That picture Mrs. Beckett caused to be framed and glazed, kept it as her treasure for life, and put it into her will as a legacy to Charlotte Arnold.

CHAPTER IX.

THE GIANT OF THE WESTERN STAR.

  Come, let us range the subterranean vast,
  Dark catacombs of ages, twilight dells,
  And footmarks of the centuries long past,
  Which look on us from their sepulchral cells.

Then glad emerge we to the cheering day,
Some sun-ranged height, or Alpine snowy crown,
Or Chimborazo towering far away
O’er the great Andes chain, and, looking down,
On flaming Cordilleras, mountain thrown
O’er mountain, vast new realms. 

                                  The Creation—­Rev.  I. Williams.

The same impression of the Illustrated London News which delighted Jane Beckett’s simple heart in England, caused no small sensation at Lima.

Dona Rosita cast one glance at El Visconde there portrayed, and then became absorbed in Clara’s bonnet; Mr. Robson pronounced Lord Ormersfield as good a likeness as Mr. Dynevor, Mr. Ponsonby cast a scornful look and smile at the unlucky figure representing Fitzjocelyn; and not a critical voice was heard, excepting Tom Madison’s, who indignantly declared that they had made the young Lord look as if he had stood behind a counter all his life.

The juxtaposition of Lord Fitzjocelyn and Mr. Dynevor’s niece, was not by any means forgotten.  It looked very like a graceful conclusion to Oliver’s exertions that he should crown their union, and the county paper, which had likewise been forwarded, very nearly hinted as much.  Mr. Ponsonby took care that the paragraph should be laid in his daughter’s way, and he offered her the sight of Oliver Dynevor’s own letter.

Mary suspected that he regarded it as something conclusive, and took care to read it when there were no eyes to mark her emotions.  ‘Ormersfield and his son were there,’ wrote Oliver.  ’The young man is not so soft as he looks.  They tell me he is going to work sensibly at the estate, and he has a sharp eye for the main chance.  I hear he played fast and loose till he found your daughter had better prospects than Miss Conway, whom my fool of a nephew chose to marry, and now he is making up to my niece.  My mother dotes on him, and I shall make no objection—­no extravagance that I can see, and he will take care of the property.  You will take no offence, since you refuse the tender altogether.’

Of this Mary believed two sentences—­namely, that Aunt Catharine doted on Fitzjocelyn, and that he was not so soft as he looked, which she took as an admission that he was not comporting himself foolishly.  She was quite aware that the friendship between him and Clara might deceive an uninitiated spectator; and, though she commanded herself to think that an attachment between them would be equally natural and