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young man; but to her he was a hero-her "man of men !" absolute and undoubted perfection.

The marriage was arranged to take place immediately. Harry, in spite of his former declarations on the subject, applied for an additional month's leave, and he affirmed that if he were not married before it expired, it might be years before the ceremony could take place. Of course that was not the truth; but he said it, notwithstanding.

Rachel demurred a little on account of her father, she said, which was plainly absurd of her to do, for two reasons-firstly, because Harry was scarcely more anxious to be her husband than she was to be his wife; and, secondly, because her father was of no importance in the matter whatever. Her marriage was more likely to be a relief to him than otherwise.

But all her scruples were set at rest by the arrival of a letter from the music master, announcing his own blissful union with Miss Montresor. The letter was written

from Paris, whither the "happy pair" had gone to spend the honeymoon, and it was the most doleful epistle which had ever, I suppose, been penned by a happy bridegroom. It ended by hoping that his dear child would forgive him for having kept the change in his life a secret, and that she would by-and-by find a happy home with him and her new mamma at Islington.

So a reply was at once despatched, announcing that Rachel would never find a home with him again, and the day for her marriage was fixed, and every one was satisfied. Miss Conway was reconciled to her niece, gave her a handsome trousseau, and insisted that the wedding should take place from her house. Rachel would much have preferred being married from The Lodge, but she could not say no to her aunt, and

after all it did not much signify. Miss Russel was rather pleased with the arrangement than otherwise, for she was to receive the whole Vaughan family as her guests for the occasion-the bridegroom, his father, his three married sisters and their husbands.

These latter all came the day before the wedding, and the three ladies were charmed with their new sister, and with their hostess, of whom they declared they had often heard "Papa and Harry" speak. They were handsome, stylish-looking women. Eleanor, Mrs. Fortescue, was the least handsome of the three; she had her father's plain features, and his varied expression; in manner, too, she was like him, and somehow Miss Russel "got on," as the saying is, best with her. The eldest daughter, Caroline-Mrs. Cliftonwas very like her mother; even Eleanor could detect the likeness, although she had never seen Mrs. Vaughan but twice. It was very pleasing both to Harry and to Miss Russel to see how well Rachel made her way amongst them, with her quiet, thorough-bred manner and admirable tact.

The wedding-day was all that a wedding-day should be, warm and bright. But there is no more to be told about it than about any other wedding that has ever taken place. The party made quite a pretty picture in the dim old Cathedral; but the effect of the scene was quite lost upon the actors therein. Major Howard came over from Ireland to be Harry's best man, and his speech at the breakfast, returning thanks for the bridesmaids, was the best speech of the day, for Harry literally did not know what he was doing, and talked great nonsense; and Mr. Vaughan, his father, broke down utterly, in trying to propose the health of the mistress of The Lodge.

Then the good-byes were said, and the last of the many kisses exchanged during that ceremony, were those bestowed by Mr. and Mrs. Henry Vaughan upon the "best"-kiss ; "kindest"-kiss; and "dearest "-kiss-kiss-kiss -" of friends "- Miss Russel, of course!

The day succeeding the marriage Mr. Vaughan's elder daughters and their husbands went away, leaving Mrs. Fortescue, with her father and Mr. Fortescue still at The Lodge. They were to return to The Oaks in a day or two, to receive the bride and bridegroom, who were to pay a short visit to Harry's home before they started for Ireland.

It was evening. The small party at The Lodge had dined pleasantly together. Mr. Fortescue was a most agreeable and well-read man, and he and Mr. Vaughan had kept up an animated conversation, which prevented Miss Russel's unusual silence from being noticed. Mrs. Fortescue was by nature rather silent and reserved.

She and her hostess were sitting together in the drawing-room after dinner, waiting for the gentlemen to join them, when Mrs. Fortescue mentioned having seen some book through the glass doors of the bookcase in the library, which she had been wishing to look over, and Miss Russel left the room to get it for her.

She was standing on the library steps, searching for the volume, when she heard the dining-room door open and close, and the voices of the gentlemen as they crossed the hall. She thought that both of them had passed on by the open door of the library, but she was mistaken; on turning to come down the steps, she was surprised to see Vaughan standing watching her.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked.

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door, I thought some giantess had taken possession of your library, when I saw the shadow. Look there!"

