non, had taken the liberty of falling down a flight of stairs, and little Charlotte had been so lost to propriety as to swallow a pin. Abigail's strength failed her in an instant, and she crept with slow, lagging steps, without saying a word, to her room for the night. The terrible ordeal of forming the target to be shot at by the flights of arrows of common curiosity, commiseration, and a little contempt, and the silent, single, more deadly darts of retrospection, longing, despair, was over. But Abigail had lived long enough to know that the worst was to come. Woman's griefs are like ghosts, which wait for the dark night or the grey morning to troop round her soul. They drove Abigail from her sleepless pillow, compelled her to pace up and down restlessly but stealthily, for fear of disturbing her father and mother, first huddling on her dressing-gown and slippers, because she must not on any account be ill at this period of her life, and then, walking up and pacing down,' living all the purgatory of the evening over again with a tenfold life. She, the pure, tender girl, reproaching herself, hating herself because of her human nature, praying to God to forgive her, rocking herself wearily, wringing her hands in anguish, writhing with shame, crying dumbly, 'Oh! Humphrey, Humphrey; neither in this world, nor beyond the stars. Given up by you, of your own free will, another woman your love, your wife; and I loved and love you, Humphrey,-how much -your mother, who hated me without a cause, might, no other woman, not the happy woman you love, could fathom.'

And Humphrey was sleeping the sound sleep of health, content, and an easy conscience.

While Tom Prior was walking up and down before his lodging door, puffing smoke into the early morning air, recklessly risking his character as an unexceptionable young man, by staying abroad till his footsteps might be heard contemporaneously with the cock-crow, restless like Abigail Howe, but restless not with misery but bliss, such as had not yet exalted and humbled his fervid soul.

CHAPTER II.

silver plate, with bits of strings entangling the hands and feet everywhere. Abigail Howe stood in the centre in profound calculation, with long streamers of white ribbon on one arm, and her hands full of little sprigs of artificial flowers, white flowers, jessamine. Her dress was in contrast to her occupation. She wore a faded muslin gown, two summers old, ready to be laid aside, like the worn-out garments of her maiden life, and her bronzed hair tucked tightly out of the way, back from her little thin face, as if she had dressed it in the preoccupation of much to do, with no thought but to dispose of it so as to lighten the temples and give the least trouble to preserve the glory in order. But she did not fail to have the lace at her throat gathered together by a little cluster of leaves in dead and glittering gold, and to wear on one of her fingers a changing coloured opal ring, both indicating the taste of a man whose untutored artistic fancy went beyond his means, and his appreciation of the money value of ornaments.

Mrs. Howe entered the room, her bluff, cabbage-rose face beaming with delight; and though it was evening, a white apron over her gown, white cuffs drawn up to her elbows, and the strings of her cap pinned carefully over her shoulders, to hang behind her. She never trusted any one but herself with her jellies, and this was an epoch for the most anxious experiments with her confectionery.

My love, I have been making a trial of a few of these moulds, as there must be some additions to the dinner to-morrow, on your aunts' and uncles' account at any rate. I think, let cook say what she will about pyramids being newer, I prefer my old turtle-dove. She has come out to the life, only her beak broken, which will never be observed, and I am just going to supply the cloves for eyes. I declare, when the jelly shakes, you would think she was shaking her wings to rise and fly off.'

I don't think that would be a desirable effect, mamma.'

'No. But you will know better what the weight of jellies is on one's mind, when you come to give your first dinner. To be sure you will have me to apply to for many a long year, I hope; and I dare say you will take in a jobbing cook, as so many of the young housekeepers do now. But I trust you will never put your dinners into the hands of the hotel-keepers, or confectioners-such disgracefully extravagant, lazy, and indifferent behaviour, I could ne-ver countenance it, Abigail.'

1470.

'Of course you will give dinners, child. Where would be the use of your best dinner china, if you did not give dinners? I warrant he will care for such things, then; all married men do.'

'I must have faith in my good stars that he will not.'

