7 A Danicl Come to Jadgment, It’s strange as poople grow older what lots of sense they lose, : ' And how they get full of notions, and begin to pick and choose, : And stirt on such strange ideas, and want such ueer things done — : why, ‘whas is « fellow to live for, if he never can have avy fun Now there are fathers and mothers, as good as od can be, : But they fret if a boy goes coasting, for fear he it run into a tree: : They frot if a boy goes skating, for fear he'll get a fall; : And they're sure that be'll come home broken, if he asks to play baseball. And as for stealing a ride as the big teams roll along, Ana us for a swim in the river, if the current be ewift or strong, Or climbing a reof on # ladder, or shinning 4 z00d big pole— me ; why, they Took at a boy if he tries it, as if he bad got no soul They want you to enter a par.or and bow like a rOWL-UP an ; They want Fou to move without racket—just show me the fellow who can! . To come down stairs on tiptoes just creeping as tii as & Mouse, : And to keep things quiet and chilly as if boys never lived in a house! When you open your eyes in the morning and are :ying awake in bed, Phey'd rather you woulda't take pillows to shy &.. at another one’s head ; They'd like you to talk in whispers and never to rant or shout, And empty your jacket pockets so they never » would look balged out. Then, in spite of all this nonsense, they'll look in a fellow's eyes / As if you were the ones who were foolsh, and they were the ones who were wise; You'd think as people grow older, they ought to grow wiser too ; , But | wouldo’t make such blunders in talking to boys—would you ? AGORDON’S PRIDE Miss Davencourt looked wonderingly at her. After she was gone, while the spell of her beautiful presence rested on her, she said to Miss Digby— “Either I have been mistaken ic my estimate of Ethel Gordon's character, or she is very much changed."', Lady Davenoovurt, who heard the remark, smiled. f “ Rely upon it, Laura,” she said, “ you have been mistaken. I do not think any- thing would ever change Ethel. She is the proudest girl I know, and nothiag will ever make her less proud.” . “I should have imagined that she would resent instantly any attempt at setting her authority aside,” o ed Laura. Miss Digby said nothing, but thought deeply. She would almost have been bet- ter pleased if the young girl had shown some little resentment—if she had been or contemptuous ; any would have been better than this indif- ference, this nonchalant calm. Helen Digby never doubted in her own mind but than tb covered the raging of a tempest. Once when Sir Leonard tried to revive the vexed topic, Ethel, looking at him quietly, said— : “We had better not discuss the question, pa. What must be, must be; nothing need be said aboutit. I find that words are very useless, after all.” After that Sir Leonard said no more. Jane came round with its warmth, its sweetness of perfume, its bloom of roses and brightoess of sun, One morning, quite unexpectedly, Sir Leonard received a tele- gram. The government business had been hastened, and he was t» leave on the mor- row for Austria. “ Ethel,” he said, “ bere is news that I did not expect, 1 must leave here to-mor- row.” The next moment he wished he had broken the news more gently to her, for her face grew white even to the very lips. “To morrow |" she repeated. “ We have never been parted before. It is very sudden.” “Iam very sorry,” said Sir Leonard. “IT wished to take you myself to Bt. Ina’s ; that will not be possible now. I should have left you more happily if 1 had seen you rafely there.” Ethel bad recovered her calmness, but the color did not return to her face. “ Perhaps it is better as it is, papa. I shall leave my old home and you at the same time. e will never be the same for me.” “It will be happier, my darling,” he interrupted ; and she remembering how soon they were to be parted, repressed the quick retort that rose to her li How she suffered du the remainder of that day no one ever guessed ; the love, the pride, the sorrow that warred in her soul, the struggle between her love for her father, her grief at losing him, and the angry pride that forbade any expression of either love or —her hatred of the fair- faced, gentle y who was to take her dead mother’s er natural sorrow and reluctance at parting with her old home, and laying down the crown she had worn so long—all rushed over her at once. She had a long and bitter sorrow before her. She had to carry a burden that would have broken the heart of most women—she had @ future before her from which the strongest heart might haveshrunk in dismay and sorrow. Butin that sad after-life there was perhaps no day except one in which she suffered so terribly as ° Sir Leonard was busily occupied ; he had arrangements to make with his