love;" and, offering his arm, he led her off with an air of gallantry that would have done credit to a courtier of the siècle of Louis Quatorze. Mark's position was rather an awkward one; but, after glancing slightly at the ladies. expectant, he advanced towards Helen. In progress to the dining-room Miss Grimshaw evinced her state of feeling by a hard pinch of her sister's arm.

The Captain, having deposited his lady in the seat of honour, slipped into a chair near Flora, and looked very happy. Jemima, with a little dexterity, contrived to establish herself near Mark; Helen was on the other side of him. The rest of the party arranged themselves indiscriminately.

The turtle-soup was excellent, the turbot boiled to a bubble, and the lobster-sauce most successful. The Justice looked round, and, fully satisfied that all were testifying appreciation of the good things before them, he ate his own fish with peculiar relish. During the progress of his second plateful, he suspended his operations, and, supporting his knife and fork in an upright position on the table, he gave his chair a slight push backwards, accompanying the movement with an internal chuckle, indicative of some good story that he was about to make known.

"I seldom eat fish," said he, "ha! ha ha! without calling to mind a dinner to which I once invited a gentleman from the midland counties. Wishing to procure some rarity, and thinking that fish would be the greatest, we had for dinner a fine turbot-another one just such as this. Well, to my disappointment, he did not seem to relish it; after turning it about on his plate, he sent the greater part of it away. 'Is not the fish to your liking, sir?' I asked; 'but perhaps you do not eat fish, for I assure you this is excellent.'-'Yes, indeed,' said the gentleman, ‘I am very fond of fish; but if I may be excused saying so this turbot seems to me to want something. I never before

tasted fish that had not a peculiar flavour, and I believe it is that flavour which makes me like the fish.' Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Justice, as heartily as though the story were new to him; "Ha! ha! ha!-he had never tasted fresh fish before!"

"Very good!" said the Captain, who had heard the story at least half a dozen times; "very good! And, sir, what was that capital story of your father's? Was not that something also in connection with the table ?"

"All in good time, Captain, all in good time,"—and the Justice finished his plate of fish. When the guests were engaged on the second course, and there was an interval in his own proceedings, he resumed

"My father had a friend who was a shipbroker in a very extensive line of business. There was one test to which he subjected all before he would enter into any negotiation; this test was to be invited to breakfast."

"A very agreeable one," said the Captain, "and one to which, I think, he would find none reluctant to submit."

"It was a very wise test, and a very sure one. If the person invited ate a hearty breakfast, he was considered sterling, and the business was concluded. If, on the contrary, he ate with effort, and without appetite, unfavourable inferences were drawn, and my father's friend could never be induced to enter into any engagements. He said it was a test which he had never known to fail."

"Capital!" said the Captain. "And your father, sirhe must have been a man of great wisdom?" and he attempted to look reverentially.

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'My father," said the Justice, slightly raising himself in his chair, and his whole frame dilating as he spoke, "my father, 'take him for all in all, was such a man we shall not look upon his like again.'

It was unusual for the Justice to venture a quotation; he seemed fully impressed with having done so, and, excepting

in his never-failing attentions to the wants of his guests, he remained silent during the remainder of the dinner.

As Flora had predicted, notwithstanding the good dinner, enlivened as it was by the Justice's stories, the day dragged heavily along. At the Manor-house there was no provision for the mental requirements of the guests. The last Magazine of Fashion lay on the drawing-room table, and, though this afforded much instructing discussion to Mrs. Kingley and Mrs. Ellison, Flora was weary of listening to the comparative merits of the various styles of head-dresses. The resident ladies had withdrawn to their apartments, and Aunt Rebecca seemed so comfortable in a softly-cushioned arm-chair, that Flora half suspected she was indulging in a little nap. The re-entrance of the Miss Grimshaws and Helen, the coming of tea, and the consequent appearance of the gentlemen, were events hailed by Flora as varieties.

There was a blazing fire, and the party formed into the usual Christmas circle. The Justice was called upon for one of his annual stories, the telling of which he considered a very important business indeed. Though he had predetermined to tell his ghost-story, he glanced round the circle inquiringly.

"Oh! a ghost-story," said the Captain, responding to the glance. "The wind is rising, and a howling wind is the chorus of ghosts."

And so the Justice told a ghost-story.

When he had ended he looked round to ascertain the impression produced, and he was satisfied; they who had heard it before still retained their attitudes of attention, they who had not shivered a little, and drew more closely into the circle. Mrs. Kingley was the exception-she was asleep.

"I declare, uncle," said the Captain, "your tale has given me the shudders, and as for Miss Maitland, she seems quite transfixed. With your permission, I'll ring for wine."

"By all means," said the Justice, very evidently pleased

with the success of his ghost-story. "What gives a reality to the whole," continued he, "is that the lady to whom this happened was really and truly an ancestor to the first owner of this snuff-box."

"Indeed!" said Helen; and she looked at the snuff-box with reverential awe, as though it had some mysterious connection with the spectral world. That night she passed hurriedly and fearfully along the galleries leading to her room, and the first thing she did on entering it was to throw a towel over the toilet-mirror opposite to her bed.

CHAPTER IX.

IT is Christmas morning still, but the wintry sun shines. upon another scene. If Christmas be to many the season of joy and of happy meetings with far-distant friends, there are others to whom it is the season of melancholy retrospection. It is then that the sad vacancies made by time oppress with painful memories of the past. The "lone matron" looks for him whose cheerful smile is now at rest for ever. The brother listens for the fond voice of the sister wont to greet him with her merry song. Where is she now? The mother thinks of her lost child. Mourning children look round for their mother. It is in vain—in vain! And yet to those— those "lone in heart"-Christmas comes with healing on its wings; it comes to tell that separations are but for a timethat reunions are for eternity.

It is on the window of a darkened chamber that the Christmas sun is shining now. The stillness within is appalling, though it is not the chamber of death. No-death has not entered yet; but there is one there wrapt in that

deep, fearful sleep which tells that the sleeper lies between time and eternity. There is one, too, who watches this sleep; she is seated on a chair close to the bed, her hands are crossed on her chest, her eyes are fixed in steadfast gaze on the face before her; she fears to move, her breath is suspended, and low, deep sighs escape. The embers in the grate are becoming fainter and fainter, and the rushlight is flickering unheededly away, at intervals casting a glare on the features of the sleeper, till, suddenly sinking, the room is left in darkness. A faint beam of the sunlight finds entrance through a chink in the window-shutter. The ticking of a watch is heard; it sounds to the ear of the watcher like

time's awful summoner: as a death-knell telling, "The

last-the last-the last!"

There was a movement in the bed—very slight it was, but Edith started, she bent eagerly forward; there were a few moments of agonising suspense, and then a voice so low, so very low that it was scarcely audible, said—

"Edith, my child, I live !"

"Thank Heaven!" It was all that Edith could say, and she sank on the bed in a state of unconsciousness.

Fearful of her mother being disturbed, Edith had told their faithful Peggy not to enter the room till she should ring; but Peggy had been on the listen-she had become alarmed at the continued silence, and, finally, disregarding the admonition, she very gently opened the door. It was well that she did so.

Without taking any notice of her "dear Miss Edith," she lost not a moment in attending to her mistress. The strong beef-tea that she had been tending so carefully was brought into instant requisition. The first spoonful was swallowed with difficulty-but it was swallowed, and then another, and another.

Soon there was a visible change: the gates of death were closed-Mrs. Maitland had returned into the world of the