a sudden movement behind me. My back grew in a moment as chill as death, and dreadful shivers ran through my flesh from my scalp all the way down to my legs. I could not stir. That something would overwhelm me like a pall, or that hands would close upon my shoulders seemed certain if I remained where I was. Yet move I could not; nor look round; nor even shriek. I was terror-bound, and in an agony such as I had never dreamed of. Thus I suffered for probably only a few seconds in reality, though the time seemed far longer, and then the noise was renewed in a deliberate way, and this time accompanied by a second sound, which was familiar to my ear. The latter gave me sudden courage, and my face broke out in a profuse perspiration, such a revulsion to bliss from the depths of despair I experienced. Confidently I looked round, and saw, gazing over the wall at me, with an interrogative and rather perplexed eye, a beautiful white horse!"

"Ha, ha, ha, my poor darling, that was a surprise!" Lucy Pentonville had listened with intense interest to her sister, into whose adventure she entered with such simplicity, that she had found no leisure to anticipate its conclusion.

"Dearest pet! what a horrible fright you had got! Ah me, I've quite a stitch in my side from laughing just when you had fairly terrified all the breath out of me. What an imagination you have! No wonder little things so often make you nervous."

Dina, with an eye throughout to the "beautiful white horse," had told her story with a great deal of zest, and she looked quite gay when its success was proved by her sister's surprise.

"What a pretty shell!"

Stooping, she picked up a large "buckie," which even in the pale moonshine seemed of a bright colour.

“Oh, I shall keep it for Ebon. Poor darling, he must be sound asleep in Glasgow now. I wonder, Lucy, why he had to leave Beechworth in the morning when the first stage was to be only, to Glasgow."

"Edith does not explain in her letter why he would have to do that."

Perhaps Robina had begged leave to see her friends in passing through."

"Very likely, dear. Shall we go in now? It is nearly eleven o'clock, and you've had more than enough night air."

The ladies had reached a little jetty which crossed the sands and ran a short way into the sea. Near it, but high and dry on the beach, lay a small pleasureboat, neatly rigged, and seemingly ready to be launched at a moment's notice. A path between sandbanks went inland from the narrow pier. Into it the ladies turned. In a hundred yards or so, it took them through the midst of a tract of gorsy waste to a wicket in a low white wall. Passing through a little gateway, they stepped upon a gravel walk leading across a smooth lawn of considerable extent. Great masses of light and shade rising mysteriously into the air were trees of a size and uprightness scarcely to have been looked for so near the sea. Black patches of irregular shapes lying about on the lawn, were their shadows, and, beyond the lawn, a small two-storey house, which stood glittering in the moonlight at the far end of the gravel walk, was the dwelling in which for two years Lucy Pentonville had comforted her unfortunate sister.

CHAPTER XXIX.

LUCY, dear, aren't you awake yet?"

Dina was already up and dressed. The ladies of Oden cottage were early risers, and in summer generally broke their fast with a preliminary cup of coffee about seven o'clock.

Lucy, dear," Dina repeated, seeing that her sister did not move.

"To be sure we had a very long walk last night," she added to herself, "so I mustn't be hard upon her."

All unconscious of her sister's voice and generous forbearance, Miss Pentonville still slumbered on. Dina looked lovingly at the handsome and wholesome-like face, and her thoughts flew back over the past two years, and hovered with fond remembrance at moments when that face had seemed to contain all the comfort that was left in the world for her. Presently she dropped a light kiss on the placid brow, and then moved away softly.

The chamber was of good size, and had two windows. to the front. On each side of it stood a French bed. From their beds the sisters could see each other, and in sickness or sadness, or when hurricanes raged outside, often had their trustful glances crossed the floor. A door near Dina's bed opened into a dressing-room, at

the further side of which another door led to an apartment which occupied the south-west corner of the house.

On quitting her sister, Dina went into the dressingroom and stood before a looking-glass. She had evidently dressed herself with care, and nothing seemed wanting to make her attire complete except the fastening of some hooks between her shoulders. Her gown was of silk of a soft texture, and its colour was a silver grey, like that of those alpaca cloaks we saw on the beach. Plain white bands closed round her small wrists, and a plain collar was fastened at her throat by an opal button. A silk apron, with pockets, completed her exceedingly simple dress. Her sunny brown hair was smoothly brushed over each ear, and plaited up closely at the back of her head. She had "done" it all with her own hands. Usually her sister did it for her, she in turn plaiting Lucy's flaxen locks.

Lucy's maid had fortunately left her "place" before Dina's arrival at the cottage, and an excuse had been found for turning back a new maid whose coming home had been unexpectedly retarded. Since then the ladies. had waited upon each other in their dressing-room and bedroom, and had kept only house and out-of-doors servants, whom it was unnecessary to take into their confidence. This plan had hitherto worked well, none of the servants ever suspecting that Dina was other than the Mrs. Penton she chose to be called.

The beautiful lady looked earnestly at her image in the glass. Presently she noticed a line made by the knitting of her brows when she faced the light, and she carefully rubbed it away, promising to herself thenceforth to guard against the practice of knitting her brows. "It gives one a cross look," was her comment. Long

sorrow had imparted a certain gravity to her mouth. She feared it had a sad expression, and she smiled at herself to see the effect of that. The smile proved less gay than wistful; but she thought it might do. A child, even though her own, would not, she fancied, detect its sadness. Then she began to consider her eyes. They had for the last two years been very mournful eyes to one who, loving her, understood them; but ever since the arrangement of Ebon Lockart's visit, that loving one had thankfully seen their expression brightening.

Dina's frame this morning was pervaded by a sort of gleeful twitter. Her heart had learned a new song, and kept it up unremittingly, lightly trilling sweet melody along sympathetic chords, even to the lady's finger tips. Of course her eyes readily took up the air. A good reader of eyes might have guessed that the song they sang was one which they had not practised much, yet they certainly sang it sweetly. Thinking of Ebon, Dina smiled again, this time without design, and, lo, her whole countenance in the glass was as radiant as it was lovely! She turned away perfectly satisfied. That was not a face to scare any child. Little Ebon would love her. Yet a while, she must not be known to him as his mother; but as a stranger she would win his heart. Even his aunt, though known to him as such, should not be more dear to him than her kind-faced companion, who would tenderly woo him and wile him to her bosom by her gentle arts.

The lady's step was light when she turned from the mirror. Miss Pentonville, lying, with her eyes now awake, in the bed opposite the open dressing-room door, rejoiced too, for she had seen Dina's triumph in her