lawyer and his steward. The household was to be kept on as usual—none of the servants were to be parted with. The housekecper was leftin authority during the summer months, and the servante were told that in the autumn Miss Digby would return with Miss Gordon, and that from that time all authority must be considered as vested in the former's hands. There was somes little murmuring—some little demur—but no one dared to utter a word. It was evening when Sir Leonard rode away to Chantry Oourt. “T shall make all arrangements for you, Ethel,” he said, “ and I have no doubt Miss Digby will wish you to join her to-mor- row.” Her love for her father repressed the angry words which rose to her lips. She raised her colorless face to his. "Do not think of me, papa,” she entreated ; “ think on hg yourself.” He kissed the sweet, pale " “ My darling Ethel,” he said, “ I did not know how dearly I loved you until now. 1 thank Heaven that I oan leave you in such oare. She made no reply. “I shall not have one minute's fear for you, Ethel,” he con- “Under my charge, you might perbaps have committed some girlish imprudence, but under Miss Digby's that wil be imporsible, I have no hesitancy aud uo fear.” He could not have spoken more unfortu- nate words, for they revurned to her in the hour when the most subtle of temptations was before her, and they turned the scale against ber. It was late when Sir Leonard returned, butshe was waiting for bim. He looked tured and pale, careworn and fatigued. ‘I did not think you would sit up for ae, my darling,” be said to Ethel, “1 bave made all arrangements for you, and you will be happy, I wm sure. I have told “er. Smithson that he is to make you an ample allowance for your owa expenses, 80 that you will not be shortof money; you can have more at any time by writing to me.” She clasped her arms round his neck, and hid her white face on his breast. “ Do not talk to me about money, papa,” she said; ‘all the money ia the world could net compensate me for one hour of your absence.” “‘ Miss Digby will drive over here to-mor- row afternoon,” he observed, “and you will start at four for St.Ina’s. Heaven biess my darling, and make her happy there !” At the sound of Miss Digby’s name her arms fellfrom him; she raised her face, and ite tenderness deepened into gloom ; all the memory of her wrongs seemed to rush over her at once; ber voice changed as she auswered him. “* My greatest pleasure will be to hear from you, Ethel—to know that you are well and happy—to know that you are learn- ing to like Miss Digby, and profiting by her society.” Au indignant flash covered her face, but he was going away, and she would not grieve bim. “ Try tolove her, Ethel, for my sake, and because the happiness of our household will depend upon your love. In two years you will bave seen so much of her that you will know how to appreciate her.” “ Papa,” oried the girl, in a very anguish of sorrow, “ talk to me of yourself, now that you are going, not of her.” “IT sball be away for only two years, Ethel,” he continued, “and when I come back you will let me see my hopes accom- plished. Let me fiod you—more beautiful you can never be—but more patient and geutle, more submissive—will you, darling ? Correct the faults that through my care- lessness have grown with your years. Lot me fiud you gentle, obedient, all that my heart desires, and then I shall be richly repaid forall the sorrow of absence. Will ou, for my sake, promise to become this, thel ?” There was a brief struggle between her intense love for her father and ber passion- ate pride, but her pride carried the day. Bhe turned from him. “ You will have others to think of when you returp, papa.” “Yes, but none whom! love like you, Ethel,” he replied sadly. If either father or ter could have foreseen what was to happen during those two years, it would have seemed to them more merciful that she should have died then and there. OHAPTER VII. It wasover that terrible parting which had seemed to Ethel more bitter than death. Sir Leonard had delayed the fatal moment as long as he could. His daugh- ter’s white face and heavy eyes filled him with a keen sense of sorrow. “IT shall soon be back, my darling,” he said, trying to speak lightly ; and then he broke down altogether, and tears filled his eyes, and his voiwe died on his lips, He seid no more, but held his daugbter in a close embrace ; she was then the braver of the two. “The years passed quickly,” she observed, “and you will be away for only two. Look at me, paps, so that you may remember the last look on my face was a smile,” Bhe dii smile, poor child, with white quiv- ering lips, but the smile was far more piviful than any tears could have been, When Sir Leonard wae gone, her self-control gave way ; she flang herself on the thick grass and wept with