This may seem a hard judgment, but it is the judgement he passed on himself, when there came a pause in his busy life, and he looked back over those years and felt that he did not hold the world loosely—that he could not open his hand and let it go. He had been pleasing himself all along with the thought that he was not like the men about him— content with the winning of wealth and position in the world; but there came a time when it was brought sharply home to him that without these he could not be content. It was a great shock and surprise to him to be forced to realise how far he had drifted on with the current, and how impossible it had become to get back to the old starting-place again, and in the knowledge he did not spare himself, but used harder and sterner words of self-contempt than any that are written here.

Ruthven's intercourse with his uncle's family, though occurring at long intervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, for he was a great favourite with his aunt and his cousin Lilias, who was then a child. Indeed, she was only a child when her mother died; and when there fell into his hands a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one of his first visits to M, in which half seriously, half playfully, was expressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a nearer and dearer relation to one another, he was greatly surprised and amused. I am afraid it was only the thought that the hand that had penned the wish was cold in death, that kept him from shocking his mother by laughing outright at the idea. For what a child Lilias must have been when that was written, thought he! what a child she was still!

But the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful woman, and the remembrance of his aunt's wish was pleasant to Allan Ruthven, because of his love and admiration for his cousin, and because of other things. He could not be blind to the advantages that such a connection would ensure to him. The new partnership was anticipated and entered upon, on very different terms from those which might have been, but for the silent understanding with regard to Lilias that existed between the uncle and nephew. It was no small matter that the young merchant should find himself in a position to which the greater number attain only after half a lifetime of labour. He was at the head of a lucrative business, conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it well—conscious of youth and health and strength to enjoy the future opening before him. Nor was there anything wrong in this appreciation of the advantages of his position. He knew that this wealth had not bought him. He loved his cousin Lilias, or he thought he loved her; and though up to this time, and after this time their intercourse was only after a cousinly sort, he believed she loved him. The thought did come into his mind sometimes whether his cousin was all to him that a woman might be, but never painfully. He did not doubt that, as years went on, they would be very happy together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, now and then, at the fading remembrance of many a boyish dream as to how his wife was to be wooed and won.

He was happy—they were all happy; and the tide of events flowed quietly on the the night when Allan clasped the trembling hand of Graeme Elliott. Indeed, it flowed quietly on long after that, for in the charm that, night after night, drew him into the happy circle of the Elliotts, he recognised only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships and the awakening of old associations gave him. The pleasure which his cousin took in the society of these young people was scarcely less than his own. Around the heiress and only child of Mr Elphinstone there soon gathered a brilliant circle of admirers, the greater part of whom would hardly have recognised the Elliotts as worthy of sharing the honour with them. But there was to the young girl, who had neither brother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion in Graeme's quiet parlour. The mutual love and confidence that made their home so happy, filled her with wonder and delight, and there were few days, for several pleasant months, in which they did not meet.

The pleasant intercourse was good for Lilias. She brightened under it wonderfully, and grew into a very different creature from the pale, quiet, little girl, who used to sit so gravely at her father's side. Her father saw the change and rejoiced over it, and though at first he was not inclined to be pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up so suddenly, he could not but confess that the companionship of one like Rose Elliott must be good for her. Graeme he seldom saw. The long morning calls, and spending of days with her friend, which were Rosie's delight, Graeme seldom shared. But she was quite as much the friend of Lilias as was her livelier sister, and never did his cousin seem so beautiful to Allan, never was she so dear, as when, with pretty willfulness; she hung about Graeme, claiming a right to share with Rose the caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. He did not think of danger to himself in the intercourse which Lilias shared so happily. He was content with the present, and did not seek to look into the future.

But he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this time. In the atmosphere in which he lived things wore a new aspect to him. Almost unconsciously to himself at first, he began to judge of men, and motives, and actions, by a new rule—or rather, he came back to the old rule, by which he had measured all things in his youthful days. These days did not seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, and sometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten years, with the clear truthful eyes of eighteen. It was not always a pleasant retrospect. There were some things covered up by that time, of which the review could not give unmingled pleasure. These were moments when he could not meet Graeme's truthful eyes, as with "Don't you remember?" she recalled his own words, spoken long ago. He knew, though she did not, how his thoughts of all things had changed since then; and though the intervening years had made him a man of wealth and note, there came to him, at such moments, a sense of failure and regret, as though his manhood had belied the promise of his youth—a strong desire to begin anew—a longing after a better life than these ten years had witnessed.

But these pleasant days came to an end. Business called Allan, for a time, to his old home in C, and to his uncongenial life there. It was not pleasant business. There was a cry, louder than usual, of "hard times" through the country, and the failure of several houses, in which he had placed implicit confidence, threatened, not, indeed, to endanger the safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new firm. Great losses were sustained, and complicated as their affairs at the West had become, Allan began to fear that his own presence there would for some time be necessary. He was surprised and startled at the pain which the prospect gave him, and before he had time to question himself as to why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him.

A letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial recovery from an illness, a return of which, his physicians assured him, must prove fatal, set the matter before him in its true light. The letter was brief. Knowing little of the disorder into which recent events had thrown their affairs, he entreated Allan's immediate return, for his sake, and for the sake of Lilias, whom it distressed him to think of leaving till he should see her safe with one who should have a husband's right to protect and console her. It was simply and frankly said, as one might speak of a matter fully understood and approved of by all concerned. But the words smote on Allan's heart with sharp and sudden pain, and he knew that something had come into his life, since the time when he had listened in complacent silence to Mr Elphinstone's half-expressed ideas, concerning Lilias and her future. There was pleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with the knowledge that came to him, that he loved Graeme Elliott, there came also the hope, that there was something more than gentle friendliness in the feelings with which she regarded him. But the pleasure passed, and the pain remained, growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future in the face.

It was not a hopeful future. As for his cousin, there had passed between them no words or tokens of affection, that cousins might not very well exchange; at least, he was willing to believe so now; and judging her feelings, partly by his own, and partly by the remembrance of many a chance word and action of the last few months, he said to himself, the happiness of her life would not be marred though they might never be more than cousins to each other. But this did not end his doubts as to the course that lay before him, and every day that he lingered in miserable indecision, made more evident to him the difficulties of his position. He knew it was a son's place that he had got in the firm. He could only claim it as a son. If his relations to Lilias and her father were changed, it seemed to him that he could not honourably claim a position which had been urged upon him, and which he had gladly accepted with a view to these relations. The past ten years must be as nothing to him, except for the experience they had given him, the good name they had won for him. He must begin life again a poor man.

But let me not be unjust to him. It was not this that made all the misery of his indecision. Had all this come in a time of prosperity, or when Mr Elphinstone had strength and courage to meet disaster unmoved, it would have been different. But now, when all things looked threatening, when certain loss—possible ruin—lay before them, when the misfortunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the very ground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the feeble old man to struggle through these difficult and dangerous times alone? He knew his uncle too well to believe that he would willingly accept help from him, their relations being changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledge but his own, could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises undertaken under more favourable circumstances.

He was very wretched. He could not put away the discomfort of his indecision by permitting time and circumstances to decide in the course which he must take. Whatever was done must be done by him, and at once. There was no respite of time or chance to fall back upon, in the strait in which he found himself. He did not hasten home. He had cause enough to excuse the delay to himself, and he threw himself into the increasingly painful details of business, with an energy that, for the time, left no room for painful thoughts. But it was only for the time. He knew that his lingering was useless, in view of what the end must be, and he despised himself for his indecision.

If his choice had been altogether between poverty and wealth, it would have been easy to him, he thought, though it forced itself upon him with intense bitterness during these days, how the last ten years had changed the meaning of the word to him. But his honour was involved—his honour as a man, and as a merchant. He could not leave his uncle to struggle with misfortune in his old age. He could not let the name, so long honoured and trusted in the commercial world, be joined with the many which during the last few months had been coupled with ruin, and even with shame. He was responsible for the stability or the failure of the house, which for thirty years had never given cause for doubt or fear. More than this. His own reputation as a wise and successful man of business, if not even his personal honour was at stake, to make it impossible for him to separate himself from the affairs of the firm at a juncture so perilous.

