there's a fellow alive who could feel anything about himself when he's with you at least, except to feel that he felt . . .

"There ! See how mysterious you are. I'm afraid you're chaffing me," put in the lady, delivering Tom a glance that might have upset an ascetic of seventy.

"Oh! This is too bad-and I can't stand it," cried Mr. Bendibow with a groan. Then he burst out: "It's you I feel about, Perdita ! and I don't care who knows it! I've met lots of women in my life, and . . . all that sort of thing: but I never met a woman like you, and there isn't such another in the whole world and if you would only. . . look here! Can't you feel that way for me? Oh, do!"

"Oh, Tom, is it really about me?" exclaimed the lovely Marquise, in the tenderest warble of a voice. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him with a hesitating wonder; as if, in the first place, she had that instant realised the fact that such a person as herself existed; and secondly, was struggling to comprehend so incredible a circumstance as that another person should exist who could regard her otherwise than with indifference. Miranda upon Setebos would have appeared a sophisticated woman of the world beside the Marquise at that moment.

Having allowed this shaft time to rankle, she proceeded: "But why do you ask me whether I feel for you? You know I love you, Tom: I have never tried to disguise it."

"You love me! Oh, Perdita!" cried the young gentleman, fairly breaking into a giggle of happiness.

"Of course I love you: how should I not?"

"But you know," said he, suddenly becoming grave with a momentary misgiving, "you know, I mean marrying-husband and wife, you know."

"Ah, well, now I do understand you," returned she, with a smile of radiant sympathy. "You mean to marry, and you are going to tell me all about it! Sit down here beside me and begin. Is she worthy of you, Tom? But first tell me her name."

"Her name?" faltered Mr. Bendibow. "Why, it's you!"

"I must be very stupid," said the Marquise, with an air of perplexity. "I meant to ask you what was the name of the lady you intended to marry?"

"Don't I tell you, it's you? Who else could it be, since we both love each other?

"You, Thomas Bendibow, marry me!" she exclaimed, assuming an aspect of mingled amazement and indignation: and she added, with a tragic tone and gesture, "You are trifling with me, sir!"

"Upon my soul, Perdita, I never was further from trifling in my life," said the unhappy Thomas, quaking at he knew not what, while tears filled his eyes. "I mean an honest thing, and I mean it with all my heart. I can't think what you're so angry at.”

"You have shocked me inexpressibly, Tom-shocked and grieved me. I really cannot attempt to express what you have made me suffer. You-my brother-the only brother I have ever had-to betray my confidence, and twist your sister's words in this way! I shall never trust another man as long as I live-no, never!"

"But I never thought of it in that way . . . and besides, you're not my sister at all!" cried Tom, from pale becoming very red. "You know very well that my father is no more yours than he is that fellow Lancaster's. If you don't want to have me, you ought to put it on some fairer ground than that. I've offered you the most a man can give to a woman, and I was in right dead earnest too; and I think you might take it so."

The Marquise, having played out the little comedy of the ingénue to her satisfaction, was now ready to deal with the matter on a less fanciful basis. "Sit down here, Tom," she said, “and look at me, my dear. Yes, I am a beautiful woman, and I am wise-at least ten times as wise as you will ever be, Tom; and I have seen the worldthe great world; and . . . I'm a widow! All the finest gentlemen in Europe have made love to me. I knew you would be fancying you had lost your heart to me, too; and I wished, for both our sakes, to have the affair over as soon as possible. You could no more be my husband, my dear, than you could wear the moon on your watchchain. My husband-if I ever have another-will be a man wiser, stronger, and handsomer than I am; a man who can rule me with a word or a look; a king of men-and that is more than a king of nations. How near do you come to being such a man as that? You and I might go to church together, and a priest might pronounce the marriage service over us; but it would take a great deal more than a priest and a marriage service, Tom, to make you and me man and wife! The man who can be my husband will have no need of forms of law and religion to keep me safe; though we would have those too," she added, with an odd smile, "because it's proper!"

"I know well I'm nothing very great, as yet, myself," said Tom, pulling up his stock ruefully, and trying to maintain as manly a bearing as possible; "but loving a woman like you makes a fellow ever so much better, and more of a fellow, than he was before. If it hadn't been for that, I shouldn't have had the pluck, maybe, to say anything. But if you won't have me, Perdita, I suppose. . . I shall have . .

to do without you.

And I wish I'd never been born! I beg your

pardon-I think I'll go."

"No; I shall keep you here until you are happy," said Perdita firmly, laying her hand on the youth's arm as he was about to rise. At her touch he subsided, helpless.

