""Lord, Thou knowest his heart and mine. Thou knowest his present affliction. Have I not asked Thee, besought Thee, wrestled with Thee, that Thou shouldest raise him up, and comfort him, and make him as one meet for Thy service? Have I not, O Lord, confessed that I know not whether these his aims are good, and left him with Thee and his own conscience? Thou gavest him his gifts. I am bound to believe Thou knowest well for what purpose. But now, O Lord, help me ; enlighten me about Thine handmaid. Thou canst look into the heart and judge it; O Father, judge mine! If it be the desire of the flesh, the pride of the eye, the delusions of the soul, that have moved me; if I have been unfaithful to this my brother; if I have turned her heart from him for my own gain, let me bend before Thee, and receive the chastisement due to me, even while I implore Thy pardon and mercy. O Lord! the lad loves this Thine handmaiden. What must I do? Can I, in his present low estate, tell him she inclines not to him? That she is wounded if I plead for him; that, in spite of Thy servant's unworthiness, she has thought to succeed in this Thy house to the love, and the duties, and holy responsibilities of that dear saint now in Thy bosom?"

'Hirell, you will judge it was time for me to go out of that room, and I went. You will judge it is time for me to go out of that house, and I depart to-morrow. I have written to them both; how I need not say. Their path henceforth is, I think, made clear. Another dream killed! How many more murders of the innocents must there be ?

but

'Hirell, dearest friend, sister, write to me. I have no one you to tell all this to, and expect some comforting words from in answer. I cannot express to you how I long to feel I have still the wise, kind, holy little sister I have always had in you. Sometimes I feel as if you must be indeed my sister and your father my father, for was ever brother to brother what he has been to me? When I first came home and heard of your illness and unhappiness, and lay so ill myself in your little room, looking hour after hour at the "Virgin Martyr," and the texts on your walls, I used to think how we had both had our dearest wish, and got away from home, and then I used to wonder if we were only to come back to it to die of our experiences. But, thank God, we are not doomed to stand merely as sad remembrances to those who love us. We are to live, it seems, and work and suffer-ah, yes, to suffer for them.

Give my love to Bob, and ask him if he can manage to let me see him in London. Dear Hirell, how I wish--how I know they all wish you could have made him happy. He's one in a thousand-one in a million, I should say. We only quarrelled on one matter-Bob would never own whether he cared for the harp or not, and used to be offended when I applied my favourite verses to him. You know what I mean:

The man to whom the harp is dear,

Who loves the sound of song and ode,
Will cherish all that's cherished there
Where angels hold their blest abode.
But he who loves not tune or strain,
Nature to him no love has given;
You'll see him, while his days remain,

Hateful at once to earth and Heaven.

'You can make Bob very angry by repeating this, if you like. He always says it's mere Welsh poets' nonsense; and that a man may love music yet be a great rogue, or dislike music and yet be a very good fellow; a shocking notion of Bob's— Saxon to the core. Root it out of him if you can.

'Good-bye, now, dear Hirell; it is striking two; by four I must be beyond Dolgarrog.

'Ever affectionately yours,
'HUGH MORGAN.'

CHAPTER XLIX.

OLD FRIENDS.

ONE morning, a week after Sir John Cunliff had left Kent, when Mrs. Chamberlayne had had her couch moved into the garden, Hirell came in through the window for something for her workbasket, and to her surprise saw Robert leaning over the table, his head buried in the sheets of a newspaper.

'Good-morning, Robert,' she said. 'Aunt's out under your pear-tree. I suppose you wondered where we'd all gone ?'

Robert coughed a little nervous cough quite unusual to him -then looking up, half folded the paper, and came towards her with it.

This was sent to me by post this morning-of course it's intended for you.'

He spoke quickly but gravely; and she saw that his face was very serious. Looking at the paper as he had placed it in her hands, she saw in the corner Robert's name and address in Sir John Cunliff's writing.

'What is this, and why is it sent, Robert ?' and she sat down in a chair by the table, her colour changing painfully. "It's the "Times," answered Robert, dryly, 'and I suppose it's sent because it contains Sir John Cunliff's first speech in Parliament.'

Hirell did not feel capable of rising and going into the garden or to another room with it, as she much longed to do; and to sit there with the paper without looking at it must seem so strange to Robert. She opened it-saw something that drew all her heart and mind away, miles away from Robert and Brockhurst. She hardly seemed to read-she almost heard the voice, and saw the face speaking the words that were before her.

Robert had taken the 'Reculcester Guardian' in his hands, and had not looked at her once all the time she was reading. But hearing at last a little, quick, half-stifled gasp, he raised his face, and saw Hirell's, flushed with pride and triumph, looked smilingly at him.

