rently conquered, and duplicity was employed to lead them into a belief of protected rights, until the chains of bondage could be firmly riveted.

The stipulations and grants having been ar

ranged, with apparent satisfaction, on the 6th of January, 1542, the city of Merida was founded on the site of the Indian town of Tihoo. The conquest and pacification of Yucatan were complete.

You will forget me, Chrissy." "I will never forget you, Angus."

"I do not know that so well! I am going away for seven years-for seven long years, Chrissy. And you are very young and very pretty; and I may toil and wear myself away in that confounded Bush, and come back to find you married to old Dr. Ravenscroft, perhaps."

He spoke lightly; but I could see that his lip quivered, and his face was very pale. We had sat here for nearly an hour, the last or almost the last for many a long year. I was very miserable, and, as he spoke the tears rolled down my cheeks and fell upon his hands, as they held mine in his.

And you will swear to be faithful, Chrissyto wait for me--to be mine indeed, even if I ́am seventy, instead of seven years, coming home?" I could only sob, and cling closer to him. "Listen, Chrissy," said he at length, holding me tighter as he spoke: "we have loved too long and too well to part as common lovers. I have loved you ever since you were a baby-a little Dot this high," placing his hand on a level with his knee, as he spoke. "I shall go mad out there, if I think you may be lost to me, my pretty Ina, my golden-haired darling. I have seen this a long time, and have prepared for it: why else should I have left Rosenthorne, and stayed in this miserable town the last month? You must be my wife, Chrissy-my own, for ever and ever. No one can take you from me then, thank God."

"But you go to-morrow, Angus ; and we are away from home; and Aunt Agnes would

never-"

"It has nothing to do with Aunt Agnes, my precious one. You know Maitland is an old and dear friend of mine, and so he has promised to marry us, Chrissy; and I have been to-day to Winchester, and got a licence, and to-morrow you shall be my wife. No, do not speak yet ; do not object; you are always up early. We need not be more than three quarters of an hour. And I shall leave happily—at least as happily as I can do, leaving you behind."

"But my dear father-oh! Angus, it will be very wrong. I shall never dare go home and face them."

missed you, she knows what old friends we are. You must marry me, Chrissy. I will not go at all if you don't; besides, it is all arranged, Maitland won over, and all. He made a deuce of a fuss at first though-talked of the risk, and all that; for you are under age, Christine, and I nearly got in a scrape about the licence. Look up, Chrissy, and smile. Only fancy me in the woods, knowing I am a married man, and working hard for a home to fetch my dear little wife to!"

"Cannot you stay, Angus? You are so clever, I am sure you might do a thousand things in England; and they do say that Mr. Rosenthorne is not as unkind as you fancy."

His eyes began to flash, and his colour rose. "Understand me," he said hurriedly, "I will have no favour, no obligation to owe to Cyril Rosenthorne. He has cheated me of my Mother's love: he has defrauded me of my Father's lands. I tell you, Chrissy, I will make my own fortune. If I was starving, I would not take a crust of bread from him to-morrow. I have only a thousand pounds in the world. When can I make my fortune in England with that? we should be old and shrivelled before I had enough to buy my gloves with. Where I am going, I can work and strive; and, please God, this time seven years I shall be here again, and to fetch you to fetch home my wife-my bride, Chrissy."

He folded me in his arms, as he spoke, drawing me to his heart, and kissing my long curls as they hung upon his shoulder.

"You are the sole comfort of my life," he said "my only joy. There must be no possibility of our paths in life lying apart."

I heard a rustling in the drawing-room, and my Aunt's voice, crying, "Chrissy! Chrissy! come in, child. You will catch your death out there on the damp grass."

He would not let me go, but continued to keep me folded to his heart, until the shadow of my Aunt's approaching figure in the moonlight made him release me. And we went into the drawing-room hand-in-hand.

"We have been having a farewell chat, Aunt Agnes," said Angus, "and quite forgot the dew and night-air. You must take better care of her when I am gone."

"I fear I have not been careful enough over her," said my aunt, mournfully, as she looked at

my flushed cheeks and tell-tale eyelashes. "I fear me you have been upsetting the child's mind, Angus Gordon."

He seated himself beside her on the sofa, and took her hand.

"Oh! Auntie," he said, "take heed to my birdie when I am far away. I have loved her for many years."

"I was afraid of it, Angus. I thought so when you first came; and yet they say those brought up together, like you and Chrissy, never do fall in love. But you are a winsome gallant, Angus Gordon. There must be no tie between you both, and you so young, I could not answer to my brother Strotto if there was. Begone now, my laddie, and in the morning we will see you early. It is very late, near upon

ten."

