came with exquisite freshness from Robert's honest eyes. She bent her head and trembled, for she knew that her childish joy had risen in soft blushes to her face, and in tears to her eyes.

'Will you forgive me, Hirell, if I ask you a question that may make you very angry with me?'

Robert's voice trembled; his arms were on the table flattening the crisp silk, and Hirell knew that he was looking upon her with very bright and eager glances. She vaguely supposed it was one of the old silly gallant speeches he was about to make, and tried to overcome her confusion, and smile as she said

'If your question makes me angry, Robert, I promise to forgive you; and if it does not, as I don't believe it will do, there is no forgiveness needful, I suppose?'

'No, I suppose not-not in that case; but I'm afraid it won't be so. I'm afraid it will make you angry, Hirell. I shouldn't ask it just now, not till we had seen more of each other, after such a long separation; but I have no choice as to time. I must go away to-morrow unless-well, I want to ask you, Hirell, if you remember-if you ever think with any pleasure of the old days when I was here, when we spent so much time together?'

Hirell could not quite see why so much earnestness need have been put into the question. It was one which she had often thought she should like to ask Robert; and now he had asked her, but not exactly as she would have asked it of him. She was puzzled, but on the whole pleased that he should think so seriously of a time which was very dear to her.

'Yes, Robert, she answered, 'I have a great delight in thinking of that time.'

'And do you ever wish it back, Hirell, as I do ? '

Hirell paused in her work, resting an elbow in the palm of one hand and her chin in the other, looking dreamily, without one pang of regret, on the silk that Robert was crushing.

'Do you?' she said in a soft, wondering tone. 'Do you wish it back, Robert? I don't-I can't-sweet as it was. I can't wish it back. As one gets older one sees so many things coming so much more wonderful and happy than anything one has known before! But don't think me ungrateful, Robert, or changeful,' she said more earnestly, looking up at him and smiling. 'I would not have that time cut out of my life for

the world. It was like what nothing else will ever be again. I remember it as one in a rich orchard full of ripening fruit remembers the blossoms-they are lovely to remember; but one would not wish to have them back instead of the fruit.'

'No, that stands to reason,' said Robert, bluntly and sadly -'and I don't know that I mean I should care for the old state of things altogether. I'm too lazy now to satisfy Mr. Lloyd's idea of a morning's work; and-but that's nothing to do with it, Hirell, it isn't the time I want back—it is my old friend of those days, Hirell-it is you!'

Hirell's hands fell in her lap, her cheeks turned pale, and her eyes, as she raised them to Robert's face, had a chilled, blank look in them.

Robert,' she said, 'I suppose I know what you

mean.'

'I mean, will you be my wife, Hirell, as you promised me when you were a little girl, and my dearest friend, though not half as dear as you are now?'

Hirell sat silent. She felt cold and choking. All her bright life seemed threatened by sudden dulness and monotony. She felt like a child who, hastening gladly to some gay feast, is asked to turn away with a dry crust. What! marry Robert-honest, commonplace Robert Chamberlayne --for so she could not but look upon him, without stopping to ask as to the justice of the opinion—and live all her life long in his boasted county, crammed so full of corn and hops, or, as Hirell looked at it, of bread and beer, that one could scarcely breathe!

Was this the thing for which she was asked to give up all the new delicious dreams that were enchanting her life day and night?

She looked at Robert's large hands thrown half-clasped across the table in his eager, hearty earnestness, and rising laid her own hands, cold and trembling, on them.

Robert, you asked me to forgive you if your question should be one to cause me pain.'

'Was it then, Hirell ? '

'Yes,' answered Hirell, selfish in her intense desire to throw off the chill weight his words had laid on her heart. 'I wonder you should have asked it, Robert. But never mind; whatever pain it has given me I forgive freely.'

'Thank you,' said Robert, taking her extended hand, and looking in her face with a deep regret. She would not have been flattered had she known what an unselfish regret it was;

how much he was thinking of her loss by her refusal, and how little of his own. His evident pain, as he clasped her hand and looked at her, gave her much trouble.

I wish,' she said, with tears, 'I could forgive myself as easily for causing you disappointment, Robert.'

6

a

'Now, don't you think of that,' cried Robert, with sudden relief and heartiness; don't you, for a moment, think of that, Hirell. I sha'n't hurt; I mean I shall throw it right off, and forget it in very little time. Before I've been back a month, you shall hear of me being as jolly as ever. Don't you have grain of uneasiness about me. Now promise me you won't.' And holding her hand in one of his, he laid his other on her slight shoulder, and looked in her face with a smile that seemed so simply bright and genial, that Hirell could but smile too at her own fears concerning Robert's heart-wound, as she answered with perfect sincerity, and with the slightest touch of contempt at his utter want of romance—

'No, I won't be uneasy about you, Robert. I don't think there is much cause for uneasiness.'

