ern
her."

CHAPTER XIII.

NORTHERN LIGHTS.

Do you remember
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtained warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I played chess together,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?
--The Wanderer.

Bluebell sped home, and, to evade remarks, hung up her hat in the
passage, as the least embarrassing way of reporting herself, then
remained, perdu, in her own room, transfigured into fairy-land by her
happy thoughts. Bertie was acquitted of intentional neglect. It was only
the malignity of Fate that had divided them; and there was the positive
anticipation of meeting again in six days. To be sure, it involved
entering on a course of deceit. Aunt Jane would, probably, be shocked, as
she was at everything; mamma would not think much of it; and as for Mrs.
Rolleston, she need not consider her wishes, after telling Bertie such a
bare-faced fib about Jack Vavasour, evidently in the hope of making
mischief between them. She was very much astonished at such unscrupulous
conduct in her friend, but what other conclusion could she come to?

To be sure, common-sense whispered that looks and language such as Du
Meresq had permitted himself, ought to be followed by an offer of
marriage; but with common-sense Bluebell had little to do at this period,
and first love cares not to concern itself with the prosaic. The mystery
and romance of interviews with her love, "undreamt-of by the world in its
primness," appeared far more enchanting than any authorized attachment
provided with a regulation gooseberry picker.

So she came down with a slightly defiant air; but meeting with nothing
worse than a gravely knowing glance from Miss Opie, sat down to the piano
to escape questioning.

Mrs. Leigh's thoughts were complacently occupied with the visitor. She
only wanted further confirmation to place him in the light of a future
son-in-law. Adversity had not given her the wisdom of the serpent, and
she never dreamed of possible danger in the attentions of this unknown
young man to her beautiful, but portionless, child.

However, her mind became unsettled again by the appearance of another
suitor, in dog-skin gloves of a brilliant tan, and his usual air of
cheerful confidence. No guile was there in Jack Vavasour, whose prostrate
adoration of her daughter was so undisguised, that she mentally deposed
Bertie (whose devotion was more problematical) in his