the Oriental turquoise.

The establishment at the Villa Lambert consisted of the permanent staff of the place, the aged Savoyard and his wife, who spoke an abominable and unintelligible patois; these two people were the Gibeonites of the villa. At earliest dawn the pair rose and toiled till an hour after sunset. The man worked in the garden, broke the firewood, drew water from the well, attended to the ponies, and wore the face of a martyr. The woman got through the labours of four ordinary English servants, she was cook, housekeeper, housemaid, and an entire staff in herself; she spoke to no one save her morose husband and Haggard's polyglot Swiss servant; she scrubbed, she polished her numerous brazen pots and pans till they shone like mirrors; every particle of woodwork in the house was washed and polished by her, till it resembled that seen in the Dutch village of Broek. But the great delight of the pair was the waxing and polishing of the curious inlaid parquet flooring of the salon which looked upon the lake. Lucy Warrender had been considerably surprised when she saw this process for the first time. A strange hissing noise, which continued for some minutes, gradually diminished in intensity, and then ceased altogether, only to recommence with renewed vigour, surprised the two girls as they sat at breakfast. "What can it be, Georgie?" she remarked in astonishment to her cousin.

"It's in the next room, I think, dear," said the young matron; "but it's very easy to see." She opened the door of the salon. Husband and wife, with portentous gravity, the woman having her skirts well tucked up, their arms a-kimbo, were apparently skating up and down the room. To them it was evidently a very serious business; they never smiled, but the perspiration streamed from their foreheads as they flew up and down. A large flat brush was attached to each foot of either. They were polishing the floor, and their appearance was sufficiently ludicrous. Lucy looked at her cousin; the absurdity of the scene was too much for her; she closed the door and laughed till she cried.

Mrs. Haggard's maid was an invaluable servant, who understood her duties and never seemed to forget anything. Hephzibah seldom spoke; perhaps, like the parrot in the story, she thought the more. The girl was in her way religious. That valuable work, once so popular but now so seldom seen, "The Dairyman's Daughter," was her only literature, but she seemed to be never tired of reading it.

Capt, the valet, was equally quiet in his way, equally dull. He did not disdain to manufacture dainty little dishes for his young mistresses. He would row them about upon the lake. He was steward, footman, and general factotum. He never opened his mouth unless he was spoken to, and between him and Hephzibah there appeared to be a good understanding; as the reader is aware they were "keeping company."

Georgie and her cousin led quiet uneventful lives. They drove, they boated, they wandered in their large garden; but they made no new acquaintances, and they lived the lives of hermits. Once a week there was some slight excitement as to the arrival of news from the absent husband; his letters came with praiseworthy regularity. He had arrived safely in Mexico; the value of his property had increased enormously. He was in treaty with half-a-dozen persons for the sale of his estates. He cursed the delays of the Mexican lawyers, who seemed to do nothing but smoke big cigars and swing themselves to sleep all day in hammocks. He pathetically bemoaned the unavoidable separation from his dear Georgie. He wasn't having a bad time of it, the sport was undeniable. He had had a week with a friend at a place with an unpronounceable name. Then he described the delights of the opera house, and the great success of the new French dancer, Mademoiselle De Bondi. It seemed a pity to close finally, when land was going up in value every day, and so on, and so on, and he was his dear Georgie's affectionate husband. This was the burden of all his communications, one letter was very much like another. Haggard was evidently enjoying himself, and his affectionate Georgie, though longing for his return, did not grudge him his pleasures.

Strange to say, though by force of circumstances thrown into an eternal tête-à-tête, the cousins never quarrelled. Georgie read and re-read her husband's letters. Lucy devoured one yellow-covered novel after another, and time crept slowly on. They had been four months at the Swiss villa.

It was the end of August. The two girls, they were but girls, sat on the terrace which overhung the lake. The sun was setting, as they sat dreamily gazing upon the lovely scene, which had even distracted Lucy's attention from the last naturalistic novel, which lay open on her lap. As she looked intently at the blue waters of the lake she sighed deeply. Georgie turned towards her and was startled to see that her lovely dark brown eyes were filled with tears! Georgie placed her arm softly round the girl's neck, for she dearly loved her cousin, and gently said, "What ails you, darling?"

But Lucy answered never a word, a violent burst of weeping was her only reply.

Lucy, never over strong at any time, had lately caused her cousin considerable anxiety; womanlike, Lucy fought against the growing weakness; till now she had hidden her increasing melancholy under an appearance of forced gaiety, which had not deceived her cousin, but only increased her alarm.

The elder girl knelt at Lucy's feet—her own Lucy whom she still looked upon in her heart as a little child.

"Does anything worry you, darling?" she said.

No answer.

"Trust me, Lucy; we are always friends, let me share this trouble."

"I can't," faltered the girl, as she gnawed her lips, which trembled and turned pale; "I think I shall drown myself."

Then Georgie took the blanched hand of the motherless girl, and entreated her.

"Do tell me, darling; you must tell me, Lucy. Something is preying on your mind; trust me, do trust me, pet."

Not then did Lucy Warrender tell her trouble to her cousin. But that night, unwillingly and ungraciously enough, she told her grief. Pale as a ghost, her fingers intertwined in a convulsive grip, she knelt by her cousin's bed and told her shameful story. She made her pitiful appeal. With dilated eyes, Georgina listened in terror to Lucy's confidence. It was the old tale. Lucy was about to become a mother; this was all she told. Was it not enough? She looked imploringly up at her cousin as she whispered:

"You can save me, Georgie, if you will—if you love me, as I know you do; and if you won't, there is nothing left for me but the lake, the cold, cruel lake." Here she laughed hysterically, and nestled to her cousin's breast.

The elder girl was struck dumb. The shame of it, the bitter shame of this accursed thing.

There was a silence, only broken by the monotonous ticking of the carved Swiss clock and the deep sobs of the kneeling girl. There was a sudden whiz of spinning wheels—"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" screamed the little painted bird derisively, as he appeared for an instant from his tiny box to mark the hour. Both girls started at the inauspicious interruption.

"I save you, my darling! How can I save you? And father, poor father. Oh, Lucy! how could you—how could you so deceive us all? But he must be sent for—who is the man? He must marry you—he will marry you, of course, at once, this gentleman!"

But Lucy only sobbed the more.

"He will never marry me,