wish for anything herself. Mr. Beverley had consented to take his wife and daughter abroad soon, but he had been so much inconvenienced lately by Louis Darville's inattention, and by Victor's connivance, as he chose to call it, that he could not think of leaving home at present. So both in the City and at home the even tenor of Mr. Beverley's way had for a time been interrupted, and he had come hastily to the conclusion that there was not much peace or comfort for him or for any one else in this world. The sunshine of the past was forgotten, and the cloud which now overshadowed his path alone remembered -a very common occurrence with most of us. Two or three rainy days will generally wash away the recollection of a week of fine weather, whether it be spoken metaphorically or of fact.

Some short time after the explanation which had taken place between Mr. Beverley and Louis Darville, a dinner-party was arranged to take place at Mulberry Lawn. The almanack had been duly consulted, and a day fixed to which there could be no ecclesiastical objection. Mrs. Beverley had already hinted to her daughter that she hoped she would try to meet the event in a proper and sociable spirit; and as the hour drew nigh, she again ventured to suggest that it would be gratifying both to herself and to Mr. Beverley if she would throw off a little of her indifference and reserve, and endeavour to do her part kindly in entertaining their guests.

"You know how I hate dinner-parties,” said Joan.

"I am sorry you should say so.

They are quite necessary sometimes, unless one would give up society altogether."

"I hate society-I hate the very name."

"You hate so many things, Joan; it would add much to your happiness if you could shake off that unfortunate frame of mind."

Joan shook herself slightly, as if trying the experiment, but

with evident unsuccess. Mrs. Beverley sighed; and, after a pause, began again.

'You want occupation, dear Joan. You think too much. It is so bad for young people to get into a habit of thinking, musing, and meditating, as you do, sitting in a listless way with a book upon your knees which you are not reading, or a piece of embroidery between your fingers, which is continually being pulled out to correct false stitches. It is very bad for you. You must rouse yourself, Joan, you really must."

Joan roused herself sufficiently to beat with her foot upon the floor, while Mrs. Beverley went on talking in this strain; but made no response either by look or gesture to her motherly appeal.

"I wonder you have not more spirit, Joan," her mother said. "If I were you I would make an effort, and show myself in company as usual, if only to stop people from talking."

"Oh, you know, of course. All your friends; they are all talking and wondering, and saying how strange you are." "Very friendly of my friends, to be sure."

"You cannot be surprised at it."

"I am not surprised."

"It is very mortifying."

"I am not mortified. When are we to go abroad?" she asked, suddenly.

"Very soon, I hope, if we must go. Your father has been trying to make arrangements for his holiday, but he will be more than ever confined to the office just now for a few days."

Why?" Joan asked, without looking up. She always liked to hear about the office, though she seldom asked questions.

"Mr. Darville is going to leave, if not already gone. Did you not know?"

"No." The monosyllable was spoken quickly and with hardness. "Gone where?" she added, presently, unable to repress her anxiety to hear more.

"Abroad-to one of the colonies, I believe; I don't know where." She spoke as if it were not a matter of much consequence. Joan did not doubt for a moment that Victor was the person intended by her mother. She knew but little of Louis, and his name was scarcely ever mentioned; but she forced herself to ask one more question. "Which of them is going?" she said.

"Both," Mrs. Beverley answered; "they will both be absent; therefore, of course, your father will be tied to the office more closely than ever."

Miss Beverley could not conceal her distress at this unexpected announcement; she would have thrown herself upon her mother's neck and told her all that was in her heart; but the information had been conveyed in a manner so unfeeling and unsympathising that her pride revolted against such a confession. She threw down her book almost passionately upon the sofa, rose, and hastened from the room.

Mrs. Beverley perceived then that she had unwittingly deceived her daughter. She had meant only to signify that both the Darvilles would be absent for a time, and that Louis was going abroad. She had avoided the seeming familiarity of using their Christian names, and having fancied all along that Joan knew, somehow or other, all that had occurred, she had not supposed that there could have been any ambiguity or misconstruction. Her first impulse was to hasten after her daughter and to undeceive her; but on second thoughts she resolved to keep her own counsel. It might be as well, she said to herself, to let the mistaken impression remain for a

time, and to see what effect it would produce. She had not intended to say anything at variance with the truth; but if Joan had misunderstood her, it was not necessary to volunteer an immediate explanation. So she argued, not reflecting that by allowing the false impression to remain even for one minute longer than was necessary, she made herself guilty of a lie.

When the dressing-bell rang Mrs. Beverley paid another visit to her daughter's room. Joan was sitting near the window, looking out. Her dress was laid ready for her, and her maid was busy at the toilet-table.

"Do you want anything, Joan, dear?" Mrs. Beverley said. "No, I thank you."

"What is it, darling?" her mother said, going to her side, and speaking tenderly and in a low voice, for her heart smote her for the deceit which she was practising. Joan looked up at her with tears in her eyes.

"Try to be happy," Mrs. Beverley said. "I know what you are fretting about; but it will be all for the best. Make an effort at once, Joan; this evening. If you can do so you will soon get better of these vain regrets."

Regrets! She would have repudiated the suggestion. She would have denied, even to herself, that there was any sorrow at her heart, or any lingering affection for the man who had so cruelly, as it seemed, neglected and forsaken her!

"You have not much time, Joan dear," her mother said; "you will rouse yourself, I am sure. There, there; don't, Joan, don't; your eyes will be so red."

And Mrs. Beverley, breaking away from her daughter in order if possible to spare her eyes, hastened to her own room to dress.

An hour later, when the guests were assembled in the drawing-room, Mr. Beverley, looking at the clock, whispered to his wife,

"Whom are we waiting for?"

"I don't know," she said, "unless it is for Joan. I'll send up for her."

After a short interval the footman, to whom the message had been given, returned to tell his mistress in a low voice that Miss Beverley's maid wanted to speak to her, and Mrs. Beverley hastened from the room.

"If you please, ma'am," said the maid, "I cannot find my young lady anywhere."

"No, ma'am, that is the curiousest thing of all. Miss Beverley ordered me to leave the room, and said she would wait upon herself; and when I went up to look for her again, there she wasn't. I waited, thinking she would come back, all in a hurry, presently; but she never came; and there her dress lies just where I put it, and her shoes and everything."

What can it mean?" cried Mrs. Beverley, with a terrible fear at her heart.

Every room was searched; her name was called through the passages, at first in low tones, but afterwards in louder accents, fear prevailing over discretion, until it was heard even downstairs where the guests were waiting. Mr. Beverley went away and left them, and did not return. The footmen, who were to have waited at table, were sent out one by one on errands. Finally, after long waiting, the guests were informed that something had happened, and that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Beverley could sit down to dinner just then. The company were entreated to excuse them and not to wait dinner. gathering from the butler and from their own observation that something very serious had occurred, they thought it better to disperse, and went away as they came, leaving the dining-room

But,