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. children —— CHAPTER VIL. = Unto. 0 tender blooms of life ; Sing bi : let all the world be gay ; "Tis well—the morning of our day Must rise ‘mid joyous songs and strife.” —Lewis Morris. The first weck of Helen’s visit had passed, and she had already decided that Carnation Cottage was the pleasantest house possible in which to Jive, that.no companion could be more congenial than Miss Elizabeth, that Betsey’s wit was equal to Sheridan's, that Devon was the lovoliest county in-England —in fact, to be brief, that she was as happy as the lovely July days were long. Both Miss Elizabeth and the less im- ressionable Betsey had gone down before er charms like ninepins. When she was out of the room, they talked about her ; when she was present, they followed her about, watching her with indulgent eyes. As a matter of course, she took the guidance of the household into her firm hands, an even gave advice on the subject of garden- ing, flitting to and fro the grass-plot, from flower-bed to flower-bed, carrying shears or watering-pot, trowel or rake, hose or spud, as the fancy seized her, with Miss E'izabeth, a little breathless and anxious, but uncom- plaining, following at her heels, \hen, as Was sometimes the case, she fell ir’ oa wild and whimsical mood and talked an-! romped more like an irresponsible madcap han the than the dignified young woman :'e some- times ap d, Miss Elizabeth, 1-.stead of scolding, went into fits of weak lau -hter. More than once during her waaderi she had caught a glimpse of « hig!:, yellow dogeart, with a square shoulder. figure sitting bolt upright on the box se:.t, whom she recogniz: Usually he had some one beside him ; twice it lad bee: another square-shouldered, broad figure like his own ; but the third time his companion had been a lady, a pretty girl, whose face was turn’ toward him as though she was listening while he talked. Once, only once, Helen had met that dogcart face to face, and then ita occupant, who had been alone, had drawn up beside her and engaged her for an un- conscionably long time in conversation. More than once she had tried to move on, but each time he had recalled her bya uestion and always on the subject of her oss, on which topic he had, of course, a right to question her. In an affair of dogged determination, Helen had met her master, an amiable, gentle but unflinchingly obstinate master. Mr. Jones had also called one afternoon at Carnation Cottage, and again it was for the purpose of conversing with Helen about her stolen property, of which, it seemed, he had heard some hopeful news ; in fact, he believed the watch had been discovered in a pawnbroker's shop in Birmingham, and in that case before very long he should have the pleasure of restoring it to its owner. elen, who had been down on the beach during this event, was toiling slowly up the ill on her way home when Mr. Jones emerged from the garden gate, with the most cherished of her aunt's rosebuds in his button-hole, and an_ ag- gressively debonair and _ satisfied de- meanor. She was overjoyed at the pros- pect of recovering her watch and listened to all he had to say, which was nota little, on that and on other subjects, with eager eyes and her most gracious manner. When, at last, she left him, he watched her out of sight, and then, turning away, he walked home with a graver look than usual on his cag:less, untroubled face ; whtlc she, enter- ing the garden, met her excited aunt with torrent of insane jokesand tcasing laughter. Jpon the afternoon of that day which had been fixed for the ball at Newton Hall the Misses Mitford, at Helen's request, had tea early ; after which the girl, adjusting her big white hat, and, as a tribute to custom, fetching her gloves) which she put in her pocket instead of upon her hands), get off tor her daily walk. She pau moment at the gate to wave a farewell t her aunt, who was bent double over her car- mation bed, the surface soil of which she was loosening with a fork. <« The tide is out this evening, auntie ; I am gotng to the rocks. The distant rocks, it’s a long walk. 1 may be late.” ** Don't get drowned, love.” ** No, auntie.” ** Don’t get your feet wet.” ** No, auntie.” Half an hour later Helen had reached the shore. She loved the sea, the thousand fights and shades that tinged its surface, the restlessness, the cternal variety, the mystery of its troubled life. But that evening she no time to watch the waves ; she walked quickly along the sands, akirting the groups