Saturday morning brought a letter with the Radstone postmarkthe post-town of Marling Hall. The handwriting was, I thought, a lady's. I had to content myself with the outside, for my father had not commissioned me to open it. He did not return till quite the evening.

'Any answer from your uncle, Hilda?' was one of his first questions when tea was over. 'Ah! I see you have put my letters ready for me.' And he hastily broke open the seal of that one.

'From your cousin,' he said; and he read

'DEAR UNCLE,

'My father has received your letter, and bids me say we shall be glad to see Hilda. If you will let us know the day and hour, the carriage shall meet her at the Detford station.

'Your affectionate niece,
'MARIAN AINSLEE.'

I was sitting on a footstool at my father's feet. He put his hand on my shoulder. 'What does Hilda say to it all?'

'I am very glad you will have the change, papa. I hope it will do you good.'

But I found it hard to keep down the choking feeling that rose in my throat. There was a little pause, and then I asked

'Why Detford, papa? I thought Radstone was the nearest town.'

'Post-town,' explained my father; 'but there is no station there-no railway communication, indeed. If you look in "Bradshaw" you will see they call Detford the station for Radstone.'

Another pause, and then I said'I wish I could recollect more about Marling-even the people I almost forget.'

'You know your aunt is dead?'

'Yes; she died a year before dear mamma. I can't recollect Uncle Ainslee in the least. Cousin Marian I remember just a little: she must be at least ten years older than Ivery old I thought her in those days. Next came cousin James, I think. We children didn't see much of him. Then there were the twins:

what were their names? Was it one of them that died some years ago?'

'My dear, I don't remember There were so many of them. Wasn't there another boy?'

'Oh, yes-Walter; just my age. He was a dreadful teaze. Then there were the little ones-Flora and Catty; not that they can have been really much younger than I, only I thought so then.'

'It will be a good thing for you to be thrown a little with girls of your own age, Hilda,' said my father. 'I am afraid you would grow into an old woman before your time if you never left your old father's side."

He tried to speak gaily, but his voice trembled a little. We were each comforting ourselves with the thought that the separation was for the other's good; but the next week was rather sad for both.

CHAPTER II.

The arrangements were hurried on as fast as possible, on Mr. Frank Thornton's account, and my father was also anxious to get me away from the neighbourhood of the fever without delay. So it was agreed that we should both leave home on the Tuesday week, travelling together as far as Wilport, where my father would see me into my train, and then go on himself to Oxford. The clergyman who was to take my father's duty in his absence, and occupy the Rectory, arrived on Monday afternoon, and the two gentlemen sat up to a late hour talking. I was rather disappointed, for I had hoped that we should have had this last evening to ourselves.

Our train started from Fairbridge at 10.5 the next morning. It was a cold, foggy day, and the five miles' drive in the open pony-chaise was very chilling. We were in good time for the train, and got a carriage to ourselves, much to our satisfaction, for the presence of the boy who drove us had been a great bar to conversation in the pony-carriage. But the twenty minutes between Fairbridge and Wilport were gone in no time. I had to get into another train there, and as it was not

yet in, we were glad to turn into the waiting-room and warm ourselves by the blazing fire. I don't know how it was; I suppose we were so engrossed with our talk that we did not hear the bell announcing the arrival of the train, and when, on hearing the second, I gathered up my goods and we hurried out, we had the mortification of seeing it slowly steaming out of the station. What was to be done? My father proposed telegraphing to Marling Hall to say I should not arrive till late in the evening, as he did not like the idea of my reaching Detford after dark with no one to meet me, and he could not take me on with him to Oxford, still less back to Haldane. On consulting' Bradshaw,' however, for the necessary information, he made what appeared a pleasing discovery.

You will do it, after all, Hilda. The 12.20 train is a fast one, stops at none of the small stations. You will just catch the train at Mudbury; it leaves five minutes after you get there, and I will try to find a through carriage, so that you may have no change. I shall be able to see you off; there is a train at 12.40, that will bring me in quite soon enough.'

So far so good, and we neither of us regretted that quiet hour's chat in the waiting-room.

My father secured for me a comfortable seat in a first-class carriage, where was a lady going as far as Mudbury, he ascertained; and then he went up to the guard, a tall, finelooking man, and interchanged a few words with him. As they came together towards the carriage I heard the guard say, 'With pleasure, sir,' and my father answered, "Thank you,' and then returned to

rently fast asleep, not rousing herself again till we had passed the last station before Mudbury. Then, having gathered up her things in readiness for leaving the carriage, she drew out her watch and remarked

'They never are punctual on this line.'

I instinctively looked at mine, but, not knowing at what time we were due, was not much the wiser.

'Are we much behind time?' I ventured to ask.

'Nearly twenty minutes,' was the reply, and my heart sank, for my father had spoken of only five minutes to catch the train.

'You are going beyond Mudbury?' asked the lady.

'Yes, I am going on to Detford, but I am afraid the train will be gone.'

'You are booked through, I suppose? Ah! then you need not fear. The trains are arranged to suit each other-they will be sure to wait.'

