delight it would be to share a crust of bread, and every sort of curate-comfort, with Edward. We have got on very well together, setting every idea of luxury aside, but it certainly took a long time for me to find out exactly what a crust of bread means. The prose of it is very different from the poetry; but now I no longer despise those who make their own dresses, and wear their bonnets a second season."

"You would probably begin," said Lady Edith, smiling, "with a trousseau costing as much as several years' income, engage a first-rate Abigail, and commence life with ideas of strict economy that might be somewhere within two thousand a-year; but it is long before the most romantic young bride comes down to the zero of a few hundreds."

"Yes!" replied Mrs. Clinton, laughing. "Fancy my feelings when first obliged to know the price of a pound of butter, and how much eggs cost a dozen!-taking the key of my own tea-chest, store-room, and linen-press, and making this chintz cover for our only sofa!"

"You

"Well!" replied Lady Edith, kindly. have learned the lesson of praiseworthy economy thoroughly now, Mrs. Clinton, after roughing it so cheerfully these many years, and laughing over privations which would have at first seemed incredible. You have done the work of a curate,and the very best of curates these many years in

this neighbourhood, and I trust your home will always be as happy as you have often made the

homes of others."

Allan's old tutor, Mr. Herbert, now Bishop of Inverness, was to preach the following Sunday for Mr. Clinton, and after his arrival he could not withhold his astonishment at several changes which had been recently made in the little chapel once so familiar to him. A pair of gigantic candlesticks now adorned the altar, with the tall wax candles burning in the sunshine, and it was a deep inscrutable mystery to the whole congregation how they came there.

"The gift of a friend," replied Mr. Clinton, colouring deeply, when asked about their origin, and evidently determined to give no explanation. "I should be sorry to remain in the diocese of any bishop narrow-minded enough to object against this ancient custom of the Church."

"Of what Church?" asked Bishop Herbert. "There are practices and doctrines creeping into our Church, Mr. Clinton, so perfectly Popish as, if sanctioned by our Articles, would make me think that Ridley and Latimer must have been martyrs by mistake! Those candles at the altar in our morning-service are a useless decoration that must be removed."

Beatrice, full of pleasant anticipation at the thought of once more hearing the early instructor of her childhood, walked with buoyant animatio

beside Lady Edith and the Bishop towards chapel; her deep azure blue eyes sparkling beneath her cottage bonnet, and her light plaid of the McAlpine tartan fluttering in the breeze over her snowwhite dress. Beneath the vivid rays of a resplendent sunshine the autumn leaves spun and quivered in the gale, while Beatrice herself looked smilingly around on the bright landscape, as if her life had been one long sunshiny day of gladness and good-humour. Their path led the party under a long array of overarching oak-trees, hanging beside a glassy stream, which pursued its indolent career towards the ocean in sunshine and shadow for many miles. A thousand marshy wild plants were strewn on the mossy banks, and several large white water-lilies lay like ivory cups upon the blue surface of the river.

At a low white gate, surmounted by the foliage of a venerable tree, which led into part of the Eaglescairn deer-forest, Lady Edith observed the graceful distinguished-looking young man, whom Beatrice had lately by mistake summoned into the garden, leaning over the bars in a careless lounging attitude, lashing down the leaves with his ridingwhip and looking particularly inclined to whistle. With an expression of somewhat contemptuous indifference he eyed the clustering groups of country people hurrying earnestly forward, but it was very obvious he had no intention to follow.

The stranger had a wearied look of nothing-todo ennui. He seemed as if amusement itself could not amuse him, and as if he would willingly have quarrelled with the world, himself, and everybody around, had it not been too much trouble. The incognito was lazily patting one of his two pointers, while indulging in a most luxurious yawn, when suddenly, his eye falling on the brilliant, smiling countenance of Beatrice, he started with visible delight, and his whole aspect became instantly transformed into an expression of respectful admiration.

When the stranger had clandestinely glanced a second time at the surpassingly beautiful Beatrice, as if to assure himself that so lovely a vision was real, his countenance in a moment lost all its vacancy, becoming vivid with animated pleasure. Beatrice meanwhile strolled onward, so occupied in talking to her venerable companion, Bishop Herbert, that she gave a mere passing half-absent glance towards the lounging gentleman at the gate, and proceeded, perfectly unconscious that she had made now, as formerly, an impression of ineffaceable admiration on one who was not usually given to praise.

Scarcely were Beatrice and Lady Edith seated as usual in their pew, before a beadle ushered in the stranger; and it was evident to all concerned that his coming to church must have been rather a sudden idea, as his costume was more suited to the

deer-forest than to the chapel, being a complete suit of border plaid, and even the cap he brought

With a

in his hand was of the same material. certain air of habitual distinction, he was, nevertheless, a person who might have been met anywhere a hundred times, Lady Edith thought, without his personal appearance exciting a single criticism. He was neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither dark nor fair nor handsome, and certainly not ugly. His whole aspect was unmistakeably that of a perfect gentleman, and of one so accustomed to be of consequence, that it sat easily and as a matter of course upon him.

Having entered the pew with a look of respectful deference to the ladies, as if asking permission to do so, he seated himself in the only vacant place, next to Beatrice, and occupied his attention in gazing around the church with an air of so much wonder and curiosity, that it seemed almost to Lady Edith as if he had never been in one before, which conjecture became more and more confirmed by his subsequent conduct and aspect. There appeared a general air of supercilious contempt in his dark scornful eyes after having completed this survey, of the plain neat unadorned building, and with a rather disdainful smile, he folded his arms, sat back, and looked exceedingly bored. Still he glanced occasionally with an expression of clandestine interest at Beatrice, though, after waiting a