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virtue it contains for the healing of distempered minds. Hirell, I have wept over it, for the first time since manhood.

'Are you now content? It is idle to talk of my going away. I shall never go away without you!

'But you are ill. Oh, my sweet darling, if I might but be by you, to nurse you, to amuse you, to lighten your load of depression!

You want mirth, not medicine-hope, not anodynes-the one who loves you, and whom you love-have you not said so? -and not troops of bewailing friends.

'But you think to teach me patience, perhaps. So be it. Hirell, there is nothing I will not learn, if only you say it will please you, and make you grow strong.

'Shall I tell you what I have been dreaming about of late? Yes. Because I want to know what you think of the dream.

Hirell, I often wonder whether you are like the clerk of Oxenford, of whom our first great national poet, Chaucer, speaks, when he says

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.

Hirell, tell me frankly, would you gladly learn?

'Do you wonder why I ask? Listen. I am going to propose something that I see beforehand will be very dangerous to me, and perhaps very foolish, into the bargain.

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What subject ever asks his despotic queen to put on attributes that shall give her greater power than before over him? Yet that is what I am about to do, either because I can't help myself, or because I have such unbounded faith in my own particular despot.

What if you were a queen-suddenly transformed as regards blood, descent, and position-but in all other respects just such as you are; a queen who must reign, say at the risk of war and bloodshed, and social convulsion—what would be your first desire, the immediate and overpowering cry of your soul?

'Would it not be, "O God, make me fit! make me fit!" 'And what, Hirell, would you make fit? Is the vista of difficulty so appalling in detail, so interminable in apparent length, that you cannot readily grasp the whole, and say to yourself, "Can I, or can I not do this thing?"

'You might say "No" at once, in your sweet modesty, humility, and inexperience-when these are placed side by side.

with an idea apparently so formidable as this, of turning a poor simple maiden, fresh from tending her sheep on the Welsh mountains, into a woman capable of queening it in the eyes of a critical world.

'But can you say "No" to the actual truth, as I shall now put it before you? I think not.

'Hirell, you need one, two, perhaps three years (for I will rather exaggerate than diminish the sacrifice I am about to ask from you) of that particular kind of education that shall best supplement the education given you by your father (a truly admirable one, for how else could you be that which you are?); of an education that shall qualify you to converse in any circle on the topics that are always current there, and in the tone peculiar to the best-bred women. Hirell, my ear even now seems to listen entranced to the music of your voice, than which nothing can be more full of fascination, sweet and pure, trained as it might be, and to your own enjoyment. I care little for mere accomplishments, but I do not think you would find the French language any difficulty. Do you remember the lesson I once gave you, and in which you really delighted me by your progress, only it was impossible to get you farther, for your mocking laughter and unseasonable merriment?

As to music, you ought to sing and play to perfection. Hugh has impregnated your whole being with the love of sweet sounds; and music is to me, when good, a supreme enjoyment. Still I should wish no more than this-that you bent your mind steadily to it for a sufficient time; then if were not satisfied, I would cheerfully say, "Let it go." 'How do you like the first half of my sermon? Is it very hard to accept? You laugh! Well you may! They are indeed trifles.

you

'But there is another limb to the homily. I am a rich man, a man of rank, a politician, likely to be a minister some day, if my ambition and my industry hold. What ought these things to involve for my wife? More, much more, I take leave to say, than the wives of men like myself generally give to their husbands. I shall mention in few words one point as suggestive of all the rest. I should not like my wife to become a furious fanatic in politics, but I should like her to take a real living interest in the subject, if only for my sake.

Can you, Hirell, for my sake, do such things? They

demand work, perseverance, devotion, but success is assured, and the reward great. The very best masters England can give would be at your service.

'Dare I even dream that I deserve to have such a wife as mine would be, if to her present self these externals and improvements were added ?

'I will not answer that. I only know how I need her. 'Once more I plead for the line, the one little line, “Sinner, come to me!"

'I will come. I will, indeed, whether you say it or no; but not yet, nor without your permission, if I can get it, or see hope of getting it within any endurable time.

6 Believe me I suffer in your suffering, and dare not do aught rashly to endanger or retard even for an hour your recovery, for which I will this night try to pray to God, where, I'm ashamed to say, I have not knelt, even in thought, for many many years, in the solitude of my chamber. Yes, I will try to pray to Him to make your restoration as swift and entire as your best friend could wish, among whom henceforward I claim the first place.