of nursemaids and with her face turned westward toward the cliffa, which shelved down imto a jutting peninsula. Here the low rocks reached far out into the sea, and then, sinking below thesurface, showed likea black ahadow through the blue waters. Thither she steered her way. The bathing-woman, who was standing as sentinel behind a long row of curious, sand-ingrained, rments which, secured by stones, lay supine on the yellow sands, addressed her as she passed— ‘s* Where be’ee going to, Miss *” «(To the rocks.” “‘ Then plaze to mind the tide ; her comes in powerful fast and strong out yonder. i t’s safe a oO ** She would be careful,” she said, and strode on fast. She toiled laboriously over the rough and broken shingle which intervened between | [#8° kk to join those co es who were con- tent with pleasures less difficult of access, but with Helen it was altogether otherwise. An impediment in her route was merely a thing to be surmounted ; it was no barrier to stop her progress. When once that for- enidatle possession of hers, her mind, was made up, her purpose, she had accustomed herself to consider, was inflexible. She found the distance she had to traverse was far greater than she had anticipated, and it was long before she—tired, hot and the chopping waves, Pe bustli rid id ep broke coi mally against the e | tossed and swayed the heavy—layers-of—sea- weed to and fro. ee She was enjoying herself after a;childish i warm transparent water was | tempti She rolled her sleeves up high, sod knelling down before a pool and she plunged her hand and arm di — e Was laughing at the awkward flight of a tin rm when acall—aclear, lou call—startled Me ad ar iging, wit e 8 up, rai er ipping, wal hand to pre ag eyes, and te in the | direction whence the sound had come. A little sailing-boat, in which were seated Mr. Jones and the gentleman whom Helen seen before in the yellow-wheeled dog cart, was within twenty yards of her. It was the former of these two young men who had so unceremoniously hailed her. ““ Hey, hey! You mustn’t stay there— don’t stay there !” he cried. ‘“‘ The tide has turned ; in two minutes those gulleys behind you will be three feet deep. {ff you don’t want a ducking, you had better hurry up, I can tell you.” Helen was dismayed ; the situatioa was exasperating. She did not move: she stooped a little, to be sure that those dread- ful feet of hers were concealed, and then she cast a hurried glance around, Where was that rock upon which she had stored her be- longings? Alas, she had not marked the place, and now she could not find it. ‘7 say, don’t wait!” cried the voice again. ‘‘ You will be drowned. There isn’t too much time to get across.” “‘Thank you—thank you,” she called back, feebly. ‘1 will go—I am going.” oye did not move. ** What a ror irl!” said Mr. Jones’s friend. ‘* No lee you rowed here ten thousand miles an hour when you saw her! She’s a precious deal too pretty to drown. She has lost her head, though. Why don’t she go on 2” ‘No fear of her losing her head,” retarned the other, with an unkind laugh. ‘‘ we have told her what to expect, so if she wishes to be drowned she knows how to doit. Sheis as headstrong as ‘anallegory.” If her man- ners matched her face she would do, but us,’ as you say in Devon, for she has not budged an inch.” “She is a little fool,’’ said Mr. Jones, shortly. ‘Turn the boat, Mason. We will bustle up and leave her.” After a mild protest his friend obeyed. Tacking to the wind, the boat sailed down the bay, and landed its occupants on the shore below Noelcombe. Here the men separated, one disappearing in the direction of Newton, the other—after wandering rather aimlessly about the sands for a ‘time —suddenly turned his face westward, an began to plod over the rough route which led-to the reef of rocks. - Though Miss Helen Mitford was ungrate- ful and pig-headed, and though Mr. Jones thought it probable that he should shortly ask the gentle and pliable Lady Lucy Free- mantle to marry him, yet he was interested to know what come of that slender figure which he conld still see, with his mind’s eye, standing in the sunshine, with her beautiful wet hand and arm raised, and her earnest, startled eyes fixed on him. He had felt unreasonable anger at his companion’s admiration of the girl, anger which he had directed u luckless head. He had spoken of her with unjustifiable rudeness ; it was well for him that she bad been out of earshot when he had done so ; he could picture her face had she, by any unhappy chance, overheard his w 