ntered the room resolved to
be composed, with an air even of cheerfulness, but his tender heart
yielded to the first appeal to his affections. He could only murmur
out some broken syllables of devotion, and almost unconsciously found
that he had quitted the chamber.

With streaming eyes and hesitating steps he was proceeding along the
vestibule, when he heard his name called by a low sweet voice. He
looked around; it was Venetia. Never had he beheld such a beautiful
vision. She was muffled up in her dressing-gown, her small white feet
only guarded from the cold by her slippers. Her golden hair seemed to
reach her waist, her cheek was flushed, her large blue eyes glittered
with tears.

'Plantagenet,' she said--

Neither of them could speak. They embraced, they mingled their tears
together, and every instant they wept more plenteously. At length a
footstep was heard; Venetia murmured a blessing, and vanished.

Cadurcis lingered on the stairs a moment to compose himself. He wiped
his eyes; he tried to look undisturbed. All the servants were in the
hall; from Mistress Pauncefort to the scullion there was not a dry
eye. All loved the little lord, he was so gracious and so gentle.
Every one asked leave to touch his hand before he went. He tried to
smile and say something kind to all. He recognised the gamekeeper,
and told him to do what he liked at Cadurcis; said something to the
coachman about his pony; and begged Mistress Pauncefort, quite aloud,
to take great care of her young mistress. As he was speaking, he
felt something rubbing against his hand: it was Marmion, the old
bloodhound. He also came to bid his adieus. Cadurcis patted him with
affection, and said, 'Ah! my old fellow, we shall yet meet again.'

The Doctor appeared, smiling as usual, made his inquiries whether all
were right, nodded to the weeping household, called Plantagenet his
brave boy, and patted him on the back, and bade him jump into the
chaise. Another moment, and Dr. Masham had also entered; the door was
closed, the fatal 'All right' sung out, and Lord Cadurcis was whirled
away from that Cherbury where he was so loved.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

Life is not dated merely by years. Events are sometimes the best
calendars. There are epochs in our existence which cannot be
ascertained by a formal appeal to the registry. The arrival of the
Cadurcis family at their old abbey, their consequent intimacy at
Cherbury, the death of the mothe