rf, a grand _coup_
that would have set him on his legs for some time, but the venture
turned out the wrong way, and Sir Francis was a defaulter. He began then
to think there was nothing for it but to drop into some nice government
nest, where, as I have told you, there would be plenty to get and
nothing to do. Any place with much to do would not suit him, or he it;
he was too empty-headed for work requiring talent; you may have remarked
that a man given to Sir Francis Levison's pursuits generally is.

He dropped into something good, or that promised good--nothing less than
the secretaryship to Lord Headthelot, who swayed the ministers in the
upper House. But that he was a connection of Lord Headthelot's he never
would have obtained it, and very dubiously the minister consented to
try him. Of course a condition was, that he should enter parliament
the first opportunity, his vote to be at the disposal of the
ministry--rather a shaky ministry--and supposed, by some, to be on its
last legs. And this brings us to the present time.

In a handsome drawing-room in Eaton Square, one sunny afternoon, sat
a lady, young and handsome. Her eyes were of violet blue, her hair was
auburn, her complexion delicate; but there was a stern look of anger,
amounting to sullenness, on her well-formed features, and her pretty
foot was beating the carpet in passionate impatience. It was Lady
Levison.

The doings of the past had been coming home to her for some time
now--past doings, be they good or be they ill, are sure to come home,
one day or another, and bring their fruits with them.

In the years past--many years past now--Francis Levison had lost his
heart--or whatever the thing might be that, with him, did duty for
one--to Blanche Challoner. He had despised her once to Lady Isabel--as
Lord Thomas says in the old ballad; but that was done to suit his own
purpose, for he had never, at any period, cared for Lady Isabel as he
had cared for Blanche. He gained her affection in secret--they engaged
themselves to each other. Blanche's sister, Lydia Challoner, two years
older than herself suspected it, and taxed Blanche with it. Blanche,
true to her compact of keeping it a secret, denied it with many
protestations. "_She_ did not care for Captain Levison; rather disliked
him, in fact." "So much the better," was Miss Challoner's reply; for she
had no respect for Captain Levison, and deemed him an unlikely man to
marry.

Years went on, and poor,