on great emotional strain had overtaken | what was going on. There had not been her; and everything she did, she did mechanically. In the house, coming out from the dining-room, she met the butler. "Mr. Blunt's ordered his dinner in his own room, ma'am," said the man, with a perfect knowledge of the family fracas. "I don't know if Mr. Christopher's in or not; I saw him in the garden, but that was some time ago." time to put away the case; Robin had left it with the letters on the table. "I am afraid you thought me rather harsh this afternoon," he began; and to afford her time to further recover, he went back and drew the bolt of the door before taking a chair near her. "I have come to ask your pardon." Robin strove to speak, but words would not come. "It is very terrible," continued Christopher, "having to speak so at all to one's father; and to say the things I had to say before you would be too humiliating too bitter. Happily, Robin, experience has not taught you to feel for me there." "Oh! but yes," she murmured, his voice making her look at his face, drawn, pinched with traces of suffering, the sight of which stabbed her. If a contest with his father so told upon Christopher, how would he live through what he would have now to endure? Robin continued on her way up-stairs to her own room. She did not possess much that of a right she could lay claim to; but there were a few relics, trifles, souvenirs of her father, which, if she could not carry away, she must destroy. An old case in which, at the time of his death, letters were put to be read hereafter. Robin had never found heart to look at it since, but now necessity obliged her, and at haphazard she took out one of the letters and opened it. It was from her mother, written, before her marriage, to her father. She kissed it reverently, put it down, and drew out another. This "I often think of your father," he contime about herself. The mother away, tinued, sighing, "and how you must comwrote telling the father into what a sweet pare the two. What a light heart he had! companion their child their little Robin What a gay spirit!". the tears welled had grown. And then, in all the full-up into Robin's eyes. "I am glad I knew ness of maternal love, and with prophetic him glad I was able to be of some litcertainty that her end was drawing near, tle service to him that he took a liking she entrusted the child to the father's to me - trusted me trusted me with care, trying to foreshadow the woman she you, Robin, his great treasure!" would have her grown up into. A sudden He was looking at her now sadly — solgust of tears streamed from Robin's eyes. emnly. Underneath, in her father's writing, was "We used to have many talks together, written, "Her last letter, to be kept for he and I. He told me how sorely the Robin to read when she is a woman; pre- thought had pressed on him of having to fixed was the date, just after the death, in leave you so young, surrounded by so the very midst of his great sorrow. Robin much temptation. The world looked very turned it over, examining it carefully. different to him then; things he had Had it ever been read or looked at since? scoffed at, made light of before, he lisshe wondered; and her thoughts went tened to then with pleasure; he would say, back to the stricken husband laying it'Tell it to Robin - talk to her about aside for his child, and then at a leap she saw the child grown up- herself. SheRobin was the little Robin spoken of in that letter. Involuntarily her head bowed down until her cheek lay pressed against the faded, faintly scented paper, the contact with which seemed to bring a sense of soothing to her. - Taking no count of time, Robin did not know how long she had remained resting, when a tapping at the door roused her. "Yes," she said; "who is it?" and while speaking she had gone to the glass to mend the disarray of her dress and get her hair back into order. "Come in!" It was Christopher; a glance told him that.' "About what?" said Robin huskily. "About our life here - how we have to struggle - make a constant warfare; if we would be united again hereafterand we hope to be, don't we? with those we love your father, mother, and her sister, whose dear name you bear. Long, long before I ever saw you, I used to join in her prayer that God would bless and watch over little Robin Veriker." The tears rained down from Robin's eyes; but Christopher, usually so ready to offer comfort, paid no heed to her. Suddenly his attention seemed attracted to the letter-case. "Have you been looking over that?" he asked. "What do you mean to do with the letters-leave them in it, or burn them?" Robin, guilty as she felt, dared not look up to see if Christopher spoke with meaning. How should he though? it was not possible the question must be put by mere accident only. "I have not decided yet," she said. "I have only read two or three of them." "And the reading has upset you? I thought it would, when I laid them aside for you. Do you remember that day? In the evening we started for Spezzia. When, I wonder, shall we ever see Spezzia again, and the little gardenfor it