noisy crowds, and a meagre young lady in wrinkled tights and short gauze skirt appeared in mid-air above the heads of the spectators, pursuing her tottering way upon a rope depending between two thick posts. Another person of the same sex, in a nondescript costume, remarkable chiefly for its spangles, was causing wonder by her affectionate familiarities with a gaunt beast which seemed to have entered natural history on its sole responsibility, though it was only a black bear with its hair shaved off. For those whose ambition prompted them to draw aside the veil of futurity, there was provided a long-bearded soothsayer in a glittering hermitage, who had spent his leisure in committing the history of coming ages to scraps of paper, which he disposed of at from a shilling to half a crown each. Around and between these various centres of interest the crowd twisted, shifted, elbowed, and threaded itself in and out, talking, shouting, whispering, laughing, and staring. Representatives of all classes were there: the country squire in green coat, white corduroys, and drab gaiters: young bloods in dark-blue coats, red-striped waistcoats, buckskins, hessians, and neckcloths: others in beruffled opera dress, with black silk tights and cocked hats: bruisers in loose brown jockeys and white-topped boots: theatrical characters, cleanshaven, with white lamb's-wool stockings and blue-and-bird's-eye kerchiefs sharpers in rakish but threadbare attire, their legs encased in tight pantaloons tied at the ankles, thin shoes, and with rouge on their lank cheeks; women in bonnets like funnels, or huge hats and feathers, with short-waisted gowns and long gloves, stout and thin, tall and short, coquettish and timid, pretty and ugly a mixed and parti-coloured assemblage, all come ostensibly to enjoy themselves, and few knowing whether they were doing so or not; altogether a comical, melancholy, absurd, pathetic, restless, aimless, anomalous mass of human beings, illustrating the fact that between frank barbarism and civilisation out for a holiday, the difference, such as it is, is not in favour of the latter.

:

After wandering about the place, and meeting with a number of trifling adventures, such as receiving proffers of gallantry from fashionable gentlemen, one or two of whom she was acquainted with, little as they suspected whose dark eyes were glancing at them behind the blue silk veil; or being swept away unexpectedly into the whirl of a country dance, in the course of which Madame Cabot's bonnet became badly demoralised; or being pressingly invited to drink beer by an hilarious party of young men and women, whose recommendations were evidently the outcome of experience ;-after sundry vicissitudes of this kind, all of which greatly amused the

Marquise and made her laugh heartily-the two ladies became weary of keeping their feet amidst so much jostle and uproar, and sought out a spot where they might sit down and contemplate the spectacle at their leisure. With this purpose they made their way to a range of boxes or cabinets, facing upon a large open space, and connected behind with an establishment for the supply of rack-punch and ham sandwiches. Having rented the right of sole occupancy of one of these boxes for the evening, they made themselves as comfortable in it as the narrow and angular fashion of the chairs permitted. The lamps flaring on the front of the box left the interior in comparative shadow; and the seclusion could be increased by drawing some flimsy red curtains, which dangled from a brass rod across the entrance. Other parties were in the adjoining boxes on either side, and their conversation was indistinctly audible on the background of the prevailing hubbub.

Perdita moved her chair into the right-hand corner, in order that she might eke out the accommodation of her chair by leaning against the partition. After she had remained for some time in this position, her eyes wandering over the multiform elements of the unorganised drama before her, she became aware that some one was speaking on the other side of the thin boarding that separated her from the next cabinet. Words and parts of sentences were here and there distinguishable; but these would have had no interest for Perdita, had she not suddenly made the discovery that the voice was one which she knew. Several moments passed, however, before she was able to connect the voice, in her mind, with the person to whom it belonged. It was a woman's voice, rather low, but with a penetrative quality in it-a peculiar voice, both in timbre and intonation. Whose was it? It was, of course, impossible for Perdita to see the speaker, unless she had gone outside for the purpose. Possibly her curiosity might ultimately have led her to do this; but she was saved the trouble by presently recollecting that the speaker in question was none other than Marion Lancaster.

At first, though it surprised her, the discovery did not especially startle the Marquise. There was nothing wonderful in Philip's taking his wife to see Vauxhall, although it might not be the place which a newly married couple of their rank and disposition would most naturally visit. At this point, however, it occurred to Perdita, with the thrill of a genuine sensation, that Philip could not be there. He was out of town, having taken the coach that afternoon to St. Albans to meet the Earl of Seabridge, who had written to make the appointment on a matter of business. This Perdita happened to

know, because Philip had stopped at her house in the morning to present her with an illustrated edition of "Iduna," which had just come out; and had then mentioned that he was on his way northward, and would not return before the evening of the following day. It was the first night that he had been separated from his wife since their marriage. That Marion should have chosen that very night to go to Vauxhall was, therefore, fairly remarkable. For what purpose could she have come? Was Mrs. Lockhart with her? Could Philip have been aware of her intention ?

Though the solution of these problems was none of Perdita's business, she nevertheless listened very intently in the hope of hearing something that might elucidate them. It was impossible to make out anything consecutive, the rather since what Marion said was in detached sentences, and the replies of her companion, who was apparently a female servant, were of a like character. The following bits of dialogue, however, seemed to detach themselves from the medley :—

"I fear he has not come," said Marion.

""Tis early yet, ma'am," replied the other. "Maybe he . ." The rest was inaudible.

"Be sure you tell me if you see any one I know," Marion said after a while: "it must never be known..."

