and had laid himself down on it. The room was very dimly lighted by a pair of candles on the mantelpiece. It was a large room, and the faint twinkle of those distant lights made it look ghostly, and it was a very strange sight to see Mr Brownlow lying on a sofa. He roused himself when Sara came in, but it was with an effort, and he was very reluctant to be disturbed. "Seven o'clock!" he said -" is it seven o'clock? but leave me a little longer, my darling; ten minutes is enough for dress."

"Oh, papa," said Sara, "it is dreadful to think of dress at all, or anything so trifling, on such a day; but we must do it-people will think―; I am sure even already they may be thinking

"Yes," said Mr Brownlow, vaguely-"I don't think it matters-I would rather have five minutes' sleep."

Papa," said Sara in desperation, "I have just seen Mr Powys-he has come with some papers— that is, I think he has gone away. He came to-to -I mean he told me he was sent to- I did not understand what it was, but he has gone away

"Ah, he has gone away," said Mr Brownlow, sitting up; "that is all right—all right. And there are the Motherwells coming. Sara, I think Charles Motherwell is a very honest sort of man."

"Yes, papa," said Sara. She was too much excited

and disturbed to perceive clearly what he meant, and yet the contrast of the two names struck her dimly. At such a moment what was Charles Motherwell to her?

"I think he's a very good fellow," said Mr Brownlow, rising; and he went and stirred the smouldering fire. Then he came up to where she stood, watching him. "We shall have to go and live in the house at Masterton," he said, with a sigh. "It will be a strange place for such a creature as you."

"I don't see why it should be strange for me, said Sara; and then her face blazed suddenly with a colour her father did not understand. "Papa, I shall have you all to myself," she said, hurriedly, feeling in her heart more than half a hypocrite. "There will be no troublesome parties like this, and nobody we don't want to see."

Mr Brownlow looked at her half suspiciously; but he did not know what had happened in those two minutes beside the fruit and flowers in the diningroom. He made a desperate effort to recover himself, and to take courage and play out his part steadily to the end.

"We must get through it to-night," he said, "We must keep up for to-night. Go and put on all your pretty things, my darling. You have had to bear the brunt of everything to-day.”

"No, papa; it does not matter," said Sara, smothering the longing she had to cry, and tell him-tell him?-she did not know what. And then she turned and put her one question. "Is it true?-have we nothing? Is it all as that terrible woman said?"

Mr Brownlow put his hand on her arm and leaned upon her, slight prop as she was. "You were born in the old house in Masterton," he said, with a certain tone of appeal in his voice; "your mother lived in it. It was bright enough once." Then he stopped and led her gently towards the door. "But, Sara, don't forget," he said hurriedly, "I think a great deal of Charles Motherwell-I am sure he is kind and honest and true."

"He has nothing to do with us!" said Sara, with a thrill of fear.

"I don't know," said Mr Brownlow, almost humbly, "I don't know-if it might be best for you

And then he kissed her and sent her away. Sara flew to her own room with her heart beating so loud that it almost choked her. So many excitements all pressing on her together-so many things to think of-was almost more than an ordinary brain could bear. And to dress in all her bravery and go down and look as if nothing had happened—to sit at the head of the table just there where she had been standing half an hour before-to smile and talk and

look her best as if everything was steady under her feet, and she knew of no volcano! And then, to crown all, Sir Charles Motherwell! In the height of her excitement it was perhaps a relief to her to think how at least she would crush that one pretendant. If it should be the last act of her reign at Brownlows, there would be a certain poetic justice in it. If he was so foolish, if he was so persistent, Sara savagely resolved that she would let him propose this time. And then! But then she cried, to Angelique's great discomfiture, without any apparent reason. What was to be done with a young lady who left herself but twenty minutes to dress in, and wept in an unprovoked and exasperating way in the middle of it? Sara was so shaken and driven about by emotion and by self-restraint that she was humble to Angelique in the midst of all her own tumults of soul.

CHAPTER XL.

JACK'S LAST TRIAL.

THE dinner passed over without, so far as the guests were aware, any special feature in it. Jack might look out of sorts, perhaps, but then Jack had been out of sorts for some time past. As for Sara, the roses on her cheeks were so much brighter than usual, that some people went so far as to suppose she had stooped to the vulgar arts of the toilette. Sir Charles Motherwell was by her side, and she was talking to him with more than ordinary vivacity. Mr Brownlow, for his part, looked just as usual. People do not trouble themselves to observe whether the head of the house, when it is a man of his age, looks pale or otherwise. He talked just as usual; and though, perhaps, it was he who had suffered most in this crisis, it did not cost him so much now as it did to his son and daughter. And the new people who came only for the evening, and knew no