of rustic felicity.

Barbara accepted the gift of the old home. Eventually, of course, it
would be hers, but she knew the old people meant the present giving of
it as a sort of return for her liberality--for the generosity that had
enabled them to once more lift their heads among their equals.

* * * * *

The great news meanwhile had spread like wildfire through the Irish
country where the Frederic Monktons lived. Lady Baltimore was
unfeignedly glad about it, and came down at once to embrace Barbara, and
say all sorts of delightful things about it. The excitement of the whole
affair seemed to dissipate all the sadness and depression that had
followed on the death of the elder son, and nothing now was talked of
but the great good luck that had fallen into the paths of Barbara and
Joyce. The poor old uncle had been considered dead for so many years
previously, and was indeed such a dim memory to his nieces, that it
would have been the purest affectation to pretend to feel any deep grief
for his demise.

Perhaps what grieved Barbara most of all, though she said very little
about it, was the idea of having to leave the old house in which they
were now living. It did not not cheer her to think of the place in
Warwickshire, which, of course, was beautiful, and full of
possibilities.

This foolish old Irish home--rich in discomforts--was home. It seemed
hard to abandon it. It was not a palatial mansion, certainly; it was
even dismal in many ways, but it contained more love in its little space
than many a noble mansion could boast. It seemed cruel--ungrateful--to
cast it behind her, once it was possible to mount a few steps on the
rungs of the worldly ladder.

How happy they had all been here together, in this foolish old house,
that every severe storm seemed to threaten with final dissolution. It
gave her many a secret pang to think that she must part from it for ever
before another year should dawn.

CHAPTER XLIII.

"Looks the heart alone discover,
If the tongue its thoughts can tell,
'Tis in vain you play the lover,
You have never felt the spell."

Joyce, who had been dreading, with a silent but terrible fear, her first
meeting with Dysart, had found it no such great matter after all when
they were at last face to face. Dysart had met her as coolly, with
apparently as little concern as though no former passages had ever taken
place between them.

His m