"there break his heart; it would kill him. I know that it would kill him," she said.

I went on, getting a little courage,
would be no marriages, no new homes.
We have all had fathers and mothers
who had claims upon us. What can it be
but a heartbreak to bring up a girl for
twenty years and more, and think every-
thing of her, and then see her go away
and give her whole heart to some one
else, and leave us with a smile on her
face?" The idea carried me away-it
filled my own heart with a sort of sweet
bitterness; for was not my own_girl_just
come to that age and crisis? "Oh! I un-
derstand you; I feel with you; I am not
unsympathetic. But when one thinks-
they must live longer than we; they must
have children too, and love as we have
loved. You would not like, neither you
nor I, if no one cared
- if our girls were
left out when all the others are loved and
courted. You like this good John to be
fond of her to ask you for her. You
would not have been pleased if Ellen had
just lived on and on here, your daughter
and nothing more."

This argument had some weight upon her. She felt the truth of what I said. However hard the after consequences may be, we still must have our " bairn respectit like the lave." But on this point Mrs. Harwood maintained her position on a height of superiority which few ordinary mortals, even when the mothers of attractive girls, can attain. "I have never made any objection," she said, "to his coming in the evening. Sometimes it is rather inconvenient; but I do not oppose his being here every night."

"And you expect him to be content with this all his life?"

Here I must acknowledge that I was very wicked. I could not but think in my heart, that it would not be at all a bad thing if Ellen's marriage did kill this unseen father of hers who had tired their patience so long, and who stamped his foot with rage at the idea that the poor girl might get out of his clutches. He was an old man, and he was a great sufferer. Why should he be so anxious to live? And if a sacrifice was necessary, old Mr. Harwood might just as well be the one to make it as those two good young people from whom he was willing to take all the pleasure of their lives. But this of course was a sentiment to which I dared not give utterance. We stood and looked at each other while these thoughts were going through my mind. She felt that she had produced an impres sion, and was too wise to say anything more to diminish it while I, for my part, was silenced, and did not know what to say.

"Then they must give in again," I said at last. They must part; and if she has to spend the rest of her life in giving music lessons, and he go away to lose heart and forget her, and be married by any one who will have him in his despair and loneliness I hope you will think that a satisfactory conclusion - but I do not. I do not!"

Mrs. Harwood trembled as she looked at me. Was I hard upon her? She shrank aside as if I had given her a blow. "It is not me that will part them," she said. "I have never objected. Often it is very inconvenient - you would not like it yourself if every evening, good or bad, there was a strange man in your house. But I never made any objection. He is welcome to come as long as he likes. It is not me that says a word

"Do you want him to throw up his appointment," I cried, "his means of life?"

"It would be better to say all my life," she replied severely; "no, not even that. As for me, it does not matter much. I am not one to put myself in anybody's way; but all her father's life-which can't be very long now," she added, with a sudden gush of tears. They were so near the surface that they flowed at the slightest touch, and besides, they were a great help to her argument. "I don't She looked at me with her face set. think it is too much," she cried, "that I might have noticed, had I chosen, that she should see her poor father out first. all the flowers in her cap were shaking and She has been the only one that has quivering in the shadow cast upon the cheered him up. She is company to him, further wall by the sunshine, but did not which I am not. All his troubles are care to remark, being angry, this sign of mine, you see. I feel it when his rheu-emotion. "If he is so fond of Ellen, he matism is bad; but Ellen is outside: she can talk and be bright. What should I do without her! What should I do with out her! I should be nothing better than a slave. I am afraid to think of it; and her father her poor father—it would

will not mind giving up a chance," she said; "if some one must give in, why should it be Harwood and me?"

After this I left Pleasant Place hurriedly, with a great deal of indignation in my mind. Even then I was not quite

I

gusted, and asks himself what is the use, at the last. Such things have been; and you on your side will linger here, running out and in to your lessons with no longer any heart for them; unable to keep yourself from thinking that everybody is cruel, that life itself is cruel- all because you have not the courage, the spirit—

She put her hand on mine and squeezed it suddenly, so that she hurt me. "Don't!" she cried; "you don't know; there is nothing, not a word to be said. It is you who are cruel -you who are so kind; so much as to speak of it, when it cannot be! It cannot be that is the whole matter. It is out of the question. Supposing even that I get to think life cruel,, and supposing he should get weary and disgusted. Oh! it was you that said it, you that are so kind. Supposing all that, yet it is impossible; it cannot be; there is nothing more to be said."

sure of my right to be indignant; but
I was so. "If some one must give in,
why should it be Harwood and me?
said to myself that John had known what
he would encounter, that he had been
right in distrusting himself; but he had
not been right in trusting me. I had
made no stand against the other side.
When you come to haggle about it, and
to be uncertain which should give in,
how painful the complications of life be-
come! To be perfect, renunciation must
be without a word; it must be done as if
it were the most natural thing in the
world. The moment it is discussed and
shifted from one to another, it becomes
vulgar, like most things in this universe.
This was what I said to myself as I came
out into the fresh air and sunshine, out
of the little stuffy house. I began to hate
it with its dingy carpets and curtains, its
horsehair chairs, that shabby, shabby
little parlor - how could anybody think of
it as home? I can understand a bright
little kitchen, with white hearth and floor,
with the firelight shining in all the pans
and dishes. But this dusty place with I
These thoughts
were in my mind when, turning the cor-
ner, I met Ellen full in the face, and felt
like a traitor, as if I had been speaking
ill of her. She looked at me, too, with
some surprise. To see me there, coming
out of Pleasant Place, startled her. She
did not ask me, where have you been?
but her eyes did, with a bewildered
gleam.

its antimacassars

"Yes; I have been to see your mother," I said; 66 you are quite right, Ellen. And why? Because I am so much interested; and I wanted to see what mind she was in about your marriage."

