TO A ROBIN. 
Robin, sin? I'm triad to-day, 
And I love to hear you, 
Sitting on yon toy spray, 
. ’With no playmate near you. 
Robin, sing, Pin glad to-day, 
Though the snow falls thickly, 
And the sky is dull and grey, 
Making night :ome quickly. 
Robin, sing, I’m glad to-day— 
Winter’s cold and dreary, 
But the spring is on its way— 
Sing and do not weary, 
Robin, sing, I’m glad to-day— 
Glad to have you near me 
Sitting on yon icy spray. 
As you sing you cheer me. 
®J)t ,Stoni-®dlft. 
PAULINE, 
[Concluded from page 273-1 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
In the Valley of the Llugwy. 
Sne Knew him in ft moment. 
He was altered. He was stouter, redder, than 
he had been. There waa a dash or grey on each 
temple. There was a something- But, in 
spite of all—perhaps rather because of all—he 
waa even more remarkable-looking than he had 
been before. 
She would have Known him In a crowd—have 
known him anywhere. 
As It was, In this quiet place, their eyes met 
with a Hash of Instantaneous recognition. A few 
dizzy moments—a voice in her eurs—and then— 
she passed on. 
Met at last! And such a meeting! 
The bold look, ( lie swaggering attitude, the con¬ 
temptuous negligence of dress and demeanor— 
oh, how her heart throbbed! 
Site speak to him! Slip respond to his leap for¬ 
ward, and exclamation of her name t 
She permit him to take her hand ? Detain her ? 
No, indeed! 
Not a smile—not a moment’s hesi¬ 
tation, after that tlrst Involuntary 
halt. She will not vouchsafe him a 
word. 
Up and down her room she paces, 
with clasped hands and quivering 
breath. The door is locked. She has 
secured a moment’s quiet, and the 
wretched comfort of being free from 
prying ohseiwatlou. 
Blundell! Could It be Blundell ? 
Were those Blundell's eyes? Was 
that Blundell's voice ? in the same 
spot, under the same roof, they had 
stood and confronted each other, and 
he had spoken? 
Oh! not he, but some vile Impostor, 
miserable changeling! When had 
he that Insolent air, that flushed 
brow, that lullamed glance? 
it cannotr-lC shall not be Blundell! 
He, for whom she had wept and 
prayed, and shamed herself In her 
own eyes! 
For whose sake she had stormed In 
secret Indignation at the calumny, 
the slander, the Injustice which had 
fastened on his name! 
Had not that very name been dear 
to her? 
Had she not hungered even to hear 
it reproached—albeit every syllable 
stabbed her heart—rather than not 
hear It at all ? 
How quick she had been to detect 
covert allusions, when he was their 
object! How ready In guessing where 
his form would have supplied a blank! 
Now, then, she knew why that 
morning, there had vibrated through 
the thin partition of their room, it 
sound which had strangely awakened 
her memory, yet troubled her to dis¬ 
cover why. 
She had divined no reason for It. 
The husky voice of a late sleeper, 
demanding brandy ere he could rise 
—was that like any one she knew ? 
Moat unlike Blundell. 
It had been a trick of speech—a 
something in the accent. 
She had smiled—had sighed to think 
how easily his Image could be con¬ 
jured up. 
That sigh was now a groan. That 
Image had been slain by roree. 
Blundell —her Blundell —was no 
more. 
* * # « 
Pauline did not leave her room till 
evening. 
A headache, she said, detained her. 
She would lie down, needed no atten¬ 
tion. 
“Those noisy people are to leave 
about nine o’clock," said her aunt, 
coming in. “ None or them appeared 
at the table d’hote, and I understand 
they have ordered dluner for them¬ 
selves at seven. So, you see, we 
might just as well have been tempted 
to eat something I ir one ever tries 
not to give trouble at these places, 
some one else Is sure to reap the benefit! I made 
a point of going down to that early breakfast, 
tired though I was; and then, when we came 
back from church, at nearly one o'clock, there 
was the debris of a great meal not begun to be 
cleared away, in a sitting-room to the right. 
The door was open as we passed. Did you not 
notico? Hot dishes too, for I saw the covers! 
