"You only half quote what I said, and alter my emphasis. I said over the old place for the last time. The old place is no more. In less than an hour there will be a new

Silcotes."

"It is true, and a more happy one," said Sugden.

Well," said Dora, "I don't know; I actually do not know. I remember once that Miss Lee read us that fairy story, I forget which (it is often enough quoted), which ends, And so they all lived happy ever afterwards;' and Anne remarked emphatically, 'Dear me, how exceedingly tiresome they must have found it, after such a delightful series of accidents and quarrels.' Do you know that I have been happier in this old house than ever I expect to be again? There, what do you think of that, for instance?"

66

There is some reason in it, or you would not have said it, my dear," replied Sugden. Why do you think so?" Well, Uncle Sugden (I am not quite sure yet whether you are my uncle or my aunt-n'importe; Grandpa Silcote is the fountain of honour, and must settle the titles of the new court), I will tell you why. My dear, in old times this house was a very charming one. There was a perfectly delicious abandon about it, the like of which I have never seen, or even heard of, elsewhere. Coming as I did from the squalor of my father's house, this was a fairy palace for me. True, there was an ogre; my grandfather Silcote was the ogre; but then I liked ogres. There was a somewhat cracked princess-a real Italian princess-in velvet and jewels; and I like people of that kind. Then there was a dark story, which we never could understand, which was to us infinitely charming; there was almost barbarous profusion and ostentation, which everybody—I don't care everybody loves in their heart of hearts; there were these bloodhounds, which I hated at first, as a cockney, but which I have got to love as the last remnants of the ancien régime; there were horses, grooms, carriages, ponies, deer, as indeed there are now, with all their charm gone; and lastly, one could do exactly as one liked: one could revel in all this luxury and beauty, set here like a splendid jewel among the surrounding forest, without a

soul to control one. a Radical."

And this was very charming, for I am

"It was an evil and perverse state of things, my love," said Sugden.

"I dare say," said Dora; "but then I am evil and perverse, and I loved it. I used to protest against it; that was my prudishness. But now that it has all passed away, I know that I loved it."

"You are quite sure, then, that the old state of things has passed away," said Sugden.

"My good-distant relation (I will not commit myself)do you know that you are perfectly foolish at times? Is not my Uncle Arthur going to marry my old governess, Miss Lee? Are they not going to take up their abode here at Silcotes? You have heard of this arrangement, because I have heard you speak of it."

"Then you think," said Sugden, "that Mr. Arthur and his bride will be inclined to look round and put things square."

Dora only looked at him at first. Her opinion was so strong as to the way in which these two would "put things square," that she did not trust herself to speak of it at present. She as good as passed the question for a time.

"There is a chance that your sister, my aunt Mrs. Thomas Silcote, or, to be more correct, Mrs. Silcote, may be able to do battle with them single-handed. She is in high favour at head-quarters now, and is likely to remain

So.

She is an energetic and courageous woman, and it seems has great influence over grandpa. But she is one, and they are two, and she will have her work cut out for her. She will fight like a dragon for James, but James will be of no assistance to her at all. The Arthur Silcotes will beat her if she don't mind. However, we shall have a happy little household."

"My dear Dora," said Sugden, "you are very worldly.' "I am; I have seen the consequences of not being worldly, and, Uncle Sugden, I was trained in a hard school. I only know this, that I shall make James stick to his art, and be independent, for with this wonderful new happy family arrangement, I see nothing to prevent his being cut out of his grandfather's will to-morrow."

"He will have his mother's money-four thousand a year."

I know that. But it is an evil thing for a man to wait for his mother's money. He shall be independent of that before his mother dies, if I know my own will.”

"You are taking a black view of things."

“I have been used to the darker side of things. I will be more cheerful directly. Let us see what has become of our old Silcotes, in this newer and happier régime. The delightful old abandon of the house is gone for ever. Grandpa, our ogre, has forgotten his ways. Altogether, the old house will never be what it was before. I know that the new order will be better than the old, but I am wicked and perverse, and I hate it.”