8. If she had not flown at the first hint of danger, then she deserved praise for her pluck—not the condemnation for rashness which he had allotted her. His head was overflowing with thoughts of her. His heart misgave him that he had not appreciated the daring bravery with which she had heard of her oa (a danger he had somewhat exaggerated), and steadily, calmly, courageously faced it. Meanwhile, this calm, young heroine, as soon as the boat’s was turned away, cast custom and caution to tho winds. The choice between dignity or drowning was not hard to make, between clothed feet or safety, seemliness or preservation, boots or death. Stumbling, clambering, slipping, she ran like a stag over the rocks, fording ls and gnbeye Tecklessly in her panic, the departing boat. And so, presently, Mr. Jones saw the figure for which he was in search, approach- ing him, but most leisurely. How pro- vokingly she dawdled ; no use- snail ever crawled so elowly as she now advanced. Could it be that she recognized him, and from perversity, or coyness, or some unfathomable feminine coquetry, lingered for the mere purpose of annoying ; 9 S 3 The conclusion he naturally deduced from this delightfully unexpected shyness of hers, set his heart beating fast, he had takea her unawares, and thus learned the value of that indifferent manner which it pleased her to adopt toward him. How ex- ceedingly pretty she looked! Her downcast black-lashed eyes, her drooping head, that changing color of which he was the author, became her royalty ; he would not spoil the picture by speaking and ating her at her i ven her voice, as she ad him hurriedly by name, faltered—there was a deprecating cadence, new as it wassweet, in its tones. His late companion had accused him of desiring to more, of actually this blushing rose stripped off her prickles, and she was a rare blossom, the fairest of her sisters. i heart warmed. to her, he would be most gentle, he would be unconscious of her con- straint. But he must be cautious, it would not do to be too—there his utions failed him, for Miss Mitford, with a second rapid uncertain movement, sank down again into her former position on the shingle, flushing like Aurora. It was his duty, of course, to follow her lead and seat himself beside her, and, late isurely, and witha kind smile, he expression, the anxiety my restlessness, | awocing-as—fo\_working is an excellent To give him his due he made himself ; how fluently he talk and how quietly she listened ; she less as a statue. expression of her beautiful eyes—by the way, how her sweet face grown i that ruffied her brow, the a constraint be- trayed by the way in which she toyed knew what ailed him. Following her gaze across the sea, he began todescant on its beau- tics. Had she watched last night’s sunset, the lights had been—what did that t say ? he was sure Miss Mitford knew whom he meant and what he meant—‘' day di like the dolphin.” Yes, that wasit. Had coast, he declared it to be a most epenr sight ; he would give anything to be with her at Noelcombe when a nor’easter was blowing, and the waves dash roaring up against the rocks and drenched the cliffs a hundred feet aloft with spray. But she would be miserable ; her kind heart would be with the sailors, and her thought of them would blind her eyes to the beauties of the storm. He was getting on fast ; he was going ahead ; to bis comrade’s unutter- able relief, he suddenly drew out his watch and changed the subject. “It is half-past 7,” he announced care- lessly ; he thought that, perhaps, her watchless position had made her re less of time. ‘* At whata pace the time has gone !” Every nerve in her body lustily negatived that remark, but she said : ‘‘Yes, it is very, very late. Won't you ” (timidly) ‘‘ be late for dinner ”” *© Yes,” he returned with a regretful sigh ; ‘‘ unless we start at once, shall probably get no dinner at all” ** Don’t,” she with a sudden bold- ness ; ‘‘ please don’t think it necessary to wait forme. I shall not go home for some time. I don’t know when I shall go home —not for hours and hours.” ““Then,” he returned, gravely, ‘‘ you mean to deprive me altogether of my dinner.” | circumstan ces. She smiled a bewilderindingly kind smile into his face. “*Good-by,” she said, holding out her hand tohim. ‘‘I won’t allow you to stay for another moment. I should never for- give myself if you lost your dinner through your—your politeness, and-don’s you think —I’m ‘sure—at least I think your people will want you and won’t know where you are. A