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"Is he coming back to-day? or at least until we are all well out of the way. Better keep to your butterflies, I think; and not attempt to interest Miss Langdale in any sensational story," and they dropped the subject as they neared the

house.

Mr. Lillingstone had recovered his composure; he went out slowly to meet them in his old formal manner.

"He was extremely sorry that Dobree should have had so much trouble." Indeed, and he looked at Scholefield, including him in his excuses, "he cordially regretted that their visit should end so abruptly." Then he explained, in a semi-confidential manner, his motive for going away the motive that was to be given out; and they listened courteously. Of the plan for Claude he said nothing.

"Mrs. Grey is not yet downstairs," he continued, pointing to the dining-room; "but I have just left the young ladies there;" and he went off towards the kitchen to have a few words with Mrs. Gaithorne. He told her it was not likely that Claude would return to Upware he was going down with them into Scotland. But her difficulties with the unexpectedly early dinner were so pressing, that they gave him ample excuse not to detain her with confidences which he felt she might have claimed, but which it would have been unpleasant for him to give.

On second thoughts Mrs. Gaithorne did not regret this either, as she told Elsie afterwards. "She thought she could see through these people, and their ways of acting- no doubt Mr. Claude would go away with them as his father wished -it suited his convenience just now," and her lips curled a little. But she did not tell Elsie she knew he would be obliged to come back to Cambridge in a month, when none of his family would be there," and no doubt he expected to have it all his own way; " for during the morning she had seen that Elsie was cheerful and active as ever, and she attributed this to the effect of her own advice, and the girl's strong sense. Elsie was different to anybody she had ever known, but then, "she had always been a strange child." She was thankful for that now. "She would not advise her any more on the subject to-day; the poor girl had been worried enough already; and, during the month, she would have many opportunities of reminding her of the hints she had already given her." Elsie herself was very little affected by VOL. II. 56

LIVING AGE.

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hearing that Claude's departure was final. She was thankful that "these people were going away, and that she should not see Claude with them any more; but the coming here had been a great break in her quiet life, and somehow - although she was glad they were going - their packing made her feel dull, and as they left, one party after the other, a sense of desolation came over her, and she longed to be out of it too.

Dobree and Scholefield were lounging about in the garden, reading the papers, and talking to Mr. Lillingstone in a desultory way. Laura, who was evidently in a state of increased excitement and delight, came down stairs from time to time to talk to them, and from what Elsie heard of her chattering at these times, she gathered that Miss Langdale was to be of their party; this was news to her, and though she did not attach more importance to it than it deserved, it helped her depression for the time.

The two young men had refused the offer of the drive into Cambridge; "they I would leave more room for the ladies in the carriage, and they should enjoy the walk later in the day." Then, when all arrangements were made, none of them had anything more to do. They waited about in a restless way, to which Elsie was unaccustomed, and the hours seemed long to her while they waited.

At last they were gone, and Dobree was returning from a solitary stroll on the road, where he had first come with Luard a month ago, when he saw Elsie carrying a bundle; she was going towards Wicken. He stopped her. "Why, Elsie, how is this? Surely you are not going home!"

"Yes, sir, I only came to help Mrs. Gaithorne while young Mr. Lillingstone was here - and I'm not wanted now that he's gone away," she added reluctantly, seeing that Dobree did not appear to understand her.

"Gone! but he is not gone away altogether, is he?" Dobree exclaimed involuntarily.

Elsie was puzzled, but at the same time it pleased her that Mr. Dobree, no more than herself, believed that he had left for good.

"Mrs. Gaithorne told me they were all going to Scotland," she said quickly, and that Mr. Claude would go with them."

Dobree's fixed look of surprise confused her; she turned crimson, and began to move on. This pointed his aston

ishment, but he asked no more ques

tions.

When she had walked a little distance, he turned and looked after her sadly. Her unusual confusion about Claude recalled many slight things he had noticed the day before. Claude's absence of manner in the early part of the evening, his excitement and good spirits towards the end of it, the disturbance of the morning, and the sudden departure from the fens, all this united to confirm his suspicions; but these he did not yet impart to Scholefield, and if he indulged in unfavourable criticism of Claude, it was chiefly in connection with thoughts such as had crossed his mind before. Now again they thrust themselves upon him, and he did not care to force them back. So their walk home was an unusually silent one.

CHAPTER IX.

