"Not, such stagnation as .in idle life, without
any object, either worthy or unworthy,"
retorted Lady Maxwell, significantly.

"Cousin Rosa, you were always a hero-
worshipper;" he said, with a glance at Sir
Everard's empty sleeve; ''but even heroes
are made of common clay, and have their
unpoetical side, like the rest of mankind."

She looked out from the window, and again
that painful expressipn came into her face.
Could she be unhappy in her marriage with
that stately gentleman, old enough to be
her father? Sir Everard was not the hero
her youthful imagination had painted him.
He was exacting, methodical, rigid,
punctilious; he had little asperities of temper;
he had many prejudicies: he admired his
wife and loved her; but still Rosamund's
young imagination and feelings found him
cold and reserved. Thus they had fallen
gradually apart— she a true, warm-hearted
woman: he an honest, worthy gentleman—
because Fate, after throwing a glamour of
romance over their eyes until they were
inseparably united, had since done her best to
dissipate it. Mr. Percival Long then
appeared in the gap, with his insolent calm.
Rosa, in the confidence of cousinship, told
him more than she ought to have done.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

IN the picture-gallery of the Abbey there
was assembled, about a fortnight later, the
following group of people: Lady Maxwell,
dressed in fair robes, jewelled and crowned
matronwise; little May, soft and fairy-like
in white muslin and curls of golden brown
hair; Sir Everard Maxwell, solemn and
precise, with a heated spot on his cheek, as if
something had grated amiss on his temper;
the idly elegant Mr. Percival Long, and
Valentine Unwin. The easel was there, and
the canvas upon it, and the picture of the
mother and child was evidently to be
commenced that morning. Any one, even the
most careless observer, might have seen that
an air of constraint and annoyance pervaded
the whole party, and to admit the truth at
once, Sir Everard was in a fume. He was
easily chafed in temper, and an impertinent
assumption of Mr. Percival Long's had put
him out so greatly, that before his wife and
Valentine Unwin he had told him at breakfast
that he was a conceited, insincere young
puppy, of whose company he was heartily
weary—a true speech and not undeserved,
perhaps, but violent and offensive in tone
and manner. Rosamund was vexed for her
cousin and took his part, whereupon ensued
a combat of words which could not but be
mutually aggravating—such combats were,
unhappily, not rare between them, and of
late Mr. Percival Long had generally been
their cause. Valentine listened with sorrow
and dismay. To see Rosamund's face
crimsoned with anger pained and shocked him
unutterably; it destroyed half the poetry of
her beautiful idea, and he was glad to escape
the end of the uncomfortable scene by retreating
to the gallery to prepare for his work.

The position of Lady Maxwell and her
little daughter being settled to every one's
satisfaction, the baronet left the gallery, and
Valentine forthwith proceeded to sketch in
the group. While he was thus occupied Mr.
Percival Long sat by, and talked in his
customary strain of believing in nothing and
admiring nothing, which some persons now-a-
days seem to regard as a test of pure taste.
Such conversation was not very refreshing to
Valentine Unwin, who had most of his
enthusiasms in his heart still fresh and
warm; neither—to judge from the expression
of Lady Maxwell's countenance — was it
particularly agreeable to her; though, when she
had finished the morning's sitting, and he
invited her to ride, she consented without
any hesitation, and left the gallery with him.
Little May chose to remain behind, to keep
the painter company, as she said, and
presently, the day being warm and the tiny
maiden tired, she fell asleep on the floor
where she had seated herself at his feet,
with one of her fat white arms clasping his
leg. Valentine bent over to look at the
innocent, rosy, unconscious face, and took
that favourable opportunity to sketch her
features, for May, when wide awake, had so
much quicksilver in her, that it was not an
easy task to keep her quiet for five minutes
together. While he was thus occupied, Sir
Everard re-entered the gallery in search of
his wife, and May woke up at his step.

"Mamma and cousin Percy have gone out
to ride," said she, in answer to his question.
He turned abruptly away with an angry
word.

"I wish cousin Percy would go away to
his own home; it is never nice when he is
here," says little May, plaintively.

Valentine Unwin had been introduced
accidentally to witness the last act in a
domestic tragedy. Sir Everard went to the
window at the end of the gallery, and looked
across the park, beyond the boundary trees
of which he saw the figures of his wife and
her cousin disappearing. As he again faced
Valentine Unwin, the young man saw a
jealous light burning in the old man's eyes,
and knew what it meant. Valentine had
penetrated and loathed Mr. Percival Long
from the first moment that he had seen him in
Lady Maxwell's company. But he saw that
the flippant cousin was but an easy resource,
a refuge to her from her own repining
thoughts; not an interest that was ever likely
to grow into affection. He was habit to her;
not necessity. A man of finer feeling than
Mr. Percival Long would have understood
this, and have left off his idle and hopeless
pursuit.

It was towards dinner-time when Lady
Maxwell and her companion returned from
their ride. Valentine was in the library and