And then, Lilias. Nothing but her own spoken word could free him from the tacit engagement that existed between them. In honour he could never ask her to speak that word.

Through his long journey of days and nights he pondered it all, making no decision as to what was to be done or said, but growing gradually conscious as he drew near home, that the life of the last few months, was coming to seem more and more like a pleasant dream that must be forgotten in the future. He met his uncle's eager greeting with no word of change. His face was pale and very grave when he met his cousin, but not more so than hers. But that might very well be said each of the other. Lilias knew more of the losses which the firm had sustained than her father knew; and Allan might well look grave, she thought, and the watching and anxiety for her father's sake might well account to him for her sad looks. After the first clasp of their hands he knew that the vows hitherto unspoken, must now be fulfilled.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

Graeme did go to Mrs Roxbury's party, and it happened in this way. The invitations had been sent out before Mr Elphinstone's short, sharp illness, and Lilias had been made very useful by her aunt on the occasion. She had not been consulted about the sending of Graeme's invitation, or probably Rose would have had one too, but by good fortune, as she declared, Graeme's refusal came first to her hand, and the little lady did a most unprecedented thing. She put it quietly into her pocket, and going home that night by the Elliott's, ventured to expostulate.

"First, you must promise not to be vexed," and then she showed the note. Graeme looked grave.

"Now you must not be angry with me. Rosie, tell her not to be vexed, because, you know you can write another refusal, if you are determined. But I am sure you will not be so cruel. I can't tell you any reason, except that I have set my heart on your being there, and you'll come to please me, will you not?"

"To please you, ought to be sufficient reasons, I know," said Graeme, smiling. And Lilias knew she had prevailed with her friend. She saw the acceptance written, and carried it off to place it with dozens of others, in the hands of Mrs Roxbury. She did not say much to Graeme about it, but to Rosie, she triumphed.

"I want Aunt Roxbury to see Graeme looking her very best. Graeme will look like a queen among us. Aunt will see that Allan and I have good reasons for our admiration. Fancy any of these trumpery people patronising Graeme! But you are not to tell her what I say. You don't think she was really vexed with me, do you? And she must wear her new peach-blossom silk. I am so glad."

But poor little Lilias went through deep waters, before the peach-blossom silk was worn by Graeme. Mr Elphinstone was brought very near the gates of death, and anxious days and nights were passed by his daughter at his bedside. Mrs Roxbury would have recalled her invitations, and Lilias' soul sickened at the thought of the entertainment; but when the immediate danger was over, events fell into their usual channel, and though she gave no more assistance, either by word or deed, her aunt counted on her presence on the occasion, and even her father insisted that it was right for her to go.

"And so, my love," said Mrs Roxbury, "as your father and I see no impropriety in your coming, there can be none, and you will enjoy it, indeed you will. You are tired now."

"Impropriety! it is not that I don't wish to go. I cannot bear the thought of going."

"Nonsense! you are overtired, that is all. And Mr Ruthven will be here by that time, and I depend on you to bring him."

But if Allan's presence had depended on Lilias, Mrs Roxbury would not have seen him in her splendid rooms that night. It was Mr Elphinstone that reminded her of the note that awaited the return of her cousin, and it was he who insisted that they should appear, for at least an hour or two, at the party. And they went together, a little constrained and uncomfortable, while they were alone, but to all appearance at their ease, and content with one another when they entered the room. Graeme saw them the moment they came in, and she saw, too, many a significant glance exchanged, as they made their way together to Mrs Roxbury.

Lilias saw Graeme almost as soon. She was standing near the folding-doors, seemingly much interested in what Mr Proudfute, her brother's friend, was saying to her.

"There, aunt," said Lilias, eagerly, when the greetings were over, "did I not tell you that my friend Miss Elliott would eclipse all here to-night? Look at her now."

"My dear," said her aunt, "she does better than that. She is very lovely and lady-like, and tries to eclipse no one, and so wins all hearts."

Lilias' eyes sparkled as she looked at her cousin, but he did not catch her look.

"My dear," continued Mrs Roxbury, "I have news for you, but perhaps it is no news to you. Ah! he has found her."

Mr Elias Green was at the moment, making his bow to Graeme.

"There was no truth in the rumour, about him and little Miss Grove. Mr Green has more sense. Your friend is fortunate, Lilias."

Lilias looked at her aunt in astonishment, but nothing more could be said, for there were more arrivals, and her attention was claimed.

"Aunt Roxbury does not know what she is talking about," said she, to her cousin, as he led her away. "The idea of Mr Green's daring to lift his eyes to Graeme Elliott. She would not look at him."

"Mr Green is a great man in his own circle, I can assure you," said Mr Ruthven. "Miss Elliott will be thought fortunate by people generally."

"Do you think so? You know very little about her, if you think that," said Lilias, impatiently.

"I know Mr Green better than most people do, and I respect him—and he is very rich—"

"Oh! don't talk folly," cried Lilias. "I have no patience with people who think, because a man is rich—. But you don't know Graeme, cousin Allan—I thought—"

They were very near Graeme by this time. She turned at the moment, and greeted them frankly enough, as far as any one could see. She noticed the cloud on Lilias' face, and asked her if she was quite well; she expressed pleasure at the return of Mr Ruthven too, but she did not meet his eye, though he told her he had seen her brother Norman at a station by the way, and detained her to give her a message that he had sent. He had schooled himself well, if he was really as unmoved by the words of Mrs Roxbury and Lilias, as to his cousin he appeared to be. But he was not a man who let his thoughts write themselves on his face, and she might easily be deceived. It was not a pleasant moment, it was a very bitter moment indeed, to him, when with a smile to them, Graeme placed her hand on the willing arm of Mr Green, and walked away "like a queen," he said to himself, but to his cousin he said—

"My friend will be a very happy man, and your friend may be happy too, let us hope."

But Lilias never answered a word. She followed them, with her eyes, till they disappeared through the door that led to the room beyond; and then she said only,—

"I have made a great mistake."

Had she made a mistake or had he? A mistake never to be undone, never outlived—a mistake for Graeme, for himself, perhaps for Lilias too. It was not a thought to be borne, and he put it from him sternly, saying it could not have been otherwise—nothing could be changed now; and he was very gentle and tender with his little cousin that night and afterwards, saying to himself that she, at least, should have no cause to grieve in the future, if his loving care for her could avail.

About this time Will was threatened with a serious illness. It did not prove so serious as they at first feared, but it was long and tedious, and gave his eldest sister an excuse for denying herself to many who called, and accounted for her pale looks to those whom she was obliged to see. In the silence of her brother's sick-room, Graeme looked a great sorrow in the face. In other circumstances, with the necessity laid upon her to deceive others, she might for a time have deceived herself; for the knowledge that one's love has been given unsought, is too bitter to be accepted willingly. But the misery of those long silent nights made plain to her what the first sharp pang had failed to teach her.

In the first agony of her self-scorn, she saw herself without excuse. She was hard and bitter to herself. She might have known, she thought, how it was with Allan and his cousin. During all those years in which she had been a stranger to them both, they had loved each other; and now, with no thought of her, they loved each other still. It was natural that it should be so, and right. What was she, to think to come between them with her love?

She was very bitter to herself and unjust in her first misery, but her feeling changed. Her heart rebelled against her own verdict. She had not acted an unmaidenly part in the matter. She had never thought of harm coming to her, or to anyone, out of the pleasant intercourse of these months—the renewal of their old friendship. If she had sinned against Lilias, it had been unconsciously. She had never thought of these things in those days.

If she had only known him sooner, she thought, or not so soon, or not at all! How should she ever be able to see them again in the old unrestrained way? How should she be able to live a life changed and empty of all pleasure?

