ruling spirit of the whole-the good Samaritan, under whose hands her wounds are healing at the thought of her, tears rise hot and fast, and hide the pleasant fields and dazzling sky.

Strange that the very one who made her love this place and long for it should be the means of destroying its charm whenever she thought of him, and of bringing back the fierce throbbing life into her half-conquered sorrow. She can think of the slim lad with his half-troubled, half-laughing eyes, and good-tempered despair as to his own educational progress— she can think of him always with affectionate pleasure. But when she turns to him who now stands on the wagon of hay, laughingly inviting his men to throw up more and more to the rich burden, the full-faced, blue-eyed, supple-framed, young farmer-how can she look at him and not see the form that stood by him near the bridge at Dolgarrog one Sunday; or the blank disappointment that he brought into her happy prosperous home the morning after that Sunday, or the way in which he assisted them in their poverty-the lodger that he brought?

Wonderfully unconscious of his crimes poor Robert looks as he shouts to Mrs. Chamberlayne's overseer, who has objected to his taking the management of the Star meadow hay, on the plea that he would not be up early enough to set the men to work, and who now comes to find three hours' work done, and to see the men trying to conceal a grin as Robert greets him in a laughing voice, round and mellow, and far sounding. 'So you've come in time for the beer, Wrigley?'

Mr. Wrigley, after scornfully surveying the amount of work done, as if remarking, mentally, it was not done in the style he would have had it, turns his wrath upon the babies; and the sun-bonnets go crawling off in hasty and confused retreat, only to advance again as soon as his back is turned, and take up their former ground as securely as ever.

Meanwhile Robert descends from his exalted position, and stands leaning against his favourite black Bess, his straw hat pushed back in a most ungentlemanly fashion, and his face looking stupid enough in that blinding sun.

By this time the great can of beer has arrived at the scene of action, under the care of the Brockhurst groom, in morning undress, and smart, pretty Susan, who guards her face from the sun, and admiring and grateful eyes, with a branch of lilac she has snatched off in coming through the garden.

Mr. Wrigley gives out the beer, offering the first draught

to Robert, who perhaps would scarcely show so lively an appreciation of its refreshing and invigorating powers, did he know that the brightest eyes of all the Welsh teetotallers were watching him.

As Mr. Wrigley's task of giving out the beer draws to a close in the Star meadow, it may be seen that the men turn and glance across the green corn to that distant field where the mowers are at work, with a look at once congratulatory and envious, as they think that the pleasure which for themselves is over has yet to be enjoyed by their companions with the scythes.

Robert goes to the stile, and gives a peculiar cry in a highpitched ringing voice. One of the stooping figures looks half round over its shoulder-the young master holds up the can, and raps it musically with the pewter mug. Up go the gleaming scythes, moving agitatedly in the sunshine an instant, then down again, and then a row of stooping figures come moving with a sort of lively slowness along by the green corn.

They are oldish men, some of them so old that one cannot help thinking each moves his scythe with that slow, measured sweep in the fear that if he gives it too wide a swing in his backward stroke it may clash against another scythe of another silent reaper very close behind him. They have more respect for Robert than the younger labourers, and give him the complimentary title of squire,' because his grandfather was known to them as the Squire of Nytimber when they first came to the farm; and there is much wiping of brows and twitching of rolled-up shirt-sleeves as they approach the stile where he sits.

There is also some old-fashioned, flattering toast muttered by the owner of the tanned arm that first receives the frothing mug, as one may see by the brusque, good-humoured nod and wave of the hand that Robert gives, as if he would accept so much graciously, but decline more.

The mug has passed through all the tanned hands now, and the mowers go back again along by the young corn.

be

The poetry of the morning for them is past, the flowered grasses may very beautiful to look at as the sun shines on them, and the butterflies flutter and dip among them, but Robert's old mowers have only to do with the tough stalks, and the hard stones, that occasionally turn the edges of their scythes and tempers.

After performing this duty, Robert indulges himself with a

lounge on the hay to the delight of the dogs, of which those belonging to the farm engage him in a spirited sham-fight; while such canine strangers as are in the field look on from a distance wistfully, giving vent from time to time to their stifled longings by low whines and starts, and quiverings of

their bodies.

The wagon, with its high load, now moves off towards the gate, under the directions of Mr. Wrigley, to the general confusion and scattering of the sun-bonnets and their guardians.

Robert comes across the field towards Susan, who ceases flirting with her lilac branch, and meets him demurely, evidently feeling sure he is going to speak to her.

He does, it is easy to perceive, ask Susan some question, and Susan, in answering it, glances towards Hirell's window, and, as if involuntarily, Robert's glance turns in the same direction. He sees the dark, drooping head, against the white curtain.