was a garden, full of gay blossoms, was it not, when we left him there, lying side by side with your mother?" Unseen by Robin, Christopher had passed his hand over his brow; the effort he was making was almost too much for him. "Do you ever wonder, Robin, whether it is possible that those taken from us are permitted to look down on us below? It is a fancy which has a great hold on me. I should like to think your father and our other dear ones could see us sometimes here together—you and me." Robin could no longer keep down the sobs which mastered her control; the hand of an unseen influence seemed laid upon her. Wholly occupied with herself, and what she was about to do, it did not occur to her to ask why Christopher spoke to her thus. She only knew that each word he said awoke an echo in her breast each stuck a separate thorn into her heart. A dozen times his name, "Christopher," had risen to her lips; but, courage failing, before she had found voice to give it sound, she had snatched it back again. She wanted to tell him that she meant to go away that she must leave him- could not stay with him any more that she was going with Jack-that she ought not to have married him, because, though she did not know it, Jack had loved her all the time— and, though she bad not said so, she had always loved him too. Confessions easy to make, until she tried to shape them into words; and Christopher, sitting there silent, rapt in thought, had never before seemed so difficult to approach by her. The wall of separation which had sprung up between them during the past months was suddenly visible to Robin's eyes, and on the threshold of the confessional she stood afraid to enter in. "That is the bell," said Christopher, rising. What could he find heart to go down to dinner? Robin shook her head. "No," she said; "I could not eat any. thing if I went." Without a remonstrance, he turned to go-to go! He-Christopher - wont to beg and implore, was leaving her with. out a word! Robin sat aghast. Did he not care? Was he not well? Christopher," she said, as he was go. ing out at the door, "you will come up again? "If you wish it; yes, certainly I will." And without turning round, he went down, to go through the poor pretence of that mockery of dinner, sat out and partaken of for fear of remarks being made of what the servants might say; for how was it possible that he could feel certain that Robin might not have been watched? - prying eyes might have dogged her steps with observation. The thought gave him strength to assume more than his usual air of unconcern. He spoke of some matters going on in the village to the servant waiting; asked questions and made remarks on the weather; and every now and again his eyes fell on the vacant chair, and it was filled by her once wont to bear him constant company. They were back in Venice eating that first dinner, during which his heart had, unbidden, strayed from him-made captive by that grace of. girlish gaiety. There was a dinner at Florence, he remembered; and one brought about by a chapter of accidents at Sestri Levente, every disaster of which she had turned into fun and laughter. Oh, how cruel at times is memory! Christopher's heart sickened while recalling that happy past. Unconsciously he pushed back his chair, and then recollection seizing him, he stretched himself back as if only cramped by the way he was sitting. "There's somebody outside waiting to speak to you, sir," said the servant. "I asked for his message, but he says he was told to see you." Christopher was in the hall in a moment. A man standing there advanced, holding in his hand a letter. Christopher took the letter, and went | his knowledge should be conveyed, Chrisinto the morning-room; his hands were topher put it safely into his pocket, and trembling, so that he could hardly break after a while directed his steps back to the seal. At one glance his eyes drank the house, and then to Robin's room. in the contents, and then his strength. seemed to give way; his knees knocked together, so that he had to sit down and make an effort to recover breath. Could it be true? He read the words over again, "As soon as I know that this has reached you, I shall leave for Monks well, so as to catch the midnight up-train. Get the enclosed safely delivered. I have said nothing about having seen you." Over and over he went through that letter, as if to try and fix it in his mind; and then hastily rising, he wrote back,— "I thank you for what you have done. Your secret is safe in my keeping." "Take that!" he said to the man; and he walked with him out of the house, and watched him through the plantation; and then he stood undecided what he should do next. The good tidings that had just reached him ought to lift half the load of care from his breast, instead of which a fresh smart was added to it. The enclosure Jack had sent was a letter to be given to Robin. Looking at it, Christopher wondered, how was it word ed? had he dealt gently, tenderly with her? "Poor child! poor child!" he murmured. Already the flood of pity had set ' in — for great love is very strong in compassion. Towards