CHAPTER IV.

THE day came for Georgy's anticipated visit; but Mrs. Everett was gone, and the party only consisted of a matron friend of Mrs. Lewis, one or two sporting gentlemen, and Mr. Erskine, a distant cousin of Georgy's, whom she had never seen. She felt very childish and small as she crept down-stairs, wondering what the people would be like, and wishing that her old ball-dress could by any possibility look like the pretty "demi-toilettes" of the other ladies. It was nearly dark, but there were no candles, only the bright streaming firelight, as she came into the drawing-room before dinner. The two ladies were standing in the window, and a tall man by the fire; he turned round quietly, and courteously claimed Miss Sandon's acquaintance on the score of cousinship. His greeting was so easy and self-possessed, so unlike the usual spasmodic civilities of the Eastham gentlemen, that she seemed to be on a different footing with him from the rest of her acquaintance.

The evening passed on, until the gentlemen were entering the drawing-room after dinner, and the

ladies were busily talking to each other. Georgy was on a sofa, in the corner, as busily working at á large parrot. She had wondered, during dinner, what Mr. Erskine was saying across the table; and now she wondered whether he would speak to her. He stood turning over a newspaper at the table, and looked up as if he was uncertain where he should place himself. A more fastidious woman than she was might have watched him, and felt pleased that he should talk to her: so Georgy thought, at least, and always did think. He put down the paper, came towards the sofa, and sat there all the evening.

He talked as other clever people talk every night

—that brilliant generalizing talk, which is so easily attained, and may be caught almost with the atmosphere which you live in; those terse picturesque expressions that a very short reading of Carlyle teaches one to fall into, and that comprehensive Eclecticism which the current wisdom of the age affords. He was not one to be easily forgotten, and, like all good talkers, had his special brilliancies, which can hardly be defined in general terms. The wonder of that conversation may be a little explained, as perhaps may most wonders; but the first time that it is heard, when it bursts unexpectedly upon a totally new and ignorant hearer, it sounds very grand, and does indeed call forth a deep, hearty tribute of admiration.

It was a strange lightening and widening of her view into existence. She knew nothing of the books or the life which might enable others to talk like him. To her he was not only the clever man that saner eyes would have seen, but he filled up the whole space which her mental vision could embrace. She had always lived in a passive state of intellectual inanition, and now her intellect and heart seemed one: felt thoroughly aroused, fully satisfied.

Both the ladies had sung, and Mr. Erskine had not listened; the other gentlemen had, and had acquitted themselves, like Englishmen, of their evening's duty. The sound of Mr. Lewis's voice aroused Georgy.

"Erskine, offer Miss Sandon some wine and water; the ladies are going."

Mr. Lewis did not stand contradiction at any time, and there was nothing, alas! in this proposition which could be denied. Presently the ladies were on their way up stairs, and Mr. Erskine had bowed to Georgy, leaving her with the impression that he was more at a distance from her than when he had first said. "How do you do?" She had expected, as a matter of course, that he would shake hands with her. He had that perfect self-possession which, with a most good-natured gentle manner, can sometimes awe one into a distance again, after seeming to claim a certain degree of intimacy, almost a right to it. Georgy

went up stairs, quite oblivious of the ladies and those dresses which had made her feel her own nothingness so intensely but a few hours before. She had no thought for the future that night; her happiness had no connection with her outer life; the form of that was decided upon, and the thought of her marriage did not come before her more prominently, or weigh upon her more than usual. The consciousness that such an one as James Erskine existed was enough, and seemed to give an end and aim to her whole being. She was glad to know that he was in the world-to think that she should sometimes see him: glad without any afterthought. She did not love him: there would have appeared a degree of profanity and presumption in the thought; but she never did think it. She woke up once or twice in the night with her heart still beating, and still happy, as children are before a great treat or some anticipated holiday.

CHAPTER V.

JAMES ERSKINE was a lawyer; and the grass, trees, and quiet of Millthorpe Grange would almost have sufficed to put him in a good humour after the dust and glare of London. Perhaps it was because of his new-found enjoyment of autumnal beauties that he stayed on so pertinaciously at the old hall. Perhaps he took pleasure in Mr. Lewis's society: he certainly found a wondrous deal to say to him, and appeared to enjoy that crotchety, dull man's ways more than most of his other friends did. Poor Mrs. Lewis was very suddenly indisposed, and did not appear downstairs for nearly a fortnight; Mrs. Lawrence was most of the day with her, writing to Mr. Lawrence, or working for the children. She had no natural love of gossip and husband, housekeeping, and babies, absorbed her too much to leave her any leisure for speculating on the thoughts and actions of others. She was one of those women who are so thoroughly absorbed in matrimony that they possess, apart from that, no individuality. Kind soul! she had charity and forgiveness for every one, except