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ETHEL CHURCHILL.

fragrant bohea, which stood just made on the little breakfast-table.

Ensconced, each in a large fauteuil, wrapped in loose, white dressing-gowns, the hair only gathered with a single riband, sat the two friends. The excitement of yesterday's triumphs had not yet left Lady Marohmont's lip and eye. She was in the gayest spirits; a mood, the inevitable augury of ill; it is like the very bright sunshine which is sure to precede rain. "When the pavement dries so quickly, we may be sure of another shower," is a common saying, and it may serve as a type. Alas! this careless gaiety seems like tempting fate.

Ethel was the very reverse: the mouth was pale, the eyes were heavy; during the preceding night they had closed with the weight of tears, but not with sleep; she looked what she felt, very wretched. The habit of endurance, almost mistaken for composure, had been broken in upon; she had been forced to remember her past happiness; again to shrink