THE next August found Wicken as it had been the last year. Winter had come with its fogs and floods, and had passed away in its turn. Then the wind blew piteously over the wet ground, and made the willows shiver. Now summer was burning them again, and they were thirsty and craved for shelter, but there was none; and the lodes were stagnant, and the river sleepy, and the great engine seemed to labour harder than ever with less water to pump away. The cattle were scattered equally between the two villages, for the plague had settled down on them, and there was no thought of separation now. With the first excitement, hope had passed away; the herds grew thinner and the people suffered there had been no break in the monotony of the fens.

Harvest was nearly over, and the new stacks were made where the last had been. They were finished that day, a day just like that of Claude's first coming here. Elsie was alone as then, the mother and children were at the pits, and it was again grandfather's day at the Stannards. Elsie had hurried her usual work to have a little quiet before they all came home; of late, it had become a habit with her to do this, and she was now enjoying herself in her own way. She stood leaning against the door, looking out, with her hands clasped listlessly before her, as if she was waiting-it might have been for her own people, though it was early to expect them yet. Her eyes wandered over her flowers, but she seemed scarcely to notice them perhaps that

was because she knew them all by heart. Whether she looked at them or not, they were a great part of her home to her; their fragrance pervaded it like a memory always felt through the stillness.

Once there was a break in the stillness sounds of voices coming up the fen. As they drew nearer one could hear it was laughter; then it was close, and filled up with the thumping of barges and trampling of feet, but above all, laughter. The light fitful laugh of girls, wishing to stay, yet hurrying to be gone - the low satisfied laugh of men; and in and out and among them sparkled the ringing laugh of children - just as the sunbeams that peeped through the old elms laughed idly over their solemn shade. Elsie drew back involuntarily, though she knew none of them would pass that way. Presently, the sounds dispersed and melted away in the winding lanes, but every now and then a burst of voices would come back through some opening in the hedge, and always it was laughter. But soon that died away, and it was silent again till the sun went down. Then there was stirring in the trees, and the hush of nature before night, and it grew black under the elms.

Suddenly Elsie's attention was arrested by a step lighter than that of the fen labourers. She started, listened eagerly for an instant, then, recollecting herself, she leaned back as before, but with hands now rigidly pressed together, her pale face denying the heavy pulsation that no effort of will could keep down.

As the gate opened, she turned in a forced way, but when she saw Dobree, a slight flush passed over her face, her hands fell apart, and the scarcely perceptible quivering of her lips betrayed how great her disappointment had been. Dobree noted this, and attributed it rightly, but his manner ignored it.

"Well, Elsie, you see I have found you out again, as I want more of your help. How soon can you get me some ferns like those you collected for me last year ?

Elsie was nervously ready with her answer.

"As soon as you like, sir; I could go and get them to-morrow, if you like.”

"You need not hurry so much as that; I am staying at Fordham, and it will be in time if you get them within a week."

He began at once to admire her garden, and after a few minutes spent in inquiries and praise of her management, he turned towards the cottage, so that she felt obliged to ask him in to rest.

He did not need the rest, he said, but | he should not like to go away without seeing the inside of the cottage again. He was glad to find that she was alone, and told her at once the real object of his visit.

He had seen Miss Grey in London a few weeks ago, and when she heard he was coming down there she commissioned him to ascertain if Elsie would be willing to leave her home. A friend of hers wanted a confidential servant; she would have no hard work to do, but this lady was anxious to find some person on whom she might depend. Miss Grey had thought of Elsie, and had instructed him to assure her that if she accepted the offer the new home would be a happy one.

Elsie had blushed deeply at the first mention of Miss Grey's name, but her self-possession returned before he had finished speaking. She refused promptly and firmly, yet with such evident gratitude to Miss Grey, as well as to himself, for their kindness, that Dobree felt that she must have a strong motive for refusing, and that that motive must be a future of which she could not speak. This was the ineffable look, the expectancy in her eyes, as she stood gazing past him out of the window, her whole being wrapped in something beyond and away from him.

Dobree looked at her as he had done the first day he met her in the fens, she being unconscious. It was the sweet face that had never faded in his memory. glorified, as he had known it might be and yet he was not glad.

He rose wearily." I will not take your answer until you have more time to think of it,” he said; “if you will get the ferns ready for Thursday evening, I will walk over after dinner and fetch them myself; and I hope," he added, looking at her kindly, "by that time you may have thought better of Miss Grey's propos

al."

Elsie smiled in answer, though she could promise nothing, and he went away. On the night fixed for Dobree's return, Elsie had been watering her garden. The cat, perched on the window-sill, in the shadow of the honey-suckle, had watched all her movements with a critical air, and so far seemed to have nothing to complain of in her proceedings; more than that, she even allowed herself to be petted after it was all over, and expressed general approbation in a low purr that was very understandable language to Elsie. She had thought much during the last three days.