Then she grew bitter again, and called herself hard names for her folly, in thinking that a change in one thing must change all her life. Would not the passing away of this vain dream leave her as rich in the love of brothers and sister, as ever? Hitherto their love had sufficed for her happiness, and it should still suffice. The world need not be changed to her, because she had wished for one thing that she could not have. She could be freed from no duty, absolved from no obligation because of this pain; it was a part of her life, which she must accept and make the best of, as she did of all other things that came upon her.

As she sat one night thinking over the past and the future, wearily enough, but without the power to withdraw her mind from what was sad in them, there suddenly came back to her one of Janet's short, sharp speeches, spoken in answer to a declaration half vexed, half mirthful, made by her in the days when the mild Mr Foster had aspired to be more to her than a friend.

"My dear," she had said, "bide till your time comes. You are but a woman like the lave, and you maun thole the brunt of what life may bring. Love! Ay will you, and that without leave asked or given. And if you get love for love, you'll thank God humbly for one of his best gifts; and if you do not well, He can bring you through without it, as He has done many a one before. But never think you can escape your fate, and make the best of it when it comes."

"And so my fate has found me," murmured Graeme to herself. "This is part of my life, and I must make the best of it. Well, he can bring me through, as Janet said."

"Graeme," said Will suddenly, "what are you thinking about?"

Graeme started painfully. She had quite forgotten Will. Those bright, wakeful eyes of his had been on her many a time when she thought he was asleep.

"What were you thinking about? You smiled first, then you sighed."

"Did I? Well, I was not aware that I was either smiling or sighing. I was thinking about Janet, and about something that she said to me once."

She rose and arranged the pillows, stooping down to kiss her brother as she did so, and then she said sadly,—

"I am afraid you are not much better to-night, Will."

"Yes; I think I am better. My head is clearer. I have been watching your face, Graeme, and thinking how weary and ill you look."

"I am tired, Will, but not ill." Graeme did not like the idea of her face having been watched, but she spoke cheerfully.

"I have been a great trouble to you," said Will.

"Yes, indeed! a dreadful trouble. I hope you are not going to try my patience much longer."

"I don't know. I hope not, for your sake." And then in a little Will added, "Do you know, Graeme, I am beginning to be glad of this illness after all."

Graeme laughed.

"Well, if you are glad of it, I will try and bear it patiently a little longer. I daresay we are taking the very best means to prolong it chattering at this unreasonable hour."

"I am not sleepy," said Will, "and I am not restless either. I think I am really better, and it will do me good to have a little talk; but you are tired."

"I am tired, but I am not sleepy. Besides, if you are really better, I can sleep for a week, if I like. So, if it be a pleasure to you, speak on."

"What was it that Janet said that made you sigh so drearily just now?" asked Will.

Graeme would have liked the conversation to take any other turn rather than that, but she said, gently,—

"I think my smile must have been for what Janet said. I am sure I laughed heartily enough when she said it to me so long ago. I suppose I sighed to think that what she said has come true."

"What was it, Graeme?"

"Oh! I can hardly tell you—something about the changes that come to us as we grow older, and how vain it is to think we can avoid our fate."

"Our fate?" repeated Will.

"Oh, yes! I mean there are troubles—and pleasures, too, that we can't foresee—that take us at unawares, and we have just to make the best of them when they come."

"I don't think I quite understand you, Graeme."

"No, I daresay not; and it is not absolutely necessary that you should,—in the connection. But I am sure a great many pleasant things that we did not expect, have happened to us since we came here."

"And was it thinking of these pleasant things that made you sigh?" asked Will.

"No. I am afraid I was thinking of the other kind of surprises; and I daresay I had quite as much reason to smile as to sigh. We can't tell our trials at first sight, Will, nor our blessings either. Time changes their faces wonderfully to us as the years go on. At any rate, Janet's advice is always appropriate; we must make the best of them when they come."

"Yes;" said Will, doubtfully; he did not quite understand yet.

"For instance, Will, you were disconsolate enough when the doctor told you you must give up your books for an indefinite time, and now you are professing yourself quite content with headache and water-gruel—glad even at the illness that at first was so hard to bear."

Will made a face at the gruel she presented.

"I dare say it is good for me, though I can't say I like it, or the headache. But, Graeme, I did not get this check before I needed it. It is pleasant to be first, and I was beginning to like it. Now this precious month taken from me, at the time I needed it most, will put me back. To be sure," added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not much to be first among so few. But as Janet used to say, Pride is an ill weed and grows easily—flourishes even on a barren soil; and in the pleasure and excitement of study, it is not difficult to forget that it is only a means to an end."

"Yes," said Graeme, "it is easy to forget what we ought to remember."

But it came into Will's mind that her sympathy did not come so readily as usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and he had a feeling that they were such as he was not to be permitted to share. In a little he said,—

"Graeme; I should like very much to go home to Scotland."

Graeme roused herself and answered cheerfully,—

"Yes, I have never quite given up the hope of going home again; but we should find sad changes, I doubt."

"But I mean I should like to go home soon. Not for the sake of Clayton and our friends there. I would like to go to fit myself better for the work I have to do in the world."

"You mean, you would like to go home to study."

"Yes. One must have a far better opportunity there, and it is a grand thing to be 'thoroughly furnished'." There was a pause, and then he added, "If I go, I ought to go soon—within a year or two, I mean."

"Oh, Will, how could I ever let you go away?"

"Why, Graeme! that is not at all like you; you could let me go if it were right. But I have not quite decided that it is not selfish in me to wish to go."

"But why?" asked Graeme.

"Partly because it would be so pleasant. Don't you remember how Janet used to say, we are not so likely to see all sides of what we desire very much. Perhaps I desire it more for the pleasure it would give me, than for the benefit it might be to me. And then the expense. It would be too much to expect from Arthur."

"But there is the Merleville money. It was meant for Arthur's education, and as he did not need it, it is yours."

"No, that belongs to you and Rose. It would not be right to take that."

"Nonsense, Will. What is ours is yours; if the expense were all! But I cannot bear to think of you going away, and Harry, too, perhaps."

"Rose tells me that Harry is more bent on going West than ever."

"Yes, within a few days he has become quite eager about it. I cannot understand why he should be so. Oh, I cannot feel hopeful about it."

"Arthur thinks it may be a good thing for Harry," said Will.

"Yes, for some things I suppose so. But, oh! Will, I could not let Harry go as I could let you, sure that he would be kept safe till—"

Graeme laid her head down on her brother's pillow, and the tears she had been struggling with for so long a time burst forth. She had never spoken to Will of her fears for Harry, but he knew that they all had had cause for anxiety on his account, so instead of speaking he laid his arm over his sister's neck. She struggled with herself a moment, unable to speak.

"Graeme," said Will, softly, "we cannot keep Harry safe from evil, and He who can is able to keep him safe there as well as here."

"I know it; I say it to myself twenty times a day. That is, I say it in words; but I do not seem to get the comfort I might from them."

"But, Graeme, Harry has been very little away this winter, and I had thought—"

"I know, dear, and I have been quite hopeful about him till lately. But, oh, Will! it won't bear talking about. We can only wait patiently."

"Yes, Graeme, we can pray and trust, and you are exaggerating to yourself Harry's danger, I think. What has happened to make you so faint-hearted, dear?"

"What should have happened, Will? I am tired—for one thing—and something is wrong I know."

She paused to struggle with her tears.

"Somehow, I don't feel so anxious about Harry as you do, Graeme. He will come back again. I am sure this great sorrow is not waiting you."

He paused a moment, and then added, hesitatingly,—

"I have had many thoughts since I sat down here, Graeme. I think one needs—it does one good, to make a pause to have time to look back and to look forward. Things change to us; we get clearer and truer views of life, alone in the dark, with nothing to withdraw our thoughts from the right and the wrong of things, and we seem to see more clearly how true it is, that though we change God never changes. We get courage to look our troubles fairly in the face, when we are alone with God and them."

Still Graeme said nothing, and Will added,—

"Graeme, you must take hope for Harry. And there is nothing else, is there?—nothing that you are afraid to look at—nothing that you cannot bring to the one place for light and help?"

