Ww $2.50 a Year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. Copyrighted 1879, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. December 18, 1879, Vol V Published Every BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, Complete in this Number. N 53: ” . Two Weeks. No. 98 Wiii1AmM Street, New Yorx. Price, Ten Cents. 0. ° THE LOCKED HEART. Corinne Cushman. | 5 ; i \ x \ . SesluureNece \ ‘ \ x SS AY, FOR WHAT WAS CICELY FAYE OUT SO EARLY ON THE BEACH, ALONE? WHOM HAD SHE COME TO MEET? 2 THE LOCKED HEART. The Locked Heart; SIR CARYL’S SACRIFICE. A Young Girl’s Romance. BY CORINNE CUSHMAN. CHAPTER I. A JEALOUS LOVER. A FLooD of golden moonlight poured down upon a long veranda, whose slender pillars were twined with jessamine and honeysuckle; not far away the broad glitter of the summer ocean; nearer at hand a smooth lawn sparkling with dew; a _parterre of brilliant flowers showing lilies and roses almost as distinctly as if it were day instead of evening; a fountain flowering on its silver stem:—over all, and through all, the low boom of the sea on the shore and the soft rustle of wet leaves moving in the night wind. There were lights shining from the muslin-dra- peried windows which opened on the veranda, the sound of a piano on which the bewitching waltzes of Chopin were being played, and the shadows of a numberof pérsons moving about in the long drawing-room, with occasional bursts of silver laughter or the deeper tones of some manly voice; but none of these things had, for the present, any interest for the young gentleman and lady who were slowly pacing up and down the porch. The lady was very young and small and slight, not more than seventeen —a girl just outo school the previous May, and this was June. Her face was sometimes lifted and sometimes drooped as she clung to her com- panion’s arm, who bent his stately head low to whisper the* passionate words he had brought her out there in the golden moonlight to say to her. That face, when she raised it so that the light fell full upon it, was one of those girlish faces ull bloom and sweetness, yet it had, too, more character than most at that age. The rosebud lips were set together in a line indica- tive of firmness, and the delicate brows had a spirited curve; but this only made her lovely features more bright and captivating. A pair of melting dark eyes looked out from the covert of long, thick, curling lashes. Those eyes and those lashes alone would have made Cicely Faye beautiful. Little tendrils and rings of soft brown hair clinging to her white forehead gave her a childlike, appealing look which contra- dicted the spirited curves of mouth and eye- brows. In her white summer dress, her heavy hair braided in a long braid down her back, her cheeks glowing with that ineffable bloom which only the daintiest roses can rival, she seemed a tender, confiding, soft little creature to be loved and cared for almost like a a The man who walked beside her, pouring into her thrilled ear the first love-words to which she had ever listened, was Sir Caryl Crossley, a per- son who had the reputation of being a at's man, by whose attentions all ladies felt flatter- ed;a gentleman who had been reported ‘“ en- aged” on numerous occasions, but who had reached the age of twenty-six without ever—so far as his friends knew—having had a very ——— “ay See oe. ice! aye eard a great deal of gossi about him before she ever as him; even fee as he talked to herin a way that set her heart to throbbing wildly with delicious triumph and joy, she raised her bright eyes with a curious Hash of doubt and inquiry in them, as if asking him if he were serious at last. “How do I know whether or not to believe eer: she asked, after he had said a good many ings veryearnestly. ‘I havealwaysheard of you as a flirt, Sir Caryl.” “Then you have heard me vilely slandered, ee Heng I will tell you how far my flirta- tions have gone. Iamrich and idle; I put my time at the disposition of such ladies, married or single, as desire to make use of it for their own amusement. I have never yet, I solemn! assure you, led a woman on to believe that 1 loved her; but I have allowed many women to lead me on, thinking I was in love with them. I have given play to their vanity, their artifice, their coquetry or their covetousness, so long as it amused them. Do you blame me for that, sweet little Cicely?” “T hardly know,” she stammered, ‘‘ And the reason I have seriously and solemn- ly made choice of you, after these years, as the one woman to ask to become my wife, is because — arepure and artless and innocent—a lily that never been soiled by contact with mud and dust. You will be all my own! My own lily! No man before me has breathed wo: lovein yourear. No manhas clasped this dainty hand or pressed a kiss upon those sweetlips. As- sure me this isso, darling Cicely! Has any other man ever made love to you, Cicely?” “Never! never!” “ Ever kissed you?” “ Never!” indignantly “Then, thus and now, I seal you for my own, precious Cicely.” Before she could make a movement of resist- ure of ance he had pressed the kiss of betrothal upon the sacred bloom of those rosy lips. ‘Now, Cicely, you will have to marry me! Now, I know you will some day be my little wife! Do you zai love me, little witch? Tell me that you do! it. am wild to hear you say ‘*T do not know enough about such matters to be sure,” answ@ged the silvery voice, while Cicely smiled mischievously to hide the soft confusion into which his kiss had betrayed her, “but I think Ido. Are you satisfied with that, Sir Caryl?” : “Yes. And oh, a thousand thanks for saying it, my sweet! Will you call me Carylt—leave off the ceremonious ‘ sir,’ little Cicely.” The episode of the kiss over, they walked on again, up and down the flower-fragrant veran- da, Caryl talking fast and low, the moon shin- ing on the glittering ocean, the lovely earth, and on two faces bright with the strange, the ever- wonderful, the ever-novel, the unexplainable rapture of young love. ‘They will miss us, and wonder,” Cicely pleaded more than once, but her lover would not put an end to the magic of this first hour of avowed love, until finally an elder sister came to the hall-door and called them, saying that they were wanted to make up a set of the Lan- ciers. “Weare coming,” answered Sir Caryl, gayly; then—when the intruder had retreated sent” ously, tothe young girl on his arm: ‘One mo- ment, Cicely !—you are swre that I am your first and only choice?” “Quite sure. Why I have been home from school but a month! What a jealous creature ou will be!” “T have heard of girls carrying on serious flirtations or love-affairs at school, Cicely. I merely wish to assure myself that my future wife has never thus lowered herself.” “You will have to take my word for it, Sir Caryl.” The bright eyes flashed, the rose-leaf lips quivered, the light little hand was with- drawn from his arm, ‘“‘There, there, little one! Come back to me! You must forgive me, but I have perhaps, a sadder experience than most men. I want no one ever to have had the slightest claim on you. I want you all my own. But I will say no more about it. I love you so madly, with all the long-repressed power and pas- sion of a strong nature, that it will kill me if anything ever happens to make me really jealous of you. You would be almost afraid of me, little one, if you knew how much I love you, how much I trust you, how terri- ble would be my disappointment if anything ever came between us. Nothing ever must— ever shall happen, to cause me to distrust you, my angel! me! they will wonder at our lin- gering.” : ; They joined the gay group in the drawing- room, where dancing, singing, playing, chat- ting made the evenings spent in that old coun- try-house down by the sea pass so pleasantly. ere were several pretty girls there, and a re- cently-married sister of Cicely’s, but none of them could approach in positive beauty the charms of the pet of the household, sweet es “red daughter and most fondly- loved of all. And so