had been given to him; his image rose unbidden before her mind, shutting away from her her old hopes and the future which had lain before her. She was strong and she was brave, and she faced the pain as she sat there in her solitude. Such things cannot be spoken of,-they must be borne alone! A long hour had passed, and she had not moved. She had not meant to be untrue; she had told herself when first she had feared it that it was impossible; she would not allow her fears to conquer her. But now it was no longer a question of fear -the blow had fallen; she was not crushed-the pain had roused her to fresh strength; but yet she knew that she had been dreaming, that she was now awake, and that she could never dream that dream again-that no other August afternoon would be to her what that past August afternoon had been; that she could marry neither this man whom she loved, nor Bernard who had always loved her and at the thought of Bernard-of his happy confidence and his near return-tears for the first time rushed to her eyes-tears of gratitude and penitence and regret.

CHAPTER XI.

JUST at this time, when Christina could no longer halt between two opinionswhen she had made once for all the overwhelming discovery that she was no longer free, yet that she was no longer bound; no longer free to make a choice, no longer mistress of herself, and yet that she must break the bond between her and Bernard, because she could not hope to give him what he required, just at this time, when, though the one thing remained sure, her mind was yet confused and wavering and uncertain, a new complication arose, and a new element was introduced into her life, which pressed a decision upon her, and made it no longer possible to hesitate as to what she should do.

Mr. Warde had of late been much at the White House. He had listened to Mrs. North's lamentations; he had

tried in vain to cheer the old man, or to induce him to take the assistance he would so gladly have offered. They were sinking deeper and deeper into debt, as he well knew. The doctor was told that he was no longer required, because they could not afford the money for his visits; not even Mr. Warde was ever asked to dinner now, and he could not remember when he had seen Christina in a new dress. The daily cares and trials were beginning to tell upon her, he thought, when he noticed that she was paler and more restless and sadder. For some time past there had been in the deportment or conversation of her mother and grandfather, something to indicate that they had conceived in their secret minds the possibility of a nearer connection with him, and from the time when he observed this, he had begun to entertain the possibility of it in his own mind; and as his sense of the dreariness of her situation grew deeper, there came upon him in more palpable form the thought that he had the power to take her away from all this. Though he could bring help in no other way, at least he could in this, if it would indeed be for her happiness as well as for his.

He was not in love with her; he had seen her faults clearly enough, but yet he was fond of her: he was pitiful and he was kind, and if it were for her happiness he would gladly have made her his wife. But, then, was it for her happiness? That was the question that he asked himself again and again without obtaining any satisfactory answer. Anything, he thought, would be better than her present life. Was she not even now losing her spirits and her youth, and the bloom of her beauty, in the wearisome round of daily vexations? He saw that she might have lightened her own burthens had she set herself to the work; but first she had been too rebellious, and now he thought she was too sad. But, then, was it not possible that some brighter fate than that he had to offer might be in store for her? Yet how, and where? He thought of her cousin; but surely, if there had been anything

more than friendship between them, her mother, his mother, everyone would have known of it. And then he thought of Captain Cleasby, but only for a moment. He knew little of the intercourse that there had been. He did not see with the eyes of girls or women, nor with those of a particularly observant or sagacious man, and it did not appear to him that Captain Cleasby was likely to win a girl's affections unless under favourable circumstances.

His new subjects of reflection did not distract his mind; they did not make his teaching less energetic, nor his ministrations less conscientious; but in his solitary walks, in his lonely evenings, they came across his mind, and urged upon him decisive action.

He was thinking of it all this evening as he sat in his little parlour over the baker's shop. He was sitting there after a hard day's work, with the sort of feeling that he had earned his rest; and at the present moment there was nothing very clerical about his appearance. He had thrown off his coat and his boots, and was leaning back in his chair, with his legs crossed, smoking a short pipe; and he was meditative and comfortable, though there was nothing at all luxurious in his surroundings.

