ingly; "of course. . . I . . meant. . . to.. propose. marriage to your sister, if I obtained her consent... but.. that I have no hope of . . ." "Leave that to me; my sister's destiny is in my hands. The man whom I have seen kneeling at her feet, and tête-à-tête with her the while, that man becomes her husband, or my antagonist to the death. Am I to understand that you propose for my sister ?-speak, my lord." "I . . . do," faltered the old earl. "So far so good. The marriage, a strictly private one, takes place, then, to-morrow. But now listen: though of a proud and noble family, I am a poor man; my sister's talent is my chief support; you deprive me of this, and that without preparation. To-morrow she is the Countess of Gripeall, and I lose ten thousand pounds; that I require you to make good to me." "Ten thousand pounds! Make that sum good to you! It is impossible-I cannot do it!" "Well, then, perhaps you will name your friend." "Friend! Oh no, I have no friend!" "Oh! some one will act as second for you. Be quick! my time is short. After our meeting.. "To make dishonourable proposals to my sister! by Heaven, sir!" and De Ville ... • neuve, lashing himself into a rage, seemed about to seize on the earl, when the latter hastily drew out his pocket-book, asked for a pen and ink, and said "Let it be five thousand," "Sir, I am not to be trifled with. "Oh! no, by no manner of means." "You agree then..." "Yes, if the lady consents..." "Leave that to me." "Be you here to-morrow, and with a special licence. You will give me that cheque tomorrow, after the ceremony; so that is all. My lord, now au revoir to-morrow!" Away tottered the crestfallen earl. "That is well," said De Villeneuve to himself, rubbing his hands. "Ten thousand pounds-no bad day's work-Zelie a countess, and I free!...Now, to manage her! She will be more difficult than the earl, for she has no fears; no, I must work upon her love-Bravo, Alphonse De Villeneuve! Ah! my lord, it was an evil spirit that tempted you to fall on those stiff old knees. I'll call you brother, or I'll call you out." It were painful to trace the arts by which De Villeneuve wrought on the wretched, heartbroken Zelie; suffice it to say, that the next morning's sun shone upon her, as Zelie, Countess of Gripeall. VOL. III. K CHAPTER LXVI. "My curse upon thy venom'd stang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines." BURNS. The intensely cold winter had passed away; and, spite of the unwonted severity of the season, what with double windows, immense fires, sledging and long walks, amid the beautiful winter scenery of the place, it had passed happily. Miss Tibby reconciled herself to the stoves, which at first she abominated: she soon found any kind of warmth preferable to a degree of cold, of which in England we can form no idea. With her room heated to excess, her knitting, her abuse of Switzerland, and her sweet reminiscences of Scotland and Donald o' the brae, she contrived to get through the long winter months. The old bear a monotonous life better than the young; bodily comfort supplies the place of mental excitement; and, when warm, and provided with her knitting, and a listener, Miss Tibby would sit complacently enough, declaring that the hills and the pine forests were "jist naething at a'," to what they were in Scotland; and, as for the distant Alps, "they were na worth the fuss made about them, but were jist ghosts o' mountains, compared to those o' her ain dear land, and na fit to hold a candle to them." Poor Grunter, who had professed an intention of devoting himself during his retreat to writing a work, which was to be a sort of sequel to his "History of Philosophy, and Philosophy of History," had become in this cold region a martyr to an inexorable yet con |