sweet, so artless, so un- conscious of her great fascination was Cicely Faye, that girls older and less popular could hardly be jealous of her. Her sweet face wore a dreamy look of happi- ness the remainder of that eventful evening; et, when midnight came, and she was alone in er moonlighted chamber, an expression of care settled down over its radiance, and she heaved a heart-breaking sigh. “Tf Caryl should ever hear of that /” she whis- pered, as she stood by her window and stared up at the blue dome with troubled eyes. CHAPTER IL. THE SECRET TRYST. A FEW days of ——_e followedon. Sir Caryl had gone to Captain Faye with his suit for the hand of his daughter and been accepted. The family were well pleased; and as Sir Caryl had no one to consult but himself, on his side, the course of true love promised, for once, to run smooth. Sir Caryl had a large estate in that pe of the country. When he kept bachelor’s atall, it was at Cliff Castle, a century-old house built on the cliffs overlooking the sea—a house with a square tower that no winds mm the ocean could even shake. There were ificent grounds about it; a high stone wall kept off much of the sea-breeze; and the view of wide down and wider seas were very fine. Captain Faye, an officer retired on half-pay, had purchased his home, quite near the water. and dubbed it the “ Rookery ” only about two years before. His wife’s money had paid for the place, after which she had enough left to add much to their comfort; otherwise ,his in- come would not have afforded them all ele- ce and even | of their style of living. ptain Faye’s eldest brother was a lord; and oo Faye’s daughter was, in birth, a suit- able match for a baronet. Cliff Castle and the Rookery were only about a mile apart, both of them elose to the sea. Be- neath the cliffs was a smooth, safe beach, so that it_was possible, when the tide was out—and even when it was in, unless uni ly _stormy—to make one’s way from one place to the other by the sands. There was a yi in all England more delightful than this mile-long strip of beach taxe it by sunset or moonrise, or any time of night or day, and it was a favorite haunt of vis- itors to both country-seats. The hottest June morning was breezy and comfortable there. Perhaps there was nothing strange in the fact that Sir Caryl arose a full hour earlier, the last morning in June, than had been his custom. His love for Cicely in was a passion so new and so eventful that it kept him as restless as he was happy. Half a dozen young fellows, from some of the best familias ob the country, were staying with him at the castle, having left Lon- don but a few days since; he knew, however, that none of them would think of coming down to breakfast before ten o’clock—they had all been up late, to a small dancing-party given by Mrs. Faye for their benefit the previous evening —and it was now barely seven; and Sir Cary], thinking of Cicely, and of how lovely she had looked when she bade him good-night, softly opened a window of the breakfast-room and strolled out on the dewy lawn. The air was close and sultry, promising a scorching day. A breath of salt air reached his nostrils, luring him to the whe pe which led down to the sea, dimpling in the morning light. Here all was cool and fresh; he strolled on and on, inhal- ing the delicious odor of the brine, and dreaming of that pure and artless girl whom he was teach- ing to love him. delicious reverie held him in its thrall. He knew that the Rookery was not far away, though the low cliffs shut it from his sight. near to her he loved—her he thought to be quietly sleep- ing in her airy chamber, dreaming of him—he et seemed alone with the great sea and sky. is love, in that solitary hour, grew to be a solemn, wonde matter. There was a ledge of rock on which Oieely and he had sat for an hour the previous afternoon. mr streamers of ivy and other vines, planted by the Fayes, hung down from the eafbh above, ota pee screening the little nook which Cicely “a (en named ‘‘ Boffin’s Bower.” Sir-Caryl i up to the ledge, seated himself to rest, and to watch a far vessel whose white sails, rosy with the risen sun, were just coming up on the horizon from the under world. He had been seated here a few minutes when he heard a light footstep on the damp sands be- neath, and leaning over, he looked down, and, to his great surprise, saw Cicely walking there alone. His first impulse was to call out to her and then puzzle her, by withdrawing his head, so that she would not perceive him. Then fol- lowed, before he had done this, a second impulse to watch her for a little, while she was uncon- scious of his presence. Se apc a dear, sweet, innocent little thing she was What beautiful hair!—for it was unbraided, as he had never before seen it, and rippled below her waist, catching the light on its waves until the brown threads turned to gold. How blessed was he above all other men to be the first to win the devotion of such a nature! How the fellows admired her, and envied him, last night! Had she, like her lover, been unable to sleep from pure happiness? How she would start and dimple and flush when he breathed her name! He leaned over to call her. Something inthe expression of that oung face struck him as singular—it was not a ppy one. Cicely was crying! Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was looking anxiously, eagerly forward, as if expecting some one. : ae crept over the warmth of Sir Caryl’s m His jealous, suspicious nature had been the curse of a life which should have been most for- tunate and prosperous. Ay, for what was Cicely Faye out so early on the beach, alone? Whom had she come to meet? His heartstood still. He was not kept long in suspense. Out from behind a rock stretc closer to the sea than others glided aman. Cicely gave a little cry when she saw him. He was young. graceful, handsome as an angel. He stood there, waiting, holding out his arms, and Cicely ran straight into them. Cicely twined her arms about his neck, and kissed him over and over, fondly, ionately. Cicely—Cicely,who had assured Sir 1 that never man but him had breathed a breath of love over the bloom of her young life! Had she not vowed to him that a man had never pressed his lips to her own? Yet sho — tot po fellow, drew his head down on her shoulder, and there the two stood and whispered together, Cicely every moment looking anxiously around as if afraid of being observed—of being detected in this clandestine acquaintanceship, Oh, it was shameful} it was nothing less than the vilest deceit! Sir l’s heart broke from the thrall where it was held motionless for a long minute, and beat and thundered against his side in great shocks that shook his very be THE LOCKED HEART. 3 ing, as the sea shook the shore when it beat ainst it in some furious storm. ow could he look upon that sight and live? He had given that girl the long-kept treasures of his faith and love—given them freely, fully, fondly—poured out at her small feet the lavish riches of a nature that had long been hoarded for one like her. Oh, base and ruinous deceit! His dark face blanched with wrath, his brows drawn together, his lips cut by the unconscious pressure of his teeth, his eyes contracted and emitting rays of sullen light, Sir Caryl—usually so gay and debonnaire—was not a pleasant per- son to look upon during that fifteen minutes. If he had found his revolver near at hand this un- known rival might not have lived to leave the sands. It was evident that the interview between Cicely and the stranger was stolen and secret— that she avoided observation—that the man was in haste to get off before intruders might chance upon the beach. He gave Cicely a letter which she hid in her bosom. Then, with a few more murmured words and another ardent embrace the two separated, the young gentleman hurry- ing away in the direction from which he came, soon being lost to sight behind the rocks from where he had emerged, while Cicely walked up and down a few moments as if struggling to calm herself, and