Had not Claude asked her to believe in him in spite of unfavourable appearances? Had he not given her the most solemn promise before their last parting? It is true he had not come back when the term began!. It was bad to bear, but he might have had good reasons for that. Again, what did unfavourable appearances mean, if not something unpleasant to herself? All this she would accept; she would yet believe in him, for she knew he loved her.

She could not help attributing Miss Grey's offer of a situation to a plan made by the family to get her away from the fens, suspecting that Claude might now be coming there. So her spirits rose in harmony with the summer life that surrounded her, and each new burst of fragrance seemed to confirm as well as to heighten her gladness. Exercise had increased the look of excitement these thoughts had given her, and her hair was arranged more carefully than usual, for she expected Dobree.

She was still stroking her favourite when he appeared at the gate, and as he paused to look at her before raising the latch, he wished he had not undertaken Miss Grey's errand so readily, or at least that he did not feel bound in truth to her to speak that which he felt he must speak, ever since he had parted from her three nights ago. "However," he thought, "this is no place for hesitation, and the probability is that I would not shirk it if I could." So he met Elsie's look of welcome more naturally and with a greater show of firmness than he really felt. Elsie ran off at once to fetch the ferns, which she said were better than the last she had got for him, and her quiet manner, no less than her bright eyes, showed how pleased she was at the praise he gave to her good packing.

She then led the way indoors, and put the ferns on the window-sill near the myrtle, while she offered him grandfather's chair, now drawn close to the open window. This he refused, for he felt he could not be still just now. "He was not going to stay long, but she must sit down; there was no occasion for her to stand."

This she also refused, and stood within the recess of the window, in what she called "her own place." The thrush came bustling down to the nearest corner of the cage with inquisitiveness in its eyes, and a sharp little "Quitt," that received a kind look for answer. This, however, was not quite satisfactory, as he let her know, by a still greater show of

bustling; so she leaned forward, chattering to it, and it returned to its perch, coming down now and then afterwards to show that it still kept up an interest in its mistress. Dobree had made a few paces in the room and come back again.

"Are your people always out? No place seems so still to me as this cottage, and yet you are such a large family."

Elsie smiled an amused smile. "It's noisy enough in the mornings and evenings, but now it's harvest-time, and they all come later; that helps to make it seem more quiet just now; but grandfather's home-in the back garden," noticing Dobree's quick look round; "he'll not be coming in till sundown; he says he likes to make the most of these long days; and he does a good bit, too, though he's so old."

"Quitt," said the thrush, and Dobree and Elsie looked towards it.

They were both silent.

"You like your home very much, I suppose?"

"I like it more and more - I love it better than ever." She stopped suddenly, and turned her head away, blushing at the excitement she had shown.

They were again silent.

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Grey's relations, then "

"Ah! yes, I remember Mr. Lillingstone sent away several baskets from here; but," and he turned away from her and looked into the garden again, “he has been a great deal too busy lately to think of those things."

Something in the tone of his voice suggested a horrible thought to Elsie. "He was very busy with his books last year, wasn't he?" she said, breathing quickly. A quick light in Dobree's eye showed his scorn.

"I believe he was, but he gave up college life after he left Mrs. Gaithorne's last year, and two month's ago he was married; he is now travelling with his wife; and he pretended to see something new in the elm-trees opposite him.

Elsie leaned against the window-frame. She felt her face was white, and that her lips twitched helplessly now and then. This must not be; she must not give way. Yes, there was the garden, cool, rich, and sweet, the smell of the honeysuckle, and her little friend in the cage, and Mr. Dobree, too, looking out of the window quite close to her. Now and then they all swayed up and down. She she must speak soon -what will he think?- she must say something presently.

"Have you thought about what I asked must not give way you the other evening?"

"Yes."

"You have not changed your mind?" "No thank you for your kindness; and please to thank Miss Grey too, but -I must stay at home."

Dobree was half disappointed, although this was what he had expected; he looked past her into the garden for some minutes; then, rousing himself,

"Well, I suppose I ought not to try and persuade you against what you think right; but should anything arise to make you change your plans - or suppose, for instance, you should not be wanted so much at home as you are now I know I can promise you Miss Grey's help in obtaining a situation out of this place. You need only let Miss Porteous know of your wish."

"Thank you," and the least perceptible smile played on Elsie's lips; "but that would be for a long while, as Rettie is still very young," and she looked down at the ferns as if ready to give them to him; but he was not willing to go, though he followed her movement.

"Have you had a good sale for them this season?”

"For the ferns, sir? No, not so good as last year. I got several for friends of

"Quitt, quitt," said the thrush, puzzled at the long silence.

