death, and her own want of care and heed in many things and yet he loved his chil

dren.

Poor Vera, she never answered for herself, when she found a good opportunity, she would say every kind word for, and tell every good action of, George. She never complained, for in her heart she knew her father loved her, but she was often pleased to think that Avoncourt was inhabited, and that its inmates were kind to her, and apparently cared for her; she thought a great deal about them herself, and went there whenever she had time, and a sufficient reason for going.

Dr. Harrison was on very friendly terms with Miss Norreys, and she talked to him sometimes of his children. Of Vera he spoke ever in terms of the deepest affection.

Thinking of her brother's regard for the girl, she endeavoured to learn all she could of her; she desired to know if she was really fit for the position in which he fain would place her, and also if she could be

happy with him. Julia Norreys knew too well that there were pains and penalties attaching to the one who might be the wife of Sir Bertram. She was also anxious that her brother should have the means of comparing this girl who had so attracted him with. others, and she urged on Dr. Harrison to let Vera now take her place in society, promising that she would take her under her special surveillance; but Dr. Harrison was loth to give his consent.

"She is happy as she is; let her be a child as long as possible. Why should she go into the world, to learn its ways, to be made cold and hard by its misplaced praise and blame, or to have her gentle heart wounded by its neglect. Let Vera alone; we understand each other."

"That may all be true in one way, but sooner or later she must face the world; and if I mistake not, no blame or praise will much affect Vera but that which she herself desires or fears. By-and-by she might

think you had not given her the chance of knowing as much as she ought of the requirements of her position in life, and at could pro

the fortunate moment when

you

tect her by your counsel and influence." "Perhaps you are right, Miss Norreys; I will think of it. She is going in a week or two to her cousin's wedding, and after that Winter will soon be here, and I fancy your brother said he should spend this Winter abroad, in order to get rid of his house in Florence."

"But Vera might go out to dinners with you, and to an occasional ball, even if we are away," said she, with a little smile, half amused at the feeling implied by the doctor's speech that Vera should visit only at Avoncourt.

He saw the smile, and understood it, and said at once,

"I know what your smile meant, and might have felt offended at it from another person, but I had no such idea as you fancied; Vera

cannot depend upon you alone for society. I rather referred to your own kind offer just now expressed, of looking after my little girl, and thought that she and I should gain a little time did we put off her debut till your return to England in the Spring."

"Ah! now I understand. Why cannot people be honest and truthful to one another; how much annoyance it would save!"

But at the same time Miss Norreys set herself to find some reason for Vera's appearing in public before her brother went abroad, and she determined to give an entertainment at Avoncourt, if no other means could be found; he must have every opportunity of knowing the whole character of the woman in whom he appeared to centre all the affection of his ripe manhood; he must see her amongst other women, and, above all, see how she bore herself amongst

men.

The object of this anxious care sat in

her room with Brand, the room that had been her old nursery, and the broad window of which looked out on to the garden, and talked with her over the packing of the white-striped grenadine dress, and silk petticoat, that had just been sent home in readiness for Isabel's wedding. Vera was fond of "finery," as she always called it, in a certain artistic sense of preferring beautiful colours, well-chosen contrasts, and delicate fabrics; but in the sense of personal adornment, she disregarded, almost disliked it, as a burden and annoyance to her. People sometimes chided her plain dress, and she always answered,

"How could I rush about with papa or George, how could I walk out with the dogs, or clamber over stiles, in anything better than I wear? Besides, I will confide to you a great secret, I believe cotton and rough stuff gowns best suit my style of beauty-rough and ready, you know!"

And so she dressed as she pleased, and