ings and knew well enough what needless suffering is endured for want of scientific nursing. His interest in it was a thoroughly honest and earnest one; he regarded the class of people who are poor but refined as the most to be pitied in all the ranges of civilised humanity. The man of philanthropic crotchets had thrown himself into it as he had thrown himself into a dozen other schemes for benefiting mankind. He had never been ill a day in his life, so he had not the personal sympathy with the idea which animated Mr. Redburn, M.P. But he was always precipitating himself upon something which was to be of the utmost benefit to some class or other of society. He carried a black bag with him wherever he went; and when he called upon his friends they looked askance at it, wondering what new prospectus might be lurking in its mysterious recesses; what new programme for the reformation of the world might be drawn from thence and explained to them. Mr. Redburn, who had held the idea in his mind a long while, meeting this gentleman one day, immediately seized upon him as the very man for his purpose. He soon succeeded in inflaming him with it; and these two had worked until the hospital reared itself in the midst of that London where gentlemanly poverty now walks by the side of undainty and accustomed pauperism. The patients at first had not been plentiful, though the charges were moderate enough to tempt them; but when once the unfortunate gentlefolks who first took advantage of the new charity realised that all which was promised to them would be fulfilled; that each patient would have a clean, sweet, wholesome little room of his own, furnished com ance fortably; that there was skilled nursing and good medical a:tend-then the news began to spread after the wildfire fashion in which good news is apt to spread. The little rooms filled rapidly; and Mr. Redburn and the man of philanthropic crotchets were rewarded by many a genteel blessing. It was not so easy to enlist Ernestine's sympathies as her friend expected. Ernestine had not realised the miseries of refined poverty; she did not awaken to the philanthropy of the idea. But she went to see the hospital found that at all events there was plenty of work to be done and experience to be gained. So she engaged herself to visit there for a year. Some six months of this year, as we have seen, were yet to run; and Ernestine had long ago put her heart into the work. She saw how bitterly it was needed, and she gave her sympathies and her energies to the utmost. But it was hard work, for the staff was insufficient. It is not too much to say that it required the arousal of all Ernestine's peculiar sense of what was right, to resist the temptation Dr. Doldy had held out to her. Having resisted it, however, she went even more vigorously to her work. She even invested, next morning, in a few flowers (rashly enough, no doubt, considering that her remaining capital was by no means large) to take to a favourite patient. She might have taken some of Dr. Doldy's white blossoms which made her room such a place of sweetness; but there was a romantic spot hidden far down in her nature; she drank to herself the scent from those flowers as if it gave her life; she treasured every white petal. Dr. Doldy little thought that his love-gifts when he once shewed her, as he had done in their last interview, that it really was the heiress he cared for and not the woman, her pride was up in arms at once. And her idea of exhibiting pride was to equal him in callousness. The pose of the deserted damsel was not at all in her line. If she must be deserted no one should know it. Moreover, Yriarte had so thoroughly startled and disgusted her by his readiness to give her up, after making her believe that she had altogether enslaved him, that a strong revulsion of feeling was setting in. It grew stronger and stronger day by day, as she mixed in fresh society, and found that life was really quite tolerable without an enslaved lover. She was already beginning to rather enjoy the sense that she had to catch somebody else, and as she lay awake at night and thought over her affairs she resolved that this time she would look out for a handsome man. For now that the bond between herself and Yriarte was broken, she began to realise what an unenticing person he was. But that was not to be wondered at, for her mind continually dwelled upon her last interview with him. She gradually forgot the old fascination which he had exercised over her, and learned to clench her teeth with an increasing hatred and disgust whenever her thoughts reverted to him. She had had one other present from Yriarte besides the bracelet -a gold necklet with a large locket containing his portrait. She had sent that to his house before she left town. She marvelled now, as she remembered it, how she could ever have secretly worn that face upon her neck, and have felt a thrill of pleasure that it was there. She found it difficult to realise the state she had passed through, now that it was over. She was staying at a pleasant country house which stood some miles inland from Brighton. There was a charming park around it, and beyond that the breezy Sussex downs. When Laura first went there there was a large party in the house, but soon afterwards it thinned, and