Dobree turned his attention to it, speaking low, close to the bars.

Elsie fixed her eyes on them both, and they swayed up and down. What should she say if she were any one else? It seemed an age since the stillness had been broken. "Did he take honours, as he expected?" Her voice, though low, was hard, and seemed painfully clear to her.

Dobree glanced slightly at her before answering; and he groaned within himself at the misery so wantonly caused the life so early blighted - when "it might have been so different." "No, he disappointed his friends very much by giving up reading altogether some time ago; but I must go now." He took up the basket, and put out his hand. “Goodbye, Elsie, and remember what I have said about Miss Grey; you may trust her. She likes you, and will be a friend if you want one, I am sure; and—but it is no matter, it is of little consequence now-good-bye," and he turned away to avoid seeing the quivering lips that strove so hard to be still.

She followed him to the door, and nod- | it would, we think, be impossible for any ded a "good-bye," when he shut the gate. candid and open-hearted reader of the Some time after, she felt a warm soft little volume recently published, to pressure on her foot, as the cat passed and re-passed, rubbing her back against the hem of her dress, and purring to gain her notice, but in vain.

think of him as a Sceptic. Scepticism is not a creed but a disposition - - a form of mind a peculiarity of nature-and this is not the mental character of Mr. Greg. Elsie was scarcely conscious of this. He believes - almost in spite of himself She was still looking out, attracted—fas-— having no means, he confesses, of cinated, it would seem, by the golden pinnacles of the stacks that rose clear from the vague shadow of the trees, and nursed the flattering rays of the daylight after the day had gone.

From Blackwood's Magazine.
ENIGMAS OF LIFE.

proving the truth of what he believes in, and acknowledging a great many arguments against it. There is something amusing even in the humility with which he makes this avowal, or rather, something that would be amusing but for the perfect and dignified seriousness of the thinker, who, declining to receive Revelation as a possibility, and rejecting Christianity as a great blunder, cannot yet, he allows, divest himself of his faith in God AMONG the many things which change and the Hereafter. We have used a word from one age to another, there is scarcely which we ought not to have used, - it is any so subject to variation, strangely pathetic rather than amusing. Mr. Greg enough, as those opinions on religious puts himself voluntarily at the bar, and subjects which are the most important our gives for his defence the humanest, the minds are capable of forming. Though most unassailable, of all pleas. It is not the hottest controversies in the Church at any bar of ours that he makes his deare generally raised for the rigid conser- fence. We are ready to give him full and vation of old forms and old conceptions of frank absolution for believing in God bereligious truth, it is nevertheless true that cause he cannot help it, because it is plus every century, and often every generation, forte que lui: but there is something inhas its own characteristic way of setting finitely curious in the spectacle of this forth these truths; and that, not to go man standing humbly uncovered before back too far nor to venture upon any dis- his peers, excusing himself for his faith. cussion such as that which has risen We can easily conceive that a great effort round the Athanasian Creed, a pious and was necessary to enable him to confront even highly orthodox Christian of the such a tribunal with such a confession. present day would hesitate at least, and The great leading principle of all the possibly shudder, were he called upon to philosophical researches of our day, both utter assertions or explanations which dis- physical and mental, is that faith is the tilled like dew from the lips of his proto-one unallowable sentiment - the accursed type in 1773, only a hundred years ago. thing. The very state of mind which And scepticism, or philosophy, or counter- makes such a feeling possible, fills scitheology, whatever name may be the best ence with disgust and opposition; yet to use, changes with equal variety and here is a distinguished philosopher compersistency. From Voltaire to Mr. W. ing forward to confess to it, with a sense R. Greg, what a difference! We do not of his own weakness, yet with an absoknow by what name to distinguish the lute incapacity to separate himself from later author. He disbelieves the greater it, which is at once strange and whimsical part of we may almost say all-that and pathetic. What he avows is pure Christians believe. He seems on the faith of the highest and most visionary whole to be of opinion to us a new and kind, faith in things unprovable, without strange one that Christianity has rather tangible foundation, without authority. retarded than helped forward the reign of yet in its naked force prevailing over all purity and truth on the earth. He is the methods and habits of doubt, and all cruelly and unjustly, and sometimes we the prejudices of the intellect. The folthink ignorantly, contemptuous of all re-lowing is Mr. Greg's own explanation or ligious teachers of every class, creed, and excuse - the plea with which he presents country. He is not without that intoler- himself at the bar of philosophical ance and dogmatism which are so curi- thought: — ously characteristic of the philosophic antagonists of spiritual oppression; but

Enigmas of Life: by W. R. Greg. London: Trubner & Co. 1872.

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