regain her ordinary expres- sion before being seen by others. It had been the full purpose of Sir Caryl to rush down and appear before her, overwhelm- ing her with the scorn and contempt which raged in his breast; but that very rage was so overmastering that he struggled vainly with himself for power to move or speak. Before he could sufficiently control himself to descend the rocks and deal with her as she {deserved, Cicely had disappeared. For an hour or more Sir Caryl remained on the cliff, suffering such torments as only the cruel skill of jealousy can devise. As he grew calmer he began to realize that there possibly might be some explanation of the scene he had witnessed. It might be, forinstance, that Cicely had a brother, who had committed some crime for which he was obliged to keep in hiding, but whom she still loved and sought to aid though he was outlawed by his family. Yet he had never heard of any disgraceful episode as staining the fair fame of the Fayes. e had never heard of any brother, except the one who was now an officer out in Canada—a \man far older than this fair-faced, silken-mus- \tached youth who had held Cicely in his passion- ate embrace. There were two married sisters, one at home with the family at present, the other living in London in fine style, her husband the wealthy Lord Fairfax. This fellow was neither of the brothers-in-law. No doubt he was some poor parti with whom Cicely had fallen in love when away at school, and who, either because he was of a low family, or was “fast,” or in some way unworthy, dared not peme his suit openly. Oh, what a base, what a worldly nature Cicely must have, to ac- cept his attentions, because he was the rich bar- onet, the owner of Cliff Castle, while her heart was fixed on this handsome youngster! She was willing to be the wife of Sir Caryl Crossley, of Cliff Castle, while she gave her love to this un- known gallant. She had raised her sweet eyes calmly and clearly to meet his gaze when he had questioned her if ever she had indulged ina school-girl romance, and had denied it! Per- haps, if she had then confessed and repented he might have been fool enough to forgive her— but, now! Ah! what a choking, strangling sigh oppressed him! ir Caryl arose and went feebly down to the beach. The sun still shone, the dimpling waves threw up their diamonds, but all was dark and wretched to his eyes. He looked at his watch; it was after nine: he must be making his way home. ‘“‘Sir Caryl, are quiry, as he reach: ou ill?’ was his valet’s in- the house and went to his room. And that was the question repeated to him by each guest as he came into the breakfast-room— ** Are you ill, Sir Caryl?” And the baronet was driven to ing a woman’s reply: “Only a headache.” _ : He laughed and jested in a wild kind of way, all the time so e and gloomy between his efforts to be gay that his guests understood him to be making a brave endeavor to entertain them, and begged him not to mind them in the least, but to take care of himself, and not toallow himself to fall sick, not to fret about them, they would amuse themselves, to return to bed and sleep off his headache, tosend for a physician, and so forth, and so forth. Finally he induced them all to go off for a day’s sail on his yacht—all, save Harley St. Cyr, the oldest of the set, a eres of thirty or more, and generally the leader of every enter- prise, but who, y, declared he abominated yachting, and was going to remain home and nurse his friend. St. Cyr was the only one of his six or seven visitors about whom Sir Caryl felt anes as to introducing him to the ladies. Not that St. Cyr was tabooed in the fashionable society of London; on the contrary, he was a prime fa- vorite there; but he was known to be unscrupu- lous in the pursuit of pleasure, and also to obtain much of the money with which he was enabled to live in the most luxurious manner by winning it at cards from younger men, This gentleman Sir Caryl had felt some regret in taking to the Rookery, but could not avoid it seeing that he went there every day with other guests. He had apologized privately to Mrs. Faye, saying that St. Cyr was not of immaculate character, et was a good fellow in his way, who had rather forced an intimacy in London and invited him- self to Cliff Castle. “He is a very great favorite, I assure you, Mrs. Faye; and you need not be troubled about his getting me into scrapes, for I never gamble, and am old enough to be on my guard. Since he is my guest I have to bring him here, where you are good enough to be civil to him; but, Te- member, I do not indorse him.” This was the understanding which existed about Harley St. Cyr. It had seriously vexed Sir Caryl, the previous evening, to have this vis- itor so attentive to his own little rosebud of a sweetheart. Once St. Cyr had taken Cicely out on the porch, where they had promenaded for some time, talking earnestly together. On this wretched morning it annoyed Sir Caryl to hear this man, of all others, declare his intention of remaining at home, e desired to ride over to the Rookery and have an interview, alone, with Cicely. He said to himself that he would be calm, would be reasonable, be just, be generous, but that Cicely must give him a satis- factory explanation of the scene he had witness- ed on the beach, or he would fling his troth in her face and quit her forever. Not that he ex- pected she could clear herself. He had thought of many improbable reasons for that rendez- vous, but none that would or could account for it. That she was like all the rest of them, a flirt and a fortune-hnnter, he made up his mind. When the fellows, with baskets of luncheon and wine, were off for the yacht, Sir Caryl said rather coldly to St. Cyr that, since he chose not to join the expedition, he must make way with the day as best he could—to excuse him, as he should be compelled to retire to his room. St. Cyr _good-naturedly ‘responded that he should not find the day dull, begging his host to put him tosome service. ‘Let me bathe your head for you in eau de Cologne, or go for the doctor, or do something, my dear fellow.” “Thank you, Harley; there is nothing to be done.” So St. Cyr strolled into the smoking-room and his host went to his chamber. He could not bear his own misery, shut up in that solitude. Stealing out to the stables, so as to avoid his guest, he ordered a horse and rode, in the burn- ing sun, over to the Rookery. The spacious old house looked charmingly cool and inviting as he rode ve the avenue Of limes and dismounted. Yesterday he had been so happy there! It seemed to him that he was laboring with a hide- ous nightmare—that presently he would awake and find all a dream. A servant approached and took his horse; he stepped across the breezy piazza, entered the wide hall, whose doors stood Invitingly open, and went on to the door of the drawing-room, where he tapped, but received no answer. Hearing voices within, he entered without further Dearne: The married sister, Lady Graham, sat by one of the windows, looking very pretty in her blue morning-dress, her white with a mass of bright-colored silks, “Ah, Sir Caryl,” she cried, gayly, as he enter- ed. ‘* You are come justin time to hold the skeins for me!” The new-comer walked over toward her, but stepped in the middle of the room, while a sud- den, burning flush rushed over his pale face; he had caught sight of St. Cyr just 1 Cicely to the pos in the music-room, which opened out of the drawing-room. “Cicely,” called her sister, “‘ here is Sir Caryl, after all!” Cicely turned, and her serious face lighted up with such a look of pleasure, as she came quick- ly forward, smiling and blushing, to greet her lover, that the dark frown of icion smoothed itself out a little. But, not entirely. She saw there was something wrong,and her mobile coun- tenance changed again as she looked up at him apprehensively. ‘You are ill,” she said, tenderly, “St Cyr told me you were! Yet, when I saw you come in, I began to hope it was nothing.” ‘*Tt isnothing—nothing at all!