t a bit of it," said Grog, rudely. "I'd rather see a promising
two-year-old than all the heroes and all the beauties in Europe."

"And you, Beecher?" asked she, with a half-smile.

"Well, I've no great wish on the subject. They have both of them cost me
rather too heavily to inspire any warm interest in their behalf."

The words were scarcely uttered, when the large window of the room
adjoining the terrace was flung open, and a great flood of light
extended to where they stood: at the same moment a gentleman with a lady
on his arm advanced towards them.

"Mr. Annesley Beecher is here, I believe?" said the stranger.

"Yes; that is my name, sir," was the answer.

"Let me claim a cousin's privilege to shake your hand, then," said the
other. "You knew me once as Charles Conway, and my wife claims you as a
still older friend."

"My father bore you the warmest affection," said Sybella, eagerly.

Beecher could but mutter some half-inarticulate words.

"I have done you what you must feel a cruel injury," said Conway, "but
I believe the game was never yet found out where all could rise winners.
There is, however, a slight reparation yet in my power. The lawyers tell
me that a separate suit will be required to establish our claim to the
Irish estates. Take them, therefore;, you shall never be disturbed in
their possession by me or mine. All I ask is, let there be no bad blood
between us. Let us be friends."

"You may count upon me, at all events," said Lizzy, extending her hand
to him. "I am, indeed, proud to know you."

"Nor would I be forgotten in this pleasant compact," said Sybella,
advancing towards Lizzy. "We have less to forgive, my dear cousin, and
we can be friends without even an explanation."

The acquaintance thus happily opened, they continued to walk the terrace
together for hours, till at length the chill night air warned Conway
that he was still an invalid.

"Till to-morrow, then," said Sybella, as she kissed Lizzy's cheek
affectionately.

"Till to-morrow!" replied the other, as a heavy tear rolled down her
cheek, for _hers_ was a sad heart, as she followed with her eyes their
retreating figures.

"Ain't he a trump!" cried Beecher, as he drew his wife's arm within his
own, and led her along at his side. "He doesn't believe one syllable
about our sending those fellows over to the Crimea to crib the papers;
he fancies we were all 'on the square'--Oh, I forgot," broke he in,
suddenly, "you were neve