good," his daughter said; though an ominous twinkling in his eyes convinced us that he was by no means tired of "a life on the ocean wave," or effectually weaned from his partiality for a good ship's quarter-deck and salt water.

"You see, Hugh," he said, after he had spun a nautical yarn or two, "my little girl here thinks it is high time I came to anchor alongside of her; and I begin to think it would be quite as well if I did stop on shore a bit. If she doesn't behave well to me I shall be off to the seas again ;-remember that, you puss!—you'll have to be very good to your poor old father if you are to keep him on dry land, I can tell you! But you see I recovered more salvage from the Coromandel than I had hoped for; and then I went a short voyage, just to the Cape and back, and that was a wonderfully prosperous one. After that I went-I scarcely know where, but I do know we got pretty nearly into the same latitude and longitude as when I buried my dear old friend, your father, Hugh! We fell into a shindy with some Chinese fellows in their junks, but we came out of it with flying colours, and got some loot as well as some reputation. Last of all, when I got back to Calcutta, I found letters from home; and one of them told me that my old Aunt Barbara was dead, and had left me all her property-only a few hundreds a year; but, with what I have already, quite enough for my little girl and me. And we have come up to town now, just to go through a few legal forms, and to settle affairs generally. And there's our story. Ah, Hugh, do you remember our Christmas Day dinner at the Gate House, three years ago?

"Can I ever forget it? You gave me some very good advice, then, Captain Hyde. I worked hard, as I told you I should, both in Germany and at Cambridge. And now I want your counsel on another matter of great importance. Can I honourably continue to receive the £1,000 a-year which was settled upon me at my mother's second marriage? I think not!"

"Let me fully understand the case; just go through the affair again."

I gave him all particulars. He appeared to meditate for some time, while Mary anxiously watched his countenance. At last he replied "My lad, there are always more sides than one to a question, and this one it seems to me has several sides to it. You must think it over very calmly, very dispassionately, because, you see, what you do now in this matter must be done for the rest of your life. It will be either take or leave, you understand. If you once refuse to accept this income, you cannot in honour change your mind and ask for it again. You have not had the whole £1,000 a year at your disposal, have you?"

"No! till last August I had only £500; now I have £600, and

next August, when I attain my majority, I shall, of course, enter upon the full possession of pretty nearly, I am assured, £1,200 per

annum."

"A very pretty little income! A very nice little property for a young man to step into on his twenty-first birthday! Ponder it well before you refuse it."

"Would you keep it yourself, Captain Hyde?"

"I am not sure that I should-nay, to tell the truth, I am quite sure I should not; but then I am not a Solomon. Nay! Ralph Hyde has proved himself a regular idiot before now. My advice to-night is-do nothing rashly; 'bide a wee,' you know, and consider, and I think I would tell the Lord about it too, and say to Him-'Lord! what wilt Thou have me to do?' I am not sure that you have a clear right to renounce what has cost that poor lady so much misery."

"That is what my mother has said!" remarked Charles.

Ah, but things are altered now," I replied; "however I will take your advice, Captain. Miss Hyde, what do you say?"

"I say listen to what my father says, decide nothing hastily, and wait to see what God will say. And I think much depends upon what the Marchioness might wish. Do you not think God may speak to you through her? It is her right that you yield to her in this particular. I think you cannot but go right if you study the comfort and happiness of Lady Dovercourt."

CHAPTER XXXIII.-SNAKES IN THE GRASS.

It was very evident that some one had kept the Marquis of Dovercourt informed as to the position of affairs in general, and of the Marchioness's proceedings in particular. That some one had played the traitor we were tolerably certain, and yet there was no one upon whom we could reasonably fix our suspicions. The servants were sincerely attached to their lady, and I was always popular with them, and regarded as a friend of the family. No doubt, there had been speculations enough at one time, concerning me and my connections with the Marchioness, but curiosity had long since died away; some kind of explanation had been given by the Wrays, and it had now for some years passed current in the household, and elsewhere, that I was distantly related to the Grahame family. Indeed, Phoebe herself was persuaded that I was a Grahame on the mother's side, and she had once confided quite a little romance to Rebecca, a romance in which I figured as the hero, and the son of some high-born lady, who had committed a mésalliance, and been for ever disowned by her proud relations.

But, lately, I felt sure, no one at Dovercourt had troubled them

selves at all about me, and Mr. Hugh Travis' appearance at the Castle certainly excited no discussion. Besides, which of the servants could have communicated with the Marquis? they were ignorant of his address. No one in the neighbourhood knew. Even the Marchioness herself had, for months together, no idea where to address a letter to her lord. There was only one person whom I could at all suspect, and that was Mr. Drew, the housesteward. I had always distrusted him, and I had never liked him Also, I knew quite well, he had never liked me. Even when I was a mere child, he had eyed me askance, and seemed as if he were prophesying that I should come to grief. In those days, I certainly regarded him as my evil genius, and I tried to avoid him, never meeting him if I could help it, and saying as little as possible when we did meet. I had an uneasy sort of feeling that, whenever we chatted together-and I could not always shun him-that he was "pumping me," and I felt that I had to be on my guard continually and take care not to commit myself, whenever he commenced a conversation.

I had once overheard Margery call him "a snake in the grass!" why or wherefore, I know not; but it is very likely that this remark, which was not intended for my sharp young ears, had something to do with the sentiments which I entertained for the gentleman in question, and intensified the dislike I, from the very first hour of our acquaintance, secretly cherished towards him. But, as I grew older, these feelings to some extent passed away, and, for the last two or three years, we had been quite friendly when, at rare intervals, we met; and his wife had been very kind to Phoebe, who had passed several vacations at the old Moat House.