—a slight head- ache. I did not know—he did not inform me— how he was about to amuse himself. I am no longer that he refused the pleasure of yachting.’ He spoke with such cold sarcasm that a chok- ing sensation arose in Cicely’s throat as she look- ed at him in rise. He returned her regard by a fierce stare into the blushing face. What a sweet face it was! Whata pure, girlish face! ‘With what assumption of innocence she bore his scrutiny, xooping her eyes fixed on him with a wistful, wondering look! “Tam certain you are more ill than you will confess,” she said, gently. There was a wicked smile on St. Cyr’s lips as he came forward. “T found it so stupid after you went to your room, Cary], that I bethought me to pay my re- spects to the ladies.” “So I see.” **Could I have done anything better?” “Oh, certainly not! St. Cyr knows how to get the most out of a dull day.” Harley St. Cyr, laughing in his sleeve, offered to hold the sik for Lady Graham while she wound it. CHAPTER. III. A MAN’S ANGER AND A WOMAN’S SCORN. ‘WILL you come out on the porch, Miss Faye?—the air in the house is oppressive.” Cicely, wondering more and more at her fiancé’s storn looks, walked out with him onto the veranda where they paced up and down for some minutes in silence, she peering anxiously up at him now and then, asking herself if a head- ache could make Sir Caryl so gloomy. At last he paused as far from the open win- dows as the porch would take them, and faced her darkly. “Cicely, [have something of importance to say to you. When I told you, the other night, that I loved ‘you, and asked for your heart in return, you assured me that I was your first and only choice.” “Well, Sir Caryl, I really do not like to flat- ter you so much, but I told you the truth then,” she answered him, playfully, the sweet color creeping up to her white forehead even to admit as much as that. “Cicely! Do not trifle with me! For God’s sake, be serious and candid, if it is in yor to be. But, it is not. You are like the rest. Cicely Faye, I accuse you, to your own sweet syes, of treachery.” ‘Treachery !” she dropped his hand vw/iich she had timidly taken and drew away trom him with wide, flashing eyes. “T was on the cliffs this morning at eight o’- clock; I was sitting in our ‘Boffir’e Bower’ dreaming happy dreams of you, and [ saw the interview which took place on the beach!—saw all—the meeting and parting.” The indignant eyes drooped before his stern ones; a burning blush wrapped bosom, cheeks and brow as in a rosy flame, then died away, leaving her deadly white. ‘You are silent, Miss Faye.” “T have no explanation to give, Sir Caryl. Except this,” she added, locking him straight in the eyes, ‘‘that there was nothing wrong in it- self or false to you in that interview. Fcannot tell you about it. The secret of another is wrapped up in it. Yet I wiil swear to you, dear Caryl, that there was no treachery to you in that meeting.” “T will give you the benefit of a doubt for the present. Answer me this: was that person I saw you with a brother, a cousin, or any rela- tive of your family which would give him a ‘ht to your caresses?” *No relative at all,” was the slow, unwilling er. “ And you refuse to account to me for the in- timacy between you?” “Caryl, cannot you trust me? Have you no faith in me, as a woman{—no belief in my solemn attestation?” “Faith and trust may be strong, but the evi- dence of my senses is stronger. I saw you in the arms of another man; you will not explain to me how such a thing may be possible and et you be innocent of evil, and true to me. der such circumstances you cannot become my wife.” ‘Nothing on earth would tempt me to marry @ man who could not believe me innocent, on my oath, against all appearances. Let me be the one to say our engagement is broken, Sir Caryl. Let me add, that J did not demand from you a sworn certificate that you had never sodden to, never kissed any other woman! I took you as you were. But, that is past!”—her voice and lips quivered, she burst into passionate tears; but the fire in her proud eyes soon dried them. Sir Caryl was walking about and about like a madman. He paused to say: “TI do not wish to injure youin any way, Miss Faye. I shall not reveal the cause of our quar- rel. Ileave it to you to make your own expla- nations to your family. I have the greatest re- spect for your father and mother; I should be sorry to wound their feelings. I pray that you may be more discreet in future, and so save them trouble,” ‘* You insult me, sir; and I have no redress.” “You can goto your father if you wish to resent what I say.” Cicely was silent. There were reasons why she eould not complain of Sir Caryl to her fa- ther—the same reasons which forbade her ex- Her bosom plaiuing. her conduct to her lover. eaved with indignation; the grief she would otherwise have suffered was for the moment swallowed up in resentment. Her companion regarded her half-scornfully. I will obey your instructions,” he said, sneeringly—‘‘go to your parents with our dis- agreement, or keep it quiet for the present ” 4 THE LOCKED .HEART. Cicely hesitated. Warring emotions contend- ed within her. She felt how much color such a decision would lend to his suspicions—that she compromised herself in doing it—yet she put down her pride and said, humbly: ‘*T would prefer you to not speak of it for a few days, Sir Caryl.” He bowed and offered her hisarm. She took it, and they returned to the drawing-room toge- ther, where he politely found her a seat, and then retired from her, and fell to chatting with Lady Graham. It would seem as if the a A contempt he had for Cicely gave him strengt to play his part. He avowed his headache much better, and entered into a sprightly dis- cussion of the fashions with the lady. Poor Cicely sat for a few moments where he had placed her, feeling as if she had been dead and buried and was struggling back to a hor- rible sense of life in her coffin. With some tact he had placed her where she was free from her sister’s eye; but St. Cyr, who was turning over music at the piano, knew there had been ‘‘a lover’s quarrel,” smilingly flattering himself that he was the cause of it. Still and white as a statue Cicely sat there; but when she heard the man who had been her lover carelessly chatting as if nothing had oc- curred, her indomitable pride came to her res- cue; two great roses of richest carmine bloomed out in her ashen cheeks, and walking over to the — she sat down before it, and looking up at t. Cyr with brilliant eyes which seemed to smile, she asked him what she should sing for him, and burst into a gay little love-song. The thrill of pain which ran through the warbling notes only made her singing the more delicious; so that St. Cyr called for another and another song, while Sir Caryl, now mute with jealous anger, tangled more and more hopelessly the threads of Lady Graham’s embroidery. Lady Graham invited the two gentlemen to stay to luncheon; they declined, and soon went away. Before leaving, Cicely took occasion to hastily write a few words ona scrap of paper which she slipped into St. Cyr’s hand as she took it, in saying good-morning. Sir Caryl saw the whole maneuver; but, as he said to himself, it could not give him a worse opinion of her than he had before, though the sight struck to his heart like the blow of a dag- ger. The two walked back to C]iff Castle, leaving Sir Caryl’s horse to be sent for, since St. Cyr had come over across the downs on foot. His host was not very talkative on the way home, a fact which only amused the gentleman, who felt certain that jealousy of his superior at- tractions had put Sir Caryl in ill-humor. He resolved to still further arouse this jealousy; 80, going on a little in advance, he contrived to rop the serap of paper he had received from Miss Faye. The miserable man who followed saw the pa- per in the path and picked it up. Would it be dishonorable to r it? He hesitated only an instant. He must know what that _pure-faced girl who had so enchanted