And if he do not care for dinners, which is not to be thought of, you will put your pride in them.'

My pride in dinners!' ejaculated the bride, still in half-amused incredulity.

• You might put your pride in worse. You will not go gadding about to dancing parties and picnics after you are a married woman. Not that you ever were a gadder,' taking back her words penitently,' but as good and quiet a girl as ever I saw. But where would your bit of pleasure be then, Abigail ? '

'I am sure I don't know,' answered Abigail in a staid, tired tone.

'Don't stay any longer poking about here, my pet, her mother enjoined her hastily. Brides should leave all trouble to ordinary mortals; it is not lucky to do otherwise. Go and be happy and admired and adored while your day lasts. He will be here presently, I suppose, and you will be too late to dress for him. We are going to have an early tea in the dining-room tonight, that Sarah may clear out this room, the last tea papa and you and I will take together, before your uncles and aunts arrive. There, I ought not to have said that, to tempt you to break down.'

However, Abigail did not break down. She merely said, with a wistfulness which took away the ungraciousness of the words, Then I wish he would keep away when it is to be our last tea. He would have done it, if I had only asked him.'

No, we could not expect that,' Mrs. Howe warned her daughter. Were you looking out for him?'

No. I never look out for him,' confessed Abigail, candidly, because he comes at all times; so that looking out for him would be no sinecure. And I am dressed already if you please, mamma. I am not going to do any more in the way of dressing to-night.' It is not as I please,' hesitated Mrs. Howe, a troubled expression stealing over the bright roundness of her face, but as he pleas.'

Oh, I need not dress for him,' Abigail assured her mother, with a little nervous laugh, the first she had given. I am certain he never sees what I wear; I might put a helmet on my head, like Minerva, or

An event was about to happen in the domestic economy of the Howes which was sufficient to overturn even the simpering, decorous, rosy affectation of the drawingroom. Abigail Howe was to be married in a few days to Tom Prior. Everything in the household was exceedingly uncom fortable, and everybody much put about; but from Mr. Howe, to the under kitchenmaid, who was given to pounding sand to apply to her floors and tables at all hours, as an apothecary's boy pounds his drugs, and was hurt in her feelings (as an apothecary's boy rarely is) when she was stopped and taken away to less serious and urgent occupations; everybody was mild and complacent in the chaos, under the reflected honour of a marriage in the family.

The gain to Mr. Howe was very small and entirely honorary, and counterbalanced by the loss of his only child, the paying down of half of her portion (with the precaution of seting it on herself), the liberal furnishing of his grateful son-in-law's house - the old house in Mil-street which the elder Binghams had occupied in the good old days of cotton-spinning before they grew grand and went out to the Hanger. The old house had always been thought a good family house, though it was venerable and shady, and stood alone in its grade in old-fashioned dignity and usefulness near its factory; and it was, as Mr. Howe was furnishing it, a handsome house for a young couple, the head of whom was only the junior partner in the factory.

Mr. Howe gave his full consent to the marriage; and Mrs. Howe, kind woman, was infinitely more elated than the bride herself at having her daughter married as she deserved to be before the Lewises, and not long after Mrs. Leech's sister- that lady had come to Ashley for a fortnight's visit and snapped up the scrupulous Vicar, who either laid aside his scruples under the pressure of circumstances, or found he had so much to do in controlling the outer courts of men's consciences, that he was obliged to slur over the important step, to himself, of his own marriage. But Mrs Howe did not blame Mr. Bellairs, it was Mrs. Leech's sister whom she, generally the most indul gent of women, could not forgive for being so grasping. As if marrying men were as abundant as acorns in an oak coppice at Ashley, and Mrs. Leech's sister had not come from a large town where she might have had a choice of men ten years young

