"You speak in parables."

"You are yet in twilight, dear Constance." The Professor rose and laid her hand on the

young Countess's arm. Child, your generous heart has divined what your logic would have made it impossible for you to perceive a great truth, perhaps the greatest of truths. Go on."

"Have I? The House would not allow me to say it, then; my own friends deserted me; a vote of want of confidence was hurriedly passed by a majority of 235 to 22; and "-the young Minister laughed bitterly-"there is an end of my great schemes."

"For a time—yes," said the Professor. "But, Constance, there is a greater work before you than you suspect or dream. Greatest of the women of all time, my child, shall you beif what I hope may be brought to pass. Let not this little disappointment of an hour vex you any longer. Go-gain strength in the

country meditate-and read."

"Oh, read!" cried the girl, impatiently; "I

am sick of reading."

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Read," continued the Professor; "readwith closed doors-the forbidden books. They stand in your own castle, locked up in cases; they have not been destroyed because they are not known to exist. Read Shakespeare."

Events which followed prevented the Countess from undertaking this course of study; for she remained in town. From time to time the Professor was wont to startle her by reading or quoting some passage which appealed to her imagination as nothing in modern poetry seemed able to do. She knew that the passage came from one of the old books which had been put away, locked up, or destroyed. It was generally a passage of audacity, clothing a revolutionary sentiment in words which burned themselves into her brain, and seemed alive. She never forgot these words, but she dared not repeat them. And she knew herself that the very possession of the sentiments, the knowledge. that they existed, made her "dangerous," as her enemies called her; for most of them were on the attributes of man.

The conversation was interrupted by a servant, who brought the Countess a note.

"How very imprudent!" cried Constance, reddening with vexation. "Why will the boy do these wild things? Help me, Professor. My cousin, Lord Chester, wants to see me, and is coming, by himself, to my house-here-immediately."

"Surely I am sufficient guardian of the proprieties, Constance. We will say, if you like, that the boy came to see his old tutor. Let him come, and, unless he has anything for your ear alone, I can be present.'

"Heaven knows what he has to say," his cousin sighed. "Always some fresh escapade, some kicking over the limits of convention.' She was standing at the window, and looked out. "And here he comes, riding along Park Lane as if it were an open common."

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CHAPTER II.

THE EARL OF CHESTER.

"EDWARD!" cried Constance, giving her cousin her hand, "is this prudent? You ride down Park Lane as if you were riding after hounds, your unhappy attendant-poor girl!-trying in vain to keep up with you; and then you descend openly, and in the eyes of all, alone, at my door-the door of your unmarried cousin. Consider me, my dear Edward, if you are careless about your own reputation. Do you think I have no enemies? Do you think young Lord Chester can go anywhere without being seen and reported? Do you think all women have kind hearts and pleasant tongues?"

The young man laughed, but a little bitterly.

с

"My reputation, Constance, may just as well be lost as kept. What do I care for my reputation ?"

At these terrible words Constance looked at him in alarm.

He was worth looking at, if only as a model, being six feet high, two-and-twenty years of age, strongly built, with crisp, curly brown hair, the shoulders of a Hercules, and the face of an Apollo. But to-day his face was clouded, and as he spoke he clenched his fist.

"What has happened now, Edward?" asked his cousin. 'Anything important? The new groom?"

"The new groom has a seat like a sack, is afraid to gallop, and can't jump. As for her nerve, she's got none. My stable-boy Jack would be worth ten of her. But if a man cannot be allowed-for the sake of his precious reputation to ride without a girl trailing at his heels, why, I suppose there is no more to be said. No, Constance; it is worse than the new groom.