This dress looks moro respectable, does It not, 
Pauline ? It was absolutely necessary to change, 
I assure you, for some one trampled upon me as 
we came In—oh, I told you, I think. So very rude! 
lie never offered the slightest apologyhe was 
staring at some one else ; I should have imagined 
It was you, It I had not seen you took no notice. 
But, really, I was quite aunoyed. I am afraid 
they are a dissipated set of young men t It was 
one of them, you know, who did it; and there 
they are sitting at the window now, playing 
cards! I saw them as I passed by. Well, 1 have 
ordered up a cup of lea for you, love; aud now, 1 
am going to take a little rest, myself. How hot 
Hits room Is I What do you say to a utile stroll 
after you tea? It would do your good. It Is so 
sad that you should miss the whole of this lovely 
day!” 
Pauline pondered. 
She longed to go. The balmy air outside would 
soothe and calm her, but her aunt’s tittle-tattle 
“ I don't feel equal to a walk myself,” said that 
lady. Innocently. “I think my best plan will be 
to lie down and try to get a little nap, now that 
the house Is quiet. By-and-by I may perhaps put 
on a shawl, rind peep out. But don’t think about 
mo, Pauline. Don’t wait, tor me. Let us be Inde¬ 
pendent of caeb ullier. I shall watch that party 
depart. They amuse me. Aud I led quite good- 
tempered towards them, now that I know we are 
to be rid of their company before night I” 
“ I shall not come back betore they go, then,” 
said PauUne. “ After which, shall 1 come In and 
fetch you ?” 
Yes, that would do perfectly. Her aunt would 
be found In the sitting-room. 
At sevcu o'clock Pauline reconnoltered. 
The private dinner was being carried up, there 
was a slight bustle among the attendants, and 
then the door was shut. 
She stole down-stairs, Intending to turn to the 
left, and explore a mountain track, which had 
come under her notice on their way home from 
church. 
By taking this turn, she would not run the risk 
of being seen. 
Here, too, she would be safe from any chance 
encounter, whatever direction the departing trav¬ 
elers took. 
It was well planned, 
In crossing the hall, however, an opening door 
startled her, and In the confusion of escaping, 
she darted across the Yery window slio most wish¬ 
ed to avoid! 
It was wide open, and the clatter of dishes, and 
voices within, could be heard. 
But he was scarcely likely to have noticed her, 
and she could not Imagine why she should care, 
if he had S 
still she preferred not to retrace her steps, uot 
to cross the window again. Another footpath 
could be found. 
Or stay, slio would go down to the river. She 
would go over tire picturesque old Ivied bridge, 
and wander up the other side. 
Groups of qulet-looktng people, tempted by the 
warmth or the evening, were strolling up and 
and down the village. Fathers aud mothers, with 
their little ones; sweethearts linked arm-in-arm; 
Sunday-school children in clusters. 
Several of her fellow occupant* of the inn were 
likewise indulging in a ramble, and following 
some of these she crossed Lhu bridge, and passing 
a pretty water-mill, at which they stopped to 
look, pursued her way up the river-side. 
The party followed; a clergyman and two 
ladles. 
She oould hear their voices behind, as she walk¬ 
ed quietly on, subdued and refreshed by the sweet 
lulluenees around her, and after traversing rather 
more than a mile, she considered that hero It 
would be well to stay awhile. 
The footpath turned again into the wood, and 
probably rejoined the highroad a little higher up 
tho banks. 
As she baited, those behind her did the same. 
They had reached t he spot most, templing to 
lovers of scenery. They had gone down, us she 
had, to the brink or the water, and were remark¬ 
ing to each other on the beauties around. 
Presently she observed tnom, with satisfaction, 
settling down upon the rocks. 
Books were being pulled out. They were choos- 
RobDi, sing, I’m glad to-day.*’ 
lng comfortable seats, evidently with a view to 
remaining where they were for some little time. 
“ That will do very well," reflected Pauline. “ I 
shall keep those people in sight. I shall dog their 
footsteps going back. Tills is a lonely place, and 
good company at Just t hat distance Is desirable. 
I will alt down too, as soon as I have bad one look 
round this point.' 
Accordingly she stepped forward, her scarlet 
shawl rendering her a bright spot of color among 
tho flickering greens; and stood motionless for 
several minutes. 