pathetic, pleading note had become entangled in her hesitating tones. He took her cold little hand and held it~ tightly, answering her with some words apt and seft enough to repay her amply for her favor. He fancied that he knew a good deal about the ways of women, but this one puzated him. Game so easy of acquisition was sport not worthy of the mame. But the hand which he held, small and cold though it was struggled stoutly for freedom, so stoutly, indeed, that he released it. Poor Helen ; the failure, or rather the re sult of her final effort to rid herself of this unconscious aggressor overwhelmed her. She was disheartened, preplexed, and tired out. The incoming waves splashed danger- ously near her ; a few minutes more and her resent position woukl be untenable. er mouth quivered perceptibly, and the started to her eyes. Mr. Jones noticed these pre- liminaries with dismay ; he had barely time to feel that matters were getting serious, and to reflect that the kissing away of these tears would bea blessed work, when his. “Won't you go? Will nothing make you go’ she cried, pushing forth, for one moment, from beneath her serge skirt, a bare and bleeding foot ab bri she —, with apregnant gesture. ‘‘I have to wa all the way cre these dreadful, dreadful stones barefoot. I could not find my—my boots or stockings when you frightened me ; ; | they were out there on the rocks ; they have been washed away. Oh! you are laughing —how can you laugh *” and rolled slowly down her cheeks. CHAPTER VII. There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Hpugh-hew them how. we will. SHAKSPEARE, arose from a desire to-screen an inevitable; chagrin, rather than from any sense o humor at the situation, and at her words he became grave asa judge. Indeed, he fels as little inclined to laugh as did Helen her- self at that moment, for he was disagreeably conscious of a. played the coxcomb im: advanced uninvited from all corners, and at all stages of his life, to meet him. At the sight of her distress, he forgot himself ; such a lapse of memory was not quite of so rare an occurence with Mr. Jones as with the majority of his sex. Divestin himself instantly of that gallant air whic DAY, | embarrassed her, with considerable tact and kindliness he soothed Helen into taking a less hopeless view of her position ; and when her tears were dried and she was composed, she found that he had again opened a road His through which she could escape from a diler ma. e faltered. you are so kin Nonsense, ita no tréuble at **Trouble ? time, ani You stay quietly here; no, not just here, but a dozen y in. Get up; oye was,he felt no disinclination to do 80. laced e himself beside her ; his reception had ttered him, he was sure of hi Trust in where are. “No, don’t thank me, t’s absurd. You know it was all my faul for scaring you out of your life on the rocks. . to- ; ” Good-bye, till to-morrow. I wish”—press- she seen a cform at sea? Viewed from the, her drowned gray eyes wereturned tragically |! to hi And the teara in her eyes welled over, } Bat if Mr. Jones had smiled, the smile} “But [ am giving you so much trouble ; th A nu A bt] . ing the hand he held suddenly and firmly— *] wish to heaven that you were coming to our dance to-night.” But before he had reached Noelcombe, when his young blood had had time to cool, and when the extraordinary influence of the girl’s presence was removed, he was no loved, in | longer sure of the truth of that forcibly ex- pressed desire, for he remembered y Lucy to whom he had already engaged himself for half-a-dozen dances, and to whom he quite ‘intended to engage himeelf for life. — ‘ Some time later that evening, Miss Elizabeth Mitford, her spectacles upon ber dewy lawn, with her upgathered skirts in one hand and a jam-pot containmg deadly solution of salt and water in the other. The passion of her nationality, the thirst for sport, shone in her eager, downcast eyes: Auntie, let those wretched slugs live ou for just one more night,” she said ; her suggestions were apt to fall from her auto- cratic lips ‘in the guise of commands. ‘* Come over here, and look at the sea and let me talk to you. When you are slug- hunting, you never hear a word I say.” Thus adjured, the disturbed sportswoman drew herself upright by a stiff effort, and with a guilty confusion turned to her niece. “ My love, I did not see you, I thought you were in the drawing-room singing that odd song of yours. or I should not have come out here. How,” anxiously, ‘‘ are you poor, dear feet ?” Helen looked