she would wander alone in the park and over the grassy slopes, thinking more and more bitterly of the insults she had been compelled to suffer, and growing to loathe the very thought of the man from whom she had suffered them. Sir Charles Hayland, her host, was both squire of the neighbourhood and rector of the little village church which stood just outside the park. He was a magistrate too, so that his time was generally full of small matters of business, and though the most genial and hospitable man in the world he generally left his guests pretty much to Lady Hayland, beyond driving them behind a beautiful pair of his pet horses whenever he had time, and heading the dinner table. Lady Hayland was a fashionable and pretty woman, whose vocation was society, but she was extremely delicate, and now and then was obliged to remain in her Own room for several days together. Thus it happened that when most of the guests went away, leaving only a few rather elderly people who did not much interest her, Laura acquired a habit of walking about alone and thinking over her affairs. It was not a natural tendency of hers, and she rather wondered at herself for doing it. At last she grew so sickened at her retrospections that she began to think of taking flight to where there might be more opportunities of laying plans for the future. But Lady layland persuaded her to stay on a while, and as she told her that a new relay of visitors would be arriving in a few days, Laura decided to at least see what they were like. Lady Hayland was fond of her, and liked to have her when her house was full; for Laura was one of those indomitable little women who will go through any exertion for the sake of amusement, and she was always among the leaders of any enterprise which might prove exciting or interesting. Although she was such a mistress of the art of languor, when any form of pleasure was to be obtained her spirits were unflagging. So she stayed on and resigned herself to a few more days of her own society, for Lady Hayland was not yet well enough to come down, and there was no one else in the house whom she cared for. She read novels in the pretty morning-room, a large room which separated the drawing and dining rooms. It was Laura's favourite resort within the house, except the hall. The latter was a great square room into which the hall door opened and from which the wide staircases ascended. But the house was warmed all through, and the hall was a favourite lounging place, for on the large centre table, among pots of sweet scented flowers, were scattered all the last novels from Mudie's. But the morning-room was surrounded by two or three shelves, close to the floor, which were filled, along one wall, with standard and favourite novels. Laura oscillated between a particular corner here and a particular corner in the hall when she was indoors for she was one of those women who accomplish an amount of reading which would do credit to an undergraduate, and whose studies lie so entirely in one direction that they acquire a marvellous knowledge of the fictitious world of romance. She devoured books in a more infatuated way than ever now, for with no flirtations on hand she found it difficult to keep her mind quiet or at ease unless she filled it with the romances of others' lives. But she had too much regard for her good looks to spend the whole day thus. She reflected that the air of the Sussex downs produces anything but an unbecoming effect; so every day she walked out upon them, or drove herself through the lanes in Lady Hayland's little pony carriage. Certainly this did bring a delicate bloom to her cheeks, but it gave her too much opportunity for reflection to be at all agreeable. She would walk fiercely about on the downs, out of sight of every one but the wild birds, and would stamp her little foot as she thought of Yriarte and the sneering laugh with which he took leave of her!she even occupied herself with trying to think of any way in which she could safely annoy or humiliate him, and now and again the personal pride which was one of her strongest feelings would wring a few scalding tears of mortification from her eyes. But she would speedily wipe them away to find refuge in the intense hatred of her old lover which was altogether taking the place of every other sentiment with regard to him. In the midst of this state of feeling she made a discovery which changed the whole tenor of her thoughts. Sitting alone in her room one night a new idea dawned upon her mind—a new view of her position rose before her. It struck her with such alarm and horror that she felt quite ill, and rising to reach some smelling-salts which were on her dressing table she fainted dead away upon the floor. No one came to her aid, for it was late at night. She recovered, alone, slowly and painfully; and with the first rush of consciousness came the full sense of this new and overwhelming thought. All that night she lay awake, and in the morning, when she looked in the glass, she saw a haggardness upon her face which had never appeared on it before. "Laura Doldy," she said to herself, standing there before her own reflection, wrapped in her pretty dressing gown, with her long dark hair tumbling on her shoulders, "Laura Doldy, this will never do. You