Her brow bared to the evening air, her shawl 
thrown off, and hanging on her arm, all In while 
she stood—and Blundell was looking at her. Ho 
had been looking at, her for some time. 
The first emotion which rushed with almost 
sickening force over Pauline's ntlml when slio 
turned and saw him, was a sense of the same 
thing having happened before! 
Then, true, it. was she who had startled him, 
now It was she who was startled. 
But was this all the difference ? 
What she might have done, had time been given 
her to think, she could not tell; as It was, she 
simply stopped forward and held out her hand. 
He took It, bowing low as he did so; but neither 
spoke. 
She had leisure to observe that a change of 
some sort had taken place id him since the morn¬ 
ing; a change which shook her, for n was ouco 
again the Blundell she had known In tho wild 
Hebridean island, who stood by in r side. 
Afraid of ihc silence, and ot tho strange trem¬ 
bling In her veins, Pauline was the first to stam¬ 
mer hastily a lew Incoherent, words, but her voice 
was so low as to be almost Inaudible. 
Blundell made no attempt at reply. 
“ I startled you,” ho said, still keeping his eye 
upon her. “ If, was hardly fair to come upon you 
thus, but you forced me to it. Miss La Sarte, you 
would not speak to me this morning.” 
Hhe was silent, 
“ I came to ask you why.” 
“ Why ?” wlth a sudden outburst. “ Why ?” 
“ Yes. Why ? Wo parted friends, we have not 
seen each other for two years and a half, and you 
moot me thus. I think t have a right to ask why,” 
“Oh,” said Pauline, sadly. “ You know.” 
“I—know ?” 
“ You must. You do. Was that the way you 
would have met me In the days you 
speak of? Is that how you would 
have been seen on God’s holy day of 
rest? In such company, arid such- 
such-” 
.She paused, much agitated. 
He remained quietly regarding her, 
and after a minute said, “ When you 
saw mo last, Miss La Sarte, I had Just 
endured a great loss, and I was In 
bad health. You would not have mo 
remain always the moping follow 1 
was then? You were all very kind 
to me, I know, but you must have 
seen what a low state of spirits l was 
in, equally unpleasant, to myself, and 
to all my friends. Congratulate me 
upon having got the bettor or it.” 
“ You have had another illness 
Since then," said Pauline, gently put¬ 
ting aside the question, “ I will con¬ 
gratulate you on your recovery from 
that.” 
“Howdid you bear of it? Yes, I 
was nearly done for, they tell me. 
But how did you know 
“I heard about you everyday. I 
was within tour miles of Blundell- 
saye.” 
“ You, were within four miles of 
Blundellsaye! Where were you? 
Who were you with ? How did I not 
know?” 
He poured out the questions with 
a rapidity and eagerness that could 
not but be Battering. 
"I was at the Grange, with my 
aunt, Mrs. Wyndham.” 
“Mrs. Wyndliam? I don’t know 
the name. Has she bought the 
Grange 7 Shall you be there again?’) 
“ Yes, she has bought It.” 
“ And when do you go back ? How 
soon? How the devil—ah!” he bit 
his Up, “ i can’t, Imagine how 1 did 
not to hear of your being there!” 
No response, 
“You did not think much of our 
society, I presume,” continued Blun¬ 
dell. “ Stupidest lot or people I ever 
came across! Will your aunt allow 
me to call?” 
He pressed closer to her as he spoke. 
She drew back. 
“ Cannot tell.” 
“ I don’t know why you should treat 
me thus, Miss La Sarte,” said he, of¬ 
fended. “ Your other aunt, was kind¬ 
ness itself to me, all the time I waa 
at Gourloch, and you and your cousin 
were the same. What have I done 
to Injure myself in your opinion? 
Will you have the kindness to ex¬ 
plain to mo what really Is tne cause 
of your displeasure V" 
" My displeasure! it is not my dis¬ 
pleasure ! I have no dipleasure. I 
have nothing to do with it. I don’t 
know—I don’t know what to say,” 
cried the poor girl. “ But this morn¬ 
ing when you spoke to me you seem¬ 
ed—you looked so unlike what I had 
ever seen you—I am afruid you were 
not even quite yourself—” 
£= - 
