"Illness, I am sorry to say," said Sir Charles.

"Illness!" repeated Abel, looking sternly at his step-mother, "why when I saw him this morning-"

Poor Mrs. de Snobyn, the fates were certainly against her this day; but there was no help for it, and she hastened to interrupt her step-son ere the conclusion of his ill-timed observation.

"He did indeed appear charmingly well this morning, Abel, but I have almost learnt to dread those exuberant spirits, as the certain forerunners of illness. They are almost always succeeded by the nervous attacks to which your poor father is so subject, and under one of which he is suffering now."

All this sounded natural enough, and reasonable enough to people who knew nothing about it, and though Abel did not in his heart believe a word of it, he did

not suffer this to appear. He doubted the

fact of any nervous illness at all, save such as was induced by his lady mother's utter absence of sympathy in his feelings and complaints; for his father had appeared to improve since his return, a circumstance which Abel was not slow to attribute to the fact of his children clustering more about him, whether impelled by Mrs. de Snobyn's policy, or their own awakened feelings at witnessing Abel's daily assiduous and solicitous attendance on him.

Not venturing to look Abel steadily in the face, Mrs. de Snobyn continued :

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My cousin was so kind as to wish to see all my family, but I left Charlotte and Octavius to attend upon their father."

"You did perfectly right, you could not have done better, Charlotte is cheerful and affectionate, and Octavius merry and warmhearted you could not have done better."

All this was very well.

Abel at once

changed the topic of conversation, and exerted himself to support it, and the cloud had passed away, and all was cheerful courtesy when dinner was announced.

CHAPTER XXI.

"WELL, mother, have you introduced Maude to Ariel, or rather, I suppose, Ariel to Maude," said Redwald to Lady Marchmont, as the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room after dinner.

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No indeed, Redwald, I would not forestal you in that pleasure."

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Always kind and considerate, my

mother," said Redwald, as he rang the bell to desire that the dog and all its belongings might be brought from Lady Marchmont's dressing-room.

"The dog!" exclaimed Maude, "then have you really brought me a little greyhound?"

"I have."

"An Italian greyhound, really?" "An Italian greyhound, really: did I not promise you one ?"

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Yes, but I feared you might forget." "Forget! Miss Snobbins," said Redwald, in mock heroics, "pray, when did a chivalrous knight ever forget a promise to the vowed lady of his affections, the inspirer of his valour; whose favour nerved his arm, and whose smile pointed his lance, though it might be but to pluck a hair from the Soldan's beard, or a withered leaf from the burning plains of Palestine, or carry a little dog from Italy? Miss Snobbins, you have wounded me deeply-I am deeply hurt."