'Did I say claim? Strike out the word for me. I can only plead-but I do it with a passionate something gnawing at my heart, which you alone can remove.

'I will read nothing more-I swear it-from you till I see the words

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'Sinner, come, for pardon and peace, first; then for—” 'I will not conclude my sentence, in the hope you will do it for me. Ever yours sincerely, 'JOHN R. CUNLIFF.

'P.S.-You have been in haste to answer my previous letters, and in your haste have been most cruel. In answering this-a repentant and true heart's last appeal to you take time, and I will wait, trusting to God your leisure may be more merciful than your haste. 'J. R. Č.'

The letter read and laid down, Hirell leaned back in her soft little chintz-covered chair, and, turning her face against it, shed some bitter tears over its bright roses.

But in a little while her father's strong, stern spirit seemed again to enter her heart, and rouse and strengthen it, and she got up to fetch her writing things, and began her answer immediately.

'SIR,-I reply to your letter at once. I have so few words to say that I find it quite unnecessary to take time to choose them as you suggest. Sir John Cunliff, believe me, as one to whom you know truth is dear, there is nothing now that you can write or speak that would make me change my determination never to become your wife. I entreat you, therefore, not to pain me by so humiliating that which I in my own mind had set up higher than all things but God. For you do humiliate yourself by using your powers in pleadings to one who can never more have faith in you. Though I cannot read your words of repentance without tears, I do not believe in them. Oh, sir, you are not repentant of more than having lost what you wished for by setting too low a price on it. No, it is the simple truth that I do not believe in your repentance or your sorrow. Indeed, sir, in your kindly-expressed intentions with regard to my better instruction, and in your generous compliments to myself, I could fancy you almost gay, or at least in a state of mind little in keeping with the broken spirit you profess to plead with, and so movingly as to cause me many tears, notwithstanding my doubt of it.

'If you persist in taking advantage of the kindness of my aunt and Robert, I must trouble my father in the matter, which I shall be loath to do, as he has enough to bear. Your humble servant, 'HIRELL MORGAN.'

CHAPTER XLIV.

EVENING VOICES.

THE next afternoon another letter was brought to Hirell, as she sat in the garden by Mrs. Chamberlayne's couch.

"This is the last I shall read from him, aunt,' she said, as she opened it. If he sends any more I shall send them to father to answer.'

'MY DEAREST HIRELL,' wrote Cunliff, 'still dearest, in spite of all your harsh words, so you do not believe in my repentance and sorrow-well, you shall at least believe in my patience and my love. I bear all that you say to me in a spirit as meek as even you could desire a sinner to take his punishment-a sufferer to kiss the rod. I have been most unwise, most cruel,

in troubling you just now, while you are so ill, and so overwhelmed by anxiety about your family. I have written to my friend Kezia, for information as to poor Hugh's health, and am so truly rejoiced to hear he is recovering. In his next start in the world I trust to be allowed to be of some assistance to him. And now I must tell you a most annoying thing has happened, which compels me to go instantly to London. A great debate is coming on in the House of Commons; the result may influence the fate of the ministry; every vote is important; and, in a word, honour and every consideration of duty and character demand my presence. I am obliged to own I must go.

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not in this feel for me?

'I write hurriedly, for I have already delayed too long.

Hirell, dearest, I will make a compact with you, one I little thought of a few hours ago. I will promise you on my sacred honour to leave you alone henceforward, not only till Parliament is over, but for some little time beyond, only entreating you to take no step in the meantime that will make our union impossible,

Still I exact no

'I won't deny I have my own objects to serve in this. I want to be free when I do again place myself at your feet; so I will stay patiently in London-that, to me, hideous wentill Parliament adjourns, then dispatch arrears of indispensable private business, and be with you immediately after. 'How I shall exist till then I know not. new promise, no fresh bonds, but offer you liberty for so long a period, trusting that your sense of justice (even if there be no more tender a thing pleading for me in your heart) may keep you from doing anything to make my voluntary absence a cruel mockery. By the time this reaches you I shall have left Kent. Yours ever truly,

'JOHN R. CUNLIFF.'

All day Hirell could not think of the letter without a certain vague alarm at the idea of seeming to give Cunliff permission to hope, by being silent. But she saw no good in writing; and, on the whole, felt it better to let her last words stand as a final answer. Then, too, his absence was an inexpressible relief to her.

She seemed able to breathe more freely to hear sounds about the house without starting and trembling-her slim

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