It was a little room on the first story, with muslin blinds and a box of mig nonette in the window; and there was a round walnut table, with a red cloth cover, where stood the remains of his supper, as he called it,—a jug of ale, the loaf of bread, some butter, and some cheese. There were bookshelves on each side of the fireplace, filled principally with theological works, for Mr. Warde read little on general subjects, and was quite content to see the Times twice a week when he went into Overton. There was a photograph of his mother over the chimney-piece in a black frame, and two prints on each side of it; and there was a large desk where he kept his sermons, on his writing table and these were his only contributions to the adornment of the room.

Mrs. Jebb, however, the baker's wife, was a good woman, and had every desire

to make her lodger comfortable, and she had provided some less serviceable but more ornamental articles of furnituretwo glass vases with drops, a shepherd and shepherdess in coloured china, and a little mirror in a tarnished frame. Mr. Warde was not observant of these things, but he had, to her great distress, remorselessly ordered out a small slippery horsehair sofa, whose elegance constituted her greatest pride and glory.

"If you was to be took bad, sir," she had said, deprecating his mandate that it should be at once removed.

"But I never am bad, Mrs. Jebb," he had answered, good-humouredly; and then, before she could say anything more, he had deposited it bodily in the passage.

Yet, in spite of this, though for the moment she was a little hurt, Mrs. Jebb honoured her clergyman, and would not have exchanged him for a less active and less troublesome lodger.

Christina had been quite right when she had said how much he was liked and respected by all classes of his parishioners. He was not clever, he was not saintlike, nor, strictly speaking, a spiritual-minded man; but he was honest and true, and kind and honourable, a man who would always do his duty, and would generally see his duty clearly. He was not wavering or per plexed even this evening, but he was slowly and surely arriving at a decision upon a point which as yet his judgment had failed to decide for him.

"She shall not be hurried," he had said to himself, "and after all she can always refuse; she is under no compulsion."

He did not expect that she should have fallen in love with him, for he had not fallen in love with her; but if her heart were free, it seemed to him that he might make her happy as his wife, and if her heart were not free, why then she had only to say no.

These had been wearisome days for Christina. First, she had her battle to. fight with herself; and the thought of Bernard, so often and so unduly absent from her mind in these latter days, was

ever before her now: and then troubles were coming fast upon them, and there seemed to be no way of escape. They owed money, not large sums, but still money that they had no certain prospect of being able to pay; then there was the rent, and of late Mr. North had begun to say that they must leave the White House. They could live nowhere more cheaply; but at least there would not be this obligation to be incurred with regard to Mr. Warde; and they could. get some lodging near at hand, and dismiss Janet.

Christina heard it discussed with silent dismay. The White House had not been a happy home; but, nevertheless, there were many old associations which it would be hard to leave behind, and then she knew what a blow it would be to her grandfather, who was even now so weak and failing.

He sat in his loneliness and sadness and anger, dwelling upon his misfortunes, and repelling sympathy. He liked best to be alone, he said; but if Mr. Warde came, he would see him.

"If only we had a man about the house, or if you were married, Christina," her mother said; her lament taking the same form as Mr. North's: "but here we are, and your grandfather so ill, and he may die any day for anything we know; and then, what is to become of us? I am sure I don't know. If only I thought you were cared for, I believe I should not mind anything."

"Why should you mind about me now? I am not afraid."

"Because you don't know what it is to be alone in the world, Christina. You could not stand by yourself-what could you do? You don't know enough to be a governess, and if you did, your grandfather would rather you should die than work for your bread. If only you were provided for, I believe we should both die happy."

Yes, if only she were provided for; no matter how! How dismal it sounded! And Christina took her hat and went out on the moor, less troubled, less restless, less impatient than she had been, but far more quietly despairing.