She did not answer for a minute.

"No, Will, I hope not. I think not. I daresay—I am quite sure that all will be for the best, and I shall see at some time."

Not another word was said till Graeme rose and drawing aside the curtains, let in on them the dim dawn of a bleak March morning.

In a few more days Will was down-stairs again. Not in his accustomed corner among his books, but in the arm-chair in the warmest place by the fire, made much of by Rose and them all. It seemed a long time since he had been among them. A good many things had happened during the month that Graeme and he had passed together up-stairs. March, that had come in "like a lion" was hastening out "like a lamb;" the sky was clear and the air was mild; spring was not far-away. The snow lay still in sullied ridges in the narrow streets where the sun had little power, and the mud lay deep in the streets where the snow had nearly disappeared. But the pavements were dry and clean, and in spite of dirty crossings and mud bespattering carriages, they were thronged with gay promenaders, eager to welcome the spring. Those who were weatherwise shook their heads, declaring that having April in March would ensure March weather when April came, or it might be even in May. So it might prove, but there was all the more need, because of this, that the most should be made of the sunshine and the mild air, and even their quiet sweet was quite gay with the merry goers to and fro, and it seemed to Will and Graeme that more than a month had passed since his illness began.

Harry had quite decided to go West now, and was as eager and impatient to be gone as if he had all his life been dreaming of no other future than that which awaited him there. That he should be so glad to go, pained his sister as much as the thought of his going. That was at first, for it did not take Graeme long to discover that Harry was not so gay as he strove to appear. But her misgivings as to his departure were none the less sad on that account, and it was with a heavy heart that she listened to his plans.

Perhaps it was in contrast to Harry's rather ostentations mirth that his friend Charlie Millar seemed so very grave on the first night that Will ventured to prolong his stay among them after the gas had been lighted. Rose was grave, too, and not at ease, though she strove to hide it by joining in Harry's mirth. Charlie did not strive to hide his gravity, but sat silent and thoughtful after his first greetings were over. Even Harry's mirth failed at last, and he leaned back on the sofa, shading his face with his hands.

"I am afraid your brother would think us very ungrateful if he could see how badly we are thanking him for his great kindness to Harry."

Graeme forced herself to say it. Allan's name had not been mentioned among them for days, and the silence, at first grateful, had come to seem strange and unnatural, and it made Graeme's cheeks tingle to think what might be the cause. So, looking into Charlie's face with a smile, she spoke to him about his brother. But Charlie did not answer, or Graeme did not hear, and in a little while she said again,—

"Is Mr Ruthven still in town?"

"Oh! yes. It is not likely he will leave again soon."

"And your uncle is really recovering from his last attack? What on anxious time Miss Elphinstone must have had!"

"Yes, he seems better, and, contrary to all expectation, seems likely to live for some time yet. But his mind is much affected. At least it seems so to me."

"Poor Lilias!" said Graeme, "Is she still alone?"

"Oh, no. There is a houseful of them. Her aunt Mrs Roxbury is there, and I don't know how many besides. I declare, I think those women enjoy it."

Graeme looked shocked.

"Charlie means the preparations for the wedding," said Rose. "It is to take place soon, is it not?"

"Within the month, I believe," said Charlie, gravely.

"So soon!" said Graeme; and in a little she added, "Is it not sudden?"

"No—yes, I suppose so. They have been engaged, or something like it for some time; but the haste is because of Mr Elphinstone. He thinks he cannot die happy till he sees his daughter safe under the care of her husband. Just as if Allan would not be her friend all the same. It seems to me like madness."

"And Lilias," said Rose, almost in a whisper, "is she content?"

"On the whole, I suppose so. But this haste and her father being so ill, and all these horrid preparations are too much for her. She looks ill, and anything but cheerful."

"We have not seen your brother for a long time," said Will.

"I have scarcely seen him, either. He did not find matters much to his mind in C, I fear. Harry will have to keep his eyes open among those people."

"How soon will Harry have to go?" asked Rose.

"The sooner the better, I suppose," said Charlie, rising and walking about. "Oh! dear me. This is a miserable overturning that has come upon us—and everything seemed to be going on so smoothly."

"Harry will not have to go before Arthur comes back, I hope," said Rose.

"I don't know, indeed. When does he come?"

"Charlie, man," said Harry, rising suddenly, "did I not hear you promising Crofts to meet him to-night? It is eight o'clock."

"No. I don't care if I never see Crofts, or any of his set again. You had much better stay where you are Harry."

"Charlie, don't be misanthropical. I promised if you didn't. Come along. No? Well, good-night to you all. Will, it is time you were in bed, your eyes are like saucers. Don't sit up for me, Graeme."

Graeme had no heart to remonstrate. She felt it would do no good, and he went away leaving a very silent party behind him. Charlie lingered. When Graeme came down-stairs after seeing Will in his room she found him still sitting opposite Rose, silent and grave. He roused himself as she entered. Graeme would gladly have excused him, but she took a seat and her work, and prepared to be entertained. It was not an easy matter, though Charlie had the best will in the world to be entertaining, and Graeme tried to respond. She did not think of it at the time, but afterwards, when Charlie was gone, she remembered the sad wistful look with which the lad had regarded her. Rose too, hung about her, saying nothing, but with eyes full of something to which Graeme would not respond. One angry throb, stirred her heart, but her next thoughts were not in anger.

"These foolish young people have been dreaming dreams about Allan and me,—and I must undeceive them—or deceive them—"

"Graeme," said Rose, softly, "if either of us wait for Harry it must be me, for you are very tired."

"Yes, I am very tired."

"Charlie said, perhaps he would take Harry home with him. Should we wait?" said Rose.

"No. He may not come. We will not wait. I shall sleep near Will. He cannot spare me yet. Now go, love."

She kissed the troubled face upturned to her, but would suffer no lingering over the good-night. She was in no haste to go herself, however. She did not mean to wait for Harry, but when two hours had passed, she was still sitting where Rose had left her, and then Harry came.

But oh! the misery of that home-coming. Graeme must have fallen asleep, she thought, for she heard nothing till the door opened, and then she heard Harry's voice, thick and interrupted, thanking someone, and then stupidly insisting on refusing all further help.

"Never mind, gentlemen—I can manage—thank you."

There were two persons with him, Charlie Millar was one of them.

"Hush, Harry. Be quiet, man. Are you mad? You will waken your sister."

The light which someone held behind them, flushed for a moment on Graeme's pale face.

"Oh! Miss Elliott," said Charles, "I tried to keep him with me. He is mad, I think. Be quiet, Harry."

Harry quite incapable of walking straight, struggled to free himself and staggered toward his sister.

"I knew you would sit up, Graeme—though I told you not—and so I came home."

"Of course, you did right to come home. But hush, Harry! you will waken Will."

"Oh! yes! Poor Will!" he mumbled. "But Graeme, what ails you, that you look at me with a face like that?"

"Miss Elliott," entreated Charlie, "leave him to us, you can do nothing with him to-night."

She went up-stairs before them carrying the light, and held firmly the handle of Will's door till they passed. She stood there in the darkness till they came out again and went down-stairs. Poor Harry lay muttering and mumbling, entreating Graeme to come and see him before she went to bed. When she heard the door close she went down again, not into the parlour where a light still burned, but into the darkness of the room beyond.

"Oh Harry! Harry! Harry!" she cried, as she sank on her knees and covered her face.

It was a dark hour. Her hope, her faith, her trust in God—all that had been her strength and song, from day to day was forgotten. The bitter waters of fear and grief passed over her, and she was well nigh overwhelmed.

"Oh papa! mamma! Oh Harry! Oh! my little brothers."

"Miss Elliott," said a voice that made her heart stand still, "Graeme, you must let me help you now."

She rose and turned toward him.

"Mr Ruthven! I was not aware—" said she, moving toward the door through which light came from the parlour.