"Then good night, Auntie," he said, rising and taking his bonnet in his hand as he spoke; for he seemed to wince uneasily when my Aunt began to speak of there being no bond between

us.

"Good night, Chrissy"-he drew me near the door-" be ready at seven in the garden, as you love me, my darling;" and he was gone.

I seemed in a dream. I am afraid I heard but little of the prayers Aunt Agnes read that night, and even remained kneeling when every one else had risen. God forgive me! I was only praying for and thinking of Angus. Aunt Agnes was very grave, but very tender; and when I had been in bed some time, and fallen into a halfdreamy state, I felt my curtain opened and my brow kissed. "God bless you, my birdie," she said. I think she was thinking of the days when she was young, and parting from some one dear to her as Angus Gordon was to me.

I was awake before daylight, and rose stealthily and dressed myself, putting on my palest lilac morning-dress, and my bonnet trimmed with white; and when I was dressed and quite ready, even to putting on my solitary pair of white kid gloves, I felt half-inclined to take them off, and run and confess all to my kind aunt. But then I thought of Angus-of bis anger-how he said he would leave me, and never see me again; and when the clock struck seven, I glided quietly down-stairs, and, opening the drawing-room window, went out into the garden. I saw Angus waiting for me, and as I came up he passed my arm through his, and drew me rapidly away, without even speaking, only he pressed my arm very tightly to his side. It seems to me, at this distant time, but misty and indistinct. I remember entering the church and seeing Mr. Maitland, looking pale and very grave in his white robe, waiting for us; and the clerk, an old man, very bald and very redfaced, who shut the church door and hurried us up to the altar. I had no female to support me: only an acquaintance of Angus's, who was going to sail with him, was there to give me away, and witness the ceremony. It was so sudden and so hurried over, and I felt so frightened, and above all so ashamed-thinking of the crime I had committed in the deceit towards my friends, and

ashamed to my very soul as to what these strangers must think of me.

It was over. We went into the vestry and signed our names, and then I remember Mr. Maitland took my hands in his. "God bless you, my child," he said: "my conscience smites me sorely for having yielded to my friendship for your husband. You have years of trial before you. Be faithful to him, O young wife, child that you are! If harm befal you, very hard would it be for my soul before my Judge." And then, as I wept bitterly, Angus came up (he had been paying the clerk and dismissing his friend) and, chiding Mr. Maitland for distressing me, in high spirits he bade him a hasty though affectionate adieu, and hurried me away, leaving Mr. Maitland looking after us sorrowfully and regretfully.

"Maitland is but a bird of ill omen, my darling," said Angus, as we re-entered the garden adjoining my aunt's house; "he is frightened to death of the risk he has run. I do believe he wanted to shirk out of it the last minute. It is very hard to have to leave you now, Chrissy, my wife; but I shall have the comfort of knowing no one can take you from me now."

The clock struck eight as he spoke. I was clasped for a moment in one long embrace. He kissed my hair, my eyes, my lips, over and over again, and loosening me he was gone in a

moment.

And

I ran up-stairs and hurriedly took off my things, bathed my eyes, smoothed my hair, and, kneeling down, I prayed-prayed earnestly, for pardon, for help, erring child that I was. taking my wedding-ring from my finger, I kissed it, and, sewing it in a little bag of crimson-silk, placed it in my bosom, and trembling like a guilty thing-fancying my aunt would see all that happened in my eyesI crept down-stairs, stopping at the dining-room door, with my hand on the lock, not daring to open it. It was a relief to me when Sarah came up the kitchen-stairs with the toast and eggs; and I opened the door boldly, and entered the room.

"How late you are, Christine!" said my aunt, after she had kissed me and taken her seat at the table. "Sarah told me she saw you with your bonnet on; were you in the garden?"

"I was in the garden, auntie."

I felt my face flush crimson as I spoke, and a deadly faintness coming over me.

"Was it with Angus, Christine ?"

And my aunt fixed her glance full upon me. I strove to speak, but I could not: the room swam round; all was dark, and holding out my arms to my aunt-for I thought I was dying-I for the first time in my life fainted. I must have been insensible for a long time, for when I came to myself I was undressed and lying in my bed. I thought of my ring if my aunt had undressed me it must have been seen. I looked round, and saw my clothes lying in a heap on a chair by the window. I rose, and holding by the curtains-for I felt

strangely weak and giddy-I reached the chair. I felt something under my foot, and, looking down, saw, to my joy, the bag containing my ring lying on the floor. It had dropped, unperceived, in the confusion that my illness had occasioned. I seized my treasure, and regained my bed, only too glad to lay my aching and heavy head on the pillow, and fell asleep. It was many hours later when I awoke. I had been dreaming of Angus, and awoke fancying I felt his kiss upon my lips, and found-not Angus, not my husband, but Aunt Agnes bending over me, and kissing my hand.