The room was lighted by two small moderator lamps, placed upon the chimney-piece, and thus a distorted shadow of Miss Russel standing on the step-ladder was thrown upon the opposite wall. She did not say anything, but came down quickly, and stood by the empty fireplace with the book in her hand.

Vaughan came over and stood beside her. They were both silent, and the stillness of the room became almost oppressive. After a while it was broken by Vaughan: "These last few weeks have been very happy weeks to me," he said, " and I am sure they have been so to you too, Eleanor, for you always found pleasure in making others happy."

"Yes," she answered, " if Rachel and Harry were my own children, I could not love them more."

Silence again for a time; again broken by Vaughan. "Eleanor," he said, "since we have met we have often talked of the dear old days we used to spend together; but never have I been so forcibly reminded of them as to-night, when I saw your shadow on the wall, just

now."

She evidently knew what was coming, for she turned deadly pale, and shivered almost audibly. "Do you remember the evening?" he

went on.

"Oh, do not-pray do not!" she interrupted imploringly, covering her face. "I cannot bear it."

He very gently, almost tenderly, took both her hands into his own, and held them, while he continued: "I am not going to say anything to pain you, dear Eleanor. Can you not trust me?"

She drew a deep sigh, by way of answer, and he continued: "I am sure you never knew, never even suspected, what brought me to your aunt's house that evening of which it grieves you to speak. I went, Eleanor, to ask you to be my wife. You know what I saw, and the mistake into which it led me-a mistake which changed both our lives; that is, if you would have given me, what you refused to others-your love."

"And you cared for me, then?" she said, slowly, as though that fact obliterated all others at the moment.

"Yes, I cared for you-not, perhaps, with the same strong, overwhelming passion I soon felt for Caroline Forbes, but with a love strong enough to have made me happy to call you mine-a love founded upon thorough knowledge of your character. And now, Eleanor, having made my confession, tell me in your turn, was your feeling for me then more than friendship?"

"As you remember so much of the past, Henry," she replied, using his Christian name for the first time, " perhaps you remember some of our many discussions upon love and friendship? You used to think that I did not make enough of difference between them. Now is your question answered?"

"Not quite," hereplied, smilingly; "I must ask it in another formwould vou have married Eleanor?"

me,

"Yes," she answered frankly, "why should I hesitate to let you know it now? I never liked any one, I never could have liked any one so much as I liked you-but do not mistake me. I was truly, and sincerely glad when I saw you happy with another."

"I believe it," he returned earnestly, "that was precisely the fault in your character, you are not exacting for yourself; personal appropriation of the object of your

love never entered your head. Eleanor!" and his tone suddenly changed to one of deep feeling, and his clasp tightened upon her hands. "You said a little while ago to my daughter that you thought my home was perfect. It has one want, and my life has one void which you alone can fill; you confess that you cared for me in the old days, we are both alone in the world now; why should we not spend the rest of our lives together?"

He felt a tremor run through the hands he held, and he saw the warm blood flush brightly into her face, softening the lines that time had made. She was no longer young, but those words spoken so earnestly, and with such undoubted sincerity by her old friend, stirred her heart with emotions which she thought were dead for ever. She had lived, and she could live without the excitement of passion, but the one love of which she was capable, an abiding, unselfish, faithful affection had been given to Vaughan long years before, and so much as even a passing fancy she had never felt for another.

So now, although the freshness, and the beauty of her youth were gone; although she knew him as perhaps she never could have known him when the illusions of youth were blinding her, she felt that to be something near and dear to him, to know that she had the power to fill the blanks left in his life, and in his home, by the inevitable changes which time brings round, made her happier than she had ever been.

Meanwhile he was waiting for her answer as impatiently as a young lover might have done. "Eleanor," he exclaimed at last, "why do you not speak to me? Are you fancying what the world will say of sober middle age breaking out into romance? Let it

laugh if it will. Ah! if you knew how I miss you, and how I long for you at home; if you knew how unhappy it makes me to be alone!"

"And if you knew how happy it makes me to be with you," she interrupted freeing her hands from

his, but only to clasp them lovingly round his arm.

Then he stooped, and their lips for the first time in a lover's kiss.

And as in her youth her happiness had been marred, so now in middle life it was made, by a Shadow on the Wall.

THE END.

THE IRISH STAR CHAMBER.