"Miss Elliott, forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I met your brother and mine by chance, and I came with them. You must not think that I—"

"Thank you, you are very kind."

Graeme was trembling greatly and sat down, but rose again immediately.

"You are very kind," repeated she, scarcely knowing what she said.

"Graeme," said Mr Ruthven, "you must let me help you in this matter. Tell me what you wish. Must Harry stay or go?"

Graeme sank down with a cry, wringing her hands.

"Oh! Harry! Harry!"

Mr Ruthven made one step toward her.

"Miss Elliott, I dare not say to you that you think too severely of Harry's fault. But he is young, and I do not really fear for him. And you have more cause to be hopeful than I. Think of your father, and your father's God. Graeme, be sure Harry will come back to you again."

Graeme sat still with her head bowed down.

"Graeme—Miss Elliott. Tell me what you would have me do?"

Graeme rose.

"You are very kind," she repeated. "I cannot think to-night. We must wait—till Arthur comes home."

He went up and down the room several times, and then came and stood by her side again.

"Graeme," said he, in a low voice, "let me hear you once say, that you believe me to be your true and faithful friend."

"Why should I not say it, Allan. You are my true and faithful friend, as I am yours."

Her voice did not tremble, and for a moment she calmly met his eye. He turned and walked away, and when he came back again he held out his hand and said,—

"Good-night."

"Good-night," said Graeme.

"And you will see about Harry—what you wish for him?"

"Yes. Good-bye."

He raised the hand he held to his lips, and then said, "Good-bye."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

The next few days were weary ones to all. Will had reached that stage of convalescence in which it was not easy to resign himself to utter idleness, and yet he had not strength to be able to occupy himself long without fatigue; and in the effort to amuse and interest him, Graeme's spirits flagged sadly. She looked so exhausted and ill one day when the doctor came in, that he declared that Will must be left to the tender mercies of Rose, while her sister went first for a walk in the keen morning air, and then to her room for the rest of the day. It is possible that solitude and her own thoughts did Graeme less good than attendance on Will would have done, but doctors cannot be supposed to know everything; and even had he known all there was to account for her hot hands and pale cheeks, it is doubtful whether his skill could have suggested anything more to the purpose than his random prescription was. At any rate, Graeme was thankful for a few days' quiet, whether it was good for her or not; and in the mean time Rose and Will got on very well without her.

And Harry—poor, unhappy, repentant Harry, trying under a mask of sullen indifference to hide the shame and misery he felt at the remembrance of that night—these were dreary days to him. Graeme never spoke to him about that night. She had not the courage, even if she had felt hot that it would be better not to do so. The preparations for his departure went on slowly, though it was becoming doubtful, whether he should go West after all. He said little about it himself, but that little it was not pleasant for Graeme to hear.

Much to the surprise of everyone, and to the extreme indignation of Harry, Mr Ruthven had again left town, saying nothing of his destination or the length of his stay, only in very brief fashion, telling him to make no further arrangements for his departure until his return.

"He does not trust me. He does not think me fit to take charge of his affairs," said Harry to himself, with his vague remembrance of Allan's share in the events of that miserable night, he could hardly wonder that it should be so, and in his shame and impatience he was twenty times on the point of breaking his connection with his employers, and going his own way. However, he forced himself to wait a little.

"If I am sent West after all, well and good. If not I shall remain no longer. The change of arrangements will be sufficient excuse, at least I will make it so. I can't stay, and I won't. If he would but come back and put an end to it all."

And Harry was not the only one who was impatient under the unreasonable absence of Mr Ruthven. Poor Mr Elphinstone, ill and irritable, suffered not an hour to pass without vexing himself and others, wondering at, and lamenting, his delay. Lilias had much ado to keep him from saying angry and bitter things about his nephew, and exaggerated the few details she had gathered with regard to their recent losses, in order to account to him for Allan's untimely devotion to business. Poor girl, she looked sad and ill in these days, and grew irritable and unreasonable amid the preparations of Mrs Roxbury, in a way that shocked and alarmed that excellent and energetic lady. She considered it a very equivocal proof of Lilias' love to her father, that she should be so averse to the carrying out of his express wishes. There had been nothing that is proper on such an occasion, and Mrs Roxbury seemed bent on fulfilling his wishes to the very letter. So, at last, Lilias was fain for the sake of peace to grow patient and grateful, and stayed more and more closely in her father's room, and her aunt had her will in all things that concerned the wedding, that under such melancholy circumstances was drawing near.

"Graeme," said Harry, one night, when they were sitting together after the rest had all gone up-stairs, "don't you think we have been uncomfortable long enough? Don't you think you have given us enough of that miserable, hopeless face for one occasion? I think a change would be agreeable to all concerned. It would to me, at any rate."

Graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she could not say a word. Then she said something about being tired and not very well—and about its being impossible always to help one's looks.

"Why don't you say at once that it is I who have made you so miserable that you have lost all faith in me—that I am going straight to ruin. That is what you mean to say—you know very well."

"Harry," said she, gently, "I did not mean to say anything unkind."

Harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a groan.

"If you would only rate a fellow soundly, Graeme! If you would only tell me at once, what a weak, pitiful wretch you think me! I could bear that; but your silence and that miserable face, I cannot bear."

"I cannot say I think you weak or pitiful, Harry. It would not be true. And I am afraid you would not like my rating better than my silence. I can only say, I have had less courage in thinking of your going away to fill an important and responsible situation, since that night."

Harry groaned.

"Oh! well; don't bother yourself about my going away, and my responsibilities. The chances are some one else will have to fill the important situation."

"Have you seen—has Mr Ruthven returned?"

"Mr Ruthven has returned, and I have seen him, but I have not spoken with him. It was not his will and pleasure to say anything to-night about that which has been keeping me in such miserable suspense. He was engaged, forsooth, when a moment would have settled it. Well, it does not matter. I shall take the decision into my own hands."

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"I mean, I shall give up my situation if he does not send me West—if he hesitates a moment about sending me, I shall leave his employment."

"But why, Harry?"

"Because—because I am determined. Ruthven does not think me fit to be entrusted with the management of his affairs, I suppose."

"Harry," said his sister, gravely, "is it surprising if he does not?"

"Well, if I am not to be trusted there, neither am I to be trusted here, and I leave. Graeme, you don't know what you are talking about. It is quite absurd to suppose that what happened that night would make any difference to Allan Ruthven. You think him a saint, but trust me, he knows by experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. If he has nothing worse than that against any one in his employment, he may think himself fortunate."

"Then, why do you say he does not trust you?"

"I shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he draws back in this. Not that I care much. I would rather be in the employment of some one else. I shall not stay here."

"Harry," said Graeme, coming quite close to the sofa on which he had thrown himself, "what has happened between you and Allan Ruthven."

"Happened! What should have happened? What an absurd question to ask, Graeme."

"Harry, why are you so determined to leave him? It was not so a little while ago."

"Was it not? Oh, well! I daresay not. But one wants a change. One gets tired of the same dull routine, always. Now, Graeme," added he, as she made an incredulous gesture, "don't begin to fancy any mystery. That would be too absurd, you know."

Graeme came and knelt close beside him. His face was turned away so that she could not see it. Her own was very pale.

"Harry, speak to me. Do you believe that Allan Ruthven is otherwise than an honourable and upright gentleman in business and—in other matters? Tell me, Harry."

"Oh, yes! as gentlemen go. No, Graeme, that is not right. I believe him in all things to be upright and honourable. I think more highly of him than I did at first. It is not that."

The colour came slowly back to Graeme's face. It was evident that Harry had no foolish thoughts of her and Allan. In a little she said,—

"And you, Harry—you have not—you are—"

"I hope I am an honourable man, Graeme," said Harry, gravely. "There is nothing between Mr Ruthven and me. I mean, he does not wish me to leave him. But I must go, Graeme. I cannot stay here."

"Harry, why? Tell me." Graeme laid her hand caressingly on his hair.

"It is nothing that I can tell," said Harry, huskily.