"My marriage: there never was any question of that," she said quickly, with a sudden flush.

"You are just as bad as the others," said I, moved by this new contradiction. "What! after taking that poor young man's devotion for so long, you will let him go away go alone, break off everything."

Ellen had grown pale as suddenly as she had blushed. "Is that necessary?" she said, alarmed. "Break off everything? I never thought of that. But, indeed, I think it is a mistake. If he goes, we shall have to part, but only only for a time." "How can you tell," I cried, being highly excited, "how long he may be there? He may linger out his life there, always thinking about you, and longing for you - unless he gets weary and dis

"You will see him go away calmly, notwithstanding all."

Calmly," she said, with a little laugh, "calmly-yes, I suppose that is the word. will see him go calmly. I shall not make any fuss, if that is what you mean.' "Ellen, I do not understand. I never heard you speak like this before."

"You never saw me like this before," she said with a gasp. She was breathless with a restrained excitement which looked like despair. But when I spoke further, when I would have discussed the matter, she put up her hand and stopped me. There was something in her face, in its fixed expression, which was like the countenance with which her mother had replied to me. It was a startling thought to me that Ellen's soft fresh face, with its pretty bloom, could ever be like that other face surmounted by the black cap and crown of shabby flowers. She turned and walked with me along the road to my own door, but nothing further was said. We went along side by side silent, till we reached my house, when she put out her hand and touched mine suddenly, and said that she was in a hurry and must run away.

I

I went in more disturbed than I can say. She had always been so ready to yield, so cheerful, so soft, independent indeed, but never harsh in her independence. What did this change mean? felt as if some one to whom I had turned in kindness had met me with a blow. But by-and-by, when I thought better of it, I began to understand Ellen. Had not I said to myself, a few minutes before, that self-renunciation when it had to be, must be done silently without a word? better

"You do not ask me if I have any news for you; you have seen Ellen!"

"No; it is only because I have news on my side. I am not going after all." "You are not going!

"You are disappointed," he said, looking at me with a face which was full of interest and sympathy. These are the only words I can use. The disappointment was his, not mine; yet he was more sympathetic with my feeling about it than impressed by his own. "As for me, I don't seem to care. It is better in one way, if it is worse in another. It stops any rise in life; but what do I care for a rise in life? they would never have let me take Ellen. I knew that even before I saw it in your eyes."

perhaps that it should be done angrily | tell him my story. He came and sat
than with self-demonstration, self-asser- down by me, swinging his stick in his
tion. Ellen had comprehended this; she usual absent way, and for a minute neither
had perceived that it must not be asked of us spoke.
or speculated upon, which was to yield.
She had chosen her part, and she would
not have it discussed or even remarked.
I sat in my window pondering while the
bright afternoon went by, looking out
upon the distant depths of the blue spring
atmosphere, just touched by haze, as the
air, however bright, always is in London,
seeing the people go by in an endless
stream without noticing them, without
thinking of them. How rare it is in
human affairs that there is not some one
who must give up to the others, some one
who must sacrifice himself or be sacri-
ficed! And the one to whom this lot falls
is always the one who will do it; that is
the rule, so far as my observation goes.
There are some whom nature moves that
way, who cannot stand upon their rights,
who are touched by the claims of others
and can make no stand against them.
The tools to those that can handle them,
as our philosopher says; and likewise the
sacrifices of life to him who will bear
them. Refuse them, that is the only
way; but if it is not in your nature to
refuse them, what can you do? Alas!
for sacrifice is seldom blessed. I am
saying something which will sound almost
impious to many.
Human life is built
upon it, and social order; yet personally
in itself it is seldom blessed; it debases
those who accept it; it harms even those
who, without wilfully accepting it, have a
dim perception that something is being
done for them which has no right to be
done. It may, perhaps — I cannot tell –
bear fruit of happiness in the hearts of
those who practise it. I cannot tell.
Sacrifices are as often mistaken as other
things. Their divineness does not make
them wise. Sometimes, looking back,
even the celebrant will perceive that his
offering had better not have been made.

All this was going sadly through my mind when I perceived that some one was passing slowly, endeavoring to attract my attention. By this time it was getting towards evening and as soon as I was fully roused I saw that it was John Ridgway. If I could have avoided him I should have done so, but now it was not possible; I made him a sign to come upstairs. He came into the drawing-room slowly, with none of the eagerness that there had been in his air on the previous day, and it may easily be believed that on my side I was not eager to see him to

"Ellen ought to judge for herself," I said, "and you ought to judge for yourself. You are of full age; you are not boy and girl. No parents have a right to separate you now. And that old man may go on just the same for the next dozen years."

"Did you see him?" John asked. He had a languid, wearied look, scarcely lifting his eyes.

"I saw only her; but I know perfectly well what kind of man he is. He may live for the next twenty years. There is no end to these tyrannical, ill-tempered people; they live forever. You ought to judge for yourselves. If they had their daughter settled near, coming to them from her own pleasant little home, they would be a great deal happier. You may believe me or not, but I know it. Her visits would be events; they would be proud of her, and tell everybody about her family, and what a good husband she had got, and how he gave her everything she could desire."

"Please God," said John devoutly; his countenance had brightened in spite of himself. But then he shook his head. "If we had but got as far as that," he said.

"You ought to take it into your own hands," cried I, in all the fervor of a revolutionary. "If you sacrifice your happiness to them, it will not do them any good; it will rather do them harm. Are you going now to tell your news

He had got up on his feet, and stood vaguely hovering over me with a faint smile upon his face. "She will be pleased," he said; "no advancement, but

no separation. I have not much ambi- | kept up? Perhaps had she never known tion; think I am happy too."