TOR AT EAST LYNNE.

There went, sailing up the avenue to East Lynne, a lady, one windy
afternoon. If not a lady, she was attired as one; a flounced dress, and
a stylish looking shawl, and a white veil. A very pretty woman, tall and
slender was she, and she minced as she walked, and coquetted with her
head, and, altogether contrived to show that she had quite as much
vanity as brains. She went boldly up to the broad entrance of the house,
and boldly rang at it, drawing her white veil over her face as she did
so.

One of the men-servants answered it, not Peter; and, seeing somebody
very smart before him, bowed deferentially.

"Miss Hallijohn is residing here, I believe. Is she within?"

"Who, ma'am?"

"Miss Hallijohn; Miss Joyce Hallijohn," somewhat sharply repeated the
lady, as if impatient of any delay. "I wish to see her."

The man was rather taken aback. He had deemed it a visitor to the house,
and was prepared to usher her to the drawing-room, at least; but it
seemed it was only a visitor to Joyce. He showed her into a small
parlor, and went upstairs to the nursery, where Joyce was sitting with
Wilson--for there had been no change in the domestic department of
East Lynne. Joyce remained as upper maid, partially superintending the
servants, attending upon Lucy, and making Miss Carlyle's dresses as
usual. Wilson was nurse still.

"Miss Joyce, there's a lady asking for you," said the man. "I have shown
her into the gray parlor."

"A lady for me?" repeated Joyce. "Who is it? Some one to see the
children, perhaps."

"It's for yourself, I think. She asked for Miss Hallijohn."

Joyce looked at the man; but she put down her work and proceeded to the
gray parlor. A pretty woman, vain and dashing, threw up her white veil
at her entrance.

"Well, Joyce, how are you?"

Joyce, always pale, turned paler still, as she gazed in blank
consternation. Was it really _Afy_ who stood before her--Afy, the
erring?

Afy it was. And she stood there, holding out her hand to Joyce, with
what Wilson would have called, all the brass in the world. Joyce could
not reconcile her mind to link her own with it.

"Excuse me, Afy, but I cannot take your hand, I cannot welcome you here.
What could have induced you to come?"

"If you are going to be upon the high ropes, it seems I might as well
have stayed away," was Afy's reply, given in the pert, but good-humored
manner she had ever used to Joyce. "My hand won't damage yours. I am not