habits which assumed serious proportions in the mind of a lady so strict in notions of propriety. He had, even in Paris, acquired the habit of smoking immoderately. In the regiment he had been compelled, by evil customs then prevailing, to go through a noviciate in the matter of imbibing "military port;" and his habits had followed him to Tichborne, where the odor of pipes haunted the terrace-walks throughout his visits; and-horror of horrors-the young officer had been seen at least on one occasion, in a state of preternaturally high spirits, only to be explained by his having lingered in the diningroom too long after the retirement of the ladies. Even worse, he was accustomed to bring in his portmanteau French novels, which were decidedly objectionable, though few young men―or, at least, few young Frenchmen-would probably regard it as much sin to read them. So little did the young man appreciate her objections to this exciting kind of literature that he had actually recommended to his aunt some stories, which no amount of humor and cleverness could prevent that pious lady regarding as debasing, and absolutely immoral. Now, that there seemed a prospect of her nephew's destiny being united with that of a dear and only child, it was natural enough that the mother's standard of perfection in a son-in-law should rise even above a reasonable height. But Jacob toiled seven years for Rachel; and what would Roger not do to please the mother of the young lady whom he loved so deeply? All sorts of pledges were given; all kinds of good resolutions taken; and manful efforts were made to attain to the ideal life which he had resolved upon. But among the distinguished society in which Roger, in common with the other officers, freely mingled, in Dublin, Cahir, Waterford, and Clonmel, Lady Doughty had "good-natured friends," who gave terrible accounts of

barrack life, and the dissipation of young Carabineers. To tell the truth, such idle practical jokes as attiring a young donkey in bedgown and nightcap, and tying him down in the bed of a young brother officer, were not the most innocent of the escapades of young men who, with health and strength, and large capacity for work, were compelled, to a great extent, to lead an idle life. Mess dinners could not be avoided, and occasional deep potations were only to be escaped by the most resolute self-will. How Lady Doughty felt under all this will be best shown by the following extract from one of her letters, among that voluminous mass of Roger Tichborne's correspondence, which may be said to have been almost miraculously preserved :

"1850. Tichborne Park, begun 29 Jan., finished 31st. "MY DEAREST ROGER,-After three weeks being between life and death, it has pleased God to restore me so far that I have this day, for the first time, been in the wheel-chair to the drawing-room, and I hasten to begin my thanks to you for your letters, especially that private one, though it may yet be some days before I finish all I wish to say to you, for I am yet very weak, and my eyes scarcely allow of reading or writing. . . . Remember, dear Roger, that by that conversation in town you gave me every right to be deeply interested in your fate, and, therefore, doubly do I feel grieved when I see you abusing that noblest of God's gifts to man, reason, by diminishing its power. I cannot recall to my mind the subject you say I was beginning in the drawing-room when interrupted; probably it might have had reference to the confidence which you say you do not repent having placed in me. No, dear Roger, never repent it; be fully assured that I never shall betray that confidence. You are young, and intercourse with life. and the society you must mix with, might very possibly

change your feelings towards one now dear to you, or rather, settle them into the affection of a brother towards a sister; but, whatever may be the case hereafter, my line of duty is marked out, and ought steadily to be followed that is, not to encourage anything that could fetter the future choice of either party, before they had fully seen others, and mixed with the world, and with all the fond care of a mother, endeavor, while she is yet so young, to prevent her heart and mind from being occupied by ideas not suited to what should be her present occupations, and hereafter, with the blessing of God, guard her against the dangers she may be liable to be ensnared into by the position in which she is placed. You have been, I rejoice to hear, raised in the opinion of all with whom you have lately had to transact business, by your firmness and decision. You are in an honorable profession, which gives you occupation.

Resist drink or a rash throwing away life, or wasting in any way the energies of a naturally strong, sensible mind, and really attached heart. Now, write to me soon; tell me truly if I have tried your patience by this long letter which I venture to send, for it is when returning to life, as I now feel, that renewed love to all dear to one seems to take possession of our hearts, so you must forgive it if you find it long. Your uncle and cousin send their kindest love. Adieu, dearest Roger, ever be assured of the sincere affection and real attachment of your aunt, KATHERINE DOUGHTY."

In replying to letters of this kind, the young man protested that his failings had been exaggerated, and there is a trace of vexation that Lady Doughty should have lent an ear to reports of his manner of life which were colored in an unfriendly way; but there was no abatement in the affectionate terms on which he stood with his aunt at Tichborne.

Matters, however, could not long go on in this fashion. As yet Roger Tichborne had never spoken of his love to Miss Doughty, though it cannot be doubted that some tokens had revealed that secret. Years after these events, Miss Doughty, then Lady Radcliffe, was compelled, in vindication of herself, and for the sake of the rights of others so cruelly assailed, to stand up in a crowded court of justice and re-open those old sorrows. She was then asked kindly by the Judge, whether she did not at that time know that her cousin loved her, and with a simple frankness, she answered, promptly, "My Lord, I hoped he did." But love must find expression in something more than hints and tokens, or even hopes. So at last came the inevitable time. It was Christmas Eve, 1851, that Roger joyfully set foot in Tichborne Park once more. That was a happy meeting in all but the fact that Sir Edward Doughty was in weak health. Nothing else clouded the unspoken happiness of the young pair, except, perhaps, the fact that both knew that neither Miss Doughty's father, nor the father and mother of Roger Tichborne as yet knew anything of their growing attachment. But young people are hopeful in such matters, and think but little of the future. Meanwhile, however, Sir Edward had begun to observe how much time the cousins spent together. Miss Doughty had given Roger a keepsake volume of Father Faber's hymns, and there was an exchange of gifts. Suddenly the truth flashed across the mind of the father, and he was vexed and angry. It was on a Sunday morning; the two cousins had been walking in the garden, enjoying the bright winter day, and they were sitting together at breakfast, when a message came that Sir Edward desired to see his nephew in the library.

The bolt had fallen. Roger did not come back to the breakfast-table; but the eyes of the cousins met sorrow

fully in the chapel, and in the afternoon, with Lady Doughty's permission, they saw each other in the drawing-room, to take farewell. For Sir Edward's fiat had gone forth. Marriage between first cousins was forbidden by the Church, and there were other reasons why he was resolute that this engagement should be broken off before it grew more serious. So the happy holiday

was cut short, and it was arranged that on the very next morning early the young man should leave the house forever. Thus the great hope of Roger's life was suddenly extinguished, and there was nothing left for him but to sail with his regiment for India, and endeavor, if he could, to forget the past. Some days after that, at his cousin's request, he wrote out for her a narrative of his sorrows at this time, in which he said:

"What I felt when I left my uncle, it is difficult for me to explain. I was like thunderstruck. I came back to my room, and tried to pack up my things, but was obliged to give up the attempt, as my mind was quite absent. I sank on a chair, and remained there, my head buried between my two knees, for more than half an hour. What was the nature of my thoughts, my dearest K., you may easily imagine. To think that I was obliged to leave you the next day, not to see you again -not, perhaps, for years, if ever I came back from India. The idea was breaking my heart. It passed on, giving me no relief, until about two o'clock, when my aunt told me that you wished to see me. That news gave me more pleasure than I could express-so much so, that I never could have expected it. The evening that I saw you, my dear K., about five o'clock, you cannot conceive what pleasure it gave me. I saw you felt my going away, so I determined to tell you everything I felt towards you. What I told you it is not necessary to repeat, as I suppose you remember it. When I came