It was a consoling belief, and I was strengthened in it by the remembered fact that mine was a

through' carriage: so, completely reassured, I settled myself down again on the cushions. In less than five minutes we reached the station.

'I hope you will have a pleasant journey. Good morning,' said the lady, and I was left in sole possession of the carriage. I expected every moment that the guard would look in, according to promise, but he did not make his appearance. Whether owing to his having more important work to see to, or to my father objecting as he did on principle to what he called bribery and corruption'-not having backed his request by the 'tip' of half-acrown, I am not able to say; but the fact of his daughter being 'under charge of the guard' was, as I suspect is frequently the case in like instances, a pleasing delusion. for he never came near me all day.

We are so late, to begin with,' I thought, that they will surely get off with as little delay as possible;' but five, ten minutes passed, and still we remained stationary. My

old fears began to revive. I put my head out of window and addressed a passing porter.

'How soon shall we be going on?' I asked.

'Where are you for, miss?' 'Detford station,' I replied. 'I thought there was to be no stopping here.'

'You'll have to wait a good bit yet, miss. Next train goes at 5.15. It's 2.40 now.'

So we had lost the train after all.

'What time shall we get to Detford?' I asked, despairingly; but the porter did not hear me; he had passed on with his truck. Resolved to ascertain the point somehow or other, I got out and made my way to the waiting-room, where the Company's time-tables were pasted up. Mudbury, dep. 5.15; arr. Detford 8.20.' There it was, plain enough. It would be quite dark before I got to the end of my journey; but the only thing now was to make the best of it. A civil porter volunteered to look after my luggage and call me when the train was in, and I passed the intervening time as comfortably as possible in an arm-chair by the fire. It was growing dusk when I was summoned; it was quite dark before we reached Thurle, and Detford was some stations beyond. I had the carriage quite to myself, and had much ado to keep awake. I was almost dreaming when a gruff voice shouted 'Detford, Detford, any for Detford?' close beside me; and seizing my bag and umbrella, I turned the handle of the door, which was not locked, and sprang out. A minute after I was standing on the platform, watching the lights of the train as they disappeared in the distance.

'Claim your luggage,' called out the station-master, and being the only passenger that had alighted, I proceeded to do so without much difficulty. It was a strange position to be in, standing there in the lamplight, away from all my friends, with no one near but the stationmaster and the one Detford porter. My father would hardly have parted from me so cheerfully had he contemplated the possibility.

'Where do you wish your luggage taken, ma'am? Have you any friends to meet you?' asked the station-master, compassionately, for I am sure I must have looked forlorn enough.

'I did expect to be met,' I answered, but we missed the train at Mudbury. Can you tell me whether there has been any one here from Marling Hall?'

'The carriage was here to meet the 4.50,' said the porter. I understood they was expecting a young lady by that train.'

I was glad of this confirmation of the account I had given of myself.

They might have come again to meet this train,' said the stationmaster. 'Bring over the lady's boxes, Tom, and we'll see on the other side of the gates.'

We had to go up a steep covered way, and passing through a little gate, came out on the road close to the railway bridge. An omnibus was there, waiting apparently for passengers, but no carriage.

'Does this go Marling Hall way? I asked, feeling that anything was better than nothing.

'No, miss,' replied the porter; 'it goes straight to Radstone. There ain't no signs of the Marling Hall carriage, as I can see.'

'I suppose I can get a cab,' said I. "They keep two horses at the Detford Arms over there,' said the station-master, but they're mostly out, I think. However, there might be one in. Run over, Tom, and see.'

A gleam of light was thrown across the road by the lamp suspended in the porch of the little public house opposite, from which emerged at this instant the omnibusdriver, who had, no doubt, been fortifying himself against the cold. He and the station-master began a little aside conversation, of which I fancied myself the object, but I was too much occupied in watching the movements of the porter to concern myself about them. He could not really have been long away, but it seemed to me as if the talk he was having with some invisible person inside the porch would never come to an end. At last he came back.

'Mr. Dobson is very sorry, miss, but both the 'osses is out, and won't be back till to-morrow.'

What was I to do? I looked round in despair; but at this juncture the omnibus driver came to my assistance.

'If the lady was to go in the 'bus to Radstone, she'd get a cab easy enough there to take her on to Marling Hall.'

It was a roundabout way of getting to my uncle's house, Radstone being at least as far from Marling as Detford was; but no doubt it was the best thing to be done, and I was thankful for any way of getting out of my predicament. I thanked the station-master cordially; I slipped a shilling into the porter's hand-I did not think that under the circumstances even my father would have objected to the proceeding received an assurance from the conductor that my boxes were all right,' and off we rumbled. Arrived at Radstone, I was set down at the door of a well-lighted inn, my boxes were placed in the passage, and I myself was ushered into a cosy little parlour.

The cab will be round in no time,' said the conductor; and presently I heard his voice explaining the circumstances of my case to the landlady, I supposed. A few minutes after, that good woman made her appearance in the little parlour. She was a stout, rosy-cheeked body, seemingly very good-natured, and indubitably very talkative. She insisted on my taking the warmest seat, and was very anxious to bring me a cup of tea; but this I declined, dreading any fresh cause of delay. She then stationed herself near the chimneypiece, and after a few preliminary remarks on the coldness of the night, the misfortune of my having missed the train, her hopes that the men would not be long in bringing round the cab, &c., she suddenly observed

"You'll likely have been to Marling Hall before, Miss Murrey.'