"You have talked yourself into hating it, Dora," said Sugden, "with what seems to me a great deal of common sense."

"Well, I do hate it at all events," said Dora. "They will spoil James himself among them.”

They had come in their walk before the silent cottage, in which Sugden and his sister had lived for so many years. The fence was broken, and the bloodhounds which accompanied them had invaded the garden. The flowers, mostly spring flowers which Sugden had planted so many years ago, were all out of flower, and lying withered on the neglected ground, with the exception of two groups of noble white lilies, which stood on each side of the door, and a rose which they now choose to call the "John Hopper," but which old-fashioned folks call the " Cabbage." "Get me a lily," said Dora.

"I think that I will get you a rose instead," said Sugden. "Old maids wear lilies."

So they turned into the main avenue again, with the stupid bloodhounds round them, snuffing and scratching among the rabbit burrows.

"Little woman," said Sugden, "you have a melancholy sort of mind."

"It is likely enough," said Dora; "I watched my father's life, and saw him die. It is likely enough that my mind is a melancholy one."

“

"You have made me melancholy enough; and I looked for such pleasure from to-day's meeting. When your aunt and I lived alone and unnoticed at that cottage we have just left, we were happy enough. We never had as much to eat as we could have eaten, and we felt the want of firing also bitterly, I can tell you. We had our great sorrow the desertion of her, unrecognised by the poor fellow who is just gone; we had to stand all weathers, and never had five shillings in the house; yet we bore it all cheerfully. Just now, when I believed that all things were changed for the better, and we were going to begin a time of prosperity, you point out to me a hundred new miseries, fifty times worse than the old ones. I doubt you are a killjoy, Miss Dora."

"Well," said Dora, "it does not much matter. I shall die an old maid. I always intended to be so, and I mean to be so and I am a very deter—— Why, bless me, it is you."

"That looks very like old maidenhood," said Sugden, as he saw her fairly in the arms of a tall and very handsome young man, with a dark downy moustache, and—I must write it down-getting kissed. "That looks uncommonly like dying an old maid. Bah! you're just like the rest of your precious family-saying one thing and doing another. My boy James shall hear of this. I had better make myself scarce, for this is getting too tender for me-this is. Why, that can't be the boy himself? He never had moustaches. I am blessed if I don't believe it is, though. Here, you two people, manners! manners!"

"Who cares about manners before you?" said James, and Sugden saw that it was James at once.

"I thought old maids were particular in that respect," replied Sugden. "However, have it your own way, and don't regard me."

"If you don't hold your tongue, I'll kiss you," said Dora.

"Then here goes," said Sugden. "Arthur is going

but she executed her terrible threat, and silenced him. For," as she said, "no one ever cared one halfpenny for you. You are of as much importance as an old milestone."

When James had got hold of one of his arms, and Dora of another-when they both clung round him and looked into his gentle, almost stupid face, Sugden thought that to be a milestone was not such a bad thing after all, if one had two such beautiful young climbers to twine around

you.

"They will be here directly," said James. "I came across the fields from Twyford and have beaten them, but they will be here directly."

Shall we wait for them here, or go back to the hail?" said Dora.

"Let us hurry back to the hall," said James. “He would like it better."

"Is he in one of his tempers, then?" asked Dora.

No, he has no tempers now.

But I think he would

CHAPTER LXI.

THE RETURN.

THEY hurried back, and got under the shelter of the great porch, ready to receive the comers from the war, and to see the end of the ancient and the beginning of the modern history of the Silcote family.

"The girl is right," thought Sugden; "the new misery is greater than the old. Well, here they come.”

Two carriages came grinding through the gravel up to the porch the first closed, the second open. The closed carriage stopped first at their feet, and the butler opened the door of it. Silcote himself got out of it first, looking very quiet and very solemn indeed, taking notice of no one: and then turned round to hand out his companion, the poor Princess of Castelnuovo.

She put her well-formed hand on his arm, and, with her finely-formed little foot carefully pointed, alit gently and dexterously on the lowest step before the porch. Then