"My poor birdie," she said, "how you frightened us! I was so glad to see you had fallen asleep! Dr. Jervis told me you were asleep, not insensible, when he came at eleven; and so I have sat here by you."

"Is he is Angus gone, auntie?" "He is gone, dear. Be patient, Chrissy: don't cry, my dearest!" (for I had closed my eyes again, and the tears were stealing from under my lashes and rolling down my cheeks). "He wanted to say good-bye, and he would come up and see you. I told him you had fainted, and were asleep, and scolded him well for taking you out for so long a walk this morning. He told me he had persuaded you to take a long walk. I could not prevent him, though I am sure Sarah will think it very odd, when I told her afterwards that Mr. Gordon and my Christine were like brother and sister. She laughed, and looked so saucy I got quite put

out."

So he came up, auntie?"

"Oh yes, he caine up; and he cried, and I really think would have awoke you if I had not forced him away, and the cabman sent up to say he would miss his ship if he stayed a moment longer; so he just snatched up my scissors that were lying on the bed, and in a moment he cut off a curl of your hair. I am sure it will leave an awful mark, for it's just in the front! And he kissed you twice, and went, poor laddie, and never said good-bye to me!"

He was

And so I parted from my husband. gone. I did not even know how I should hear of him; for, though my father was rector of the parish where his mother and brother, or rather stepbrother, lived, Mrs. Gordon and her eldest son had been abroad for two years before I came home from school, indeed; so I knew but little of them of late years, though when we were children we were scarcely ever a day apart. Mrs. Gordon had married, when very young, her first husband (a Mr. Rosenthorne). He was a man of good family, but his father and his grandfather before him had lived too freely, and so he was obliged to save his father from disgrace and cut off the entail, and Rosenthorne Manor was sold, and his father and his mother lived at Boulogne, and were great people there -greater than they had been at Rosenthorne, where they only ranked as country proprietors, and were patronized by the nobility and high people of the county; while they were wealthy people at Boulogne; and Mrs. Rosenthorne,

who was a fine handsome woman, was queen of everything. Mr. Rosenthorne, the stepfather of Angus, was a merchant, and a successful one; and though Rosenthorne Manor was in other hands, yet, when he died, and left his money to his widow, it was under an injunction that, if ever his paternal estate should be in the market, she should buy it, and that the person to whom she bequeathed it should take his name. Six months after Mr. Rosenthorne's death a son was borne, and when Cyril was eight years old his mother married Mr. Gordon, and two years later was born Angus.

Mr. Gordon was a just and honourable man, and when, some few months after Angus's birth, the Rosenthorne estate was advertised for sale, he bought it. Mr. Rosenthorne had laid nothing more binding than a request on his widow respecting the buying or dispensing of it. He had not known, poor man, of the son that was coming, and Mr. Gordon might have retained it as belonging to his wife's dower, or settled it on his own son; but, as I said before, he was an honourable man, and he settled the estate, as he was in duty bound, upon Cyril Rosenthorne.

Mrs. Gordon was a tender mother, but the glory of her life was Cyril. He was a fine tall youth when Angus was born, I heard my mother say; passionately fond of his mother, and too disposed to be jealous of the new comer; but he went to school soon after, and was very clever, and went to Oxford, and then into the army.

I lost my mother early, and so I was much at Rosenthorne, for Mrs. Gordon pitied my motherless state, and Angus and I were playmates and companions almost from our cradles, though Angus was six years my senior; but he was a delicate lad, and never was sent away to school. He never cared much for Cyril, indeed, when Cyril was home for the holidays; and his mother full of pride and pleasure in her handsome, noble-looking son, devoted herself to him without meaning to neglect Angus; but she had him always, and Cyril only for a few weeks in the year. Then Angus would tell me he hated Cyril, and would be peevish and illtempered all the time his brother was at hoine; and so little things grew into great ones; and when Mr. Gordon died, and Angus found Rosenthorne was indeed Cyril's--he had always had a hope that it would be at any rate divided, and could never see the justice of its being entirely Cyril's, though bought with his father's money-then I say Angus's rage indeed burst forth; and as he had only two thousand pounds left him when he came of age—for Mr. Gordon had left his property, some four hundred a-year, to his widow for life, and not to his son until after her days-then there was a sad scene at Rosenthorne. Cyril, or Colonel Rosenthorne as he was now, had come down to the funeral and to take possession, and his mother'sjoyat meeting him only incensed Angus the more. It was in vain poor Mrs. Gordon endeavoured to show him the justice of Cyril's possession, and be sought him to let her make over his father's

property to him. "Yes, Cyril would provide for her," she said. But he cried "No; she had always loved her first husband's son above him; and he would not accept a farthing. His father's wife and his mother should at all events have the means of being independent of Colonel Rosenthorne."

