THE young lady was instantly grave, with even a little fiery gleam of anger in her eyes, he thought. He could not help raising his also, now quite gravely and even respectfully, looking on her.

“I think you know who we are,” she said a little suddenly and haughtily.

“You are at present living at Malory, I believe,” said he, with a respectful evasion.

“Yes; but I mean who we are,” said Margaret, very pale, very proud, and with her splendid hazel eyes fixed full upon him with the irresistible inspiration of truth.

“I have heard — in part accidentally — something.”

“Yes,” said the girl; “you are Mr. Cleve Verney, and my name is Fanshawe; and my father, Sir Booth Fanshawe, is at present living at Malory.”

“My dear! are you mad?” gasped Miss Sheckleton aghast.

“Yes. We are the people who live at Malory, and my father had hoped that he might have escaped there the observation of all but the very few persons who take a friendly interest in him. The place was looked out and taken for us by a person of whom we know nothing — a clergyman, I believe. I have now, for the first time, learned from that gravestone to whom the place belongs. We know nothing of the townspeople or of neighbours. We have lived to ourselves; and if he had known that Malory belonged to the Verneys, I hope you believe he would neither have been mad or mean enough to come here, to live in the house of his enemies.”

“Oh, Margaret! Margaret! you have ruined your father,” said poor Miss Sheckleton, pale as a ghost, and with her trembling fingers in the air.

“I assure you, Miss Fanshawe,” said Cleve, “you do me a cruel injustice, when you class me with Sir Booth Fanshawe’s enemies. There have been those miserable money matters, in which I never had, nor could have had, any influence whatsoever. And there has been political hostility, in which I have been the victim rather than the aggressor. Of course, I’ve had to fight my battles as best I could; but I’ve never done anything unfair or unmanly. You plainly think me a personal enemy of Sir Booth’s. It pains me that you do so. In the sense in which you seem to think it, I never was, nor in any sense could I continue to be so, in his present — his present —”

The young man hesitated for a word or a paraphrase to convey a painful meaning without offence.

“His present ruin, and his approaching exile,” said the young lady.

“I’m sure, sir, what you say is exactly so,” pleaded poor Miss Sheckleton, nervously. “It was, as you say, all about elections, and that kind of thing, which, with him, you know, never can be again. So, I’m sure, the feeling is all over. Isn’t it, Mr. Verney?”

“I don’t think it matters much,” said the young lady, in the same tone of haughty defiance. “I don’t — girls, I believe, never do understand business and politics. All I know is this — that my father has been ruined. My father has been ruined, and that, I hope, will satisfy his enemies. I know he thinks, and other people think — people in no way mixed up in his affairs — people who are impartial— that it was the cruelty and oppression of Mr. Kiffyn Verney, your uncle, I think you say — that drove him to ruin. Well, you now know that my father is at Malory.”

“He does, darling. We may be overheard,” said Miss Sheckleton in an imploring tremor.

But the young lady continued in the same clear tone —

“I can’t say what is considered fair and manly, as you say, in political enmity; but, seeing what it has done, I have no reason to believe it very scrupulous or very merciful; therefore, with some diffidence, I ask only, whether you can promise that he shall not be molested for a few days, until some other refuge shall have been provided for us? And when we shall have left England for ever, you will have no more to fear from my father, and can afford, I think, to forget his name.”

There was a kind of contradiction here, or rather one of those discords which our sense of harmony requires, and mysteriously delights in-for while her language was toned with something of the anguish of pleading, her mien and look were those of a person dictating terms to the vanquished. Had she but known all, they might have been inspired by the workings of his heart. Her colour had returned more brilliantly, her large eyes gleamed, and her beautiful eyebrow wore that anguine curve which is the only approach to a scowl which painters accord to angels. Thus, though her tones were pathetic, she stood like a beautiful image of Victory.

In the silence that followed, Cleve stood before her for a moment confounded. Too many feelings were on a sudden set in motion by this girl’s harangue, to find a distinct resultant in words. His pride was stung — something of anger was stirred within him; his finer sympathies, too, were moved, and a deeper feeling still.

“I’m afraid you think me a very mean person, indeed,” said Cleve. “To no one, not to my uncle, not to any living person, will I so much as hint that I know anything of Sir Booth Fanshawe’s present place of abode. I don’t think that we men are ever quite understood by you. I hope that is it. I hope it is not that you entertain a particularly ill opinion of me. I haven’t deserved it, you’ll find I never shall. I hope you will employ me. I hope, Miss Sheckleton, you will employ me, whenever, in any way, you think I can be of use. Your having, although I know it is perfectly accidental, come to Malory, places me under a kind of obligation, I wish you would allow me to think so, of hospitality; there is no room for generosity here; it would be a misplaced phrase; but I wish, very much, that you would put my goodwill to the proof, and rely upon my fidelity; o............