very far from being an illustration of manly dignity and fortitude under misfortune. Long before this poor Claudia had been compelled to recognize in her secret heart that he was not in any respect like the hero of her childish and girlish imaginings, and that she would never know the brave, wise, thoughtful, tender father she had pictured to herself, and loved for years. Nevertheless, nature has laws and instincts as inexorable as they are mysterious; and something more powerful than romance appealed to Claudia when she saw him thus cast down, and in spite of all, her heart yearned towards her father and clave to him loyally.

She put her arms round him, and tried to soothe him with her fondness.

"Surely you must know that nothing should induce me to leave you, papa? My place is with you -and I rejoice that it is so. I am not afraid of poverty and trouble. We will bear it-we will battle through it together-and it will seem easier." His aspect seemed softening as she spoke, and she gained courage to proceed, quite cheerfully: "You shall see how well I will manage-how economical I will be !"

"You will have need," he said, abruptly turning round on her. "Just look here. The money your brother has sent me will little more than pay our

bill at this infernal hotel. When that's gone, unless

have a purse you and starve."

of

your own, we may just sit down

"I have some money. And we will leave this hotel to-morrow," Claudia said, practically. "You will like the change, I know-to a place just outside the town-a little appartement I saw last week. Don't you remember my pointing out the house to you, when we were driving, two days ago? A house with a lovely view. Don't you think it will be much pleasanter than this town-ified place?"

"Anything you like. Any hole will do to hide. my head in. I only wish it might be underground. Perhaps it will be, soon. There-don't make a fuss. I can't say any more, can I, but that I agree to anything you like? Make whatever arrangements you choose. It matters nothing to me. Go your own way. Please yourself."

"That can only be by pleasing you. I shall care for nothing if you are content, papa. And-andwe will try, won't we?" she said, smiling up at him through her tears. "Dear papa, loss of fortune is not the worst woe, is it? We may be very happy in spite of all these troubles."

"No-I shall never be happy again—I shall never be happy again," he muttered, gloomily. Unheeding her caresses, and her forlornly wistful look, poor

child-for her heart yearned sorely for some sign of love, for some sympathy, some healing, consoling tenderness he turned aside, leaned his head down on his two hands and appeared to give himself up to sombre meditation. As Lodie stood silent and motionless before him, the whole of the past conversation vividly present to her mind, her face drooped very low, her fingers tightly twined within each other, -it was perhaps the most miserable moment her life had ever known. It was not only this final and worst wound to her pride-poor proud girl! from which she suffered. There was something holier than that, which was outraged and hurt, almost to death. The last remnant of hope-the last lingering dream of something that might make beautiful the future-seemed rudely wrested from her, relentlessly blotted out of all possibility, just then.

In all such crises we know how instinctively the desolate "earth-undone " soul flies to other consolation, and seeks-if it never sought before-to be "God-satisfied." A dumb cry for help went forth from the very innermost depths of Claudia's sick heart

"Oh, Father-our Father in heaven, have pity on us!"

CHAPTER IV.

BACK IN THE WEST COUNTRY.

THE family at Longhope had the quality, somewhat of the rarest in these on-moving and changeful times, of stedfastness and constancy. They were capable of retaining a warm and vital affection for their friends, through all difficulties of long absence, distance, and other unfavourable circumstances. Even among good people, kind people, warmhearted, and indubitably sincere people, this stedfast continuance of real, living interest in the absent is a more uncommon characteristic than might be supposed. It is comparatively easy, and therefore comparatively common, to keep up the same degree of solicitude and affection when the parties concerned are continually before one another's eyes, and the personal rapport remains unbroken. But we seem to be for the most part, such a material race of beings, that the bodily pre

sence is indispensable, not only to the development but to the steady maintenance of friendship. It is surprising how much love and kindliness, quite earnest and genuine for the time being, holds its existence on this slight and chanceful tenure; and sinks gradually into a species of torpor when the stimulus of contiguity is withdrawn. There is sometimes much meaning in the phrase, "Our nearest and dearest."

Happily for some of us, life is liberal of exceptions to cold rules like these. They of Longhope were among the exceptions. Many months elapsed since the day Claudia left Goldharbour. Change of seasons and successions of home-interests one to another, had come to Longhope as to other spots of earth; cares and pleasures, troubles and enjoyments, the usual chequered pattern of even the most quiet and unhistorical lives had printed itself on theirs. Yet still the vivid recollection of the last year's visitor was not effaced. The very fact that fortune had changed with her, that trouble and difficulty of which they could hardly estimate the extent, had come to the blooming prosperous guest of a few months before, doubtless made their recollection keener, their affection deeper and warmer. And thus she had not slipped out of their world as the absent are commonly permitted to escape from a busy,

VOL. II.

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