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letter, written with the intention of giving her a fair chance. He had seen with great "with heartfelt grief," that quarrel between his mother and his own Clara. Thinking, as he felt himself obliged to think, about Mrs. Askerton, he could not but feel that his mother had cause for her anger. But he himself was unprejudiced, and was ready, and anxious also, the word anxious was underscored, to carry out his engagement. A few words between them might probably set everything right, and therefore he proposed to meet her at the Belton Castle house, at such an hour, on such a day. He should run down to Perivale on his journey, and perhaps Clara would let him have a line addressed to him there. Such was his letter.

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"What do you think of that?" said Clara, showing it to Mrs. Askerton on the afternoon of the day on which she had received it.

"What do you think of it?" said Mrs. Askerton. "I can only hope that he will not come within the reach of my hands."

“You are not angry with me for showing it to you?"

"No;-why should I be angry with you? Of course I knew it all without any showing. Do not tell Colonel Askerton, or they will be killing each other."

"Of course I shall not tell Colonel Askerton; but I could not help showing this

will meet him."

to you." "And you "Yes; I shall meet him. What else can I do?"

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Unless, indeed, you were to write and tell him that it would do no good."

"It will be better that he should come." If you allow him to talk you over, you will be a wretched woman all your life." "It will be better that he should come," said Clara again. And then she wrote to Captain Aylmer at Perivale, telling him that she would be at the house at the hour he had named, on the day he had named. When that day came she walked across the park a little before the time fixed, not wishing to meet Captain Aylmer before she had reached the house. It was now nearly the middle of April, and the weather was soft and pleasant. It was almost summer again, and as she felt this, she thought of all the events which had occurred since the last summer, - of their agony of grief at the catastrophe which had closed her brother's life, of her aunt's death first, and then of her father's following so close upon the other, and of the two offers of marriage made to her, as to which she was now

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aware that she had accepted the wrong man and rejected the wrong man. She was steadily minded, now, at this moment, that before she parted from Captain Aylmer, her engagement with him should be brought to a close. Now, at this coming interview, so much at any rate should be done. She had tried to make herself believe that she felt for him that sort of affection which a woman should have for the man she is to marry; but she had failed. She hardly knew whether she had in truth ever loved him; but she was quite sure that she did not love him now. No;-she had done with Aylmer Park, and she could feel thankful, amidst all her troubles, that that difficulty should vex her no more. In showing Captain Aylmer's letter to Mrs. Askerton she had made no such promise as this, but her mind had been quite made up. "He certainly shall not talk me over," she said to herself as she walked across the park.

But she could not see her way so clearly out of that further difficulty with regard to her cousin. It might be that she would be able to rid herself of the one lover with comparative ease; but she could not bring herself to entertain the idea of accepting the other. It was true that this man longed for her, - desired to call her his own, with a wearing, anxious, painful desire which made his heart grievously heavy,heavy as though with lead hanging to its strings; and it was true that Clara knew that it was so. It was true also that his spirit had mastered her spirit, and that his persistence had conquered her resistance, the resistance, that is, of her feelings. But there remained with her a feminine shame, which made it seem to her to be impossible that she should now reject Captain Aylmer, and, as a consequence of that rejection, accept Will Belton's hand. As she thought of this, she could not see her way out of her trouble in that direction with any of that clearness which belonged to her in reference to Captain Aylmer.

She had been an hour in the house before he came, and never did an hour go so heavily with her. There was no employment for her about the place, and Mrs. Bunce, the old woman who now lived there, could not understand why her late mistress chose to remain seated among the unused furniture. Clara had of course told her that a gentleman was coming. "Not Mr. Will," said the woman. "No; it is not Mr. Will," said Clara; "his name is Captain Aylmer." Oh, indeed." And then Mrs. Bunce looked at her with a mystified look. Why on earth should not the gentleman

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call on Miss Amedroz at Mrs. Askerton's cottage? "I'll be sure to show 'un up, when a comes, at any rate," said the old woman solemnly; — and Clara felt that it was all very uncomfortable.

At last the gentleman did come, and was shown up with all the ceremony of which Mrs. Bunce was capable. "Here he be, mum." Then Mrs. Bunce paused a moment before she retreated, anxious to learn whether the new comer was a friend or a foe. She concluded from the Captain's manner that he was a very dear friend, and then she departed.

"I hope you are not surprised at my coming" said Captain Aylmer, still holding Clara by the hand.

"A little surprised," she said, smiling.
"But not annoyed?"
"No; not annoyed."

"As soon as you had left Aylmer Park I felt that it was the right thing to do; the only thing to do, as I told my mother."

"I hope you have not come in opposition to her wishes," said Clara, unable to control a slight tone of banter as she spoke.

"In this matter I found myself compelled to act in accordance with my own judgment," said he, untouched by her sarcasm.

"Then I suppose that Lady Aylmer is, is vexed with you for coming here. I shall be so sorry for that; -so very sorry, as no good can come of it."

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"That you never ought to act in opposition to them. That is what you really mean, Captain Aylmer; and upon my word I think that you are right."