passionate tears for the father wao would never be the same to her again, forthe home where she was no longer to act as mistrese—wept for the power and position that were to be here no more, It was bitterly bard, after absolute power, to be treated uke a child. Passionate tears came from her which did not soften her heart, but hardened it against the lady whom she considered the chief cause of her sorrow. She foresaw, with all the keen a of youth, the change there would be in her life; and even during the first pang of grief for her father’s loss, something like a reproach formed itself in her mind con- cerning his past trea:ment, “ Why,” she thought, “ has he given me my unrestrained liberty for 80 many years, ouly to take it from me at last?” Life did not seem to her, when she rose from the place where, in the wild tempest of grief, she had flung herself, to hold one single charm, She had loved her tather ; he was gooe from her, and when he returned 1t would be to marry. She had loved her home, and her own fantastic rule there—that, too, had passed away. There was nothing before her but to submit to the rule of @ strange woman. It was intoler- ably bard. She felt ioclined to wish for death ; but the Gordon pride came to her aid. Miss Digby was to be there by two; she must not find her weeping or sad. Ethel went to her room, and as far as she could removed all trace of tears. She dressed herself with ucusual care; she gave orders for the needful packing with a calm, clear, steady voice, and then sat kown to await Mies Digby’s arrival. “ Henceforward,” she said to herself, “ I am to be second in my father’s house, A stanger takes my mother’s place as well as mine. She will triumph over me; she will laugh to think how easily she bas deposed me; but, suffer as I may, no sign of my suffering shall she discover.” When Helen Digby arrived soon after. ward, full of sympathy and kindness, ready to give all the attention and affection that she thought would be needed, her reception rather startled her. She would not allow here she mistress. Bho found Hikel sitting 1¢ one of the pretty light balconies that looked on to the terrace, Sue went gently to her, and jaid her hand with # quiet, Oaressing vouch on the girl's shoulder. “ My dearest Ethel,” she said, “I have hasteved to you kuowing that you would be so lonely aud unnappy, Whas can I do to comfort you ?” Her eyes shone brightly through her tears; her whole face was beautiful from its warmth and kiuduess. She saw the orim- sou flush rise ou Echel’s brow. She would fain have taken the girl in ber Kindarmes and Kissed her face, but Evcbel rose with quiet aiguity, and said, coldiy— * Good-morniug, Mus Digby; I did not eXpect you 80 s00u.” “I feared you might be lonely, Ethel, so I hastened to you.” bot “Thank you,” was the dignified reply. “ I sbali feel lovely until paps returns, aud nO ove C#u comfort me.” Bat Miss Digby was not to be repulsed easily; she sat down by Ethel’s side, aud would not notuce the girl's shrinking from her. “Ihope that the plan of going to St. Ina's to-day pleases you, Ethel,” sbe said, gently; “1 suggested isto Sir Leonard because I thought the sooner you left Fountayne the bevter. Osan I do anything tohelp you to pack or prepare for the journey ?” ae My maid has done that already, 1 thauk you,” returned Echel. “Is there nothing I can do to make you happier—to lessen your sorrow—to make the time pass more cheerfully ?” ; “ Nothing, I thank you,” was the obill- ing reply. But Miss Digby was not to be daunted. Some would have turned from the cold, averted face, and have left Ethel to herself —notso Heieun—she was faithful to her trust. “I wish, Ethel,” she said, “that I had the gift of eloquence. I should like to tell you some of tue thoughts that are pasMing through my miod—how anxious I am for your happiness and welfare, how gravely [look upon the precious charge that your father has entrusted to me, how ready 1 am to wait upon you, to render you every service in my power by night or day— indeed to devote my time, my thoughts, all to you.” “I thank you,” responded Ethel, still more coldly, It was bard to resist such kindness, but the womau who offered it was one who intended to usurp her place in her father's heart and home. She would bave soffered anything rather thao allow Helen Digby to note her pain. “I do not wonder that you should regret leaving Fouvtayue,” said the gentle voice again; * it is @ beautiful place.’ Not to Miss Digby she admit even the least regret. “ Obange is always pleasant, I believe,” she returned; “ Fountayne 1; not the only beautiful place in the world.” Sbe would not say how dearly she loved it. How perfectly tit; nor bow for the remainder of her life a dark cloud would bang over it. It would no longer be her home—saored to herself and those she loved ; 16 would be desecrated by strangers, spoiled by the new rule ber father would bring thither, With wistful smile Helen Digby looked at the beautiful defiant face. * How am Ito reach your proud heart, Ethel?” she inquired. “How am I to soften you and make you believe in my sincerity ?” “ldo not see that your sincerity con- cerns me,” replied Ethel, haughtily. “Do you not think, Miss Digby, that it is time we began our p*eparations ? You will par- don me, perhaps if I leave you.” It was not anger that flushed the face of Helen Digby—no feeling of anger rose ia her heart against the spoiled child who resented her coming #0 greatly—nothing but # profound sense of pity, which moved her almost to tears. Ethel’s calmness did not deceive her. She understood perfectly the cold exterior. “IfI could but win her liking!” she thought. But it was not to be. Evhel bade fare- well to the servante, who seemed grieved and distressed at parting with her. Soesaid farewell to the home where for so mavy years she had been beloved and happy. 1t was @ bright afternoon when she left Foun- tayne and, unconsciously, she left the — and happiness of ber life behind er. They bad a pleasant journey through the beautiful country that lay between Foun- tayne and St. Ina’s Bay. Daring the greater part of the time Ethel looked out of the carriage windows ; it wae impossi- ble from her beautiful, cold, indifferent face, to guess the nature of her thoughts. At the different stations where they stop- ped, people looked in wonder at the lovely gitl whose proud, bright eyes seemed to glance at everything 80 calmly and indiffer- ently, whom nothing seemed to interest, who received with such haughty nonchal- ance all the —— lances bent on her. What were they wor ? What was all the world to her, w heart was aching with 4 storm of pride, sorrow and love ? Ethel was not wanting in politeness to Mise Digby ; she replhed to all ber remarks, and with quiet grace received every little attention the elder lady offered her. Helen Digby would rather have seen her angry, en, impatient—anything rather than so coldly indifferent. It was useless to try to move her. Helen made no more attempts to wia her confidence. “It will come in time,” sho thought; ‘1 shall only make her angry if I persevere.” Ethel, prese' the calm on her face, allowed the dark, evil spirit of hatred to enter her heart; stitting there outwardly calm, her face cold and severe, her words few and colder still, there was a fitful vol- cano of wrath in her soul. She felt angry, fiercely angry, with her father, Helen D gby, and all the world besides; it was anger that could find no vent in words—that would not seek relief in speech. Yet Ethel Gordon was naturally @ noble girl, proud and generous of nature, frank, truthful, and pure of soul; but she had been badly trained. She had been allowed to grow up with her faults unchecked, and the after result was long years of bitter, unavailing sorrow such as fall to the lot of few. OHAPTER VIII. The Queen’s Hotel at St, loa’s Bay was Bh Inn's itoaht wet pea qioeunaes t. Ina’s wasa ' ue foot shifts almost bid- den foliage, ‘The broad expanse of bis Cater, thogeaten vendo, toe willing should be sold, and the sale divided among the homes in England, but as a co speculation it had completely failed. The company had offered it several times for sale, bud no one seemed to care in the least about buying it; so that from year to year expenses, deticiency for the company to meet, walks up the olffs, the pure salt breeze, the quiet that seemed to shield the pretty town, attracted visitors—but they were of a peculiar kind, There were no brass bands to enliven the promepades, there was no pier, there were no assembly-rooms or cir- culating libraries with their facilities for gossip and flirtation ; 8s Ioa’s bad none of choss seaside attracuons, The visitors who came thither were grave, elderly people, tired of the noise.and bustle of the worid, thoughtful men who came to study, artisis who wavted smiling sucvy, laud- soaper, the wearied aud sorrowiul who wished for reat. No place in England was less knowo than és. Ina’s Bay. Ifany one wished, for any reason whateoever, to fiud seclusioun— to be, as 1t were, out of the world—the only thing needful was to visit St. Ina’s Bay. No newspaper with ite tell-tale column of visitors, was ever published there. People came to Ss. Ioa’s, remained there for a tew weeks or months, and then away, and no one, perhaps, except the mistress of the house where they had been staying, ever Koew their names. The Queen's Hotel had once been St. Ina’s Hail, the residence of a weulthy gen- tlemav, who at his death left orders that it roceeds from the odon hospitals. It was purchased by # company, who decided to transform it into o first-class botel, ing