er and alittle better off than the Vicar; but she had a mind, like the old Romans, to abandon the palaces of Rome for the huts of Britain out of sheer fickleness and love of conquest. Mrs. Howe went so far as to liken the benighted Vicar-benighted where the interests of his parish were concerned to the ewe lamb, and Mrs. Le ch's sister to the rich man of the same parable. And the aggressor would repent at leisure and be punished for her unprincipled poaching in her neighbours' preserves, Mrs Howe reflected with acrimony, not that she had ever entertained an idea of the Vicar for Abigail, but she was a true Ashley woman, and Mrs. Leech's sister, an interloper, had no business to marry Mrs. Howe's Vicar. Of course Abigail's marriage would have been a far more splendid affair had Humphrey Bingham been the bridegroom, and the Hanger the bride's destination, as Mrs. Howe had once had good reason to expect; but it was a wise fisher's adage better small fish than none;' and a girl was so liable to go off in her looks and in the public estimation after she had been jilted as poor Abigail had been by that half-innocent, spoilt scamp, Humphrey Bingham; though Mrs. Howe dared not make the most distant allusion to the fact, not even to Mr. Howe, so that the other partner (Mrs. Howe always called Tom Prior 'the other partner' now, as if there was equality between the two, though Tom Prior would have been the last man to acknowledge such a thing) coming on promptly was a stroke of compensation and good fortune of which Abigail was well worthy. And Mr. Prior was passionately in love with Abigail - there was no mistake there; and Abigail had uniformly expressed a great esteem for Mr. Prior, and insisted that he would get on in the world, sly puss! Then there was the great pleasure of having her daughter settled near her. Altogether Mrs. Howe was very happy herself, and convinced that the young couple had a fair prospect of happiness.

Abigail was very still about her marriage. She knew she was not over wise, though she had been counted a clever girl, nor over strong, though she had a woman's power of endurance. She had long d for any change after the violence of the blow she had received had subsided into a dull ache, any interlude on the monotony of a life which was crushed and deprived of colour and fragrance; something different from the small gaieties of Ashley, over which, whenever they were of a lively description, the Binghams of the Hanger presided. She had felt her wounded pride soothed by Tom Prior's

blind passion; she thought it was blind in Tom. She would rather he had not been Humphrey's partner, but Humphrey was nothing to her except in the past, and he would be less than nothing when she was Tom Prior's wife; neither need she see any more of him in Tom Prior's house than in her father's: the men met when Humphrey went to the factory, in their counting-house, their wives would be at the head of very different establishments.

Humphrey had sent his partner's bride a goodly wedding gift (the silver tea vase on which Mrs. Howe set such store), but he was not to be at the wedding- he and his wife were up in London.

It

It might be weak in Abigail, but marrying Tom Prior seemed less hard than being a lonely old woman like the Miss Mainwarings, or sought after for her poor little forune like Mrs. Vallance. These terminations might be far in the distance; but the principal chapter of her life written, read, and closed, it seemed to Abigail as if the rest of the volume must be compressed into small bulk and speedy accomplishment. was like a certain chapter in Genesis, in which the olman Jacob sums up his life to his favourite son into the two even's - God met him at Bethel; and he buried Rachel on the way to Bethlehem. Abigail had buried her Rachel; and the rest, be it short or long, would be easily summed up and was at hand. Her father and mother were pleased, and she thought she could make Toin Prior happy.

To do Abigail justice, her greatest doubt had been for Tom's sake. But he was an unexacting, single hearted, generous fellow, who regarded her with romantic devotion, and was enchanted at her accepting the offer of his life. Poor Tom! but she really liked him. She had always liked his clever impulsive sayings and doings, though she had laughed at their drollness; and since they were engaged, she had been more interested and amused by him than ever—it was something now to be interested and amused.