"Harry—even if I cannot help it, or remove it—it is better that I should know what is making you so unhappy. Harry, is it—it is not Lilias?"

He did not answer her.

"Harry, Harry! Do not say that this great sorrow has fallen upon us, upon you, too."

She drew back that he might not feel how she was trembling. In a little she said,—

"Brother, speak to me. What shall I say to you, my poor Harry?"

But Harry was not in a mood to be comforted. He rose and confronted her.

"I think the most appropriate remark for the occasion would be that I am a fool, and deserve to suffer for my folly. You had better say that to me, Graeme."

But something in his sister's face stopped him. His lips trembled, and he said,—

"At any rate, it isn't worth your looking so miserable about."

"Hush, Harry," whispered she, and he felt her tears dropping on his hands. "And Lilias?"

"Graeme, I do not know. I never spoke to her, but I hoped—I believed till lately—."

He laid his head down on his sister's shoulder. In a little he roused himself and said,—

"But it is all past now—all past; and it won't bear talking about, even with you, Graeme, who are the dearest and best sister that ever unworthy brother had. It was only a dream, and it is past. But I cannot stay here—at least it would be very much better—"

Graeme sighed.

"Yes, I can understand how it should seem impossible to you, and yet— but you are right. It won't bear talking about. I have nothing to say to comfort you, dear, except to wait, and the pain may grow less."

No, there was nothing that Graeme could say, even if Harry would have listened to her. Her own heart was too heavy to allow her to think of comfort for him; and so they sat in silence. It seemed to Graeme that she had never been quite miserable until now. Yesterday she had thought herself wretched, and now her burden of care for Harry was pressing with tenfold weight. Why had this new misery come upon her? She had been unhappy about him before, and now it was worse with him than all her fears.

In her misery she forgot many things that might have comforted her with regard to her brother. She judged him by herself, forgetting the difference between the woman and the man—between the mature woman, who having loved vainly, could never hope to dream the sweet dream again, and the youth, hardly yet a man, sitting in the gloom of a first sorrow, with, it might well be, a long bright future stretching before him.

Sharp as the pain at her own heart was, she knew she should not die of it. She took no such consolation to herself as that. She knew she must live the old common life, hiding first the fresh wound and then the scar, only hoping that as the years went on the pain might grow less. She accepted the lot. She thought if the darkness of her life never cast a shadow on the lives of those she loved, she would strive, with God's help, to be contented.

But Harry—poor Harry! hitherto so careless and light-hearted, how was he to bear the sorrow that had fallen upon him? Perhaps it was as well that in her love and pity for her brother, Graeme failed to see how different it might be with him. Harry would hardly have borne to be told even by her that his sorrow would pass away. The commonplaces supposed to be appropriate about time and change and patience, would have been unwelcome and irritating, even from his sister's lips, and it was all the better that Graeme should sit there, thinking her own dreary thoughts in silence. After the momentary pain and shame which the betrayal of his secret had caused him, there was a certain consolation in the knowledge that he had his sister's sympathy, and I am afraid, if the truth must be told, that Graeme that night suffered more for Harry than Harry suffered for himself. If she looked back with bitter regret on the vanished dream of the last six months, it was that night at least less for her own sake than for his. If from the future that lay before them she shrank appalled, it was not because the dreariness that must henceforth be on her life, but because of something worse than dreariness that might be on the life of her brother, unsettled, almost reckless, as he seemed to be to-night. She could not but see the danger that awaited him, should he persist in leaving home, to cast himself among strangers. How gladly would she have borne his trouble for him. She felt that going away now, he would have no shield against the temptation that had of late proved too strong for him; and yet would it be really better for him, could she prevail upon him to stay at home? Remembering her own impulse to be away—anywhere—to escape from the past and its associations, she could not wonder at his wish to go. That the bitterness of the pain would pass away, she hoped and believed, but would he wait with patience the coming of content. Alas! her fears were stronger than her hopes. Best give him into God's keeping and let him go, she thought.

"But he must not leave Mr Ruthven. That will make him no better, but worse. He must not go from us, not knowing whither. Oh, I wish I knew what to do!"

The next day the decision was made. It would not be true to say that Harry was quite calm and at his ease that morning, when he obeyed a summons into Mr Ruthven's private room. There was more need for Charlie's "keep cool, old fellow," than Charlie knew, for Harry had that morning told Graeme that before he saw her face again he would know whether he was to go or stay. In spite of himself he felt a little soft-hearted, as he thought of what might be the result of his interview, and he was glad that it was not his friend Allan, but Mr Ruthven the merchant, brief and business-like in all he said, whom he found awaiting him. He was busy with some one else when Harry entered, talking coolly and rapidly on business matters, and neither voice nor manner changed as he turned to him.

There was a good deal said about matters that Harry thought might very well have been kept till another time; there were notes compared and letters read and books examined. There were some allusions to past transactions, inquiries and directions, all in the fewest possible words, and in the quietest manner. Harry, replied, assented and suggested, making all the time the strongest effort to appear as there was nothing, and could be nothing, beyond these dull details to interest him.

There came a pause at last. Mr Ruthven did not say in words that he need not wait any longer, but his manner, as he looked up, and turned over a number of letters that had just been brought in, said it plainly. Indeed, he turned quite away from him, and seemed absorbed in his occupation. Harry waited till the lad that brought in the letters had mended the fire, and fidgeted about the room, and gone out again; then he said, in a voice that ought to have been quiet and firm, for he took a great deal of pains to make it so,—

"Mr Ruthven, may I trespass a moment on your valuable time now?"

Mr Ruthven immediately laid his letters on the table, and turned round. Harry thought, like a man who found it necessary to address himself, once for all, to the performance of an unpleasant duty. Certainly, he had time to attend to anything of importance that Mr Elliott might have to say.

"It is a matter of great importance to me, and I have been led to suppose that it is of some consequence to you. The Western agency—"

"You are right. It is of great consequence to the firm. There is, perhaps, no immediate necessity for deciding—"

"I beg your pardon, sir, there is absolute necessity for my knowing at once, whether it is your pleasure that I should be employed in it."

"Will a single day make much difference to you?" said Mr Ruthven, looking gravely at the young man, who was certainly not so calm as he meant to be.

"Excuse me, sir, many days have passed since. But, Mr Ruthven, it is better I should spare you the pain of saying that you no longer consider me fit for the situation. Allow me, then, to inform you that I wish— that I no longer wish to remain in your employment."

"Harry," said Mr Ruthven, gravely, "does your brother—does your sister know of your desire to leave me? Would they approve, if you were sent West?"

"Pardon me, Mr Ruthven, that question need not be discussed. I must be the best judge of the matter. As for them, they were at least reconciled to my going when you—drew back."

Mr Ruthven was evidently uncomfortable. He took up his bundle of letters again, murmuring something about their not wishing it now.

"I understand you, sir," said Harry, with a very pale face. "Allow me to say that as soon as you can supply my place—or at once, if you like—I must go."

But Mr Ruthven was not listening to him. He had turned over his letters till a little note among them attracted his attention. He broke the seal, and read it while Harry was speaking. It was very brief, only three words and one initial letter.

"Let Harry go. G."

He read it, and folded it, and laid it down with a sigh. Then he turned to Harry, just as he was laying his hand on the door.

"What is it, Harry? I did not hear what you were saying."

"I merely said, sir," said Harry, turning round and facing him, "that as soon as you can supply my place in the office, I shall consider myself at liberty to go."

"But why should you wish to go?"

"There are several reasons. One is, I shall never stay anywhere on sufferance. If I am not to be trusted at a distance, I shall certainly not stay to give my employers the trouble of keeping an eye upon me."

His own eye flashed as he spoke.

"But, Harry, man, that is nonsense, you know."

It was not his master, but his friend, that spoke, and Harry was a little thrown off his guard by the change in his tone.

"I do not think it is nonsense," said he.

"Harry, I have not been thinking of myself in all this, nor of the interests of the firm. Let me say, once for all, that I should consider them perfectly safe in your hands, in all respects. Harry, the world would look darker to me the day I could not trust your father's son."