down critically at those in- aunt’s capacious house boots—cloth boots, they were capped with patent leather, lined with scarlet flannel, side laced, devoid of my. ‘Oh, they ars all right now, Auntie, they don’t hurt at all, I had forgotten them. I assure you, it is awful when they ress their identity on one—as mine did upon me on the beach.” “« Mr. Jones isa most kind-hearted per- son, Helen.” The girl had turned aside to pick a crimson rose from the tree behind her, which she placed in the bosom of her gown; she was humming very softly “It may draw you a tear Or a box on the ear, You can never be sure till you've tried.” ‘* T learned both the value of boots and of messengers,” she answered, watching the ky. Though Miss Elizabeth had obediently joined Helen, ber eyes were not on that miraculous and glorious panorama o changing color to which they had been directed but had crept down to the hunting ground at her feet. “* Auntie,” ina slow, low-pitched tone, ‘+ were you ever in love?” Miss Elizabeth, scrutinizing the lawn, said, with a pre-occupied air. «What did you say, my dear?” “* Were you ever in love?” “Oh, yes, my dear, to be sure I was.” “‘Then you fell in love?” “Yes, yes, certainly I did.” “* Well?” inquisitively. No answer. “ Well, Auntie ?” a little louder, and per- suasively. *s Well—what—m dear !” ‘‘ What happened when you were in love ?” ‘‘ Nothing which I can at this moment recollect, Helen.” ‘Then you were not engaged 7” ‘© Yes, indeed, I was engaged for nearly a year, love. It was an anxious time and ‘Thomas jilted me.” Helen drew in her breath and flushed. Her curiosity had inflicted a wound on this poor lady, who must yet be made of tough material for she had been jilted, jilted, jilted, and yet her outraged pride had not killed her ! Helen, in her angry: distress, could not speak, but the victim of the wrong manifested no agitation, she went on commenting on the circumstance with serene complaisance. ‘*Dear me, Helen, you have no notion ‘how unpleasant it all seemed, and how foolishly I fretted. It is hard to-foresee in i present distress a future gain. Provi- dence was very to me. The poor thing for whom he jilted me became his iwife—a position I was ignorant enough to envy her. She has hada hard ihife, for he e a most uncomfortable and selfish hus- through the inexperience of their extreme youth. * * My esa.me ! Helen, there, look, upon the stalk of that tender icotee? Do you see it? Rapacious little : I must secure him.” And she 1ran back to recommence her engrossing ‘occupation. Then Helen re-entered the little porch and “iw moments later the flsound of music ‘cached Miss Elizabeth through the open window. Helen was singing a new song, unfamiliar to the house- hol Upon the following afternoon the younger Miss Mitford, looking as sweet and fresh and fair as the flowers around her, was fidgeting about the grass plot as she waited for the carriage which Eady Jones had romised should call at four o’clock to pick rup on its way to Rivers Meet. She wore, with sad extravagence, her very best gown, athin electric cotton that matched the color of her eyes, and clad in which she looked her and knew it. In her waistbelt she had carefully stored a whole narterre of her aunt’s choicest carnations ; hee nut-brown lovelocks were arran, rfection beneath the broad brim of her at. . | among the party, but a girl, whom Helen terwards learned afi to be Patricia Jones, called out, listlessly : = ‘* How do you do?” following the ques- ; | tion by the advice to ‘‘Get up as fast as possible, for the horses won't stand.” hose,- was delicately perambulating her} valida which were roaming within her| to | Come along down this path, it | coaching. ER gy rom lack of invitation than want o inclina- tion, she took small part in that ‘‘ feast of reason — her. She was inthe habit of taking her stand in the fo of the acené ; here she was unceremoni thrust into the back- ground, and subsequently ignored—no oubt a wh olesome though for the damsel, who, however, laughed at such witticisms as she ol the company, and craned her neck. a fall sight of the surrounding country, and culled-plenty of pleasure from 50 — i and the other - respective swains, e previous night’sflirtations was being cropped on all sides. . -The young man whom Helen had seen with Mr. Jones in the boat was driving, and by his side on the box-seat Avastasia sat ; such attention as he could spare from the am, Which required careful handling over the Devon roads, she engrorsed. Once, and once only, Patricia