aples blushing
themselves away, the parterre a gorgeous patchwork of scarlet, lilac, and
orange, the Virginian creeper hanging a crimson mantle on the cloister.
There was something inexpressibly painful in the sight of all this
beauty, unheeded and cast away by the owners, and displayed as a matter
of bargain and sale. Phoebe thought of the strange, uncomfortable dream
that it had been to her when she had before looked and wondered at the
scene before her. She retraced Robert's restless form in every window,
and thought how little she had then augured the fruit of what he had
suffered.

The rooms were opened, and set out for inspection. Honor and Phoebe made
it their duty to occupy the chattering maid, a stranger to Lucilla, and
leave her free to move through the apartments, silent and very white, as
if it were a sacred duty to stand wherever she had stood, to gaze at
whatever her eyes had once met.

Presently she stood still, in the dining-room, her hand grasping the back
of a chair, as she looked up to a large picture of three children, two
boys and a girl, fancifully dressed, and playing with flowers. The waxen
complexion, fair hair, and blue eyes of the girl were almost her own.

'This to be sold?' she said, turning round, and speaking for the first
time.

'O yes, ma'am!--everything, unreservedly. That picture has been much
admired--by the late Sir Thomas Lawrence, ma'am--the children of the late
General Sir Christopher Charteris.'

Lucilla, whiter than before, walked quickly away. In a few seconds
Phoebe followed, and found her leaning on the balustrade of the terrace,
her breathing heavily oppressed; but she smiled coldly and sternly, and
tightened a stiff, cold grasp on Phoebe's arm as she said--

'Honor has her revenge, Phoebe! These are the kindred for whom I broke
from her! Well, if Charles sells his birthright and his own father, I
don't know how I can complain of his selling my mother!'

'But, Lucy, listen. Miss Charlecote was asking about the agent. I am
sure she means to try to get it for you.'

'I dare say. It is right that I should bear it!'

'And the maid said that there had been a gentleman speaking about it, and
trying to secure it. She thought he had written to Mr. Charteris about
it.'

'What gentleman?' and Lucy was ready to spring back to inquire.

'Miss Charlecote asked, and I believe it was Mr. Prendergast!'

There was a bright, though strange flickering of pleasure and