Harry made no answer.

"It is of you I have been thinking, in the hesitation that has seemed so unreasonable to you. Harry, when I think of the home you have here, and of the wretched changed life that awaits you there, it seems selfish— wrong to wish to send you away."

Harry made a gesture of dissent, and muttered something about the impossibility of staying always at home.

"I know it, my lad, but the longer you can stay at home—such a home as yours—the better. When I think of my own life there, the first miserable years, and all the evil I have seen since—. Well, there is no use in going over all that. But, Harry, it would break your sister's heart, were you to change into a hard, selfish, worldly man, like the rest of us."

There was nothing Harry could say to this.

"So many fail in the struggle—so many are changed or ruined. And, dear lad, you have one temptation that never was a temptation to me. Don't be angry, Harry," for Harry started and grew red. "Even if that is not to be feared for you, there is enough besides to make you hesitate. I have known and proved the world. What we call success in life, is not worth one approving smile from your sister's lips. And if you should fall, and be trodden down, how should I ever answer to her?"

He walked up and down the room two or three times.

"Don't go, Harry." For Harry had risen as though he thought the interview was at on end. "You said, just now, that you must decide for yourself, and you shall do so. But, consider well, and consult your brother and sister. As for the interests of the firm, I have no fear."

"I may consider it settled then," said Harry, huskily. "Arthur was always of opinion that I should go, and Graeme is willing now. And the sooner the better, I suppose?"

"The sooner the better for us. But there is time enough. Do not be hasty in deciding."

"I have decided already, I thank you, sir—" He hesitated, hardly knowing what to say more.

"I hope it will prove that you will have good reason to thank me. Remember, Harry, whatever comes out of this, you left us with my full and entire confidence. I do not believe I shall have cause to regret it, or that you will fail me or disappoint me."

Harry grasped the hand held out to him without a word, but inwardly he vowed, that come what might, the confidence so generously expressed should never, for good cause, be withdrawn.

And so the decision was made. After this the preparations did not occupy a long time. The second day found Harry ready for departure.

"Graeme," said Harry, "I cannot be content to take away with me such a melancholy remembrance of your face. I shall begin to think you are not willing that I should go after all."

"You need not think so, Harry. I am sure it is best since you are determined. But I cannot but look melancholy at the necessity. You would not have me look joyful, when I am going to lose my brother?"

"No—if that were all. But you have often said how impossible it was that we should always keep together. It is only what we have been expecting, and we might have parted in much more trying circumstances. I shall be home often—once a year at the least; perhaps oftener."

"Yes, dear, I know."

"Well, then, I think there is no cause for grief in my going, even if I were worthy of it, which I very much doubt."

Graeme's face did not brighten. In a little while her tears were falling fast.

"Graeme, what is it? There is some other reason for your tears, besides my going away. You do not trust me, Graeme, you are afraid."

Graeme made an effort to quiet herself.

"Yes, Harry, I am a little afraid, since you give me the opportunity to say so. You have hardly been our own Harry for a while, as you know, dear. And what will you be when you are far from us all? I am afraid to let you go from me, Harry, far more afraid than I should be for Will."

Harry rose and walked about a while, with an air that seemed to be indignant; but if he was angry, he thought better of it, and in a little he came and sat down beside his sister again.

"I wish I could make you quite satisfied about me, Graeme."

"I wish you could, dear. I will try to be so. I daresay you think me unreasonable, Harry. I know I am tired, and foolish, and all wrong," said she, trying in vain to keep back her tears.

"You look at this moment as though you had very little hope in anything," said Harry, with a touch of bitterness.

"Do I? Well, I am all wrong, I know. There ought to be hope and comfort too, if I sought them right. I will try to leave you in God's keeping, Harry, the keeping of our father's and our mother's God."

Harry threw himself on his knees beside her.

"Graeme, you are making yourself unhappy without cause. If you only knew! Such things are thought nothing of. If I disgraced myself the other night, there are few young men of our acquaintance who are not disgraced."

Graeme put her hand upon his lips.

"But, Graeme, it is true. I must speak, I can't bear to have you fretting, when there is no cause. Even Allan Ruthven thought nothing of it, at least, he—"

"Hush, Harry, you do not need Mr Ruthven to be a conscience to you. And it is not of the past I am thinking, but the future! How can I bear to think of you going the way so many have gone, knowing the danger all the greater because you feel yourself so safe. I am afraid for you, Harry."

It was useless to speak, she knew that quite well. The words of another can never make danger real, to those who are assailed with poor Harry's temptation. So she shut her lips close, as he rose from her side, and sat in silence; while he walked up and down the room. By and by he came back to her side, again.

"Graeme," said he, gravely. "Indeed, you may trust me. The shame of that night shall never be renewed. You shall never have the same cause to be sorry for me, or ashamed of me again."

She put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down on his shoulder, but she did not speak. It was not that she was altogether hopeless about her brother, but Harry understood it so.

"Graeme, what shall I say to you? How shall I give you courage—faith to trust me? Graeme, I promise, that till I see you again I shall not taste nor touch that which so degraded me in your eyes. I solemnly promise before God, Graeme."

"Harry," said his sister, "it is a vow—an oath, that you have taken."

"Yes, and it shall be kept as such. Do you trust me, Graeme? Give me that comfort before I go away."

"I trust you, Harry," was all she had voice to say. She clasped him and kissed him, and by and by she prayed God to bless him, in words such as his mother might have used. And Harry vowed, with God's help, to be true to himself and her. He did not speak the words again, but none the less was the vow registered in Heaven.

That was the real farewell between the brother and sister. Next morning there was little said by any one, and not a word by Graeme, but the last glimpse Harry had of home, showed his eldest sister's face smiling and hopeful, saying as plainly as her words had said before,—

"Harry, I trust you quite."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

The brilliant sunlight of a September morning was shining full into the little breakfast-room, where Graeme sat at the head of the table, awaiting the coming of the rest. The morning paper was near her, but she was not reading; her hands were clasped and rested on the table, and she was looking straight before her, seeing, probably, further than the pale green wall, on which the sunshine fell so pleasantly. She was grave and quiet, but not in the least sad. Indeed, more than once, as the voices of Rose and Arthur came sounding down-stairs, a smile of unmistakable cheerfulness overspread her face. Presently, Arthur entered, and Graeme made a movement among her cups and saucers.

"Your trip has done you good, Graeme," said Arthur, as he sat down opposite to her.

"Yes, indeed. There is nothing like the sea-breezes, to freshen one. I hardly know myself for the tired, exhausted creature you sent away in June."

Graeme, Rose, and Will, had passed the summer at Cacouna. Nelly had gone with them as housekeeper, and Arthur had shut the house, and taken lodgings a little out of town for the summer.

"I am only afraid," added Graeme, "that all our pleasure has been at the expense of some discomfort to you."

"By no means, a change is agreeable. I have enjoyed the summer very much. I am glad to get home again, however."

"Yes, a change does one good. If I was only quite at ease about one thing, we might have gone to Merleville, instead of Cacouna, and that would have given Janet and a good many others pleasure."

"Oh! I don't know," said Arthur. "The good people there must have forgotten us by this time, I fancy. There are no sea-breezes there, and they were what you needed."

"Arthur! Janet forgotten us! Never, I am quite sure of that. But at the time it seemed impossible to go, to make the effort, I mean. I quite shrunk from the thought of Merleville. Indeed, if you had not been firm, I fear I should not have had the sea-breezes."

"Yes. You owe me thanks. You needed the change. What with Will's illness, and Harry's going away, and one thing and another; you were quite in need of a change."

"I was not well, certainly," said Graeme. "Will has gone to the post, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Rose, who entered at the moment. "I see him coming up the street."

"As for Rosie," said Arthur, looking at her gravely, as she sat down. "She has utterly ruined her complexion. Such freckles! such sunburning! and how stout she has grown!"

Rose laughed.

