XXIX. BLUEBELL'S DEBUT IN THE OLD COUNTRY

XXX. NO CARDS

XXXI. BROMLEY TOWERS

XXXII. THE SPRING WOODS

XXXIII. LORD BROMLEY INTERVIEWS DUTTON

XXXIV. HARRY GOES TO THE BALTIC

XXXV. A DISCOVERY

XXXVI. IN DEATH THEY WERE NOT DIVIDED

XXXVII. AN UNEXPECTED RENCONTRE

XXXVIII. OLD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOULDERS

XXXIX. THE LOAN OF A LOVER

XL. THE MINIATURE

XLI. A LOCK OF HAIR

BLUEBELL

CHAPTER I.

SWEET SEVENTEEN.

I see her now--the vision fair,
Of candour, innocence, and truth,
Stand tiptoe on the verge of air,
'Twixt childhood and unstable youth.

It was the "fall" in Canada, and the leaves were dying royally in purple,
crimson and gold. On the edge of a common, skirting a well-known city of
Ontario, stood a small, rough-cast cottage, behind which the sun was
setting with a red promise of frost, his flaming tints repeated in the
fervid hue of the Virginian creeper that clothed it.

This modest tenement was the retreat of three unprotected females, two of
whom were seated in silent occupation close to a black stove, which
imparted heat, but denied cheerfulness. The elder was grey and tintless
as her life,--harsh wisdom wrung from sad experience ever on lips thin
and tight, as though from habitually repressing every desire. The
younger, a widow, was scarcely passed middle age, small of stature, but
wizened beyond her years by privation and sorrow.

A smell of coal-oil, that most unbearable of odours, pervaded the
interior of the cottage, revealing that the general servant below in
lighting the lamp had, as usual, upset some, and was retaining the aroma
by smearing it off with her apron.

Presently a quick, light step tripped over the wooden side-walk, a shadow
darkened the window, and a vision of youth and freshness burst into the
dingy little parlour.

A rather tall, full-formed young Hebe was Theodora Leigh, of that pure
pink and white complexion that goes farther to make a beauty than even
regularity of feature; her long, sleepy eyes were just the shade of the
wild hyacinth; indeed, her English father always called her "Bluebell,"
after a flower that does not grow on Transatlantic soil.

But they were Irish-eyes, "put in with a dirty finger," and varying with
every mood. Gooseberry eyes may disguise more soul, but they get no
credit for it. Humour seemed to dance in that soft, blue fire; poetry
dreamed in their clear depths; love