A few months since she might have told them that they need not fear for her-that at the Homestead, come what might, she would always find a shelter; but now she knew that she was shut out from this refuge far more effectually than if she had never looked to it as her future home. How could she ask Bernard to receive her as a charity beneath the roof to which he had hoped to bring her as his bride? And she too had shared in his hopes and his projects. "I shall not forget you, Bernard; I shall not change." She remembered her words, and now they came back to her sounding strange and out of season as the singing of birds in the midst of winter. For one moment there flashed across her the possibility of going back, if not in spirit at least in form, to the old footing. To outward appearance it was all as it had been. Who could say that she had been untrue to him? Who could say that she had broken her faith? No one had known of what had been; no one knew how it was now; she need never tell; she had been able, as she thought, to hide it from everyone-why should she not hide it now and for ever? It was a thought, sudden and powerful, like a temptation. She was all alone on the moor, and she sat down and leant her head upon her hand, and looked out over the wide level expanse of heath with bewildered eyes as if seeking for counsel. It was perfectly still-a grey sky overhead, and the brown heath on all sides her, with the lizards darting round about, and the dragon-flies flitting over the pools. There was no counsel to be had, nothing but stillness and solitude; but yet after a few minutes her forehead contracted, her eyes ceased to wander, she clenched her teeth, and rose suddenly

to her feet.

"No, no, I cannot do it," she cried to herself. Whatever after sorrows she might have to endure, that temptation was overcome, and could never assail her again. Her mind was made up, and she set out to walk home, for now she was some miles from the White House.

When she reached home, she was

pale, tired, and sad; but she was no longer unnaturally agitated or restless; one thread of her complicated and tangled life had been broken and could not be joined again. And though it had brought her much happiness which she must now put aside for ever, though there was much to regret, and a fear of coming trouble, yet was it a relief to know that she need no longer strive to interweave it with the others.

"Christina," said her mother, meeting her in the passage, "where have you been all this time? I have wanted you very much. Your grandfather is better. I think he is dozing. Come in here, my dear; there is no occasion for you to go to him now, and I want to have a little talk with you. Mr. Warde has been here. He saw your grandfather, and then he came in to me. He would have liked to have seen you if you had been at home; but he said perhaps on the whole it would be better not, and then you might have time to think over it. He was very anxious that you should not be hurried; but, Christina, I think you must have guessed before now. I thought perhaps it might be so-only I was afraid of saying anything-but is it not odd that I should have said this very morning how I wished that you were married, and then this afternoon that he should come and say that he wants to marry you .? ”

"He wants to marry me!" said Christina very slowly. She had been standing whilst her mother spoke, but now she sat down by the table, and leant her arms upon it, and looked at the opposite wall with eyes that had in them nothing of pleasure or pride, nor yet of fear or shame, but were simply sad and indifferent as to any new thing which she might hear.

"Oh, Christina, I do hope you are not going to be hasty. Just remember what I said to you this morning. You ought to be pleased, I do think. Just think what it will be to your grandfather to know that you are safe

and well cared for, and then it will not matter what happens to us. Of course you are surprised at first, but don't look like that! Look at me, Christina, and say that you are pleased."

66

Why does he want to marry me?" said Christina; and though she did turn her eyes upon her mother, she did not change colour, and her voice was as coldly indifferent as it had been before.

"He has pitied you for a long time," said Mrs. North; "he has taken such an interest in you. You have often said how much you like and respect him. He is not a very young man, to go into transports; but when you are my age, Christina, you will know that such things mean nothing. I believed in them once, and what has my life been? Yours will be very different, for your happiness will be based, not upon a passing fancy for a pretty face, but upon the enduring affection of an honourable man."

"It is very kind of him,” said Christina, more softly; and there was nothing contemptuous or ironical in her tone.

"Yes, it is kind, Christina. You can hardly judge how kind it is now, for you don't understand the burthens of married life. He has spoken to your grandfather, and you can hardly imagine what a change it has made to him. You shall not be hurried, Christina; you shall have time to think: we will not talk of it any more to-night; but you will remember all that I have said, Christina; and I believe, my child, that you will not disappoint us. Oh, Christina, I would do much to save you from such a life as mine has been!"

There were tears in her eyes as she kissed her child, and they went to Christina's heart she thought of them more than of her mother's words; and she thought of the pleading look which her grandfather had given her when she wished him good-night. It was a look of entreaty, so opposed to his usual manner, that it could hardly fail to make an impression.

No. 148.-VOL. XXV.