again. Undisturbed by her rising, Mrs. Turner was still sleeping profoundly by the bed-side. Throwing back her long hair, Alice stooped over her, and pressed her lips to those of the good old lady. Mrs. Turner started and awoke. Seeing Alice's tall figure standing before her with her pale face, looking taller still in her long white drapery, she said, rubbing her eyes: "Bless me, Alice, how you frighten me! It must be the ghost which terrified you so last night."

Alice laughed. "I was very foolish to have been so frightened," she said, "and very sorry I disturbed you, but I thought I saw a hideous face close to mine, and it was something like Mr. Mansfield's, but looked very wild and angry." She was unwilling to tell the extent of her fright.

"Mr. Mansfield would be highly flattered," said her companion; "I have a great mind to let him know."

"Oh no, pray don't, if you love me, don't," and Alice seized her hand, as if she feared the old lady would carry her intention into immediate execution.

"Well, well, I won't," said Mrs. Turner, "meanwhile, do you require my protection any longer?" "No, dearest," answered Alice.

Left to herself, she thought over the cause of her terror. It always happens that when fear or anger

has reached and passed its height, the object before feared or hated is no longer so repulsive. Although she could not feel reconciled to the memory of Mansfield's look, still it did not stand before her so hideously as her imagination had painted it the previous day. And when she appeared at the breakfast-table, she had so far recovered her colour and spirits, that her father failed to notice any difference in her. Indeed, she was very anxious to conceal from him the terror she had suffered, and had bound over her governess to secresy on the subject. She knew he had a great esteem for young Mansfield, and that he wished her to regard the young nobleman similarly. It is true, Littleton had taken no pains to consider whether his daughter loved Mansfield. He took it for granted that she would obey him, and love the object of his choice. He had never yet broached the subject of marriage to her, partly on account of her extreme youth, and partly because he was willing, if possible, to let Mansfield's great personal attractions win over his daughter to consent to his wishes. Alice appeared to, and really did, enjoy Mansfield's company, and her father made up his mind that she loved him. Besides which, he thought that a coronet and a name had the same attraction for her as it had for him.

men.

CHAPTER VI.

HE young painter had now a mysterious interest for Alice. She could not for

get the fierce shining eyes, and she longed to ask him whether he was

acquainted with Mansfield; she felt, however, sure from his look and manner that such was not the case. It was the only subject of her thoughts; but the more she pondered the more she grew confused. The face in the mirror was still before her, and she feared the tiger-eyes. But why? To her their owner had always been the kindest and gentlest of She could have no apprehension for herself, and she had but slight reason to fear for others. But still she had a vague dread of danger in the future, and thought long and deeply how she could avert it. But over whom was the sword hanging? Not over her? No. Over the young artist? Something within her answered, Yes. "But why," said Alice, thoughtfully and slowly, "why should I be so anxious for the safety of one who is

nothing to me?" These words were spoken, or rather conceived with an effort, and very, very slowly. In her inexperience she believed what she said, and those three little words "nothing to me," when uttered, left a blank space in her heart to be filled up with unexplained melancholy. Poor Alice! the mornings when she sat for her picture were generally passed in silence. Few words were exchanged except what were absolutely needful; but still those mornings seemed to come very seldom and pass very quickly.

It was the artist's custom to come at 11 o'clock. One morning, a few days after the occurrences of the last chapter, he did not appear at the wonted time. Alice had been ready half an hour, at least, and when the clock struck, listened anxiously for his arrival. Though always so punctual, he was not there.

Five minutes, ten minutes, quarter past came, and still he was not there. Every fresh minute was oppressive to her. She tried to reason herself into patience. What difference could a quarter of an hour make; there was no such great hurry about the completion of the painting; in fact, she looked forward with regret to the time when the sittings would be discontinued. Then why this anxiety at his non-arrival? But the face in the mirror was again before her with its shining

F

eyes. And there was another face there as well, pale and still. The eyes were closed. It was Wilson's. These wild fancies clung to her in spite of her efforts to throw them off. She rose from her chair, and paced hurriedly to and fro. Presently she opened the door to listen, when, oh joy! just at that moment the well-known knock was heard. Hastily closing the door again, Alice rearranged her hair, which had become somewhat disordered in her impatience, and, after waiting to let her flushed cheeks regain their usual colour, she tripped, with a light heart, down stairs. face in the mirror, and her other fancies, had all vanished, and quickly opening the door, she entered the room where Wilson was awaiting her.

The

He had been sitting bent over the table, with his face buried in his hands, and a deep sigh, which every now and then escaped from his lips, betrayed some biting sorrow which he strove in vain to suppress. He started from his seat at Alice Littleton's sudden entrance, (but not before she had observed his attitude,) and apologized, in a few words, for his late arrival. He looked unusually pale, and Alice feared that in some way her apprehensions had come true. She hesitated, and tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. Taking her seat in silence, the young man placed his easel near her,