'Not the slightest; and now let's forget it. I shall go and speak to Kezia, or we shall have Mr. Lloyd converting her.' As he passed out of the door a dog came in, and he turned his head a little to look after it, remembering it as an old acquaintance; and Hirell, whose eyes were following him, saw that his face was full of trouble-so full as to make her feel for the moment she had hardly understood him. In spite of all that he had said then, he was suffering, she thought—even a nature like his was not to be easily read.

But she soon forgot him; for her pale-blue silk, the most beautiful of all her dresses, at which Kezia and herself had worked so hard, was now finished; and Hirell stole up to her own room to try it on, intending to come down in it and dazzle Hugh and her father-both of whom enjoyed such pretty surprises of Hirell's after her own manner.

CHAPTER XIII.

ELIAS MORGAN'S FEAST.

In honour of the expected guest, the Reverend Ephraim Jones, an unusually bountiful repast was being prepared in the kitchen of Bod Elian.

Before the two new parlours were built, the kitchen was the

principal room in the house. It was a large long-shaped room, with low ceiling, and smoke-blackened beams, thick set with iron hooks, on which almost every suspendable thing in the kitchen was hung. There were old market-baskets, hams and flitches of bacon, jugs, hats, kettles, horse-collars, and old sets of harness; strings of onions, bags of seeds, bunches of dried herbs, and coils of stocking yarn. But to-day the beam hooks were crowded beyond their wont by the provisions for the great chapel feast which was to be given by Elias to-morrow to all the members of the Dolgarrog chapel. Large joints of butcher's meat-a rare sight in Bod Elian-kept the noses and tongues of the three farm-dogs in a state of perpetual unrest, as they prowled about the kitchen in spite of Kezia's gentle scoldings, and the vigorous flappings of the rough servantgirl's apron. The morning sun shone on nets of rich russet apples, that had plainly never ripened in the windy little orchard on the hill behind; and the dresser was crowded with parcels of grocery, and cakes and sweetmeats. Hampers half unpacked stood about, bewildering Kezia, as she moved gently to and fro over her work.

Robert Chamberlayne found her here, frying 'lightcake,' as she called some heavy preparation of batter, very popular in her country. Mr. Lloyd sat near the fire, chatting to her about the domestic affairs of the farm. He looked at Robert with a kindly anxiety. The young man laid his hand lightly on the curate's shoulder, and as Kezia was bending over her cooking, said in a low voice

'We were both mistaken, sir.' Then Mr. Lloyd looked up into his eyes more scrutinisingly, and Robert nodded and smiled, and the curate nodded, as if saying he understood, but did not smile; and then Robert went to the other side of the fire, averted his face, and they both sat as if quietly watching Kezia's cooking.

Kezia Williams, Elias Morgan's housekeeper, was a softeyed, fair-haired woman, about twenty-three, but seeming older; for her manners were peculiarly grave, and her face wore a look of peaceful wisdom, as if she had seen through all the great mysteries of life, and would never let herself be disturbed by a single worldly hope or fear. Her soft gray eyes had a kind of sympathy in them for the griefs of others, however trivial; and her placid lips a dreamy smile for all who smiled at her; but she did not allow her thoughts to dwell on .

the bitter sufferings of the world, she kept her meek eyes on her own narrow path, and followed it with patient cheerfulness, thankful that she had just light to see it.

'And I was saying

Elias is still engaged, then?' Robert said to Kezia. 'He is, Master Robert,' she answered. to Mr. Lloyd, I hope you will not think us rude not telling of your being here; but he wished not to be disturbed while writing this letter for Hugh.'

The tone in which Kezia said he wished' expressed as much respect for the injunction as if it had been a command. Chamberlayne showed no more signs of impatience, but sat watching Kezia as gravely as if she had been preparing a funeral feast.

While his eyes were resting on a basket of new spoons and forks, engraved with Elias Morgan's initials, Kezia pointed out to him an object he had not yet noticed.

It stood at one end of the room, the farthest from the wide old chimney, wrapt carefully from dust and smoke, and for the last hour Kezia's eyes had kept turning towards it with a tender pleasure. It was a present which Elias intended for his young brother, and of which Hugh as yet knew nothing; for it had arrived while he was out, and had been concealed in Kezia's own room till this occasion, on which it was to be presented to him.

It was a new harp, and its purchase was, next to the building of the little chapel, the greatest extravagance of which Elias had been guilty.

The old one, which had been in the family many years, had, under the young man's touch, been the source of the only pleasure the grave elder brother allowed himself to enjoy. And his enjoyment of Hugh's music had been deep; so deep and exquisite, that he no sooner possessed the means than he felt he must give expression to it; and he chose to do this by this gift, which,' said Elias to Kezia, 'will thank him in language he best understands.'

There it stood, and Kezia pointed it out to Robert, and related its story; and he looked at it gravely enough.

Yes, there it stood, veiled music, like their future, which when they came with joyous impatient hands to try it, was to startle them with its mournfulness.

The long deal table was spread; and Kezia laid out the bright new plate, and ranged her dainties on the shelf before