The Lost Lady of Lone. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

young journalist was requested by the publisher of the National Liberator, to write a leader on a certain Reform Bill then up before the House of Commons.

      This work was so congenial to the principles and sentiments of the author, that it became a labor of love, and was performed, as all such labors should be, with all the strength of his intellect and affections.

      This leader made the anonymous writer famous in a day. He at once became the theme of all the political and newspaper clubs.

      And now a grand honor came to him.

      The Premier—no less a person—sent his private secretary to the office of the National Liberator to inquire the name and address of the author of the articles by "Justus," with a request to be informed of them if there should be no objection on the part of author or publisher.

      The private secretary was told, with the consent of the author, what the name and address was.

      "Mr. John Scott, office of the National Liberator."

      Upon receiving this information, the Premier addressed a note to the young journalist, speaking in high terms of his leader on the Reform Bill, predicting for him a brilliant career, and requesting the writer to call on the minister at noon the following day.

      The young marquis was quite as much pleased at this distinguished recognition of his genius as any other aspiring young journalist might have been.

      He wrote and accepted the invitation.

      And at the appointed hour the next day he presented himself at Elmhurst House, the Premier's residence at Kensington.

      He sent up his card, bearing the plain name:

      "Mr. John Scott."

      He was promptly shown up stairs to a handsome library, where he found the great statesman among his books and papers.

      His lordship arose and received his visitor with much cordiality, and invited him to be seated.

      And during the interview that followed it would have been difficult to decide who was the best pleased—the great minister with this young disciple of his school, or the new journalist with this illustrious head of his party.

      This agreeable meeting was succeeded by others.

      At length the young journalist was invited to a sort of semi-political dinner at Elmhurst House, to meet certain eminent members of the reform party.

      This invitation pleased the marquis. It would give him the opportunity of meeting men whom he really wished to know. He thought he might accept it and go to the dinner as plain Mr. John Scott, of the National Liberator, without danger of being recognized as the Marquis of Arondelle.

      For in the days of his family's prosperity he had been too young to enter London society.

      And in these days of his adversity he was known to but a limited number of individuals in the city, and only by his common family name.

      On the appointed evening, therefore, he put on his well-brushed dress-suit, spotless linen, and fresh gloves, and presented himself at Elmhurst House as well dressed as any West End noble or city nabob there.

      He was shown up to the drawing-room by the attentive footman, who opened the door, and announced:

      "Mr. John Scott."

      And the young Marquis of Arondelle entered the room, where a brilliant little company of about half a dozen gentlemen and as many ladies were assembled.

      The noble host came forward to welcome the new guest. His lordship met him with much cordiality, and immediately presented him to Lady——, who received him with the graceful and gracious courtesy for which she was so well known.

      Finally the minister took the young journalist across the room toward a very tall, thin, fair-skinned, gray-haired old gentleman, who stood with a pale, dark-eyed, richly-dressed young girl by his side.

      They were standing for the moment, with their backs to the company, and were critically examining a picture on the wall—a master-piece of one of the old Italian painters.

      "Sir Lemuel," said the host, lightly touching the art-critic on the shoulder.

      The old gentleman turned around.

      "Sir Lemuel, permit me to present to you Mr. John Jones—I beg pardon—Mr. John Scott, of the National Liberator—Mr. Scott, Sir Lemuel Levison, our member for Lone," said the minister.

      Sir Lemuel Levison saw before him the young Marquis of Arondelle, whom he had know as a boy and young man for years in the Highlands, and of whom, indeed, he had purchased his life interest in Lone. But he gave no sign of this recognition.

      The young marquis, on his part, had every reason to know the man who had succeeded, not to say supplanted, his father at Lone Castle. But by no sign did he betray this knowledge.

      The recognition was mutual, instantaneous and complete. Yet both were gravely self-possessed, and addressed each other as if they had never met before.

      Then the banker called the attention of the young lady by his side:

      "My daughter."

      She raised her eyes and saw before her the idol of her secret worship, knowing him by his portrait at Lone. She paled and flushed, while her father, with old-fashioned formality, was saying:

      "My daughter, let me introduce to your acquaintance, Mr. John Scott of the National Liberator. You have read and admired his articles under the signature of Justus, you know!—Mr. Scott, my daughter, Miss Levison."

      Both bowed gravely, and as they looked up their eyes met in one swift and swiftly withdrawn glance.

      And before a word could be exchanged between them the doors were thrown open and the butler announced:

      "My lady is served."

      "Sir Lemuel, will you give your arm to Lady——, and allow me to take Miss Levison in to dinner?" said the noble host, drawing the young lady's hand within his arm.

      "Mr. John Scott" took in Lady Belgrave.

      At dinner Miss Levison found herself seated nearly opposite to the young marquis. She could not watch him, she could not even lift her eyes to his face, but she could not chose but listen to every syllable that fell from his lips. It was the cue of some of the leading politicians present to draw out this young apostle of the reform cause. And of course they proceeded to do it.

      The young journalist, modest and reserved at first, as became a disciple in the presence of the leaders of the great cause, gradually grew more communicative, then animated, then eloquent.

      Among his hearers, none listened with a deeper interest than Salome Levison. Although he did not address one syllable of his conversation to her, nor cast one glance of his eyes upon her, yet she hung upon his words as though they had been the oracles of a prophet.

      If the high ideal honor and reverence in which she held him, could have been increased by any circumstance, it must have been from the sentiments expressed, the principles declared in his discourse.

      She saw before her, not only the loyal son, who had sacrificed himself to save his father, but she saw also in him the reformer, enlightener, educator and benefactor of his race and age.

      Of all the men she had met in the great world of society, during the three years that she had been "out," she had not found his equal, either in manly beauty and dignity, or in moral and intellectual excellence.

      His brow needs no ducal coronet to ennoble it! His name needs no title to illustrate it. The "princely Hereward!" "If all the men of his race resembled him, they well deserved this popular soubriquet. And whether this gentleman calls himself Mr. Scott or Lord Arondelle, I shall think of him only as the 'princely Hereward.'" mused Salome, as she sat and listened to the music of his voice, and the wisdom of his words.

      She