drowning herself yesterday." As she spoke, somehow her eye fixed itself on the squire; her thought in doing so was, to show him, at all events, no distaste on her part to the society of another, however she might avoid him. Was it annoyance at this decision of manner which made him turn so pale, and his voice tremble slightly, as he inquired, "May I ask where?"

"It was poor Widow Burns's daughter," answered Dorcas; "it is a sad affair, but, thank Heaven, Mr. Skaife saved the poor girl's life!"

"Shot! Shot!" called Burton, quitting the window on which he had been leaning, and turning to seek his dog; "here, sir; come here; lie there!" and the animal howled beneath the lash of his master's whip. When he returned to the window he was calm as usual, cold and sinister in appearance.

"Won't you come in, Burton?" asked Juvenal, going to the window, which looked over the wide-spreading lawn, with its old, majestic trees in clusters, and the cattle browsing beneath them; "won't you come in?"

"No, I thank you," he replied carelessly. "I merely strolled this way to inquire about Miss Dalzell's health in person, as I have so seldom the pleasure of finding her at home. Charity, that cold dame, has much to answer for, in depriving us, as she does, of her society."

"You would scarcely term her cold," answered Minnie, "had you witnessed the gratitude of Mary Burns to-day, towards Mr. Skaife."

"'Pon my word!" rejoined he, in a cold, cynical tone, "your parson, Formby (he addressed himself to Juvenal), is a preux chevalier; something new in the colour of his cloth!"

"Is humanity new?—or his act unbecoming his calling?" quietly asked Dorcas.

"I am scarcely competent to answer you. I have a great dislike to display: things quietly done, in my opinion, look most meritorious."

"Oh!—--" Minnie began.

"Pray, let us change the subject," said Sylvia angrily. "I'm tired of your charities and drowned persons. It always happens that the one who saves, manages most cleverly for his deed to be known where he thinks it will benefit him."

"For shame, Sylvia!" said Dorcas.

"Of course," rejoined Burton, with an uncertain, uneasy glance, "you had a pathetic account of the cause; the poverty, the——"

"It was not poverty alone," answered Dorcas; "but, with your permission, we will drop the subject."

"'Tis best," he replied carelessly; "these people are tenants of mine, and, I fear, bearing no very good name: we must get rid of them."

"Talking of that," asked Juvenal, "have you succeeded in ejecting that fellow Weld?"

"No; I fear it will be impossible. His lease is good, and was only just renewed for twenty-one years when——"

He paused: something withheld him from uttering the name of Tremenhere that day: Minnie's speaking eyes were fixed upon him.

"Ah! yes; I see," rejoined Juvenal; "it is very annoying."

"The impertinence of a low fellow like that, must be galling," suggested Sylvia.

"What is he guilty of?" asked Dorcas, who was nearly as much in the dark about many things as Minnie herself, associating as little as possible with the squire or Mr. Dalby.

"Why," answered her brother, "fancy the insolence of one of Burton's tenants, whose grounds adjoin his own, who presumes to pass him without even touching his hat; and had the audacity to try and raise a subscription, to which he offered to give largely (for him—being only a small farmer), to find out the impostor, Miles Tremenhere, and support his claims in another suit to recover the manor-house!"

"Such audacity, indeed," chimed in Sylvia, "in a low farmer!"

"I wonder," said Minnie, looking up in seeming calmness, but the warm heart beat, "whether the smooth-barked poplar has more sap in it than the rough gnarled oak?"

"Good gracious, child!" answered Sylvia tartly; "what do you know about trees?"

"I was not thinking of trees, but men," rejoined the girl quietly.

"Then what did you say 'trees' for?" asked Juvenal, surprised.

"Because, uncle, they represented men to my thought. We know that education and associations refine; but I wonder, whether the rougher class of men was created nearer the slave or brute than the poplar of my thought; whether men are slaves by birth, or to a superior force which makes them such, and makes them bow even their free opinions in subjection to a mightier, not better power."

"Minnie, dear!" cried Dorcas taking her hand, startled by her unusual warmth.

"I see Miss Dalzell is rather ruffled to-day," said Burton, taking off his hat; "so I will say adieu. Ladies, your servant; Miss Dalzell, I kiss your hand, even though it smite me: Formby, will you give me a call to-morrow?" and, without awaiting a reply, he whistled his dog, and hurried away. It would be vain to attempt portraying all the indignation lavished by Juvenal and Sylvia on their niece, who sat, however, tolerably calm beneath the fire. She was used to these discussions, and these perhaps, and the necessity of upholding her right against being forced into an unhappy marriage, had made her more thoughtful, and less girlish, with them than her age warranted; with Dorcas, she was an innocent child, and this was her nature. With those where she felt the necessity of calling her firmness into play, she became almost a thoughtful woman; and while they discussed, Marmaduke Burton's thin, tall, spare figure walked thoughtfully homewards, and the narrow brow contracted still more over the small grey eye, which, with the high Roman nose, gave him the appearance of a bird of prey. He was only thirty, but looking some years older; he had assumed the dress of a country squire with the assumption of that title, and one was as illegal as the other, and sat as uneasily upon him. The top-boots seemed ashamed of his thin legs, and shrunk from them. Those things generally grace the jovial country gentleman, yeoman, or farmer; on Marmaduke Burton they were as misplaced, as ringing a swine with gems, to give a homely metaphor to a homely subject. There is one person at Gatestone to whom we have not yet introduced our readers; let us hasten to repair the omission. This personage is Mrs. Gillett, the housekeeper. All three, Juvenal, Sylvia, and Dorcas, involuntarily bowed down to her