in the midst of fine grounds. There It was @ grand old mansion, stand- were & small pine-wood which ran down to tne sea, and a broad, deep lake with water- lilies floating on its calm breast; there were groves formed by blossoming lime-trees, and large cedars, theshade of which formed a most beautiful summer retreat; there were picturesque paths under the trees, where flowers grew in richest abundance ; there were graceful fountains, the silvery spray of which rose high amid the dark- green foliage. The Qaeen’s Hotel was one of the fairest mercial it struggled on, sometimes but more often ying its eaving & Some of the shareholders had suggested building @ pier and a library; others declared that tig useless “to throw good money alter Notwithstanding this commercis! draw- back, the Queen’s Hotel was a favorite resort with those who wished for quiet and repose. Miss Digby had chosen it because ber most intimate friend, Lady Stafton, was staying there. To those who cared only for a besutiful sea, picturesque scenery, pure, bracing air, and quiet, it was the ficest spot in England. Those who wished for society would find none there. The rooms were and lofty, the cor- YJ botel, as a as apy E slp liking the aspect of the place, although the silence and loneliness somewhat dismayed ber. “I thought,” she said to Miss Digby, “ that hotels were always full of people: this seems quite empty.” “It wasfor that reason that I selected it,” replied the elder lady. “I have been here several times, and bave enjoyed as much privacy as though I had been in my own home. I hope you will not dislike the quiet, Ethel.” “It is a matter of but little moment to me—ali places are alike,” returned Miss Gordon. Yet, aftera few days, she found the life not unpleasant. Miss Digby left ber very much to herown devices. She had wished, at ficat, that they sbould share the same rooms; but Ethel’s manner convinced her how unpleasant she would consider such an arrangement, 80 separate suites were ordered —one for Miss Gordon and one for Miss Digby. Miss Digby's rooms were close to those occupied by Lady Svafton. It was not an unpleasant life, but coming there at all was a mistake. Ethel was young ; she had been acoustomed to a life of constant activity, to plenty of scclety, to the occupation and excitement always attending the management of a large house ; nowshe had nothing to fall back upon, nothing to distract her thoughts, nothing to do but to muse by night and by day on the injaryshe imagined Helen Digby to have done her. It was hardly the life to have chosen for a young, beautiful, gifted, imaginative girl ; fo once, clear, calm-judging Helen Digby bad made a mistake. She would have done far better to take Ethel to some seaside resort, where the world would have roused her from her morbid theught, and Have restored her gayety, her animation, and her high spirite. For the first time in her life Ethel Gor- don found herself alone; for she had shunned and avoided Miss Digby as much as possible. She had been accustomed to the homage and atten- tion of a large household, to the tender love of a father who never neglected her ; now she was alone, with 6 faces around her, strange voices in her ear. She had been accustomed to be first ; everything and every one had depended on her; now it was otherwise. She had no power and no influence, No one consulted her, her opinion was never sought, Lady Stafton had given Helen Digby what she considered sound advice. “T see exactly how matters stand,” she said, ‘‘ and my counsel to you is—leave the young girl alone, Your kindness must in the end make itseway. Witha ty disposition like hers, the best way is to treat her with kindly indifference. The time will come when she will seek you, not you her.” And Helen hoping it would be for the best, watched the beautiful face in silence, looking ay & day for some little mark of affection, but never receiving it—hoping that all would end well, yet turning away with a shuddering dread lest evil might follow. It was some’ like hatred that Ethel would give all the care, the a valued so highly to another. not for worlde have done so; but she longel for something to SPpne someting at should lower Miss Digby in her father’s estimation—tbhat should make him thiok less nighly of her prudence and her dis- cretion, Self-engrossed as the visitors were they could not fail to notice the beautiful wist- fal face of the girl, with its listless, weary expressicn ; she a@ppeared so young—she was only just seventeen—yat her features hadatired look as though she had not found life very bright. The sweet summer days glided on. Ethel and Miss Digby met always at breakfast, which was served in the ladies’ room. At first Helen Digby had made an effort to spend the days with her young charge. Ethel would not have it