r?" said Lady Hester, with an easy smile on her
features. "When bequeathing this estate to me, Sir Stafford expressly
provided, that if from any political convulsion Ireland should be
separated from her union with Great Britain, or if by course of law a
substantial claim was established to the property by another, that I
should be recompensed for the loss by an income of equal amount derived
from the estate of his son, George Onslow, at whose discretion it lay
to allocate any portion of his inheritance he deemed suitable for the
purpose."

"All true, madam, quite true," broke in Grounsell; "and the
Solicitor-General's opinion is that the provision is perfectly
nugatory,--not worth sixpence. It has not one single tie of obligation,
and, from its vagueness, is totally inoperative."

"In law, sir, it may be all that you say," replied Lady Hester, calmly;
"but I have yet to learn that this is the appeal to which Captain Onslow
would submit it."

Grounsell stared at her; and for the first time in all his life he
thought her handsome. That his own features revealed the admiration
he felt was also plain enough, and Lady Hester was very far from being
insensible to the tribute.

"So that, madam," cried he, at length, "You prefer insecurity to
certainty."

"Say rather, sir, that I have more confidence in the honorable
sentiments of an English gentleman than I have in the solvency of a poor
and wretched peasantry. Up to this very hour I have known nothing except
the claims upon myself. I don't like the climate; and I am certain the
neighbors do not like me,--in fact, I have neither the youth nor the
enterprise suited to a new country."

"Why, good heavens, madam, it isn't New Zealand we're in!" cried
Grounsell, angrily.

"Perhaps not," sighed she, languidly; "but it is just as strange to
_me_."

"I see, madam," said Grounsell, rising, "my plan was a bad one. A wing
in the Borghese Palace, a spacious apartment of the Corsini, on the
Arno, or even the first floor of the Moncenigo, at Venice, would have
been a happier choice than a gloomy old mansion on the banks of an Irish
river."

"Oh, do not speak of it, sir!" cried she, enthusiastically. "Do not
remind me of starry skies and the deep blue Adriatic in this land of
cloud and fog, where even the rain is 'dirty water.' Pray make the very
weakest defence of my claim to this inheritance. I only ask to march out
with my baggage, and do not even stipulate for the honors of