And so things grew worse and worse until Colonel Rosenthorne, after offering to do everything in the world for Angus, and receiving but hard and bitter words in return, grew angry too; for Colonel Rosenthorne was also a passionate man, and his patience was exhausted; and so, finding his mother's entreaties and tears availed nothing with her headstrong son, Colonel Rosenthorne went to Nice, where there was a family-friends of his-whose daughter, they said, he greatly admired; and Mrs. Gordon accompanied him. I remember how, the day they left, Mrs. Gordon came to the Rectory, and entreated my father to be a guardian and friend to Angus, and wept, and took her son in her arms and caressed him as if he had been a child again; so that his heart was melted, and he put his arms round her, and called her his mother, his dear mother!" (she had been but "Mrs. Gordon" to him lately); but then Cyril came in to bid iny father good-bye; aud Angus was proud and wilful again, and only kissed his mother's hand when he bade her adieu. Angus lived with us when they were gone, and Rosenthorne was all but shut up; and soon after, my father sent me to Southampton on a visit to my aunt-his only sister, a maiden lady as he did not think it fitting Angus and I should be so much together now we were growing older.

quite hated the sight of Sarah, my aunt's confidential maid-a small, shrivelled, sour-looking woman of middle age, who had, I think, lectured my aunt severely on the impropriety of "allowing a young man like Mr. Gordon to be always hanging after such a child as Miss Christine." And I wrote to my father begging to return home. Poor man! he thought it impossible I should not prefer a town to the quiet seclusion of Rosenthorne, even such a town as Southampton. He was pleased to have me home, to see his "household fairy" once again, as he said; and indeed I found the house sadly in want of me; for Angus and he had made but sorry housekeepers; and I don't think either Mary (our cook) or George (our man-servant) ever saw dust, let it lie about as thick as it might.

I was only too glad to leave Southampton; for I was sadly nervous, and fancied every knock at the door was someone come to inform my aunt of what I had done; and I sometimes met Mr. Maitland; and, in short, I was but too glad to be away from it all again.

And now four years have passed away; Mrs. Gordon has returned to Rosenthorne; Colonel Rosenthorne is travelling in the East, and a heavy sorrow has fallen on me. I have lost my father; a stranger fills his place in the parish church and the old rectory-a widower with a large family of children, who gambol on the lawn as they will, and are very healthy but unruly. I had a long illness after my father's loss, and Mrs. Gordon had returned and come to nurse me, and when I was able to be moved, I went to Rosenthorne and remained with her.

"I am a solitary woman, Christine," she said, and you have been as a daughter to me: remain with me, my child; at all events for the present-until Cyril returns, and brings home, perhaps, a young bride: let me have your fresh young face to look at, Christine."

I was but too pleased to accede. I had no other choice but my aunt's house, which I shrank from surprisingly now. I loved Angus still-deeply and tenderly I thought as ever; though in three years I had heard but once from him, in a letter through Mr. Maitland, and twice of him from hurried letters to his mother. I wrote to him after my father's death, to the care of the agent at Melbourne, to whom his mother's letters were addressed; but had had no reply as yet it is a weary time to wait for a reply from Australia. In his last letter he told his mother he was sick of the Bush, and he had thought of entering into partnership with a merchant at Melbourne, whose family he was intimate with, and who was a very wealthy man.

It was one stormy winter's evening, and we had just seated ourselves comfortably for the evening before the drawing-room fire, with our work and a book, which we read aloud in turns, when we beard the sound of wheels on the carriage-drive and the dogs barking. I was just going to set light to our candles, and Mrs. Gordon had run to the window to see what it

might be, when a hasty step ran up the stairs; there were voices and a rustle in the hall; the door opened, and the tall figure of Colonel Rosenthorne was on the threshold. "My dearest mother!" "My darling Cyril !"