"There is something you'd enjoy much better than being my husband," continued the Marquise, looking at him kindly; "and you'll have no rivals either. I need a brother, Tom; much more, perhaps, than I need a husband. I want a friend; no woman can be my friend, and no man, unless you will. Don't you think it might be pleasant to be my friend? Would you rather be that, or— nothing?"

"I don't know what I want, if I can't have you. I'm awfully miserable. Look here-I hope you won't marry any other fellow. I could stand anything but that. Well, I'll see if I can be your friend. Better break my heart with you than away from you, I suppose! Only I won't have you call me brother-that would be too desperate! Look here, do you know who your father is?"

"I know who he was."

"Well, he is still. He's back here. Don't you know? You were talking with him long enough the other day. Didn't he tell you ?"

"Who do you mean?" demanded Perdita, lifting her head high, and looking at him intently.

"Why, old Grant, to be sure! Grantley's his real name, and he's your father.":

Perdita looked aside, with a thoughtful expression, and presently said, "He didn't tell me that."

"Well, he is," Tom rejoined. "Who told you so?"

"I heard my father and Merton Fillmore talking about it in the drawing-room. And that's what's been bothering me ever since. I hoped you'd know something about it. Because if he's the thief and scoundrel my father says he is, why don't they have him arrested? Instead of that, my father acts as if he was afraid of him. It's as if my father was the scoundrel, and Grantley the honest man. I don't like it a bit; but I won't ask my father about it—it wouldn't be decent."

"I see," murmured Perdita, meditating. didn't tell me! It may be an imposture,

"I wonder why he

but he could have

no motive for that. Besides, he couldn't impose on Sir Francis. Yes, it does seem strange, Tom. Let me think!"

She leaned back in the chair, and folded and unfolded the work in her lap, with her eyes downcast. She had evidently forgotten all about Tom. That unfortunate youth sat staring at her with burning eyes. How little he cared about his father, or anything else, in comparison with her! And she would never be his! Tom suppressed a groan, and felt the hollowness of life. He longed to do something frantic, extraordinary, heroic. Not to forget himself in dissipationhe loved her too truly for that; but to rise to the level of such a man as might worthily possess her. Since that happiness could never be his, to deserve it would be the next best thing. And perhaps, after all, no achievement could be so arduous and heroic as to be her friend-her true and unselfish friend. Some day she would esteem him at his true value and thank him. She should be made to feel that he was not a child, and that he was something more than a brother. Hereupon Tom felt an aching in his throat, and two tears trickled down his face; he surreptitiously wiped them away.

up.

"Will you do something for me, my dear ?" said Perdita, looking

Tom nodded, not wishing, just at that moment, to trust his voice. "This thing will have to be cleared up some time," she continued, "and it might as well be now. You can help me already, you see.

You shall be my friend and my

I can do nothing without you. confidant. If that man is my father, I must see him again, and find out. . . whatever he has to tell me."

"What shall you do when you have found out?"

"Then we can consult together, since we are both interested." "If there should be anything wrong

about my

father"

"We will arrange to have it kept secret. Mr. Grant-or whoever he is cannot profit by any public revelation; and I'm sure I wish Sir Francis nothing but good. I should have preferred not to have the matter coine up at all; and I told Mr. Grant as much; but since others know it, I must; and it must be settled definitely."

"What shall we do?"

"You go to Mr. Grant and tell him, or stop! I'll write a note for you to take to him. You'll find him, I suppose, at the Lockharts' house in Hammersmith. Give the letter into his own hands.

Will you do that for me?"

"I wish I could die for you, Perdita," was his reply, with a look of outward emphasis that made it impressive.

She glanced sidelong at him, and drew in her breath with a halfsigh. He was an honest fellow and loved her truly. was sorry, for a moment, that she could not love him.

Perhaps she
For it is the

pleasure of fate to turn the affairs of lovers topsy-turvy; and even as redoubtable a marquise as Perdita might one day find herself discomfited in somewhat the same way that Tom was now. However, fate is fate, and cannot be defeated.

"I love myself too well to send you on any deadly errand," she said, following up the sigh, with a smile. "Shall I write the note now?"

"Yes, if you'll be so kind. My mare needs exercise, and I shall like to ride over to Hammersmith this evening. 'Tis not six o'clock yet."

So Perdita sat down and wrote her letter, and gave it to Tom, and also gave him her hand to kiss. But he said, "Not yet, if you please; I couldn't kiss it the right way."

Perdita said nothing. But after her rejected suitor had departed, with her letter stowed away in the breast of his coat, she looked in the glass, and murmured, with a queer little laugh, "Is that a blush that I see!"

Tom marched home with a solemn and dignified air, and, having caused his mare to be saddled, he mounted her and set out for Hammersmith on the errand which, neither to him nor to Perdita, seemed to involve any deadly peril.

(To be continued.)