I started at hearing my name from the lips of a stranger. But an instant's thought convinced me that she must have obtained the information from the labels on my boxes

in the hall; and not very much pleased either with the question or the mode of address, I answered, somewhat shortly—

'Some years ago.'

Possibly this was just what she wanted to know, for she remarked"There's been many changes at the Hall of late years.'

'I suppose so,' I said, imagining that she referred to alterations consequent on the death of my aunt.

They used to see a sight of company in old days,' the landlady went

on.

And I rejoined, 'Yes' thinking, as I spoke, of the Christmas-trees, children's parties, and all sorts of gay doings that had been going on when I was there with my mother, as a child.

"There's scarce a carriage goes in at their park gates from year's end to year's end now,' continued the landlady, 'unless it's their own, and that only takes the young ladies out for an airing once in a way. It's not visiting they goes now.'

She seemed pretty well up in their affairs, and I could not help wondering whether she would be able to enlighten me on that question my father could not answer, viz., which of my cousins it was of whose death we had heard. But I did not like the idea of hearing my uncle's family talked over by this woman, so, to turn the conversation, I said

'Was that the cab I heard just now?

'Hardly yet, I think, miss. The maid will let you know directly it comes. She has my orders about it; and then they will have to put the boxes up. I've no doubt, miss, that when you were at Marling Hall you heard tell about the white lady, and all that.'

'That was said to haunt the white staircase?' I said, quickly, as another remembrance came back to me. O, yes! I suppose there are few old houses without some such stories.'

'I won't say that much, miss; but as for this one, I've heard more of it than I altogether like. My cousin was lady's-maid to Miss Ainslee at one time.'

'Was she?' I asked, finding I was expected to say something.

For four months;' and the landlady sank her voice mysteriously; 'and then she gave notice, though she had an easy enough place of it, and good wages and all. And she told me she wouldn't go back again, not for 100l. As for myself, I don't know that I would sleep there one night for as much again.'

Things were going rather far.

'There is the carriage!' I exclaimed, as I heard the sound of wheels driving up to the door, and I hastened out, not sorry that the landlady's communication should be broken off in the middle.

CHAPTER III.

It was too dark for me to attempt to recognize any objects on our way; even the house was hardly discernible as we drove up to it through the park. I had alighted and paid the driver, and my boxes were all taken down before the bell was answered by a tall footman, who looked as if he were surprised to see me and no wonder-at that time of night.

'Bring the luggage inside the door, my man,' he said to the driver; and then to me, in quite a different tone, This way, if you please, ma'am.'

He led the way from the entrance lobby, on each side of which were ranged pots of camellias, through a long hall hung with portraits. Heavy baize curtains shut this out from the passage, and on passing through them a female figure came forward to meet us. There was not light enough for me to see her features, but instinctively I knew that it was my cousin Marian.

'Hilda Murrey?' she said, inquiringly. We had given up all hopes of seeing you to-night. Your father said you would be here by the 4.50 train. We sent the carriage to meet it.'

'I was to have come by that, but I missed my train,' I explained. And without further questioning, my cousin, still holding me by the hand, led me into the room she had

just quitted. It was an old-fashioned, low-ceilinged room, lined almost with book shelves. Dark crimson curtains were drawn across the bow-window, and the carpet was of the same colour. But I paid less attention to the room itself than to the two girls who were its occupants, and who rose as we entered. From their youthful looks, I concluded that they were my two younger cousins, but, striking as was the 'contrast in their appearance, I did not remember them well enough to know which was which. One had black wavy hair, dark eyes and eyebrows, a fresh colour in her cheeks, and a general look of health and good spirits. The other was slight and pale. The blue veins on her forehead, the dark shades under her peculiarly violet eyes, gave to her face a look of painful delicacy, which was perhaps heightened by the luxuriance of the soft brown hair that was thrown loosely back from her temples.

'Hilda has come, after all,' said my cousin Marian; she missed her train, and must be very tired and cold. Will you relieve her of some of her wraps, Catty? I suppose you hardly remember these girls, Hilda-the "little ones," as they used to be called?'

'Not in the least,' I answered.

'I have no doubt we shall soon be very good friends,' said the darkhaired girl, as she took my heavy cloak from my shoulders. I am so glad you have come!' And her hearty kiss gave a pleasanter sense of welcome than my elder cousin's quiet measured tones had done.

The other girl now advanced and put a small white hand into mine, saying, 'How d' you do?' in a nervous, trembling voice. Cousin Marian looked at her anxiously.

'You mustn't sit up, Flo, dear. It is getting late. Catty, I dare say Hilda would like to take off her jacket and hat. Will you take her to her room?'

Throwing her arms round my waist, my cousin guided me through the dimly-lighted passages, past the baize curtains of the hall. I turned instinctively into the first opening to the left, at the sight of the broad