him, had to say se- cretly to this fast ; young, gentleman whose ac- uaintance she had made but a few days ago! is stealthy glance ran over the paper and then he thrust the scrap into his vest-pocket. The words ran: “Will Harley St. Cyr be on the sands at nine this evening?” “ Two flirtations on hand in one day! Pret well, for a girl of seventeen! I will never thi of her again,” sneered the lover who had dis- carded her, and he hastened on to join his visitor, to whom he now made himself most agreeable. When the guests at Cliff Castle returned from their day on the sea, they found a sumptuous dinner awaiting their keen appetites, and a courtly host who had entirely recovered from his morning’s headache. “ Are we to make our party-call at Captain Faye’s this evening?” asked one. “St. Cyr and I have been over once to-day. I believe some of the ladies there have an en- ement for this evening,” answered Sir Caryl, and then St. knew for certain that the scrap of paper had m read, and looked up at his host and laughed good-naturedly. The engagement of Sir Caryl Crossley to Miss Cicely Faye was not yetannounced outside of the captain’s family; none of the visitors at Cliff Castle were itive about it, although the , e aus of Sir suspected that such would be Caryl’s devotion to Miss Faye. Therefore St. Cyr was not absolutely certain that he was playing an ill-part toward his host, in strolling away from the rest of the company and going down on the beach that evening; but he was sure — of it to make his act one of treachery after all. Sir Caryl, as he expected, missed him from the billiard-room, where they had all gone after dinner. He had resolved not to watch, follow, or in any manner interfere with the strange whims of Miss Faye. Yet a rope of sand is not more easily broken than was hisresolution when he found St. bei me es gone. A gust of fury laid low his new-form: urposes. ping out of one of the windows of the billiard-room, he hurried to the path which led down tothe shore. The beach, when he reached it, was wearing one of its finest aspects. The sea was as still as it ever can be; a saffron belt ran around the horizon; the planet of love burned and throbbed in silver radiance in the midst of that yellow Sa! left by the sunset. The prolonged twilight of June had hardly yet made its appearance. although it was nine o’clock, An amber ligh Aaoase. the air like a softer day. ~ Sir Caryl pulled the hat from his fevered forehead as he almost ran along the sands beaten hard and smooth by the tide. He wanted to meet those two together—to pass them with a smile of superb contempt—to wither that wicked girl under the glance of his disdainful eye; and he constantly held down the tiger of revenge that stirred in his nature, that he might be calm and contemptuous. Oh, Cicely Faye, that girl of the pure brow and the sweet eyes, was a thing too mean even for his contempt. Thank Heaven, he had found her out in time! Yet, though he walked straight on toward that spot on the sands where he fad seen Cicely that morning, he was too late to surprise her at the second rendezvous. The jutting rock was ~ between him and that place, when some one came walking rapidly toward him from that other side of the cliff where he longed to be. The man walked, ran a little way, walked and ran again in a distracted way which caught the attention of the other. As the two men approached each other the baronet saw that this was St. Cyr, hatless, and evidently much agitated. The saffron light on his pale face gave it a ghastly look; he was shaking; his teeth chattered when he stopped to speak to Sir Caryl. “Tm not dressed warm enough. The sea-air is cold,” he muttered, not looking his friend in the eye. “It was so warm in the house, I thought I would try the beach. I think I have taken a chill.” “Let us run back to the castle, then; and I will have something hot prepared tor you, Har- ley.” They hastened back home together. “ Let me go to my room,” pleaded St. Cyr; “I don’t feel like meeting the fellows.” “Very well. I will send up the butler with a hot punch; and come up pretty soon, myself, to see how you are getting on.” The servant took up the punch; but when the master knocked at his guest’s door a little later, there was no response, and not knowing what condition Harley might be in, he entered the room without ceremony. St. Cyr was not in it. He looked about; then sat down by the dressing- table, on which a couple of candles were burn- in, g He will return soon, I suppose; I will wait for him.” Then his glance, roving over the table, rested on a note addressed to himself, which he hastily opened to read: “Tam called to London very suddenly. Thought, by running, I might reach the 10 o’clock train. Please send luggage to my rooms there, and excuse hasty departure. Friend ill. : “ Yours, as ever, “* HaRiEy.” This was written with a shaking hand, evi- dently, for the reader could hardly make out the brief scrawl. ; ——- CHAPTER IV. THE BEGINNING OF A TRAGEDY. In a certain Cathedral-town some thirty miles back from the sea in the same county with Cliff Castle and the Rookery, inclosed in high brick walls which ran around an entire square, and over the cap of which branched the trees and tall shrubs within, stood a large, old-fashioned building, three stories in hight, with plenti- ful windows. A semicircular device over the arched doorway bore the legend, in gilt on a blue ground: “Miss Wootson’s FINISHING ScHOoL FoR Youne Lapres.” If it had been a a instead of a school, the place would hardly have been made more secure. There were a along the top of the walls about the grounds; the imposing front gateway was closed with a solid gate always locked ys. at the moment when the portress in the little lodge near by answered the ring of the bell and admitted visitor or supplies. There was a smaller gate, or rather door, in the rear wall, to which only two trusted servants had keys be- sides Miss ‘Woolson’s own self. But the grounds within the inclosure were ample and pleasant, with broad walks for exer- cise, and benches under the stately trees, also a few flower-beds kept in order by the kitchen- gardener. All the flowers that could have been crowded into that would not have made itso bright as the presence of the throngs of pretty young creatures who fluttered there, sweet as pinks and roses, restless and gay as im- butterflies, impatiently peeve their time o prisonment, Jonging to spri the wings of ex- perience and try their powers in that wonder- ful, bewitching world that lay outside, Ah! when they were done with French verbs and five-finger exercises, with deportment, and that Grand Galop de Concert, and painting flowers from life, what fine times they were going to have! » “ Life, beyond that tedious period, was a beau- tiful, intoxicating whirl of gayety—of dressing, of dancing, of being admired and receiving of- fers! Even the plain ones and the poor genteel ones had their dreams; while the rich and beau- tiful, who were flattered even in school, allowed their fancy to run riot in the golden fields of the future. Of all the young ladies in the school perhaps Cicely Faye was the most general favorite. Her father was not so wealthy as some, yet he was far from poor; her mother belonged to a distinguished family; there were lords and la- dies on both sides; and Cicely was sweet, lovely, enerous, ingenuous—a warm-hearted, beauti- fal girl, with whom even the envious could not find fault. Miss Woolson was proud of her; her schoolmates adored her. Especially was she idolized by Dolores Leon, the great heiress of the school, daughter of the great West Indian merchant whose house-of-business was one of the heaviest in all London. Dolores was a high-tempered, imperious, pas- sionate creature, giving the teachers and the dignified head of the establishment worlds of trouble; but to Cicely she was always humbly devoted, taking her advice even when it was bitter as gall to her haughty disobedience. The two girls roomed together. They walked