have expressed them to any living being, and, least of all, to my dear friend, if he had not himself first led me to speak of them. Towards the end of my visit, one evening, after we had retired for the night, Eustace came to my room, and sat down by my fire. For a little while we talked on indifferent subjects, but, by degrees, our conversation turned to my visit, and to Sir Percy and his lady. As a matter of course, I spoke in the highest terms of Percy Grange, of the pleasant days which I had spent in it, and of its host and hostess. Eustace was sitting directly opposite to me, and, as I rattled on with hot, enthusiastic words about the dignity of Sir Percy, and the beauty and kindness of his wife, I could not help remarking that there was a strangely sad and perplexed look upon the face of my friend. At last he came over to me, put his hand upon my shoulder, and looked down into my face as he had often done before in his moments of doubt and of perplexity, or when we were more than usually earnest and confidential with one another.

66

Ambrose," he said, suddenly, and jerking out his words in a manner that was very unusual with him, "Ambrose, I'm going to ask you a strange question, and a question which I would not have put to another being on earth but yourself. What do you think of my lady ?"

My heart gave one great beat in my breast as the words which he spoke with such strange earnestness -an earnestness which seemed to me not unmingled with fear and dread, fell upon my ear. Without a moment's hesitation, only waiting till I had taken his other hand in both of mine, I returned his earnest, searching glance, and answered him in words which rose instinctively to my lips:

"Eustace, I don't like my lady. I don't know why, but I'm afraid of her. Spite of her soft words and her beautiful face, she chills me to the very heart. I'm sure it's very unreasonable, and I'm almost ashamed of myself for harbouring such a prejudice, still I can say nothing but the truth to you, Eustace. Perhaps it would have been better if you had not asked me this question; but the truth is, my dear fellow, that I don't like my lady, and that I fear as much as I dislike her."

It seemed so preposterous, even to myself, that I should presume to speak in this manner, although it was only to Eustace, of one so rich, so handsome, and so much admired as my Lady Percy, that I instinctively glanced at the door as I uttered these words in a low, trembling voice. I think I almost expected to see her sweep in, in all the majestic beauty of her stately presence, her large, black eyes, usually so cold, flashing fire, and her whole form swelling with pride and indignation. I need scarcely add that my lady did not make her appearance; and when I had recovered from the fright into which I had been thrown by my own boldness and audacity, I cannot tell how much I felt relieved, or how heavy a weight seemed to have been moved from my heart, now that I had unburdened myself of that which had pressed so painfully upon me, now that I was aware that Eustace felt as I did, and that, consequently, he would be upon his guard if my lady should ever try to play him false.

Eustace sighed heavily once or twice, and I felt the hand that rested on my shoulder tremble, as he pressed it more firmly to me, as if he signified by this motion that he leant more than ever upon my stronger will, that he relied more than ever upon my

aid and support-an aid and support which, God knows, I would have laid down my life most cheerfully to give him; and then he took a chair, and sat down by my side.

"I'm very thankful to you, Ambrose," he said, at last, after sitting in silence for some time, "I'm very thankful to you for speaking to me so openly and so candidly; but it was only what I might have expected from your long and tried friendship." I pressed his hand, and he went on. "I can't tell you how I have striven and fought against these feelings of dislike and distrust with which I cannot help regarding my lady. When I first experienced them I was horrified by their presence in my soul. It seemed to me so wrong to have anything but love and duty in my heart towards my father's wife, that I strove my best, my very best, to overcome them, and yet, spite of all my efforts, I could not drive these troublesome thoughts away. I could not make myself love her. I could not bring myself to regard her as holding towards me, in any degree or shape, the place of my own dead mother. She always speaks kindly to me, and yet I shrink from her. She is profuse in her gifts to me, and yet I feel an instinctive impulse to throw them away. She kisses me, and calls me her child, and, God forgive me," he cried, burying his face in his hands, and trembling with the emotion under which he laboured, "God forgive me for it, if I sin, I seem to loathe her from my inmost heart. Her kisses fil me with disgust; they seem to sicken my very soul; and yet, what can I do, what can I do ?" he cried, in pitiable agitation. "I have no tangible grounds for this strange repugnance. I cannot point to a word or action of hers which would, of itself, justify

me in entertaining feelings of dislike to her, and so I am constrained to continue to act in a manner which makes me despise myself. I pretend to feel what in my heart I do not feel. I show her the respect which she has a right as my father's wife to expect at my hands, but I also treat her with a semblance of affection which I do not feel, but the absence of which I dare not avow, utterly unreasonable, utterly unbecoming as it seems to be. I have never had but one secret from you, Ambrose," he continued, "and it has been this. I durst not tell this even to you, but it has grown so heavy of late, my burden has become so unbearable, I am so miserable and so wretched at the presence of these unholy feelings in my soul, that I could bear it no longer, and so I have unbosomed myself to you, that you may help me by your advice and counsel to overcome myself, that you may tell me what I ought to do. God only knows how wretched this has made me."

He struggled bravely with himself to get the mastery over the emotions which were stirring so strongly in his breast, but, spite of all his efforts, every now and then a great sob rose in his throat; every now and then a wild appeal to God burst from his lips, to guide and direct him how to act, to keep him in the never-failing paths of duty and of truth. As for me, I could only do my best to comfort him with such words as my love and tender, deep compassion for him suggested to me. I would fain have told him that his misgivings, his distrust, his repugnance, were all unreasonable and without foundation, but I could not say that. Although my own. ideas on this most painful matter had as little, nay, perhaps, even less real, tangible foundation than his

own, still, I felt as he felt, and I could not say, not even for the purpose of consoling him, that which I did not believe to be the truth. Moreover, I felt an earnest craving in my heart to guard him from all possible harm; and, as it appeared to me to follow as a kind of necessary consequence to this, that he should be ever on the watch against my lady, how could I counsel him to banish that distrust, to drive away those misgivings, which by keeping him constantly on the alert, would be his surest protection, if she should ever attempt to injure him? Hence, if I had acted like a man simply under the guidance of reason, seeing that neither he nor I had any tangible grounds, any proofs which would bear examining by the light of that reason, for these misgivings and these fears of ours, I should have counselled him to cast them to the winds of heaven. But I did not act like a man simply guided by reason. Where he was concerned, my heart had always more sway over me than my cold reason; and, whilst my reason and my principles stepped in to define the limits of my affection and friendship for him, and to keep it within honest, manly, holy bounds, it was my heart which prompted me and taught me how to love him, taught me how to appreciate his noble qualities, bound me to him with a chain, whose every link was one of truthful, honest friendship. Therefore, in this matter I acted towards him as my heart and not my reason prompted me; and whilst I did my best to comfort him in his trouble, I did not seek to remove his misgivings or mistrust. I only strove to show him that, at present, he laboured under a mere dread of evils which might never be realised, a repugnance which might turn out to be utterly unreasonable