wards that nothing should be said now. And further, Claudia felt as if it were more truly loyal to the absent, that not even Harry's sister should say a word to surprise or persuade forth an avowal which it might be reserved for himself to win from the lips he loved. For now-was it not granted to them humbly, prayerfully to hope that one day not long hence, it would please God to bring him home to them again? "To us?-ah, rather to her," Claudia thought, as she clasped yet more closely the slender little figure that clung and trembled in her arms. And if the tears that then fell on Eve's drooped head were sadder, they were sweeter also, and holier, than any that had yet gushed, like waters of healing and blessing, from the inmost heart of the fatherless and motherless girl.

CHAPTER XI.

IN THE TWILIGHT.

IT was Norman Trenant who had travelled faster than the post to bring this glad news to Claudia. He had been waiting in London ever since the first news arrived of Harry's danger; indefatigably endeavouring by all and every means, official and non-official, to obtain the earliest information.

"He is a friend, isn't he, dear love?" commented Phrasie, as a termination to the incoherent ecstasy of joy and fondness with which she celebrated the occasion. “Yes, indeed! People try to make you believe that now-a-days young men never care for each other—very much;-like Valentine and Orson, you know," she explained, vaguely reminiscent of classical story. "But I assure you poor Mr. Trenant looks quite worn and ill with anxiety. His devotion to our dear boy is beyond everything touching; and we can never forget it, can we, darling?"

“He has been very, very good," Claudia said, in a low voice.

There could be no doubt that she felt very deeply his goodness. It was not to be supposed for a moment that she could be unmindful or ungrateful. Nevertheless, when she first heard of his coming, and knew he was there-in the house, in the adjacent room, the room she had left only an hour or two before, it was difficult to imagine that her startled surprise was altogether pleasurable. Moreover, to Eve's keen disappointment, and even to Phrasie's dim wonder,-instead of hastening she actually postponed her usual time of going into the salon next day, almost as if she were not very anxious to see her brother's friend. And when they did meet, surely it was singular that the one most evidently moved, who appeared to find it most difficult to maintain the habitual matter-of-fact composure of common life, was—not Claudia, but Norman ?

No, Claudia was wonderfully calm. She held out a hand that did not tremble; she uttered her few words of greeting clearly and quietly; no sign of agitation or deep feeling was perceptible in her. And yet, how pathetically weak and frail she seemed! Norman could hardly bear to look into her wan face, wherein the story of trial and sorrow was so distinctly written. It went to his heart to behold

the familiar figure in its unfamiliar and ominous black dress. The sound of her voice, the characteristic movements of her head and gestures of her hands,-in a word, the actual presence of this longthought-of Claudia, so pitifully altered yet the same -was to Norman an overwhelming experience of strange, bewildering pathos.

He let her hand go, and it was only a momentary glance that taught him the history of her aspect. He was glad to join in the light talk on such safe topics as the view from the windows, the colour of the sea, &c., which was industriously promoted by Phrasie and Eve. When he looked again at Claudia, she was seated in her accustomed corner, and was busying herself with some sort of needlework. The eyes were drooped, the mouth fixed in a straighter curve than had been habitual to it in those days when the lips were rosier and happier than now. Would the brightness and bloom ever return to that poor, pale face? Would the gladness and buoyancy of youth ever again beam in her looks, and inform her every movement, as in old times? Once, while thus wistfully studying the mournful change that had come over her, Norman's furtive, searching glance was struck aside by the sudden interception of her eyes, which being casually lifted for an instant, encountered his. And

then for the first time, she trembled much-a feverish colour flickered on her cheek, and through the frail curtain of impassiveness the inner trouble rose wildly and visibly.

Norman saw it, and believed he understood. It was natural-it was to be expected that the sight of him should be disturbing to her. Inevitably it must recall the startled distress of that morning long ago when she had left Longhope-when he had parted from her at the dreary, noisy railway station-that morning which had been the signal commencement of trial and sorrow to the young life which till then had known neither. It was no wonder if she found the thought with which he was associated too full of pain to be borne quite calmly. It was no wonder that she could not at first look on him except with that shrinking of the eyes-that quiver of the whole sensitive face-with which but now she had unconsciously so shocked and grieved him. Poor child-poor child! The infinite compassion with which his heart was full was not only very tender, but very reverent. Perhaps indeed, no good man can behold the evidence of the chastening touch of sorrow in a woman's face without some such feeling. In Norman it was overwhelming just then. For a little longer he made an effort to continue the conversation at which they were so duti