will get ugly if you are frightened. There is no difficulty which a clever woman cannot overcome." And with that she returned to her bed, where she breakfastedand thought. Thought hard, and desperately. Desperately, yes; for she could see but one way out of this terrible difficulty which had now risen definitely in her path. And that way was one which she loathed with her whole soul. The whole of her real self-all her natural feelings-her prides, her passions, her emotions, shrank with a disgust that made her physical frame tremble where she lay, from taking that way. But Laura had another and more highly developed side of her nature. She lived in the world, and she must defend herself from the world. The sense of this was so vivid that it compelled towards that way she loathed, as strongly and resolutely as though pressure were put upon her trembling woman's emotions by another person. Laura was essentially a worldly woman, and a thoroughly worldly woman will sacrifice any of her softer and truer self, even though the knife cut keenly, in order to keep straight with this world she is in. The social world is life and religion to her: she worships it and she must be approved by it. In fact, it is her all-the reality of existence. Driven and torn by her thoughts and her passions, Laura lay with hands clasped over her head, thinking till her cheeks grew flushed and dark. At last she sprang up and opening her writing desk, began hurriedly to write a letter. She wrote on rapidly, till in amazement she paused, finding that her rage had burned itself out upon two sheets of note paper. She flung them aside, and walked the room exhausted by her own vehemence. She looked more like some tragic actress expressing rage than the Laura known to her friends, for in this silent battle with herself the fire of her untamed passions was ablaze. At last-wearied out-she crept into bed and lay there with silent tears quietly passing over her face. This calmed and cleared her brain; the rebellious paroxysm was over. She had conquered herself. After lying quietly thus a long while she again got her writing case, and wrote another letter, this time so brief a one that a few lines contained it all. She put it in an envelope and addressed it. Then, strengthened and refreshed by the sense that she had decided on her mode of action, she rose and dressed. She put on her out-of-door dress, and going down passed quietly through the hall and out into the park. She walked over the short sweet grass by the carriage drive, down to the little village. There she went to the post office, and drawing the letter from her pocket, dropped it in. It was addressed to "Jose Yriarte, Esq." Standing there in the sunshine, a little undecided which way to turn or what to do with herself, she saw Sir Charles Hayland riding up the village street. "A pretty little minx is Laura Doldy," thought that gentleman to himself as Laura flashed her eyes up at him from under her fur hat. "But I shouldn't put much faith in her." Sir Charles was a florid, hearty gentleman who liked people that looked him straight in the face. He let his horse drop into a walk as he approached Laura. "Lady Hayland is better today," he said, " and I am to drive her over to Brighton after lunch. I am sure she needs fresh air, and Bob and Bell want some exercise. Will you come?" “Oh, yes, I shall be delighted," said Laura, to whom the mildest form of dissipation would have been acceptable to-day. And she enjoyed sitting behind Sir Charles's pet horses, apart from the fact that Brighton was a change from the park and the downs. 66 "Then you must come in to lunch," said Sir Charles; shall start early." we She walked beside Sir Charles's horse down the avenue, and talked very sweetly, casting up her eyes. in that fascinating way she had acquired, every now and then. Sir Charles began to relent in his opinion of her and to think she really was very charming. She had never cared to exercise her arts upon him before, as he was not quite within her sphere of action. But to-day she would have talked to the man in the moon, could a telephone have been established. Anything to distract her mind! They drove through a not very interesting series of lanes and straight roads, but the movement was pleasant, and to Laura the life of Brighton was a charming change. Driving down the Parade, Sir Charles suddenly drew rein. "How do you do, Redburn?" he said to a languid, gentlemanly man who was pausing in his walk to look over the sea. "What are you doing here? isn't it rather cold for you at this time of the year?" 66 Yes," said Mr. Redburn, with a slight shiver, "it certainly is cold, but it is bracing. I have only run down for a few days' fresh air." "Come over to us for a day or two," said Sir Charles, with whom hospitality was a shining virtue.. "Where are you staying? at the Queen's? I'll pick you up in halfan-hour." So Laura had a fresh companion of the male sex to make eyes at on her way home. He did not interest her much though; Mr. Redburn's mind had little room in it for con templation of anything but his own ailments and hobbies. "How is the hospital getting on?" asked Lady Hayland; "the last time we met were you not very interested in some hospital for ladies and gentlemen? It seemed to me, as you spoke of it |