Rebecca, it will be remembered, was also at the Moat House. She entered Mrs. Drew's service immediately after the death of her former master and mistress, and had proved a most valuable servant. I had intended to see her, as well as Phoebe, at the Moat House for I knew that Rebecca and Jem Flower were going to be married early in the new year, and I wished to know all about it, that I might make the bride a handsome and appropriate wedding present.

I called upon Mr. Merriton, and told him all that had occurred. He strongly deprecated the idea of my renouncing my property, and even declared that it could not be legally considered. It was clear that I must follow the advice of Captain Hyde, and "bide a wee" before I came to any absolute decision. Meanwhile, I stayed on in Clarges-street; Charlie, after a few days, went back to Cravenshaugh.

I came in late one afternoon from an expedition with the Captain and his daughter, when my landlady informed me that a young

woman from the country wanted to see me. Mrs. Smithers could not remember her name, but she thought it was Rachel something, and she looked like a very respectable servant. Thoroughly mystified, I entered the dining-room, where the young person was awaiting me, and found, to my no small surprise-Rebecca!

"Why! Rebecca!" I said, when I had shaken hands with her, and made her sit down by the fire, "what brings you up to town? You are about the last person I should have expected to see here!"

"A lot of things brings me up, Mr. Hugh. I've got an aunt living in Holborn, and she had asked me many and many a time to come and see London-but somehow I did not care-and I always was so busy, and could not well be spared. But, thinks I, if I don't take a bit of freedom now, I may never have it; for Jem and I are to be married next month, and one never knows how things will turn out after marriage. So, as I had left the Moat House, and the new girl had come, and got a little into their ways, I told my mistress I would just take a holiday, and see my aunt and London, and buy my wedding things in the best market. So here I am—and I wanted to see you, Mr. Hugh."

Have you dined?"

"I am very glad to see you, Rebecca. "Hours ago, Mr. Hugh. I must say they do cook chops and steaks wonderfully in London; the meat is so prime."

"Then you shall have a cup of tea, Rebecca: will that suit you?"

"Did you ever know a woman say 'No' to the offer of a cup of tea? I'll take one with pleasure, Mr. Hugh, for I have come to say a few words to you, if I may take the liberty!"

Rebecca drank her tea with appreciation, but she turned up her nose at what my landlady sent up as cream! "Cream, indeed!" she said, slanting the cream-jug and its contents under the gas; "I'm afraid the cow had not much to do with this whitey-brown, bluish stuff; any respectable cow would be ashamed of being supposed to yield it! But I have always heard what London milk is; and how there are fires breaking out and burning people out of their beds continually. However, that does not much matter to me. I can put up with the milk for the few days I stop here, or even do without it, if that is all; and there is a fine, tall fire-escape brought out every evening, and stuck close to my aunt's house; and that is a great comfort when I awake in the middle of the night, and wonder if it is come to the turn of that house to be burned down before morning. And that is neither here nor there; it was not to talk about London that I sought you out, Mr. Hugh, but to talk about Dovercourt, and about some people there."

"How are they at Dovercourt, Rebecca ?"

"Things are all wrong at the Castle, sir-my lady is very ill, and the Marquis looks like a thunder-cloud. The visitors are all gone away, and Mrs. Miller is as miserable as never was."

"Is my lady's illness serious?"

"I should say it is serious, Mr. Hugh. I ought, though, to tell you at once that it is pretty well known why you left the Castle all in such a hurry on Christmas Eve. The secret that has been kept so long has come out now, and, of course, the whole place is making a nine days' wonder of it; it wouldn't be in human nature not to do it, you know."

"I suppose not. Women must talk, and so must men. Indeed, I think the men's tongues are often the longest. But, Rebecca, what story are the people selling? Is it the true one ?"

"Yes! I think so. It all fits in; besides, my lady says it is true. How it came out—that is, how it got among the servants and into the village-I do not know. It would seem that the Marquis was so beside himself that he lost his head entirely, and said things aloud that he had better never have said at all. If he had kept quiet, Mrs. Miller says, it might all have been just between him and my lady and you, and perhaps the Cravenshaugh people, and nobody else, one tittle the wiser than they were before; for we all knew, somehow, that you were something to the Marchioness-a dear friend's child or a connection, if not a blood relation. But do you know how it came out to the Marquis?"

"I do not, and it is just what I should like to know; some one must have played the traitor."

"Some one did! but you will never guess where the beginning of the mischief lies."

"I suspect that it lies at the Moat House."

"So it does, or did. You are thinking of Mr. Drew, are you not, sir? Well, he is just what poor old mistress used to call him, ‘a snake in the grass;' but the snake would not have scented out the way, with all his creeping and crawling, if there had not been another snake-a snakeling, I may say-to show him all the landmarks; not that the girl meant to do harm. She is fine and scared now, I believe; but she talked and talked, and to those who were only too glad to listen."

"What do you mean, Rebecca? I cannot think of what girl you are speaking; do you refer to Lady Olive?"

"Not a bit of it. I do not understand Lady Olive, I must say; but she is all on your side now, and she does not hesitate to say so. My lord is furious with her; his three years' absence in hot climates has made him more fiery tempered than ever. I should think he lived on curried lion and tiger out there, with lots of cayenne and capsicums and plenty of boiled brandy. No, I don't mean my Lady