At the same time Abigail had a strong suspicion that she had always looked forward to being married and having a home of her own, and receiving her father and mother there as honoured guests, without continuing in leading strings to them to ripe middle age. And so far she had not been wrong to look forward to the white moiré and floating lace of her marriage dress, and the twenty or thirty guinea shawl in her trousseau to be worn on occasions for the rest of her life-such a shawl as few girls, however wel off, wear. It was not the dress or

shawl, but what they represented, that Abigail cared for. She would have minded little though the moiré had been muslin, and the shawl dwindled to plaid; but she wanted to gather the blossoms and fruit of a complete life, to claim the spotless robe of her virgin innocence, and the matronly dignity of a man's honour and happiness, and a family's well-being in her trusted and safe keeping.

Abigail did not question herself whether it was right or wrong to stretch out her hand to what was left her of these gifts, and whether she was not more grasping than Mrs. Leech's sister. The question was a hard one, but may resolve itself into the problem Abigail had been badly hurt, and all who loved her suffered from her hurt. How many had a right to suffer, and was she at liberty to give the right to any one who begged and pleaded for it?

Abigail had tried to say to Tom Prior, "Tom, do you know I once cared for Humphrey Bingham when I had reason to think Humphrey cared for me?

And Tom had stopped her with the eager assurance, 'Yes, dear, and it was natural he is a fine fellow, Humphrey. It was very natural in Humphrey; but then his mother and sisters came over him; he was always a great family man, with all his spirit; and their groundless opposition would have been disagreeable for you: besides, he was too generous to take everything. You care for me a little, and trust me- it is better as it is, Abigail, a world better for me.'

The man who paid his visits so pertinaciously, and would not have heeded though his mistress had hid her head in a coal-scuttle, came this evening, and laughed with almost childish glee at the disorder of the house, laid himself out to bestow excellent advice in the arrangements for the collation and the packing; to Mrs. Howe's mingled edification and scandal, lifted some of the heavy articles of furniture with his own hands, and took down and re-hung the Howes' family pictures to make room for the large photograph of Abigail, which she

en

was to leave a shadow on the wall, above her empty place, as the house's daughter, doing it with a hundred times the neatness of an upholsterer's man, Abigail smiling quietly at him the while. He was titled to rest and be thankful and be waited on afterwards; but he scarcely took time to drink tea, though he could have come triumphantly through the ordeal of sceptical matrons. He only failed on one point, he let his cups be cold. He would toss off as many as Mrs. Howe could conscientiously fill out; more, indeed, for she had held back the last till she had made a little deprecating, defensive speech.

I am afraid, Mr Prior, it is a little pale in the colour, not quite so good as the first. The - ahem third rarely is.' But Tom put aside the objection in the politest, best-tempered manner.

'Don't speak of it, Mrs. Howe,' and plunged afresh into the milk-and-water stream, and into the conversation, while Mrs. Howe folded her hands behind the teapot, and assured herself, What a treasure that man is! what will he not be content with on a washing-day, -boiled rice and cold pie (now Humphrey Bingham was nice in his eating); but Tom Prior will spoil Abigail, that is certain.'

Tom was speaking of the Scotch Highlands, which Abigail and he were to see during their fortnight's holiday, dwelling with boyish spirit on the northern routes, the unpronounceable Gaelic names, the purple mountains to be climbed, the golden oat-fields to be strolled through, the blue lochs to be rowed upon, his keen face flushed, his very hands full of action, until the details were rich and luminous with a young fellow's genius, and his gladness.

Mr. Howe, under his stoical bearing, was impressed and a little uneasy.

He is wonderful, after all, that lad Prior I hope he is not going to turn out anything miraculous - an inventor, an author in the bud, with an awful development before him. No, he is crazed, as happy as a king. I wish he would take his happiness quietly, though. Does the young fool never think no one ever married his first desperate fancy before, and never repented it when he did?'

However, Mr. Howe did not glance at the sweet cabbage-rose,, Mrs. Howe, as if she had been his first fancy, at the same time he had never repented his choice.