Have you read it?' she asked, with tears in her eyes, and a tremulous voice.

He looked at her face, and appeared to take no notice of what she said, startling her when he spoke by words unexpected and painful.

Why don't

love him.'

you forgive the man and marry him? You do

Hirell was silent for a minute with surprise and grief at the brusque, heartless manner in which it seemed to her Robert said this. She turned pale, and her eyelids fell and quivered. When she lifted them slowly, and looked sadly and wonderingly at Robert, she met his looking up timidly and sorry.

I'm sure,' she said, in an unsteady voice, 'you don't mean to be unkind, Robert, but you speak as if-as if you thought very hardly of me.'

He sat with his elbow thrown over the back of the chair, and his face turned aside from her, and did not answer when she waited for him to do so.

'This has not been much talked of between us before,' she went on, with effort, but much sweetness; 'you have been

too good and kind to mention it, and I have been too ill-too cowardly and so you have not had a word of my thanks, of my great, great gratitude-for your unlooked-for goodness to Oh! you were so good to him, when I—I had to be so cruel. It is remembered-it is treasured. God bless you for it, Robert.'

him.

His eyes again met hers, as if against his will, and were withdrawn.

'I must tell you now, Robert, as this has come to be spoken of by us,' said Hirell, that everything which I have had to forgive in him has been long, long ago forgiven-so don't say anything to me again about forgiving him-it pains me for any one to think I have resentment against him. And I must tell you that I must not marry him, Robert, because-Robert, there are these reasons against it. The more I see of the world, the more I love my father-the more rare and beautiful the holiness of his life seems to me; and I think God means me to look to him as I always had done till-till he came. I think that I am to look to him, and find help for my weakness and faithfulness in the Daniel-like strength and faith of his spirit. I feel, Robert, that, utterly removed from him, I should be like that leaf rustling upon the carpet there, ready to be borne away by the first wind that blows. And he, Robert, would part us absolutely, entirely. I am sure of it-I am indeed-though perhaps he would not own it to himself. I know it would come to that-I have felt it al along the "still small voice" has said all along to me, "Hirell, it will be so-you know it"-and, Robert, I do know

it.'

She was silent, and Robert did not turn his head. He seemed to know that she had tears and sobs to struggle with, though she was silent. And soon he heard her voice again so low and so sweet, and chastened like birds' voices after a storm.

'Then another reason against my marrying him is, that if we were married, and anything made him impatient with me, and he should speak an unkind word to me, as of course in this life, where no voice can be always music to us, I must expect he will do, often, or sometimes-then, instead of being to me as it might to another, or from another-quickly forgotten and forgiven-there is something I should be reminded of by the lightest tone of harshness, the least word of

impatience from his lips. Robert, there is something which I should remember-which would come back to me at such a moment, and make the hasty word, or tone, or look, full of such bitter terrible meaning-it would say to me, did he not warn me himself that I was not fit to-. I should tear the wedding-ring from my hand-I should die or I should become mad! Oh, it is so much better as it is. As it is, I can forgive and bless him. If I were married to him, I might learn not to forgive, and not to bless him.'

Robert struck the Reculcester Guardian' which he held in one hand an impatient blow with the back of the other, but his averted face was very serious and sympathetic.

'Now that I have told you this, Robert, you won't think me obstinate, or resentful, or unkind,' said Hirell, in keeping to my resolution, will you ?—and you won't-oh, that pains me so much you won't be always expecting me to change towards him? I have resolved; and you know that even when I was a little girl, when I made a solemn promise to myself I did keep it-you remember, don't you, Robert?'

Robert did lift his eyes to hers now, with a long, gentle look that reminded Hirell of a certain childish promise which assuredly had not been unbroken; but she thought the remembrance had come to her from herself, and not that Robert's eyes had anything to do with it, and it passed as quickly from her mind as the faint flush it had brought passed from her cheek.

That, however, returned again as Robert, after a short cough and another hit at the Guardian,' said,

C But you care for him still-you will only be miserable all your life.'

'I hope not, Robert,' she answered. 'I care for him, but I hope my life will not be miserable through caring for him. You must not think that, because the pleasure you have given me in bringing me this paper was a painful one, such news of him will not some day be a pleasure free from any pain. I feel that it will, but at present my loss is fresh to me. When I am strong and go back home, I shall try and work very hard for them. I shall work in the fields as you do, making my pleasure out of it-though neither I nor my fields will ever reflect the rich sunshine of God as you and yours do, Robert. It has been a great pleasure to me, seeing you so happy.'