Jack, Christopher felt all the rising of bitterness; it was the old story of the one ewe lamb desired by him who had all the world to choose from. Up to the present point his thoughts had been centred on how best he should act so as to guard Robin against herself, and take her out of her tempter's power. This necessity no longer existed. Jack gone away, so far Robin was safe. The sigh of discontent told the sting of bitterness. Safe, because her husband, instead of a companion, would be henceforth turned into a spy, a gaoler. If she would but trust him tell him all! The thought of Robin believing herself deserted, cast down with shame, humiliated, was only in its measure less painful to Christopher than seeing her stand disgraced before the world. O pity! generous dole of tender love! Unable to decide how best to have the letter delivered so that no suspicion of "What a long time you have been gone, Christopher! I thought you did not mean to come back again." Robin spoke in that tone of halfquerulous reproach never adopted by those we are indifferent to. "Is it late?" he said, looking at the would like some tea, wouldn't you?" clock. "The days are so long now. You "No, not now." "You don't seem well, Christopher: are you feeling ill?" What a poisoner of content is sus picion! It was because she was going to leave him, believed that she was going away, that she assumed this anxious tone of inquiry. "I have not felt very well for some time," he answered coldly. What should she do? Robin felt a prey to despair. Oh for a kind word, a look to encourage her! Then she could tell him that she had set herself to say; as it was, it seemed impossible. Oddly enough, for the time all thought of Jack seemed driven from her mind, swallowed up in the more immediate necessity of speaking to Christopher. Why did she wish to tell him? She could not say - she did not know. All that she was aware of was an infinite pressure laid on her - a feeling which impelled her to say something by way of repara. tion. How much, how little all that was left; only he must not entirely misjudge her. Influenced still by the glamor cast over her by Jack, she could not endure to stab to death the love of Christopher. And so she moved about the room, changing her seat, lingering, hovering about him, he all the while perfectly aware of her near presence, although seemingly paying no attention to it. "It is because of her going away," he kept repeating; "she wants to feel she has bidden me good-bye." Goaded by the thought, which more and more pained him, he suddenly got up, feeling he could | gone? Had they gone together? Quesendure it no longer. tions which everybody asked, and nobody could answer. 66 Christopher, don't go—you mustn't. I have something to tell you." A great writer has said that we should not lift the veil from the sanctuary of married life. With sobs, tears, and reiterations such as no pen could give force to Robin told her tale, and, led on by Christopher, she laid her early love bare before him, hiding nothing, excusing nothing. And the daylight faded away, and dusk became darkness, obscuring all around; still on the ground, at her husband's feet, Robin sat. It was she who was silent now, he who talked, who pleaded, entreated, urged, until the dew of his speech moistened all that was good in the girl's heart, and rising up she said, "I will write a letter to Jack and give it to you to send to him; and you must take me away so that I never never see him again." Oh, blessed tears! let them flow, Robin. And Christopher, fold her in your arms, strain her to your heart; for the battle is yours, the victory is won! That night Christopher locked up the two letters - the one from Robin, the other from Jack together, unopened. Not a word had he said, not a hint had he given of the knowledge he was in possession of. Old Blunt said his son was a fool. Mrs. Temple did not believe another woman living had such a daughter. Speculation was rife -opinions varied. And then, the excitement over, the disturbance be gan to settle down; and very soon, except to the few concerned, the whole matter became stagnant. "Here we are as we were," said Georgy Temple to Mr. Cameron. She had been spending the morning at the schoolhouse, and was walking home by a strangely circuitous route with the curate; in order, so they said, to fully discuss an impending treat got up for the children between them. "And I, for one, am not sorry," said Mr. Cameron, with that gratulatory hug of himself together; "somehow, Georgy, I never felt altogether secure while that cousin Jack of yours was hanging about you forever." "Didn't you?" she said, with a little indulgent laugh at him. "Oh, you need not have had any fear there were two insuperable obstacles in the way; but if there had not been, I don't know that Jack and I would ever have given a thought to one another." "Two obstacles - insuperable! What were they?" "Well, on the one partknow there was-you." "Oh !" my part, you "Ah it is 'Oh!' and it was 'Oh !' on Jack's part, too; for his obstacle was Mrs. Christopher Blunt." "Hush, Georgy! don't speak