Capt. MacGilly, and it will all end in trouble if you go on meeting him," said Margaret.

said Eleanor,

"I can take care of myself," haughtily; "I don't want your interference, thank you."

Margaret turned away, and burst into tears.

Eleanor's anger melted at once,—her arms were round her little cousin.

"There, there, you silly old thing, don't cry over me; I am not worth it. You think you are doing for the best, I know; but I am not good, like you; I might have been, perhaps, but it is too late now.”

"Nonsense, Ellie dear," said Margaret, kissing her cousin. "Too late! why you are not yet twenty. Now is just the time to be in earnest; you remember what Mr. Wynter said in that sermon he preached after our confirmation, about our having chosen the way of God's commandments. Not that I have walked in it," continued Margaret, with a broken voice. "No, no; but I do not want to interfere; life is all before us, for good or evil; but everything is in such a puzzle to me. Oh, dear, dear; I wonder what my life is for ?"

"How oddly

"Your life for?" repeated Eleanor. you do talk, Margaret. Why your life is to enjoy yourself in, of course. I am sure there is a verse in the Bible about all things richly to enjoy.' You can't deny it. You will have to marry Augustus, when he comes home, and return with him to India,

sending all your children home to mother to be nursed and educated, while you are flirting with the other officers, and getting all the fun you can out of Indian life."

"And you?" asked Margaret, smiling through her tears.

"Oh, I," said Eleanor, "I shall probably be an old maid, and take to mittens and a cat: for I shall never care for any man long enough to marry him. But, good night, old woman, and mind you are as dumb as a dormouse on all subjects relating to the flower of the British army."

"Flower of the British army!" repeated Margaret, puzzled.

"Yes; it used to be a 'Major Convolvulus,' you know, but now it is a 'Gilly Flower'."

CHAPTER II.

JOHN WYNTER.

"Greatness and goodness are not means but ends;
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man-three treasures, love and light
And calm thoughts, regular as an infant's breath?
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,
Himself, his Maker, and the Angel Death?"

Coleridge.

THE ruins of Llangavon Castle are well known, throughout a certain part of Wales, for their beauty and antiquity. They stand on a high, bold headland of limestone rock, overlooking the sea, which rock, on the sea-ward side, is covered with the aromatic, odd-looking branches of the rock-samphire, which the country-people gather to make into pickle. Interspersed amongst the samphire are branches of the sea-pink, as well as the purple spikes of wild lavender.

The Castle is not of large dimensions; the round tower, or keep, in the centre is the most perfect part

of it. There is a stone staircase leading up to the roof, round which, just inside the battlements, there is a walk, now covered with short mossy grass. One or two of the circular chambers in the tower are in a pretty good state of preservation; the lowest one of all, only raised from the ground by two or three rough stone steps, and floored with curious old tiles of alternate roan-red and ochre-yellow colours, is made into a sort of summer-house or grotto, which is always cool and pleasant, owing to the tremendous thickness of the walls.

The entrance gateway, too, is tolerably perfect, with a small mullioned window over it, between which and the arch of the gateway there is a coat of arms carved in Caen stone, much defaced, and covered with golden and green lichens.

Every part of the ruin is partially covered with ivy, and ferns spring up every where in the more sheltered parts, as if they loved to contrast their feather-like foliage with the great blocks of rough

stone.

The hill is wild and bare for some feet from the old walls, and then slopes away down to richer and greener districts, where the modern house stands in the midst of its shrubbery and gardens; while further off still, in the lap of the valley, rises the prosperous and thriving little town of Llangavon, with its harbour and market-place.

The church and Vicarage-house are a little way

up the hill opposite to that on which the castle stands; it is an old Flemish church, with a square tower, built of limestone, like the castle, and, like it, too, covered with ivy.

The Vicarage is a long low building, with small windows; it has all sorts of odd-shaped rooms and passages in it; but it is a snug and comfortable place to live in-warm and cosy in winter-time, and sweet and shady enough in summer.

The vicar of Llangavon was a man of about thirty years of age, and the only other occupant of the pretty old Vicarage beside himself and servants, was the Vicar's mother, a remarkable old lady of upwards of seventy.

Old Mrs. Wynter had lived with her son ever since she had lost her husband. He was her youngest child. All the rest had married and settled away in various parts of the world; and she lived with this son, partly because he was unmarried and lonely, and partly because he would never let her go anywhere else. The old lady was very fond and very proud of her "dear John," as she always called him; and he tended and guarded his old lady-mother as if she had been a young bride, instead of a wrinkled old woman, with soft, loving, brown eyes, silver hair, and thin, little, feeble fingers.

The Reverend John Wynter was never more happy than when seated at his writing-table before a window that opened on to the Vicarage lawn, medi