might have become of-I may be bold enough to say, I hope, without offence-you, my lady."

"Thank you, thank you very much," earnestly rejoined she. "I am now acquainted with sufficient for my purpose. Will you now," she continued, "pay strict observance to my injunctions?"

"I'll do my duty to you, ma'am," returned Mike, "if that be what you mean."

66 Then go to the Hall, and frame some excuse to see my son alone," added the lady. "Tell him that a person here has something of the greatest importance to communicate; but, on no account, either by word or gesture, let him learn who I am, or what the nature of the business is."

"I'll do my best," said the earth-stopper; "but I don't think he'll like to walk up here at this time o' the evening, without knowing who wants him, or for what he's wanted."

"If he objects, be more earnest in your

entreaty," returned she; "I think that I may depend upon your powers of persuasion."

"Well, my lady!” added Mike, “I'll do my best, and no man can be expected to do more ;" and, with this resolve, the earth-stopper turned upon his heel, in order to fulfil his mission.

CHAPTER III.

"The silent hours steal on."

THE large, rambling room, appropriated as the common sitting apartment in the Range, never bore a more pleasant and cheerful appearance. A massive lamp, suspended by a long, thicklinked chain, and fixed to a beam of solid oak in the centre of the ceiling, threw its flaring rays around, and made the grim old figures, worked in tapestry, on part of the panelled walls, look renovated in their mouldy decay. A fire-such a fire-blazed and roared on the yawning hearth, and fagots and Yule logs were heaped together in mingled confusion, and, in serpent flames, reared themselves and licked

the chasm of a chimney like a fanned furnace in its hissing anger. All looked bright, and warm, and genial. Not a draught of air from chink or crevice in the latticed casements could force itself, and if it had, the wide and thick curtains, drawn closely across them, would have baffled all chilling influence.

In a semicircle the party formed about the fire. There sat the Squire, in a carved and antiquated chair, listening to some harmless jest or story of the olden time, narrated by the Rector. Opposite was Mary and our hero" all in all" to each other, and occupied as such can only be when hearts twine, like the tendrils of creeping plants, clasping and clinging in folds never to be untwined, but oftentimes destined to be broken. And John Hardy, too, was there-glowing-hearted, glorious John! For what object or particular purpose it is impossible to define with any degree of strictness, but a silk handkerchief was thrown over a portion of his bald and shining pate, and beneath this

canopy he sat in a dozy, winking, blinking condition, as if he was really too comfortable totally to slumber, and yet not to do so became a gentle effort of the eyelids.

66

Why not make up your mind at once to enjoy a nap?" inquired our hero. "I see you must, in the end, yield to the honey-heavy dew of slumber."

"I beg your pardon,” replied John Hardy, in a soft, silky voice; "I've not the slightest intention of going to sleep. When a lady's present, how could you suppose me capable of such a dereliction of gallantry?"

Pray do not study my presence," replied Mary, smiling. "There's not the smallest occasion for your paying any regard to that, Mr. Hardy."

"The truth is," rejoined John, shaking off a little of his lethargy, "I begin to suspect both of ye wish me in the land o' dreams."

66

Now, why should we wish that?" asked our hero.