to- gether during those afternoon des when the young ladies marched, two and two, for half an our, up and down the dully-respectable street of the fine old Cathedral-town on which the Fin- ishing School was located. Miss Woolson liked to have this pair head the charming procession, since their style and beauty were supposed to redound to her credit. And, indeed, it would have been hard to find two handsomer girls in the whole United King- dom. Dolores had great black brilliant eyes, a rich olive complexion, a splendid bloom and a graceful carriage; her friend was fair as a jas- mine-flower, with soft hazel eyes and sunny brown hair. ; Could the poor sub-teacher who led and guid- ed the fair company help it if, on this particu- lar autumn—the last before that May on which Cicely left school—a certain fine-looking, well- dressed gentleman made it his business to stand on a corner of the street while the students marched by, boldly looking his admiration of the two who walked prs aetrre! behind her? No! she certainly could not! Her witherin glance of scorn, her scowl of indignation, p unheeded. He was indifferent to her displea- sure. Day after day he carried on_this one- sided flirtation with her charge. Sometimes he would contrive to meet and pass the dimpling procession, twice or thrice in a single promenade. z As the lady remarked, in commenting on his conduct to her pupils, such a man must have little to do—must an idler, an aimless, silly being, to thus trifle away his time! 0 was he? Miss Woolson, to whom his be- havior was reported, finally ascertained that he was a Londoner, stopping in the vicinity for a few weeks of the autumn, that hisname was St. Cyr, that his profession was the pursuit of plea- sure, that he was a man of fashion and leisure— in short, a very dangerous person! So it came about that the daily afternoon walk was resigned—being the only way to shake off this impertinent fellow—that the spirits of the fair pupils suffered in consequence, except those of the two belles, who gained in bloom and had brighter eyes than ever! ‘Hoe has done no harm with his beaw yeua, after all,” thought Miss Woolson, observing the high spirits of isco Faye and Leon. “I won- der which one of the two it was he tried to at- tract?” : Alas! comedies and es have been play- ed in boarding-schools before and since, nor the vigilant head any the wiser until the dénoue- ment came! ; The weeks flitted on, bringing the Christmas vacation. Cicely wrote home, obtaining per- mission to accept her friend’s invitation to spend the holidays with her, in her father’s London home. Dolores was wild with delight at being able to take Cicely with her. Neither of them expected anythi more than stolen glances at the gay world, as they were still school-girls—stolen glances, such as they eould gain from visits to the 0 ra and drives in the park; and there were shops and ple and amusement enough in the great city for two un- Sapeasacatee: young girls. or one of the two there was happiness, there was heaven in London—for St. Cyr was there! He had told her, by means of surreptitious notes, conveyed to her by a traitorous servant, heavily bribed, where he would meet them when they came to town; in what promenades he would be found—what theaters he would attend —what nights he would give to opera—what pic- ture-galleries, on certain mornings, he would visit. And so the secret acquaintance was improved; so a fond, foolish, ignorant, innocent gil was led on; until, a day or two before the olidays expired, one of the two girls went out alone one morning—leaving the other engrossed with the dressmaker up-stairs—went out from friends and security without one dismal foreboding: ¢ te hurried to the next street-corner, flushed as she looked for the person awaiting her there, allow- ed him to place her in the ready carriage, was driven to an obscure church, in a distant part of the city, was led into its chilly gloom and up to the altar, where a few hastily-mumbled words from the lips of a young man ina gown, the pres- sure of a ring on her finger, the signing of a name ina great book by her poor little tremb- ling hand changed her from a gay and thought- less girl into the wife of Harley St. Cyr! No sooner married than parted, for that day. The carriage took her back over the long Abe f while the man she adored, for whom she wou 4 have done anything, went off in a different direction—for the marriage was to be kept a pro- found secret for the present. Pale, frightened, chilled, now that he was no longer by her side to thrill her with tender mises, the poor, foolish young wife went back to her friends and took her seat at the luncheon- table without one of them suspecting that she had been out of the house. The next day but one the friends returned to school. They were followed not long after; but St. Cyr no longer showed himself on the street when the lovely procession marched out for its day’s exercise. e was discretion itself. He was in the town on business for himself. He took no interest in the ladies; he was a confirmed bachelor. But, the poor old woman who kept the gate which shut out the Finishing School from the world, was filling a cracked teapot with the rich bribes which passed into her hands from a certain visitor who was admitted to her lodge frequently, and there had stolen interviews with the one pupil in whom he was most interest- ed. “Poor young things!” said this good old wo- man to herself. ‘Since they’re married safe and sound, ’twould be a pity to keep ’em apart. 'Tain’t my fault they got married clandestin- ately; twas done afore / were told! I’m minded to let ’em see each other allIcan. If it gits found out on me, why, I’m tired of the place, anyways, an’ they’ve promised to provide for me as long as I live. My, my! what a sweet, pre plin she gave me, las’ week! °Twill ast till ’'m buried in it.” So the hidden undercurrent of affairs ran on, until, early in March, the whole school was sur- prised, and Cicely shocked and distressed by news which came to Dolores to the effect that her father had failed, through the pressure of the unprecedented hard times and the failure of other s indebted to him—had “burst all to jieces,” as the papers said, and wanted his aughter to come home immediately, to go with him to the West Indies, whither he was obliged to hasten, to try to save something out of the wreck of his business there. Poor, proud, passionate Dolores was torn, al- most in convulsions, from the neck of her sob- bing friend, and carried away to the train, after only half a day spent in packing; and Cicel, ie was left alone, feeling as if a thunderbolt had fallen at her acai All the pupils declared to each other, confi- dentially, that Cicely did not appear like the same. girl after Dolores Leon went away. For their parts, they were not so sorry to part with that high-tempered young lady; but Cicely took it strangely to heart. Cicely had her room allto herself after that, and made a confidant of no one. Even after she went home to the Rookery— that charming old place which now belonged to her father, and which the whole family thought the dearest old house that ever was—Cicely did not look well or act natural. Gradually, however, this melancholy, which hung as softly about her sparkling young beau- ty, as the morning mist about an opening rose, woreaway in the sunlight of June. There were ay guests coming and going all the time at the kery—several pleasant neighbors—and above all, Cliff Castle, with its young and agreeable owner, who was not long in showing Cicely Faye that he looked upon her with an admirin interest. How rapidly this admiration ha deepened into a strong love, we know; it sur- rised no one so much as Si Caryl, himself—Sir aryl, the skeptic, the trifler, who for years had laughed at other men! Sir Caryl, the passion- ate, the jealous, who, now that he had chosen the “queen rose of the rosebud garden,” would fain prevent other eyes from even covet- ing the sweet prize. Sir Caryl, the proud, the fastidious, who had so soon to come upon proofs of shameful perfidy. Very little sleep came to the eyes of the bar- onet the night of the abrupt departure of his guest, St. Cyr. He could not believe that Harley ad received a telegram—none of the servants knew of the arrival of any message—and it would have been strange for one to have gone to the beach, where St. Cyr had gone very pri- vately. No! something had occurred during that interview to which he had been invited by Cicely Faye. The man had looked distraught beyond description when the baronet encoun- tered him on the sands. Had Cicely been fooling St. Cyr as she had fooled him? Had those velvet lips, those win- ning eyes been used to draw another heart to Ot its ruin? Was St. Cyr in love with Cicely?