It was thus I knew him; for the fire gave but a fitful light, and he was covered with a large and heavy travelling cloak, and I could see only his stalwart form, and his eyes shining like fire in the dusky light. He did not see me, and Mrs. Gordon had quite forgotten me, and so I slipped out of the room, desiring John, as I met him, to take in lights. And now Colonel Rosenthorne had come home, the whole house was changed; he was fond of company, at least so Mrs. Gordon said; and we had balls, and dinner parties, and concerts, and déjeuners during that long bright summer. I was very happy. My heart smote me sometimes for daring to be so happy when Angus was away; but I was young, and very fair to look upon in those days. Mrs. Gordon was very proud of her son, as I said before and very worthy of it he was. I had made up my mind to dislike him at first; but he soon overcame my prejudice. How often he spoke of Angus, and lamented his headstrong course in forsaking his country aud his kindred! I always retained a certain dread of Colonel Rosenthorne; and for his part he treated me so like a child, that I chafed under it sometimes; for, though I was very slight and youthfullooking, I was now twenty.

:

He was not unlike Angus; for he too inherited his mother's blue eyes and chesnut hair; but he was taller and broader-a very tower of strength I used to think, as he came riding home from the hunting-field, looking so manly and handsome, in his red coat and his velvet cap, on his fine horse, for he rode well and nobly.

It was many months since Mrs. Gordon had heard from Angus, and she had become nervous and uneasy on his account, and whenever we were alone (for she seemed to avoid much mention of him before her eldest son) she would harass herself, and me too, by imagining him in all perils and dangers her excited fancy conjured up.

It was one morning, when we were all three sitting in the little breakfast-room-Mrs. Gordon at her tapestry; Colonel Rosenthorne arranging, or rather putting-by his fishingtackle, at a table by the fire; and I was standing idly at the window, looking out in the long avenue, now half-covered with the fallen leaves. Presently I saw a stranger coming up the drive. I could not see his face at that distance; but there was something in his walk that seemed familiar to me, and I felt my heart beat as he drew nearer and nearer. Why was it? I knew it could not be Angus; for he was tall and very slight when he went away, and this was a man short and rather stout. As he passed under the window he turned his head towards the house, and stood a moment, as if uncertain which way

to take. I saw his face. My God! it wasYes I remembered it well now-it was the face of Mr. Maitland. Why had he come? Was it to confess all to Mrs. Gordon? What should I do? Where should I fly? How I felt all the errors-all the imprudence of what I had done! I should have been glad to die that minute. I do not think I even breathed during the interval that elapsed from the time he knocked until John entered, and announced that a gentleman wished to see Miss Farquhar, handing me at the same time his card. I had no need to look at it: I knew well what name was there. I came out from my hiding-place in the windowmy face flushing crimson.

"A gentleman for you, Christine!” said Mrs. Gordon. "Why, who can it be-you must mistake, John. My dear child, you did not expect any one, did you? how flushed you are!"

"You must have seen him from the window as he came, Christine," said Colonel Rosenthorne. Who is it? Not Mr. Gerard, I hope, come to offer you the control of these seven sweet children of his, with his hand and heart thrown in as an inducement."

"No," I said, hesitatingly; "it is a gentleman from Southampton; I have not seen him for six years; he came up so suddenly he frightened me."

"Come from your aunt, perhaps?" said Mrs. Gordon, resuming her seat, from which she had risen. Well, then you can go and see him, Chrissy, alone, and I will come in presently. He must have come by the coach from Ashton, Tell John, as you go, to take in lunch early." "Yes, ma mère." I called Mrs. Gordon ma mère sometimes.

In the drawing-room I found Mr. Maitland. He came to meet me as I entered, looking almost as grave as when I saw him that morning years ago.

"I am afraid I am intruding," he said, "Mrs. Gordon" (how strange it seemed to hear the name applied to me, but he said it pointedly and distinctly); " but I had occasion to come to Ashton, and there I heard of you, and I could not let the opportunity pass without calling, for your welfare has laid heavily on me ever since I saw you last. I heard you were living here with Mrs. Gordon, and that her eldest son was at home. I heard your names coupled at Ashton: they said you were always together; that he is young and very handsome. Does hedoes his mother-your husband's-know how you are situated?""

"You are very kind,” I said, moving myself a little as he spoke; "but you need have no apprehension on Colonel Rosenthorne's account. I have always looked upon him as my brother. I wish they did know all. I feel but a guilty creature sometimes. Mrs. Gordon is very kind I would have confessed all to her many a time, but Angus made me swear to keep my secret until he came home. He said they need never know it-that our marriage was only a surety that I should be his wife when he came home, and that we might be married again openly.