addressed her silent guest— **T'm afraid you have not much room, Miss Mitford. My brother said you would go in the landau with my mother, and she forgot all about you and started an hour ago.” Then, turning to the man next her, she went on—‘ Bertie drove Lady Lucy in the dogcart ; she was more than half afraid, but he insisted.” ‘* Have they settled it?” he asked, with that sort of smile which flickers only over one “it.” Miss Jones shrugged her high, broad shoulders. ‘« Bertie is like all the rest of you, Sir Edwin,” she returned—‘‘ doesn’t know his own mind. The fact is he is an unconscion- able flirt, though if one told him so he wouldn’t believe it.” The gentleman addressed murmured some response, at which Patricia’s rosy cheeks grew rosier, and to which she retorted with gratified smiles. Helen was an unsympathetic observer of these soft sages; her lips hardened a little. ‘*They are all moaking fools of themselves—every one,” she thought, and she plumed herself on her superiority te these weaknesses. Up and down the heaving country the strong team of hill-trained horses trotted ‘ast. The air fanned a color into Helen's cheeks, and brightened her eyes. e chaperon of the party was a girl, little older than Helen herself, whose husband was Helen’s neighbor, and who, before they reached their destination, fell into a broken conversation with her. When they alighted at Rivers Meet he elected to con- stitute himself her companion, and though he was heavy, dull, and universally dis- contented, she was compelled to accept his | proffered society, -as- it seemed to be a : choice between him as her squire A girl with a Helen heard addressed as Lady Lucy, was always by his side, and he seemed te bestow soine of that su perfludes energy of his upon the arrange- ment of the picnic, for the servants were flying to and fro at his behests. Now this wise young man had read “‘ the books of weman’s looks rather deeply ; he knew the feminine weakness that p Acad everything except that one thing which she possesses, that values nothing which she owns, ¢but ever casts a covetous eye upon the unattainable, and so, though with considerable reluctance, he scrupuloualy neglected Heleu. The picnic part of the entertainment was worthy of its source— coffee, su, bon-bons, and tea-table accessories beloved of women were pressed upon the gueste by troops of servants. No man n stir a finger on his comrade’s behalf, and there- fore the men for once in a way; enjoyed a picnic. “That is the muster, old chap,” said Helen’s squire with alacrity, addressing Mr. Jones. ‘Come along, Miss Mitford, you and I must be off. Awfully noisy place this —Niagara not in it. Shan’t be sorry to t into the quiet. See you again. Good- ye. Good-bye.” ** Good-bye, Jack,” said he, ‘‘ but it isn’t -bye to Miss Mitford. If she will allow me, I am to have the pleasure of driving her back in my cart. Lucy fancies there 1s going to bea thunderstorm, so she has booked for the landau, and I can’t be sucha brute as to sunder any of the couples on the By this speech Mr. Jones had shown the subtlety of the serpent ; by his indifferent, but imcontestable invitation, he precluded the possibility of Helen’s either refusing his escort or guessing at what pains he had been in ecting the present arrangement. To which arrangement she uiesced quite acy graciously—her pride would not allow her to wince beneath the punishment of her vanity. “ Will you godown and see the start, Miss Mitford? Or will youcome a hundred yards higher up the stream and have a look at the pools ”” She hesitated ; she had no inclination to see the start, she had no interest in her late companions. Mr. Jones read her silence to his liking. “* We won’t see them off. Good-bye’s are melancholy duties, you are quite right- i it’s not ee = and he led the way through the bracken, “but such a ripping place when you get there. We have plenty of time, I am go to drive you home by the New Cut rou the Great Tor—it is a shorter way than the way you came, but the road isn’t safe for You want a head and a steady nerve to appreciate the view, but you , | know.” To this locality Bertie guided his com ge 4h ‘Isnt’t this ripping ?” said he, leaning against the rock, upon a ledge of which she had seated herself. ‘‘I wanted you to see the pools. I knew you would like Rivers Meet. Just look and listen, I won't talk te you. A human voice or a human being is superfluous here. We are too a igni t to assert ourselves ; we ought to take back seats and keep quiet.” {To be Continued.)