—he, the scoffer at women, the gambler? Had Cicely led him on, and then jilted him? ‘She is capable of it!” the baronet said to him- self, bitterly. “Ought I not to have known that the sweetest lips are ever the falsest—the most heavenly eyes the most perfidious—the purest-seeming girl, with the smile of a child, the wickedest? Ay,I did knowit! But Cicely, Cicely Faye, you lured me to doubt my own knowledge!—you completely befooled me! “Well, I have had enough of it! No more dreams of a dear and pure and lovely wife for me! Cliff Castle shall never echo to the thrill- ing music of my wife’s voice. I will close up the grand old hall, and betake myself to roam- ing the world again. And, another thing, Cicely Faye! You have destroyed in me the re- vt and devotion to your sex which my mo- ther taught me! No mercy will I have now up- on any of you. If you throw yourselves in my way 1 shall not spare you!” CHAPTER V. THE BLOOM OF ANOTHER ROSE. Tux Fayes, all but poor Cicely, wondered a lit- tle why Sir Caryl had not spent the precedin, evening atthe Rookery. Lady Graham guesse there had been a lovers’ quarrel by Cicely’s pale and troubled looks; but that it would prove any- thing serious she did not apprehend, until after Captain Faye received a note from Cliff Castle, which he did before luncheon of that day. Opening it, he read, with immeasurable sur- prise: “ Cirrr Castie, Wednesday, June 27th. “To CapraIn W. F, Faye: *‘ My Dmar Str: My relations to your daughter Cicely are broken off, at her desire. For particulars you will please go to the lady. My feelings toward you and 7 family are of the most friendly char- acter, and I sincerely hope yours will remain so to- ward me. Ileave this part of England to-morrow. Harley St. Cyr left my house last night, for London, “With the highest esteem I remain, “Very truly a “*CaRYL CROSSLEY.” Captain Fay, who, though a very indulgent parent, had the high temper with which officers who have served in India usually return, sent for his daughter after reading this formal note. She came in, pale as death, unable to look him in the face. ‘* Read that, Miss Cicely.” She took the note in her trembling hand and glanced over it. “Ts that all fair and square, my girl? If it is not, I am still young enough to give the scoun- drel a horsewhipping.” “Tt is all fair, papa. Sir Caryl and I came to the conclusion that we could not be happy together—that thete—-Was--an-theprnpaiineey of temper—which we—had not sufficiently con- sidered. That is all.” “AN! By George, miss, I should say it was enough! ‘You lose the chance of making one of the best marriages in England!” Poor Cicely burst into tears. For reasons of her own she could not complain to her father of the cruel and rude treatment she had experienc- ed at the hands of her lover. There were mat- ters she must hide from everybody, though her very soul had been stung by the taunts of the baronet, “T tell you, girl, you have thrown away a glorious good chance!” Still the weeping girl sobbed on. “You will never have such another. You do not know what is best for you. And_ pray, what do we care if Mr. St. Cyr has left Cliff Castle? Why does he mention St. Cyr? There is nothing between you, Cicely, and that penni- less, immoral gamester, I trust?” ‘Nothing at all,” cried the poor girl, shiver- ing. Sonat is well for you! Understand me! I would rather see youin your coffin than have you have anything to do with St. Cyr. He is ad—bad. Heis poor, too, Come now, Cicely, if this is only a quarrel, a bit of jealousy, or temper, no matter whose fault it was at had Lee not better make it up, before Sir Caryl is off?” “Never!” cried Cicely, for the first time look- ing her father full in the face. ‘‘Never! He has offended me—hurt my pride. He is full of suspicion as well as jealousy. No, papa, I give imup. Do notscold me! your girls are gone but [—let me stay at home with you and mamma and keep you company. ou will need some one, and I shall not ever care to “*Pooh, pooh! Care to marry! All girls care to marry. Itis very well for you to talk now, when you are only seventeen. Wait until you are twenty-five and see what you will say! Care to marry! I dare say you will care to settled in life before your mamma and I are gone, or what would you do then? [’'m very sorry you have quarreled with Sir Caryl. He is a most excellent a man; and to see you lady of Cliff Castle would almost have satis- fied my ambition for you. Make it up, puss, make it up, or I shall be seriously angry with you.” ‘‘Tt never can be made up,” thought Cicely. “ And now go, take the note to your mamma, You have succeeded in getting us all in a fine Wea ” ” ] 1 ‘orgive me, papa,” was all poor Cicely could say, while tra, great tears rolled down her velvet cheeks. She took the note to her mother. “ You are not so anxious to be rid of me as to scold me, dear mamma,” she said with quiver- ing lips. ‘Tell me all about it, child,” was Mrs, Faye’s answer. But Cicely could not tell the reasons of this trouble. She could only sob that Sir Caryl was not so very much to blame—that she had deeply offended him—that no one was to blame. Mrs. Faye, like the captain, believing the difficulty would best settle itself if left alone, said some soothing words to her daughter, who then went to her room and shut herself up for the remainder of the day. That the quarrel was serious soon became evi- dent tothe Fayes, for Sir Caryl Crossley got rid of his guests in some way, and left Cliff Castle in a day or two, without coming over to say good- by to his friends at the Rookery. Pride is a passion sometimes even stronger than love. If, after the first day, Cicely suffer- ed, she gave few signs of it. The house was full of company, whom she delighted by her wit and gayety. Never had the lovely eyes such a fire and sparkle—never the sweet Tipe such mu- sical laughter. If Sir Caryl could have seen her, with a bril- liant color on her cheeks and a dazzling light in her dark eyes, he could not have thought worse of her heartlessness and deceit than he did; for it chanced that the first stop that he made in his wanderings after leaving Cliff Castle, was in that_very Cathedral-town where stood Miss Woolson’s Finishing School; and there, from the mouth of a friend with whom he tarried for aday, what gossip should he hear but the story of Harley St. Cyr’s haunting the place to flirt with the girls of the school, and how scandal had it that he had succeeded in getting up an affair with one of the prettiest of the pw iis! “No one believes that St. Cyr would have wasted his time in making love to a_school-girl without some ulterior object,” ran on the friend. ‘It is whispered that he was after the immense fortune of Leon, whose daughter Dolores was at the school. If so, he was nicely befooled, since, as I dare say you remember, Leon went all to pieces early last spring and took Miss Dolores out of school.” “Tt was not Miss Leon he was after,” thought Sir Caryl, moodily. ‘‘Was ever such guile vailed by a face of such heavenly innocence? How well I remember that day I took St. Cyr to the Rookery. I had doubts about taking him there, because, as I knew, his morals were not irreproachable. But I need not have been so careful. Why, when I introduced him to her she received him as an utter stranger! Such wers' of dissimulation betray long practice! ow, Cicely Faye, since you, whom I deemed purest and best of all young creatures, are such a traitor, such a hypocrite—for a girl who will deceive teachers, parents and lover, must be an adept in deception—I swear that I never again will have faith in one of you !