"No one 'ud know you, ma'am . . . so you can be easy on that score."

". . . cannot stay here much longer. If he does not appear soon . . it might come to the knowledge of my husband, and . . .”

Here the fragmentary sentences ceased altogether to be distinguishable, Marion having apparently removed to another part of her box. But Perdita had heard enough to convince her that something out of the common was going on. Marion had come secretly to Vauxhall, taking advantage of her husband's absence, in order to meet some gentleman who had not yet made his appearance. So much was evident, and it was enough to place Marion in a light which, to say the best of it, was ambiguous. Perdita knew not what to make of it. Though not prone to be over-charitable in her judgments on her own sex, the Marquise was too keen a reader of character ever to have supposed that Marion was capable of an immoral intrigue. Yet here was certainly an intrigue, and it was difficult to see how it could be altogether an innocent one. Perdita, in fact, made no special effort in this direction; what puzzled her was that a woman of Marion's intelligence should have chosen Vauxhall, of all places in the world, to meet a lover in. True, there is a certain

kind of safety in a crowd; and there might be particular circumstances rendering Vauxhall a desirable trysting-place in this instance: and, in short, there is never any accounting for affairs of this kind on logical grounds they are controlled by too many unknown and unknowable conditions. A more interesting matter of speculation regarded the identity of the man whom Marion had favoured with her preference. He could not well be handsomer than Philip, Perdita thought, or cleverer, or, in a general way, more attractive. But, of course, Marion must be of a different opinion. Who, then, was to her mind the superior person? The Marquise rapidly reviewed the names and characters of the various gentlemen with whom Marion was likely to be on confidential terms; but one seemed about as likely as another, and none of them, to say the truth, seemed likely at all. In the midst of her perplexity, Marion and her attendant were heard to rise, and a minute later they came out of their box and walked away slowly, looking about them. It was Marion, beyond a doubt, and the attendant was a middle-aged woman in whom Perdita fancied she recognised Mrs. Lancaster's private maid, who had been formerly a servant of Mrs. Lockhart.

For a moment, Perdita had an impulse to issue forth and follow them, and see the end of the adventure. But a regard for her own dignity, as well as a sentiment of respect for another woman's secret, combined to restrain her. It was enough to know that Marion had a mystery of this kind to conceal; and possibly (such is the way. wardness of the moral sense) the revelation of that fact raised, rather than lowered, Marion in Perdita's esteem. That a woman of Marion's apparently passionate candour and simplicity should all the time be hiding so hazardous a secret, evinced a force and depth of character such as Perdita had not been prepared for. She was a woman to be reckoned with: and the Marquise admitted to herself with a curious smile that, with all her own keenness and knowledge of the world, she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of her.

And yet, after all, might not the mistake be in supposing herself to have been mistaken? Might not Marion be the innocent victim of appearances? Could her presence there be merely the result of a thoughtless frolic, as was the case with Perdita herself? But against this view was to be set the conclusive testimony of the passages of conversation she had overheard. She had not overheard much, to be sure; but much or little, it had been conclusive so far as it went; it had proved that Marion came to Vauxhall to meet some man. What man? Was there any man whom she could meet

innocently? Perdita could think of none. Stay! Might it not be Merton Fillmore?

It was to the last degree improbable, and contrary to reason; but it might nevertheless be Fillmore, and if so, the occasion of their meeting must be business and not love for Perdita was tolerably convinced that she knew where Merton Fillmore's heart was. But what business, that could not be better discussed in Fillmore's office, or in Marion's house, could there be between them? or what likelihood was there that a man like Fillmore would go to Vauxhall on any consideration? There was no likelihood of it. It could not be Fillmore, and yet it must be Fillmore: Perdita wished it to be Fillmore though whether she wished it because of Fillmore, or because of Marion, or because of herself, she could not perhaps have told.

This episode, be the significance and upshot of it what they might, had loomed so large as to obscure whatever other grotesque entertainment Vauxhall might have contained for the Marquise Desmoines; and, moreover, the sight of Marion's rashness had impelled her seriously to reflect upon her own. She resolved to go home without delay; and having tied her veil more closely about her face, and roused Madame Cabot, who had dropped asleep in her corner of the box, with her snuff-box open on her lap, she took that lady's bony arm, and they went forth into the assemblage.

Their progress was not so rapid as they could have wished. The rack-punch and other drinkables had made the crowd more noisy and boisterous, while the numbers had certainly not diminished. Perdita had need of all her wits and courage to avoid getting into trouble, while Madame Cabot was thoroughly frightened, and gave frequent vent to dismal little shrieks and moans, which had the effect of attracting the attention which Perdita was so anxious to avoid. All at once, in the midst of the general turmoil, some loud cries were heard, and there was a rush in the direction whence they proceeded. "A fight! a fight!" cried one gentleman, pressing forward enthusiastically. "A fight? 'tis a murder!" returned another. ""Tis nought but a fellow in a fit," said a third, who had mounted on a lamp-post. "He's drunk! put him out, stifle me!" exclaimed another, with the righteous indignation of inebriety. "Come along, Jack 'tis no business of ours," remarked a gorgeously attired female, seizing her companion by the arm. Meanwhile Perdita and Madame Cabot were taking advantage of the rush of the crowd in one direction to push their way in the other, which was comparatively deserted. By a roundabout way they were approaching the entrance, and had just passed a guardian of the peace, who was