“And yet, Helen,” said Lady Eleanor, calmly, “such are the essential transitions by which families are formed; wealthy in one generation, aspiring in the next, recognized gentry--mayhap titled--in the third. It is but rarely that the whole series unfolds itself before our eyes at once, as in the present instance, and consequently it is but rarely that we detect so palpably all its incongruities and absurdities. A few years more,” added she, with a deep sigh, “and these O'Reillys will be regarded as the rightful owners of Gwynne Abbey by centuries of descent; and if an antiquary detect the old leopards of the Darcys frowning from some sculptured keystone, it will be to weave an ingenious theory of intermarriage between the houses.” “An indignity they might well have spared us,” said Helen, proudly. “Such are the world's changes,” continued Lady Eleanor, pursuing her own train of thought. “How very few remember the origin of our proudest houses, and how little does it matter whether the foundations have been laid by the rude courage of some lawless baron of the tenth century, or the crafty shrewdness of some Hickman O'Reilly of the nineteenth!” If there was a tone of bitter mockery in Lady Eleanor's words, there was also a secret meaning which, even to her own heart, she would not have ventured to avow. By one of those strange and most inexplicable mysteries of our nature, she was endeavoring to elicit from her daughter some expression of dissent to her own recorded opinion of the O'Reillys and seeking for some chance word which might show that Helen regarded an alliance with that family with more tolerant feelings than she did herself. Her intentions on this head were uot destined to be successful. Helen's prejudices on the score of birth and station were rather strengthened than shaken by the changes of fortune; she cherished the prestige of their good blood as a source of proud consolation that no adversity could detract from. Before, however, she could reply, the tramp of a horse's feet--a most unusual sound--was heard on the gravel without; and immediately after the heavy foot of some one, as if feeling his way in the dark towards the door. Without actual fear, but not without intense anxiety, both mother and daughter heard the heavy knocking of a loaded horsewhip on the door; nor was it until old Tate had twice repeated his question that a sign replied he might open the door. “Look to the pony there!” cried a voice, as the old man peered out into the dark night. And before he could reply or resist, the speaker pushed past him and entered the room. “I crave your pardon, my Lady Eleanor,” said she,--for it was Miss Daly, who, drenched with rain and all splashed with mud, now stood before them,--“I crave your pardon for this visit of so scant ceremony. Has the Knight returned yet?”