of it in that way. I don't like to hear you." "But the mischief's over now, dear boy. I was very angry with Jack for a time; however, it's come all right. At heart, he's a thoroughly good fellow you'll see it when you've got over being jealous of him-and in the end he listened to what I had to say, and made a clean cut and run of it altogether." "It was strange his going, and then their going the next day.' 66 " Yes; I've never made that out never quite fathomed it. I should like to feel certain why Mrs. Christopher went away." "Christopher told me - and I feel sure he would not tell me an untruth- - that be had had a great fall-out with his father." “Well, then, I wish they had done their falling out the day before; then Jack need not have gone, you know." "No?" Mr. Cameron still spoke halfheartedly. "I wonder if he knows where they are?" "I don't think so," said Georgy; " I don't see how he should. You had not heard from Christopher when I answered Jack's letter; and, by the way, it would be as well to caution you against telling me anything you fancy they would not like him to know, because I gave him my solemn word to tell him every scrap I heard about them good, bad, or indif.ferent." "So I told Christopher." "Told Christopher! what for?" "Because I didn't want him to say anything to me that I might not say to you. It might have slipped out unawares," he added in explanation, "when we were talking; because I just let my tongue run when I am with you. That's the beauty of it; you can't do that, can you, with any other person?” Georgy smiled approvingly. "Now about our engagement," began Mr. Cameron; "you know it's high time we made that known, because I've spoken to your father already." "I know you have; but what about mother have you said anything to her yet?" and she showed two rows of little pearly teeth mockingly. Mrs. Temple's acts of aggression towards Mr. Cameron were known to everybody. From the first day of his arrival she had commenced hostilities with him hostilities which he had suffered and borne so meekly, that she was encouraged to step over the threshold of her own domain, and enter into the region of his duties. But at the first onset the curate met her. Thus far and no farther was written on his face; and somehow Mrs. Temple found herself not only repulsed but very much worsted in the encounter. Similar attacks met with similar defeats. "Mother finds that Tommy Puss has claws," said Georgy, who hadn't fallen in love then; and honoring the courage of the hitherto shy, quiet new-comer, she had combined with her father to protect him; and the cudgels taken up in his defence did not improve Mr. Cameron's position with her mother. "Well, no," he said, rubbing his chin, "I haven't; but I mean to, though. I was wondering when would be the best time to speak.' "If you ask me, the time I should choose would be whenever we saw some prospect of getting married." Mr. Cameron turned a little more round, and looked at her. "Oh, yes, I know," she said, singing "When will that be? say the bells of Stepney."" 66 Why, my dear girl, a great deal sooner than you think. I'm the most lucky fellow in the world-ah, you may laugh, Georgy, but I am. Well, now, only see! When I was ordained first, I thought I was certain to go to Kensington; it seemed settled there was nothing else for it, when all at once-nobody could tell how - the appointment came for me to go to Wapping! That's only one instance; but I could give you a dozen more. When the fever was raging at Homerton, I didn't see a chance of going there; I wanted above all things to be sent to that hospital-but how? Suddenly dear old Nicholls falls sick; there's a vacancy, and into it they pop me. And then, above all else, there's you, Georgy. Who, in the name of fate, would ever have supposed I should have a chance with you?-and yet you accept me! Oh, talk of luck, I should think I was lucky, rather! word, if anything, I'm almost afraid to wish for things-they're so certain to come to me." 66 'Pon my Then, if you don't begin, from this very instant, to wish as hard and fast as ever you can for a living to be given you, don't expect anything from me. "And so I will;" and he joined Georgy in laughing heartily. "What shall it be? Where shall we say? I'll tell youBethnal Green, eh? or better still, there's a little iron church in a street close by New Square, in the Minories. I've often had my eye on that: and it mightn't be so difficult to get, either." Georgy shook with laughter. "Upon my word," she said, "that's pretty well: a choice between blind beggars' daughters, and old clothes-selling Jews." "Well, wouldn't you like it?" "No, most certainly I shouldn't. I thought you meant some place that was - well, at least respectable." 'Respectable! "-he gave a shrug of horror. "Oh no, Georgy, don't let us go in for that. I've had as much as I can stand of respectability here. The other is so much nicer so much pleasanter: life is a different thing there;" and in his enthusiasm he seemed to sniff its air afar. "You have work to do from morning till night, and something fresh always turning up." |