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against her own, "I think our Father reserves for those children who use His gifts better than I ever used them: who live nearer to Him than I have ever lived."

The voice trembled and died away, there; and for a little while, no other word was uttered. Eve instinctively kept silence, and dared not offer any sympathy beyond that which was conveyed by her unspoken tenderness. It was better to be mute than to intrude unworthily within that sanctuary of selfabasement the veil whereof had been lifted for an instant. And then again, from the very perfection and unconsciousness of her own humility, it perplexed Eve to meet it in another-that other being one whom she loved and admired with such unquestioning faith. It was so strange that Claudia should feel like this! She had no words to express the feelings struggling in her heart-of pain and pride, tender remonstrance, and infinite longing to console— so she said nothing.

It was Lodie herself who first spoke. After a little while, she looked into Eve's sweet face, and smiling through tears, said in another tone, clear and vibrating "But I know there is no true gratitude where there is not full trust. And I am grateful; I am, indeed I am, Eve, darling! I look forward, hopefully-cheerfully-to the future."

She leaned her head on Eve's shoulder with a relieving sigh, that was more eloquent of dawning peace than any words could have been. And as they sat thus, silent and still, each busy with her own thoughts-the story of that Future arranged itself in Claudia's mind, with a smooth symmetry that almost seemed like prescience. It was a very quiet, shady life that she believed she foresaw stretching out before her tranquil rather than bright, negatively free from storm rather than actually radiant with sunshine. She would live with Phrasie-and try to make her happier than of old. She did not imagine their future home as at Chillingham: nor, which seemed less natural, was it to be anywhere near Longhope. But in some quiet country place, where they might be led to find interests and duties that would help to fill the vacant spaces in their lives and in their hearts, Claudia pictured their abode. And there Harry and Eve would often stay with them, through the years that were coming, when the plan of their lives also should be ordered as the sister had full faith it would be.

Her prophetic thoughts lingered very contentedly in that direction. The only romance that had part in her thoughts was woven about them. She pictured her brother's return: she saw him, somewhat-yet not too much-altered from the impetuous, half

boyish Harry of two years before. Altered too, not only in looks. Intuitively she felt that the hard experience of this latter time must have tested and solidified the frank, generous manliness of his nature : and it might be, also, that the discipline of difficulty and suffering would have brought out certain deeper qualities which heretofore had been but little called forth in the prosperous, careless young man. He would be graver than of yore, perhaps, but there was little need to fear he would incline too much that way. There must always be a sufficient spring of vigorous vivacity in Harry Lisle's nature to keep it healthfully pure from anything approaching morbidness. That sense of the reality and earnestness of life which he had lately earned, would deepen without darkening her brother's genial nature, Lodie trustfully believed. And Eve-shy, shrinking Eve -would surely, surely be won at last.

They will be very happy," Claudia thought, her meditations halting for a moment. She went on presently, "and there will be a place for me, too— I shall be happy-with them."

It was her genuine belief. It seemed to her just then, all she needed as well as all she anticipated. She would be quite content-quite content, she thought, as she figured to herself that tranquil, placid existence, stirred by no tempests, and bright

ened by other people's sunshine.

Nevertheless,

the craving, so natural to us all and so inevitable to the young, for personal happiness, was only subdued in her for the time. It was not dead; it must be expected to revive one day, and arouse itself and call out for sustenance, as of old. But never as of old, we may believe, would she again restlessly seek to satisfy that hunger, which, not necessarily unrighteous in itself, is yet at the root of almost all human unrighteousness.

Meanwhile it is significantly the fact, that in that moment even Claudia's day-dream was dressed in no rosier colours than these of pale, cool grey. And she dreamed on, until Eve was called from the room by some requirement of Aunt Phrasie. Left alone, her thoughts were still thus travelling, when, in the faint light of the evening she saw some one enter the room and approach her.

It was not Eve; it was Norman who stood beside her, and said

"Don't send me away. Let me speak to you— this once-before we leave this place."

CHAPTER XII.

THE NEW DAY COMES.

SHALL it be briefly told how far the previsions of that hour came true in after time? It is so easy for us now, to leap over the intervening weeks and months, and behold how the Future on which Claudia then pondered has gradually become divested of all its mysteries and uncertainties, and fairly uncoiled itself into the safe, indubitable, irrevocable Past.

A glance into a certain beautiful home-still in the west country, though it is forty miles east of Goldharbour-would speedily satisfy all reasonable anxieties regarding the welfare of two principal persons represented in that prophetic reverie. For it would thereby appear that Captain otherwise Major-Lisle did return safely to England, and although he was much bronzed, and looking some years older than his actual age, that his health had