His hat is lifted, and a wonderfully radiant face smiles towards her. From that sense of embarrassment with which we discover ourselves suddenly observed by the person we have been rather secretly and closely watching, Hirell blushes deeply, while nodding and returning Robert's look.

In this recognition-their first since the day of her coming -the eyes of each had a flash of pure, deep pleasure in them, which perhaps each would rather have concealed from the other; but as Adam and Eve must have seen in each other's eyes some light of the lost Eden, Hirell could not look at Robert, or Robert at Hirell, suddenly and without preparation, and not see some lingering glow and dew of a sweet morning, whose tender promise they had shared together, and which now might disappoint, but could never be banished from their memories.

'We are old, old friends,' says Hirell, coming from the window. Then in another minute she peeps again, and sees the wagon staggering through the gate-Robert plodding away towards the Hooded House, and Susan and the groom coming home with the empty cans-she guarding her head from the blows of the lilac branch, which he has captured from her.

By-and-by comes a knock at Hirell's door. It is Susan, settling her cap and apron, and saying that breakfast is ready. Here is the garden parlour, as usual, all comfort and bright

ness, and the fair, rich, matronly face rising from its pillow to welcome her. There begins to be a little patient sort of despair in its morning smile to Hirell. This morning, however, Hirell is to give her a moment of gentle triumph and delight, such as she has not known for many years. She has bent over her sofa and given the usual respectful, but cold and timid greeting, when Mrs. Chamberlayne, instead of finding her hand set free, feels it held more and more tightly in warm and trembling fingers, and looking up at Hirell's eyes, finds them gazing at her with all the wildness and strangeness gone out of them.

'My darling child!' and she draws her gently down to kiss her again.

Hirell keeps back her face, with closed, full eyes and quivering lips; but as she sinks on her knees by the sofa, a sob, and with it a broken word, bursts from her, with more passion than Mrs. Chamberlayne believed to be in her nature'Un-grate-ful!'

CHAPTER XLVII.

ROBERT COMES TO TEA.

In the evening of that same day on which the hay in the Star meadow was carried, Robert came to Brockhurst to tea.

His visit was quite unexpected by his mother, who was even more surprised than Hirell to see him entering the parlour, with an almost impudent enjoyment of their astonished looks in his blue eyes.

'Robert,' said Mrs. Chamberlayne, laughing at the thought that it was so strange to see her son come uninvited into his own home, 'is anything the matter? '

Yes, I want a cup of tea,' he answered.

'Well, don't be so defiant about it,' said his mother. 'Susan, fetch another cup and saucer.'

He only said to Hirell, as he pressed her hand

'I'm so glad you're better,' but he managed to make her feel that there was hearty gladness in his voice and in his hand's clasp, that made her ashamed of her own ingratitude for returning health.

He presently condescended to explain to Mrs. Chamberlayne

that he had been hard at work, hoping to clear the Star meadow before night, and it had occurred to him that he might as well save time by dropping in there for his tea instead of going all the way to the Rookery.

There was a low round table, before Mrs. Chamberlayne's sofa. Hirell was sitting at that side which was by the head of the sofa. Robert fetched one of the wicker chairs standing on the lawn, and seated himself on the other side of the table, half in and half out of the window.

It was an intensely hot evening, and tea was very pleasant to him in the old room again.

'This is nice,' he said, tilting back his chair, 'to sit at a window that hasn't a smothering straw-bonnet over it—full of cobwebs and to have a cup of tea that's not quite black or quite white.'

'Now, Robert, it's of no use your trying to malign Mrs. Payne to me,' answered his mother; 'the very sight of you satisfies me as to her goodness and care, Could he dare, Hirell, to pass himself off as starved or neglected with that round full-moon of a face ?'

The full-moon of a face looked comically at Hirell, whose thin, white cheek caught something of its brightness as she smiled faintly.

The heat and the scent of the syringa made her feel very languid; and her head began to ache with the thoughts that came crowding oppressively fast and thick through Robert's presence. There was his letter and its inclosure, which she had given into Kezia's care. He had never had any acknowledgment of it from her all this time. What must he think of that ingratitude? What must he think of her taste in allowing him to be the bearer of letters from Cunliff?

Of one thing she was very certain—and the fact was so far very satisfactory-Robert no longer loved her. Indeed, there was in his face so deep and tranquil a satisfaction- -so sunny a calm, that she asked herself if a newer and deeper love had not come to him, and taught him to smile at the folly of the old. But sometimes even finding that a thing proves to be as we would have it, is a secret pain as well as a satisfaction to us, and Hirell began to think herself a poor unworthy creature, since one lover had so soon and so easily put her from his heart, and the other-oh! would there never, never come a day which the galling bitterness of that remembrance could not reach and overrun?