market. Sir Frederick Derwent was driving his high phaeton and light sorrel steeds in his usual reckless manner, without heeding the obstacles to his progress presented by the hilly nature of the country.

Lewis Pemberton would have thought that neither party had seen the other approaching, if he had not noticed the angry dark flush on his brother's brow, and the blows showered on his horse's neck, as well as the evident terror of the ladies who accompanied Sir Frederick. The latter was talking very fast, with his head bent down towards them, and the reins hanging loose. The men in the field called to them to stop, saying that there was no room to pass farther on; but he only drove the quicker, without casting a glance in front of him. The two vehicles came to the bottom of the hill, at the same instant.

If the tumble-down gig had been, as usual, reposing tranquilly in the old shed, with its shafts turned up and the fowls roosting on the

back, Sir Frederick Derwent could not have seen less of it than he seemed to do, as he drove straight along the lane, leaving no choice to the occupants of the other carriage between being upset, or taking their course through the stony bed of the stream. Roger Pemberton stood up and flogged his clumsy horse, but the animal, decidedly considering discretion to be the better part of valour, made a bolt off the causeway, leaving the road clear for the spirited pair in the phaeton, and ploughed its way deliberately through the mud and pebbles, with the water splashing over his master and mistress's feet, each time it set its hoofs down, and the ricketty vehicle tilting from side to side.

Roger Pemberton's face grew perfectly black with rage. He swore violently, declaring that, if the springs were broke, Sir Frederick should pay for the damage. The Baronet took no notice of his insolence; but the groom, riding behind the carriage, stopped, for an instant, to

see the farmer's gig emerge from the bed of the stream, the horse staggering and puffing as it mounted the bank. The man then rode rapidly forward, with a grin on his face, after his master.

Laura Derwent's cheeks, white with terror when she saw the threatened collision, flushed, at the very moment of danger, to a deep and painful crimson. She bent her fair head and her lips moved, but without any sound escaping them. Sir Frederick looked quickly in the direction of Languard. Just at that moment, Lewis Pemberton, who had been standing on the bank, in the field, perceiving that the lady intended to bow to him, gravely acknowledged the salutation.

He saw that Sir Frederick looked surprised, and as he stooped down, appeared to address some question to his niece. The next instant the party was out of sight, behind the tall hedges of the winding lane. The gig and its freight had by this time reached the gate lead

ing into the field. Roger Pemberton called to one of the men to take the horse to the stables, desired his "Missus" to "tumble out," and came into the meadow, his face still darkened by the remembrance of his encounter, and the insult he conceived himself to have sustained.

He was a tall, powerful man, with a heavy louring brow, a loud voice and countrified accent, as unlike as possible to his brother, the slender, studious Lewis. All his life he had been devoted to rustic pursuits; but there was nothing of the once jovial English farmer about him. He was one of that hard class who muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn. His workmen, who were likewise his tenantry, for he farmed his own land, seldom saw the colour of his money; and the return in kind which he made for their labour was meted to them with a niggardly hand.

Yet this man, with his blood flowing through his veins like water, was to be the successor of the open-handed, generous-hearted Derwents.

By a caprice of the late owner of Maydwell, his name had been placed in the entail next to those of Sir Frederick and Colonel Derwent,

in case of both the brothers dying without leaving male issue. There had been some suspicion of unfair dealing on the part of the old lady, his wife, a Pemberton to the heart's core, and of her brother, the lawyer, another uncle of Roger and Lewis; but Mr. Derwent, though a great invalid, and never possessed of a strong mind, was perfectly competent to execute a will. His partiality for his wife's relations had always been very great.

He probably thought that, in yielding to her wish, he was paying her but an empty compliment. Sir Frederick and his brother were extremely fine young men, and the former would probably marry as soon as he came into possession of the estate, if not beforehand. Their uncle could not suppose that the woman who had been a faithful wife to him for forty years, would keep his memory sacred for