ENGLISH lawyers living at the accession of James the First may well be excused for setting a high value on the power of the Crown. They had seen private war abolished, and the nobles reduced to their right position, trade developed, Spain humbled, Scotland rendered harmless, the supremacy of the State over the Church surely established, and England made glorious by sea and land. And it was the royal power in the vigorous hands of the Tudors that had done most of this. Authority had indeed been often abused; but peace and order had at any rate been maintained, and the mass of the people were satisfied. Towards the end of Elizabeth's reign, the increase of monopolies had become a grievous burden, but the great Queen had yielded, timely and gracefully, as she knew so well how to do, and with that honest regard for her people's welfare which goes far to cover her many faults. It is well that there was not a succession of sovereigns at once SO

fond of power, so able, and so discreet, or our fathers might have been content to abide by the fleshpots and to lose their liberties almost without knowing it.

The king's council, disguised under the name of the Star Chamber, had been one of the strongest weapons in the hands of the Tudor sovereigns. The union of the executive and judicial authority in the same body was extremly dangerous, yet at first it was very useful in repressing the insolence of those powerful subjects with which the ordinary tribunals had shown themselves too weak to deal. Prerogative, with its searching interrogatories and summary process, went straight to the point, while law and its twelve honest men sometimes lagged falteringly behind. The usurpation was for a time acquiesced in. But even under Elizabeth the jurisdiction had been much abused; and the evil part which it played after Bacon had prostituted his immeasurable powers to build up the

imbecile tyranny of the Stuarts, has made the name of Star Chamber infamous. It was found impossible to revive it at the Restoration.

Statesmen, having deliberately undertaken to make Ireland as exact a copy of England as possible, were not likely to neglect so useful an instrument, and accordingly we find both Queen Elizabeth and the Lord Lieutenant, Sussex, recommending the establishment of such a court as early as 1562, and it was in actual operation five years later. It continued to sit for the purpose for which it was originally instituted, the punishment of " riots and perjuries," sometimes nodoubt acting arbitrarily enough. Jurors, for instance, were fined, imprisoned and pilloried for giving verdicts contrary to the evidence. This continued to be the established practice, and Strafford made it the means of enormous extortion. In the last years of the Queen, one Sedgrave, a baron of the Exchequer, was brought before the Castle Chamber, and deprived of his office, with fine and imprisonment, for corrupt conduct on the trial of a cause affecting the title to the manor of Dunshaughlin, which he hoped to get possession of himself. Immediately after the accession of James, the Court was turned to a new use. Messrs. Russell and Prendergast's Calendar of State Papers relating to this reign enable us, with some help from other sources, to gain a clear view of this curious episode, in which the Irish Star Chamber went beyond its great original.

The only means of enforcing religious uniformity at this time available in Ireland was the Act 2 Eliz. Officials indeed could be bound to take the oath, acknowledging the Royal supremacy, but for recusants in general the only punishment was a fine of one shilling for each Sunday that they absented themselves from Church.

Small as

the sum was, the cost of recovering it was considerable, and Sir John Davys was of opinion that the poor country would be unable to bear the burden if it were generally imposed. Yet even making allowance for costs, and also for the change in the value of money, such a punishment could hardly weigh very heavily on the upper classes. Under the Queen there had been scarcely any attempt to interfere with the private exercise of the Roman religion in Ireland, and when the new reign began, the people professed to believe that they would enjoy a fuller toleration. In all the southern towns, Jesuits and priests abounded, and at their instigation a vigorous and general attempt was made to set up the Mass publicly. This was put down by Mountjoy with the strength of his hand rather than of his arguments, for he tried both, and the Protestant character of the new dynasty was thus established. It remained to be seen whether the conscience of private persons would be further interfered with. The matter was not long left in doubt. Sir Henry Brouncker, an arbitrary and bigoted and apparently not very honest man, succeeded the wise and politic Carew in the government of Munster. He lost no time in showing his zeal, and as early as Aug. 14,1604, issued a proclamation commanding all priests to leave the province before the last day of September, and not to re-enter it for seven years. Any person harbouring them after the appointed date, was to forfeit £10 for each offence, half to the Crown and half to the informer. Any person who brought the body of one to the Lord President was to be rewarded. the wording of this document, it would seem that a man might murder a priest, and then claim the reward, but even Brouncker can hardly have intended this; £40 was the price of a Jesuit; £6 38. 4d.

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