so; she would either retreat to her own pretty sittiag- room, or say distinotly that she was going out, and wished to be alone. If the piace had been more frequented, Miss Digby would never bave allowed the young giri to fali into the habit of wandering alone ; but, as Lady Stafton said—and Mus Digby agreed with her—Etbel might walk about the o'iffs for years 10 St, Inw’s and not meet any one, There could be no danger, and it pleased ber so Miss Digby did notinterfere. CdAPTER IX. It was a warm beautiful evening; the sea breeze swept over the pine-woods, and noingled with the perfume of the flowers ; the waves broke and spread out in great sheets of white foam—they rose ana fell like the change in some grand harmony. The sun shone over the sea until it resem- — asheet of heaving, restless, glittering gold. Oa the lawn of the hotel the visitors were standing or sitting in little groups— some watchivg the sbining sea, others, despite the beauty of earth and sky, deeply eagrotsed in books, others in conversation. Muss Digby was with Lady Stafton. They were watching the waves, aud Ethel sat near them, the fairest picture on which the sun shone. The eveviag was warm, and she wore a white dress of some shining material, richly trimmed with gold fringe —® fantastic dress; but Ethel was an artist in dress as in everything else. The dress was fastened round the slender waist by a gold band, and fell in graceful felds to the pretty feet. The square-cut bodice gave a glimpse of a beautiful neck, white and well molded ; rose nestled close to it. The luxuriant waves of rich brown hair were loosely arranged—they were gathered back from the fair brow, and fastened with @ goldev arrow; @ rose lay in their sunny depths. No fairer picture was ever con- ceived by an artist, or set forth by a poet. Echel was not joining ia the conversation —ber eyes lingered on the golden, glittering sea, She was wishing that she was far away over the restless waters—that she young still But for the faint stir in the leaves of the red rose, as it rose and fell with ec b ptr one might have fancied er ping. Little did she imagine that she was keenly watobed by a of dark eyes that belonged to a handsome debonnair face. That same evening bad brought « stranger to the Queen's Hotel who wrote bis name Luarie Nugent, Eq, and who seemed to have a well-filled purse, and was on that account made very welcome by the mana- ger and his satelites, Mr. pagent had declined to enter the drawing-room, where most of the guests were dining, but he had ordered @ recherche little repastto be served to him in his own room. Then he asked to look at the visitors’ book ; the manager, with a low bow, showed it to him. “Bball you have many more guests this season, do you think?” asked Mr. Nugent, with « careless smile, No, the manager feared not. They had been pretty fortunate in May ; in June they bad bad very few; Jaly, still fewer; and it was seldom that any came in August. A satisfied expression came over the hand- some face. “I think it is = probable,” said Mr. Nugent, “ that if I like the place, 1 may remain here for some little time.” The mansger was pleased to hear it, paid great attention to the wines seleeted for the stranger's dinner, and told him how pleasantly the evenings could be spent in the grounds, Mr. Nugent went thither; he looked indifferently on the clear waters and the blue sky, but a sudden fire flashed in bis eyes as they fell upon the features of Ethel Gordon sitting under the lime- trees. “ What a beautiful girl!” he thought to himself. “ Who is she?’ He stood still and watched her with cbarmed eyes. He noticed the proud oar- riage of the rich brown head, the superb beauty of the girlish face, the grace and symmetry of the perfect figure. “ Who is she ?” he repeated. “ And what can she be doing here?" Still watching her intently he noted how indifferent she was to everything ber—how eee gd rs her eyes never for one moment leaving the great expanse of water. He noted the tired, listless sad? Ather age she ought to be all smiles and blushes.” Osce he saw the two ladies near her address her. She raised her eyes, butno light came into them, and when she had replied to the — asked, they turned again toward the lake. “ Those are her friends, and she does not like them—she is not happy with them,” was his second comment. Then he watched her again, until the evening began to close around them, and the three ladies went in. “T shall never rest till I know who she is and all about her,” he said to himself, “T hardly like to own such a thing—I who have seen some of the loveliest girls in England, and cared for none of them—but I believe, honestly, I am in love at last.” He laughed to himself, and, though his mouth was handsome, that laugh was not pleasant to hear, (To be continued.)