Neil looked at his watch again.  It was almost six, and at seven there was a grand dinner at Trevellian house, at which he was expected to be present.  But Bessie’s blue eyes and eager face drove everything else from his mind, and he was soon walking with her in the lovely Kensington gardens, and her hand was on his arm, and his hand was on hers, and in watching her bright face and listening to her quaint remarks, he forgot how fast the minutes were going by, and the grand dinner at home waited for him a quarter of an hour, and then the guests sat down without him and Lady Jane’s face wore a dark, stormy look, when the son of the house appeared smiling, handsome, and gracious, and apologizing for his tardiness by saying frankly that he was in the garden, and forgot the lapse of time.

“You must have been greatly interested.  You could not have been alone,” Blanche said to him in an undertone.

“No, I was not alone,” he replied, with great frankness.  “I was with the prettiest girl in London, or out of it, either.”

“And pray who may she be?” Blanche asked.

“My cousin Bessie.  She arrived yesterday,” was Neil’s reply.

“Oh!” and Blanche’s face flushed with annoyance.

She remembered the beautiful child at Penrhyn Park, and had heard her name so often since, that the mere mention of it was obnoxious to her, and she was silent and sulky all through the long dinner, which lasted until nine o’clock.  When it was over, and the guests were gone.  Lady Jane turned fiercely upon her son and asked what had kept him so late.

“Cousin Bessie,” he answered, “She is in the city with her father, at No. ——­ Abingdon road, and I wish you would call upon them.  They really ought to be staying here, our own blood relations as they are.”

“Staying here?  Not if I know myself.  Is that detestable gambling woman with them?” Lady Jane replied, with ineffable scorn.

“No,” Neil answered her.  “She is never with them, and Bessie is no more like her than you are.  She is the purest, and sweetest and best girl I ever knew, and I do not think it would hurt you or Blanche either to pay her some attention;” and having said so much, the young man left the room in time to escape Blanche’s tears and his mother’s anger and reproaches.

The next day Neil was in a penitent frame of mind, for, however much he might laugh at Blanche and her light eyebrows, and ridicule his mother’s plans for him in that quarter, he was not at all indifferent to the ten thousand a year, and might perhaps wish to have it.  Consequently he must not drive Blanche too far, for she had a temper and a will, and there was another cousin one degree further removed than himself, a good-natured, good-looking and highly-aristocratic Jack Trevellian, who was thirty years old, and a great favorite in the best society which London afforded, and who, if a great-uncle and two cousins were to die without heirs, would become Sir Jack, and who, it was