The group at length became divided—the conversation less general. Edward and Clara sat over on a lounge by the window, talking with each other in a very animated strain. The rest cut up in small cliques were equally full of life. Frank alone seemed sad. His buoyant spirits had deserted him. He rose to go. “What, off again, my brother?” “Yes, I am going in search of that cottage you described. I am impatient to see the lovely fairy it contains.” “Then you never have seen her? Say not no,” said Clara, shaking the fore-finger of her little hand at him. Frank was off. He mounted his horse, and as though he were on his way to his last ride. “I have come to say, good-by,” said he, on entering the conservatory at the cottage, where Agnes was tying up her flowers. “What! are you going? Where?” “To—to Lapland.” “Lapland!” “Yes! to see if I cannot freeze the burning weight at my heart.” Agnes looked surprised. The truth half flashed upon her, and when she saw how wretched Frank looked, a thousand little things he had done and said that she thought nothing of at the time, came suddenly to her mind, as though to corroborate her suspicions. “No, it cannot be,” said she to herself, blushing at having even _thought_ she was beloved by Frank. She warmly expressed her regrets for the departure of her friend. And the little Nina—she hardly knew what to make of it. She crept up to Francis, and climbing upon his knee, hid her face in his bosom, to hide her own tears. “Is good Frank going to leave his poor Nina? Naughty Frank.” “Yes, pretty one,” said he, fondly passing his hand through her clustering curls. “Give me one of these sunny ringlets, Nina; I will keep it always.” Quicker than thought the child sprang down, and ran to her mother. “Mamma, where are your scissors? Frank wants one of my curls.” The mother gave her the scissors. Nina, selecting the prettiest curl she could find, off it came. “Here,” said she, handing it to Francis. “Now give me one of your nice curls, and I will keep it forever.” Frank let her cut off the lock that pleased her best. The child actually screamed with delight; and dancing round the room with true childish glee, she held it up for her mother to admire, and said she would “show it to papa as soon as he came home.” Francis Beverly went. . . . . Twelve or thirteen years after, a solitary equestrian was seen to enter the tangled avenue leading to Beverly Park. He was fine-looking, very. There was a calm, almost subdued look about him; yet the great blue eyes that looked out upon the world through their long, dark lashes, told of passions deep and strong. The brow above them was clear, open, and broad. A mass of chestnut curls clustered around his brow, glancing out from under the thick folds of his traveling cap. Such was the master of Beverly Park. All around the Hall looked overgrown and neglected, as though the place had long stood sadly in want of a master. . . . . . “Do you know, Mr. Bev—”