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"No, Clara; that is not what I mean, not exactly that. Indeed, just at present I mean the reverse of that. There are some things in which a man must act on his own judgment, irrespectively of the opinions of any one else."

"Not of a mother, Captain Aylmer." "Yes;-of a mother. That is to say, a man must do so. With a lady of course it is different. I was very, very sorry that there should have been any unpleasantness at Alymer Park."

"It was not pleasant to me, certainly." "Nor to any of us, Clara."

"At any rate, it need not be repeated." | "I hope not."

"No;-it certainly need not be repeated. I know now that I was wrong to go to Aylmer Park. I felt sure beforehand that there

were many things as to which I could not possibly agree with Lady Aylmer, and I ought not to have gone."

"I don't see that at all, Clara." "I do see it now."

"I can't understand you. What things? Why should you be determined to disagree with my mother? Surely you ought at any rate to endeavour to think as she thinks." "I cannot do that, Captain Aylmer.”

"I am sorry to hear you speak in this way. I have come here all the way from Yorkshire to try to put things straight between us; but you receive me as though you would remember nothing but that unpleasant quarrel."

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"It was so unpleasant, so very unpleasant! I had better speak out the truth at once. I think that Lady Aylmer ill-used me cruelly. I do. No one can talk me out of that conviction. Of course I am sorry to be driven to say as much to you, and I should never have said it, had you not come here. But when you speak of me and your mother together, I must say what I feel. Your mother and I, Captain Aylmer, are so opposed to each other, not only in feelings, but in opinions also, that it is impossible that we should be friends; - impossible that we should not be enemies if we are brought together."

This she said with great energy, looking intently into his face as she spoke. He was seated near her, on a chair from which he was leaning over towards her, holding his hat in both hands between his legs. Now, as he listened to her, he drew his chair still nearer, ridding himself of his hat, which he left upon the carpet, and keeping his eyes upon hers as though he were fascinated. "I am sorry to hear you speak like this,"

he said.

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gagement such as ours cannot be put aside | under that woman's roof. Now she had relike an old glove. You do not mean to tell me pelled Lady Aylmer's counsels with scorn, that all that has been between us is to mean was living as a guest in Mrs. Askerton's nothing." There was something now like house; and yet he was willing to pass over feeling in his tone, something like passion the Askerton difficulty without a word. He in his gesture, and Clara, though she had was willing not only to condone past offenno thought of changing her purpose, was ces, but to wink at existing iniquity! But becoming unhappy at the idea of his un- she,- she who was the sinner, would not happiness. permit of this. She herself dragged up Mrs. Askerton's name, and seemed to glory in her own shame.

"It has meant nothing," she said. "We have been like children together, playing at being in love. It is a game from which you will come out scatheless, but I have been scalded.” "Scalded!" "Well ;never mind. I do not mean to complain, and certainly not of you." "I have come here all the way from Yorkshire in order that things may be put right between us."

“You have been very good,—very good to come, and I will not say that I regret your trouble. It is best, I think, that we should meet each other once more face to face, so that we may understand each other. There was no understanding anything during those terrible days at Alymer Park." Then she paused, but as he did not speak at once she went on. "I do not blame you for anything that has taken place, but I am quite sure of this, that you and I could never be happy together as man and wife.”

"I do not know why you say so; I do not indeed."

"You would disapprove of everything that I should do. You do disapprove of what I am doing now."

"Disapprove of what?"

"I am staying with my friend, Mrs. Ask

erton."

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"I had not intended," said he, "to speak your friend."

"I only mention her to show how impossible it is that we would ever agree upon some subjects, as to which a husband and wife should always be of one mind. I knew this from the moment in which I got your letter, and only that I was a coward I should have said so then."

"And you mean to quarrel with me altogether."

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No;- why should we quarrel? "Why, indeed?" said he.

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"But I wish it to be settled,"quite settled, as from the nature of things it must be, that there shall be no attempt at renewal of our engagement. After what has passed, how could I enter your mother's house?"

Now in

"But you need not enter it." his emergency he was willing to give up anything, everything. He had been prepared to talk her over into a reconciliation with his mother, to admit that there had been faults on both sides, to come down from his high pedestal and discuss the matter as though Clara and his mother stood upon the same footing. Having recognized the spirit of his lady-love, he had told himself that so much indignity as that He felt that this was hard upon him. As must be endured. But now, he had been she had shown herself inclined to withdraw carried so far beyond this, that he was willherself from him, he had become more reso-ing, in the sudden vehemence of his love, to lute in his desire to follow her up, and to hold by his engagement. He was not employed now in giving her another chance, as he had proposed to himself to do, but was using what eloquence he had to obtain another chance for himself. Lady Aylmer had almost made him believe that Clara would be the suppliant, but now he was the suppliant himself. In his anxiety to keep her he was willing even to pass over her terrible iniquity in regard to Mrs. Askerton, that great sin which had led to all these troubles. He had once written to her about Mrs. Askerton, using very strong language, and threatening her with his mother's full displeasure. At that time Mrs. Askerton had simply been her friend. There had been no question then of her taking refuge

throw his mother over altogether, and to accede to any terms which Clara might propose to him. "Of course, I would wish you to be friends," he said, using now all the tones of a suppliant; "but if you found that it could not be so".