—never have pity on one I may see going blindly astray,—never have mercy on one who throws herself in m way! I longed to be a good man—to settle down toa ape happy home-life; but you have changed all, with your fair false face, Miss Cicely Faye! If ac ild-seraph should fly down into my arms out of the azure skies I would not pin any faith to her. [have nothing before me ae but to get such poor pleasure as I may out of life. All these savage thoughts ran through his mind while his friend was still chattering awa: to him about St. Cyr. The very depth of this new love which had flooded his soul now turned to bitter waters, brackish as the still pools of the Dead Sea. It seemed to him providential that he had thus stumbled upon confirmatory proof of Cicely’s falsity. He left his friend’s house the following day and went. straight to London, where the season of fashionable dissipation was not yet over. Taking up his quarters ata West End hotel, he did not remain there long, for an uncle of his, resident on one of the fine streets in the vicinity of Kensington Gardens, insisted on the baronet’s having a couple of rooms in his house and making himself entirely at home there. Whenever Sir Caryl was in London he was much sought after; for what bachelor, young, good-looking, rich, with a. title, can escape the piensa attentions of the fashion- able mob? The young married ladies desire him, to give éclat to their, entertainments; the ma- trons to introduce their accomplished daughters, all armed for the siege. His uncle, Sir John Crossley, had a daughter, Lucy, his only child. Her mother had died in her infancy and the baronet had never again married. To say that this daughter was the idol, the star, the jewel, the perfect blossom of Sir John’s heart, would scarcely put the truth too strongly. She had been presented to Her Majesty, and was now in the full tide of her first London season. Yet, curiously enough, when Sir Caryl ac- THE LOCKED HEART. cepted his uncle’s invitation to make his house his home for the few weeks before Sir John set off for a month on the Continent, he had forgot- ten all about his cousin Lucy. He had scarcely seen the girl since she was a little child; for the simple reason that Lucy had been educated in a French convent, and had seldom been at home when Sir Caryl wasin town. He had seen her last when she was fourteen; met her twice or thrice at her father’s dinner-table—a shy, silent, thin, tall girl, to whom his natural courtesy made him kindly attentive, but who made no impres- sion at all upon him. The first day of his visit to his uncle’s he ar- rived just in time to dress for dinner. Sir John had not come in. His toilet completed, Sir Caryl sauntered down to the drawing-room, which, in the soft golden light of the July sun- set, was ea than most London drawing- rooms. The windows at the rear of the long apartment opened upon a balcony crowded with flowers at their fullest bloom, As he walked in that direction, attracted by the glow and bril- lianey of color, a sweet incense of roses, car- nations, orange-blossoms and jasmine was waft- ed toward him, making him for the moment sick at heart, for*they recalled to him with strange vividness the perfumed veranda at the Rookery which he h: paced with Cicely Faye when he “‘told his love.” He paused in the center of the room, drawing his breath with a gasp and pressing his heart with his hand. “* Are you ill, cousin Caryl?” asked a low, rich voice. Some one arose from a sofa and came toward him, holding out her hand, with a look of shy pleasure on her beautiful face. Was this his cousin Lucy?—this tall, elegant girl, with the thick gold hair, the dark-blue eyes. the face delicate and bloomy, the figure slim ‘and shapely? He was ised. “T am afraid I should not have recognized you, Lucy, had I met you anywhere but here.” “JT should have known you anywhere,” she said, smiling. ‘‘ You made a lasting impression cousin Caryl, by your devotion to me when was a bashful school-girl. You do not answer me, if you are ill,” and she looked up at him with sweet solicitude in the truthful, lovely blue eyes. “Til? not at all. I think I had a stitch in my side. If so, I have forgotten it already,” he an- swered, recovering his color. Cynical as was Caryl’s mood—bitter as was his distrust of women—he could not deny to himself that Lucy was a lovely creature, with an air of irresistible frankness and sweetness. She allowed him to see that she was pleased with him and had remembered him well. Indeed, she assured him, with a bright smile, that he had remained in her memory only to be embellished with all the virtues and graces vane made up her ideal of what a man should ‘Tn my mind’s eye, you have taken the shape of an Admirable Crichton,” she confessed to him laughingly. ‘‘ Whenever I heard of a brave d or read of a manly action, or dreamed of a noble ideal, Isaid to myself: ‘ My cousin Caryl is like that!’"—and all because you won my gra- titude by being good to me when I was shy and awkward.” ““You were never so"mistaken, then, about a person in your life. I am mean, revengeful suspicious, jealous, selfish—a woman-hater an everything else that is unlovely.” His brow darkened as he drew the picture of himself. ‘*T will never believe such base self-slander. Ah! I dare ae ey that little be oa child you risked your life to save from being crushed under somebody’s carriage-wheels?— you had your foot badly hurt in doing it—that was when I was home last—very mean and self- ish of you, indeed!” “Thad forgotten it; and I have degenerated since those days. Cousin Lucy, beware of me! Do not think well of me. Do not even respect me. Iam ugly, hard-hearted, savage.” For all answer she reached out one of her small hands, soft as satin and white as the leaf of a jasmine-flower, and just touched his with it. e was her cousin, much older than Codinan was sixteen—and she looked up to him with af- fectionate esteem. What she had said about making him her beau-ideal was true. Since he won her fond, faithful allegiance by his respectful atten- tions when no one else notieed her, she had be- lieved him one of the most_wonderful of men. Her ardent imagination had invested him with every charming quality. Now that she came to see him again, when she herself commanded the flattery and devotion of dozens of other men, her previous admiration cast a glamour over him, so that she could see no fault in him. He was handsome, gallant, faultless. She had all the confidence in him that she had in her father. Was he not her cousin?—and the poor child had never been blessed with mother, sister or bro- ther. Of a warm, mere nature which put forth its tendrils to cling toall about it, it was not strange that Lucy at once turned to her cousin—that she was proud of him—fond of him, “Tam so glad ay are going to stay with us until we go to Germany! I wish you would make your plans to accompany us there.” “T have no plans at present. In See early, I think I shall go to Scotland for the shooting.” “Yes, but we start for the Spas the first week in August. We will return to England early in September. Why go to Scotland for shooting when there is plenty on papa’s estates? Papa is going up to Windermere this autumn; at he would be glad to have you with him. He has already asked a dozen friends.” “Thank you; you and uncle are sufficiently hospitable. There is time enough to make plans. It really matters little to me where I go. His face settled down into the grave, hard look which it had lately taken on. Lucy, facing him on the sofa, regarded him a little anxious- ly. She wanted him to be as happy as he de- served, yet he did not look cheerful.