But the women were touched without reservation by Tom's happiness-all good women are touched by the sight of great happiness, and the happiness of a bride

groom is a special compliment to themselves. Mrs. Howe and Abigail could have petted Tom Prior with all the experimental dainties of the marriage collation, if he had cared for them, or patted him on the back and stroked his messed mass of sombre hair, through which he thrust whole hands and did not draw single fingers, after the careful, elaborate fashion of the Roman generalissimo and imperator Cæsar,' if it had been permissible to do so. As it was, they were flatteringly and sympathetically affected by his eloquence; and laughed and prattled, even Abigail, however much of her heart was reduced to ashes. Tom's inspired speech kindled some sparks on the cold altar; and the briefest sojourn in the Scotch Highlands had been a favourite vision with Abigail as a girl, when many a time she had exhausted all her girlish weapons on her father to procure its realization. Even Mrs. Howe wished she could have laid aside thirty years of her life, with their corresponding weight and stiffness, and run away to scramble among scenes of which she had read in her youth, when Ashley had heard of the poems of Mr. Scott, and the novels of the Great Unknown.

If Tom were to write his business letters at all that night (Tom, like all fellows fertile in resource, was desultory in his habits) he must go. He lingered to the last, alone with Abigail, after the two had subsided into stillness in the twilight of the long June day, as if they also felt that rest is sweet' at the very height of their jubilee. Abigail had been carried away in spirit by her willing bridegroom, but now she was relapsing into the dreaminess of the last week not the sunny mist of the most ordinary young bride, loving and loved, who is standing with her foot on so radiant a threshold that she looks round amazed and uncertain, to ask can the old world of sin and sorrow go on creaking and groaning in its old irreparable ruts, when she is to be married to her lover in three days? but the bewildered breaking up of apathy, the smarting of old wounds, the tardy gathering of clouds of doubt and dismay.

Tom Prior spoke at that moment with the pathetic mingling of humility and vanity which is so intensely human. He had ask ed no profession of regard from her before, he had been satisfied with her simple 'yes' to the generous ardour of his wooing, her simplest declaration of good-will. His eyes had sparkled and his heart had leaped on the faintest suspicion that she admired him, and was drawn to him. But now, on the spur of the moment, impelled by an irre

sistible longing, he put it to her, 'You like me better than you liked him, fine fellow as he is, now, to-night, Abigail?'

Abigail shrank back, and her voice was low and trembled when she answered him. 'I was never going to be married to him in three days, Tom. He never stood with his arm round me as you are standing. He once clasped me in his arms, when we neither of us thought what he was about, but it was only for a moment, never again. I am to be your wife in three days, by my own free will, with-yes-with all my heart. But I warn you, Tom, I don't think I have so much heart as you have. The only thing that frightens me about you, sir, is your big, noble, warm heart, which I don't half deserve.' She cried for a moment on his breast, after she had been laughing just before. Of course I could never feel in the same way to Humphrey Bingham that I feel to my dear, good, clever lover and bridegroom, Tom.'

Such was the gentle answer for which the manly, gentle fellow was grateful; but was he satisfied? He had the unerring intuition of love, could he be satisfied?

CHAPTER III.

TEN YEARS AFTER.

IN Tom Prior's drawing-room, surrounded by the modern chaste elegance of whit watered walls, ebony-wood, and sea-green damask, liker a marine cave than a rose bower, Mrs. Prior, a ten years' old wife, sat in a low chair reading by the fire, which competed successfully with the April sunshine and spring wind without.

at her

Her hankering after matronly shawls had been rewarded, or punished, by having a shawl to wear for a perpetuity hearth as well as in the streets or on the roads round Ashley. Mrs. Prior was an invalid, and was enveloped in a soft, warm shawl, white, from a lurking, lingering, womanly inclination to what was most becoming. Her face had still the nameless sweetness and charm which remains in some faces when the beauty of form and colour is gone or going; but it was a worn, slightly pinched face for a woman of thirty, and the effect was increased by the old bright adornment of her hair being put quite away under a half handkerchief o lace, as if the hands were too weary to dress it and had done with the vanities of life. Something curious and subtle might be written on the connexion between the health and sickness of a woman's mind and her treatment of what St. Paul calls her