is India's fault! What tremendous power women have for evil !" "And for good!" said Mark Sutherland, as his thoughts flew to his guardian angel, Rosalie. Wearied with his journey, and longing for the solitude that would leave him free to reflect upon all that he had just heard, Mark Sutherland expressed a wish to retire. Mr. Bolling rang for the night lamps, and they parted for the night. CHAPTER XXVI. INDIA. "How changed since last her speaking eye Her gentle voice and lovely mien- The graces of its queen!"-Byron. EARLY the next morning Mark Sutherland descended to the drawing-room. No one was there except Oriole, who had just stepped from her mistress's boudoir, and was crossing the room, on her way to some other part of the house. Once more Mark Sutherland was mournfully affected by the marvellous, the fatal beauty of the poor girl. As she met and was passing him, with eyes cast down, cheeks painfully flushed, and heart beating, as it had too well learned to beat with fear at the look of man, his heart was moved with deep pity. He had known her from her infancy; he held out his hand, and spoke to her, saying "How do you do, Oriole? You have not spoken to me since my arrival." But without touching his hand, or even venturing a glance at his face, the maiden dropped a quick courtesy as she passed, and hurried on her errand. "Poor, hunted, trembling deer!" said Mark: "she cannot even trust a friend. Is it possible to save her?" His thoughts dwelt with painful but vain intensity upon the hapless girl, and it was many minutes before the old familiar scene around him-suggestive as it was of the most joyous as well as the most painful passages in his past life-could recall him to himself. He gazed around. The sliding doors and the flowing curtains that divided the boudoir from the saloon, were drawn entirely back, revealing the whole apartment. Yes; here was the same saloon, the temple of joyous reunions, and the same boudoir, the shrine of beauty, love, and happiness. The same, yet how changed from all the pristine splendour of the past! Then all was order, beauty, freshness, and enjoyment. Now all was indifference, neglect, decay, and desolation. Even there, in the sacred boudoir of India-the latest sanctuary of elegance and luxury-rust and must, mildew and canker, had crept over all. There the sumptuous hangings of purple and gold, that made the bower seem like some gorgeous oriental sunset scene, were now faded and tarnished—the royal purple turned to a dull, streaked brown and drab-the gold cankered with green verdigris. The cheval mirrore were specked thickly with mildew, and obscured with fly-stains; the marble tables stained and smirched; and, for the fragrance of fresh flowers, a close, damp, stifling smell of must pervaded the apartment. All was cheerless, hopeless, desolate. His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of another figure. It was India. And prepared as he had been to meet a great change in the "Pearl of Pearl River," he scarcely recognised her. The superficial is ever the first to strike us. He noticed that the gorgeous and flowing drapery which had once graced her form, was now replaced by a plain black dress. The rich, warm, olive bloom of her complexion had given place to the paleness of ivory. Naught remained of her glorious beauty but the luxuriant amber-hued ringlets and the large, dark, mournful, soul-thrilling eyes. More of real self-possession she exhibited now than she had ever shown in former times. She advanced towards Mark, holding out her hand, and welcomed him with these words: "I am happy to see you again at Cashmere-after so many years-my dear cousin-why could we not be friends ?" Her voice faltered slightly; and when she paused, Mr. Sutherland cordially grasped her outstretched hands, and said, while he pressed them— "We are friends, my dearest India; at least, I can speak for myself and for one who loves you not less than I do my wife Rosalie." With a spasmodic catch India snatched away her hands; and, quivering through every nerve, sat down, and veiled her face with her hands, and, "It is a trying world!"-burst from her quivering lips. Raising his eyebrows in painful surprise, Mark Sutherland gazed earnestly at her for an instant, and then turned away his eyes, waiting reverently for her self-recovery. Soon she looked Soon she looked up, and, faintly smiling, said "I have had much, oh! very much, indeed, to try me of late, my cousin. Everything is going to ruin with us everything, everything." "I trust not. Your father is embarrassed, but with the advice and assistance of his friends, all, I hope, will be brought to a happy issue." Ah, no! but it is not of our desperate affairs I wished to speak. Tell me of your own. You have been successful in life?" "Yes, I have been successful, thanks, under Divine Providence, to the constant sympathy and co-operation of my faithful Rosalie." Again India hastily raised her hands, to screen the spasm of pain that traversed her countenance; and"Why will he stab me with that name?" she thought; but she answered calmly-"Rosalie is an amiable woman; how is she?" "Well, and very busy." "And your family?" "We have no family; we are all the world to each other." "Tell me how you have got on since I saw you last." Mr. Sutherland began, and told her the principal circumstances of his life since their last parting— dwelling frequently upon his Rosalie's hope and faith, and persevering energy. "And so Rosalie has been the angel of his life," she muttered inaudibly between her white lips. A pause ensued, which was broken at last by India. "All is sadly changed here; my father has been very unfortunate, and Mr. Ashley-I cannot comprehend it! I see ruin gathering darkly around us all, without the power-yes, and without the will—to avert it, any more than I could avert an earthquake, whose premonitory jars were shaking us!" she said, in a despairing tone. Mark Sutherland made no comment. What could he have said to console her that would not have been false? He thought that not so would Rosalie have met misfortune-with inert despair. And then he remembered that much of this impending ruin the beautiful India had drawn upon her own head, and the heads of those who loved her, but whom, alas! she loved not. He felt relieved when, at this point, a summons to the breakfast-room terminated the interview. At the breakfast-table appeared India, Mark Sutherland, St. Gerald Ashley, and Mr. Bolling. Oriole served tea and coffee from a side-table. Clement Sutherland had not come home. Mr. Ashley's face was bloated, and his eyes blood-shot-the effects of the preceding evening's excess were but too plain. He sat silent and morose, and ate but little. India maintained a cold, severe aspect, never speaking to or looking at him. Mark Sutherland felt himself de trop and uncomfortable, but for Uncle Billy, who kept up an incessant monologue, asking a score of questions about the |