"Do you think that I would divide you from your mother?"

"There need be no question as to that." "Ah;-there you are wrong. There must be such questions. I should have thought of it sooner.

"Clara, you are more to me than my mother. Ten times more." As he said this he came up and knelt down beside her. "You are everything to me. You will not throw me over." He was a suppliant indeed, and such supplications are very po

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tent with women. Men succeed often by you are displeased with what my mother the simple earnestness of their prayers. may have said. I am not responsible for my Women cannot refuse to give that which is mother. Clara, say that you will be my asked for with so much of the vehemence of wife." As he spoke he strove to take her true desire. 66 Clara, you have promised to hand, and his voice sounded as though there be my wife. You have twice promised; were in truth something of passion in his and can have no right to go back because heart.

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Where costly day drops down in crimson light;

(Fortunate countries of the fire-fly,

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And all would be as it had been before.
Again at eve there would be news to tell;

Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and

night,

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o'er,
Gossip, how wags the world?"
Gossip, well!"

- The Argosy.

"Well,

JEAN INGELOW.

MRS. GASKELL.

From Macmillan's Magazine. | in some odd corner of the newspaper; but still for each there would surely be somewhere or other an obituary notice. And, as we were turning away from the grave where our friend lay buried, one of the mourners said to me, "Do you know what we were all thinking of in our hearts? We are wondering, in case this funeral had been ours, what our friends would have written of us to-morrow." Such thoughts must be present surely to all who write. We can tell pretty well what our own record will be; we know it almost by heart, from the expression of deep regret at the beginning, to the very enumeration of our names at the close. But yet, though we may moralise on the hollowness of the custom, I suspect few of us would like to know that our friends would not follow our body to the grave, would not honour us with some passing record of our works and lives.

THE deaths of our friends are like milestones on the road of life. So somebody has said before; and, I think, the metaphor is just enough, save that, as we get well forward on our life journey, the milestones succeed each other so rapidly that we lose our reckoning. The number of dead men we have known becomes so large that, at times, we grow confused as to who is living and who is dead. In the first blush of youth there is - pardon the apparent cynicism of the remarka sort of not altogether unpleasing sensation in being able to speak of your dead friend. To have known one who had occupied some place in the world's notice confers upon us a kind of brevet of full manhood. I am speaking, be it understood, not of those lost loved ones of whom all men, not cruelly cursed by fate, can say that as to their lives, they themselves were “pars magna,” — but of those common acquaintances whom we know neither more nor less than scores of others. Of such friendships if I may so call these acquaintanceships-persons with whom literature is a profession or pursuit have, I think, more than most people. Authors, artists, editors, reviewers, newspaper writers, are brought much together by the necessities of their position, and form, naturally enough, those kinds of relations which entitle them in common parlance to call one another friends. Thus it becomes one of the privileges or pains, as you choose to consider it, of a literary life, that you are not allowed to pass in quiet to the grave with no tribute save the tears of those who have known and loved you. Nemesis compels your associates to write of you on your death, as you would have written of them had they gone before. I remember once being present at the funeral ⚫ of one whose lot had brought him into contact with those who live by writing. All of us, who were assembled on the sunny slopes of that pleasant Highgate burying-ground, were men connected in some way with literature. Many, perhaps most of us, were unknown by name to the public for whom we wrote; but still one and all were so far known behind the scenes, if not upon the stage, of literature, that we knew, if we died to-morrow, our deaths would be recorded in newspaper paragraphs. For some might be reserved the typographic glories of leaded print, of the black lines round the notice, of a place on the leader sheet; for others there might be only afforded the obscure paragraph in minion type, buried

The world of English letters has just lost one of its foremost authors. Another of the writers I have known has passed away in the person of Mrs. Gaskell; and I think this magazine would scarcely be worthy of itself unless it contained some short notice of the authoress of "Mary Barton,' from one to whom, however slightly, she was known as a living woman, not as a writer only. It is that which encourages me to say these few words in honour of her memory.

Of her private life it would not only be unbefitting to speak, but I believe that its record, even if it could be fully told by those to whom it is known, would throw but little light on the literary aspect of her character. Thus much may be fairly said, that it differed from those of most women who write novels, in being more calm and less eventful. Neither necessity, nor the unsatisfied solitude of a single life, nor, as I fancy, an irresistible impulse, threw her into the paths of literature. She wrote, as the birds sing, because she liked to write"; and ceased writing when the fancy left her. And the result of this was, that all her works have, in their own way, a degree of perfection and completeness rare in these days, when successful authoresses pour out volume after volume without pause or waiting. For some eighteen years she had held a position amongst the first class of English novelists; and yet, during the whole of that period, she only published five novels of the three-volume order. She was a mother with many children, a wife approaching middle age, when she first became an authoress. It was, as I have heard, to try and drown the memory of a dead child, an only

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