"Yes, I know I'm a fright. You must bring me something, Arthur. Toilette vinegar, or something."

"Oh! it would not signify. You are quite beyond all that."

"Here comes Will, with a letter for each of us, I declare."

Arthur's letter was soon despatched, a mere business missive. Graeme's was laid down beside her, while she poured Will's coffee. Rose read hers at once, and before she was well down the first page, she uttered a cry of delight.

"Listen all. No, I won't read it just yet. Arthur, don't you remember a conversation that you and I had together, soon after Sandy was here?"

"Conversation," repeated Arthur. "We have talked, that is, you have talked, and I have listened, but as to conversation:—"

"But Arthur, don't you remember saying something about Emily, and I did not agree with you?"

"I have said a great many times, that I thought Emily a very pretty little creature. If you don't agree, it shows bad taste."

"I quite agree. I think her beautiful. She is not very little, however. She is nearly as tall as I am."

"What is it, Rose?" asked Graeme, stretching out her hand for the letter.

"You'll spoil your news, with your long preface," said Will.

"No, but I want Arthur to confess that I am wisest."

"Oh! I can do that, of course, as regards matters in general; but I should like to hear of this particular case."

"Well, don't you remember saying that you did not think Sandy and Emily would ever fall in love?"

"I remember no such assertion, on my part. On the contrary, I remember feeling pretty certain that the mischief was done already, as far as Sandy was concerned, poor fellow; and I remember saying, much to your indignation, more's the pity."

"Yes; and I remember you said it would be just like a sentimental little blue, like Emily, to slight the handsome, hearty young farmer, and marry some pale-faced Yankee professor."

"You put the case a little strongly, perhaps," said Arthur, laughing. "But, on the whole, that is the way the matter stood. That was my opinion, I confess."

"And they are going to be married!" exclaimed Graeme and Will in a breath. "How glad Janet will be!"

"Emily does not say so, in so many words. It won't be for a long time yet, they are so young. But I am to be bridesmaid when the time comes."

"Well, if that is not saying it!" said Will laughing. "What would you have, Rosie?"

Graeme opened and read her letter, and laid it down beside her, looking a little pale and anxious.

"What is it, Graeme? Nothing wrong, I hope."

"No; I hope not. I don't know, I am sure. Norman says he is going to be married."

"Married!" cried Rose and Will.

"To Hilda?" said Arthur.

"Yes; but how could you have guessed?" said Graeme, bewildered.

"I did not guess. I saw it. Why it was quite easy to be seen that events have been tending toward it all these years. It is all very fine, this brother and sister intercourse; but I have been quite sure about them since Harry wrote about them."

"Well, Norman seems surprised, if you are not. He says, 'You will be very much astonished at all this; but you cannot be more astonished than I was myself. I did not think of such a thing; at least, I did not know that I was thinking of such a thing till young Conway, my friend, asked permission to address my sister. I was very indignant, though, at first, I did not, in the least, know why. However, Hilda helped me to find out all about it. At first I meant she should spend the winter with you all I want very much that you should know each other. But, on the whole, I think I can't spare her quite so long. Expect to see us therefore in November—one flesh!'" There was much more.

"Well done, Norman!" cried Arthur. "But, Graeme, I don't see what there is to look grave about. She seems to be a nice little thing, and Norman ought to know his own mind by this time."

"She's a great deal more than a nice little thing," said Graeme earnestly. "If one can judge by her letters and by Harry's description of her—to say nothing of Norman's opinion—she must be a very superior person, and good and amiable besides. But it seems so strange, so sudden. Why, it seems only the other day since Norman was such a mere boy. I wish she could have passed the winter with us. I think, perhaps, I should write and say so."

"Yes, if you like. But Norman must judge. I think it is the wisest thing for him. He will have a settled home."

"I do believe it is," said Graeme, earnestly. "I am very glad—or I shall be in a little. But, just at first, it seems a little as though Norman would not be quite so much one of us—you know—and besides there really is something odd in the idea of Norman's being married; now, is there not?"

"I confess I fail to see it," said Arthur, a little sharply. Graeme had hardly time to notice his tone. An exclamation from Will startled her.

"What is it, Will?" said Rose: "Another wedding?"

"You'll never guess, Rosie. Never. You need not try."

"Is it Harry this time?" said Arthur, looking in from the hall with his hat on.

"No. Listen, Arthur! Harry says, 'What is this that Mr Green has been telling me about Arthur and little Miss Grove? I was greatly amused at the idea their mutual admiration. Mr Green assures me that he has the best authority for saying that Arthur is to carry off the heiress. Charlie, too, has hinted something of the same kind. Tell Graeme, when that happens, I shall expect her to come and keep my house.'"

"They said Mr Green was going to carry off the heiress himself!" exclaimed Rose.

"Listen!" continued Will. "'Unless, indeed, Graeme should make up her mind to smile on Mr Green and take possession of the "palatial residence," of which he has just laid the foundation near C—-.'"

"Here is a bit for you, Graeme. Nobody is to be left out, it seems. It will be your turn next, Rosie," said Arthur, as he went away laughing.

"But that is all nonsense about Arthur and little Miss Grove?" said Rose, half questioningly.

"I should think so, indeed! Fancy Arthur coming to that fate," said Graeme. "That would be too absurd."

And yet the thought came uncalled several times that day, and her repetitions of "too absurd," became very energetic in her attempts to drive it quite away. The thought was unpleasantly recalled to her when, a day or two after, she saw her brother, standing beside the Grove carriage, apparently so interested in his conversation with the pretty Fanny that she and Rose passed quite close to them unobserved. It was recalled more unpleasantly still, by the obliging care of Mrs Gridley, who was one of their first visitors after their return. The Grove carriage passed as she sat with them, and, nodding significantly toward it, she said:

"I don't know whether I ought to congratulate you or sympathise with you."

Graeme laughed, but she was very much afraid she changed colour, too, as she answered:

"There is no haste. When you make up your mind as to which will be most appropriate, you will be in time."

"Ah! you are not to commit yourself, I see. Well, you are quite right. She is a harmless little person, I believe, and may turn out very well if withdrawn from the influence of her stepmother."

Something in Graeme's manner stopped the voluble lady more effectually than words could have done, and a rather abrupt turn was given to the conversation. But Graeme could not forget it. Not that she believed in the truth of what Mrs Gridley had hinted at, yet she could not help being annoyed at it. It was rather foolish, she thought, for Arthur to give occasion for such gossip. It was so unlike him, too. And yet so little was enough to raise a rumour like that, especially with so kind a friend as Mrs Gridley to keep the ball rolling. Very likely Arthur knew nothing at all about this rumour, and, as the thought passed through her mind, Graeme determined to tell him about it.

But she did not; she could not do so—though why she could not was a mystery to herself. Sometimes she fancied there was that in Arthur's manner which prevented her from pursuing the subject, when an opportunity seemed to offer. When he was not there, she was quite sure it was only her own fancy, but no sooner was the name of Grove mentioned; than the fancy returned, till the very sight of the Grove carriage made her uncomfortable at last, especially if the lady of the mansion was in it. She never failed to lean forward and bow to them with the greatest interest and politeness; and more than once Graeme was left standing looking in at a shop-window, while Arthur obeyed the beckoning hand of the lady, and went to speak to her. Sometimes the pretty Fanny was there; sometimes she was not. But her absence did not set Graeme's uncomfortable feelings at rest with regard to her brother.

And yet, why should she be uncomfortable? she asked herself, a thousand times. What right had she to interfere, even in thought, with her brother's friendship? If he admired Miss Grove, if even he were attached to her, or engaged to her, it was nothing with which she could interfere—nothing to which she could even allude—until he should speak first. But then, of course, that was quite absurd! Miss Grove, though very pretty, and the daughter of a man who was reported to be rich, was no more worthy to be Arthur's wife—than—

Oh! of course it was all nonsense. No one had ever heard three words of common sense from those pretty lips. She had heard Arthur say as much as that himself. Miss Grove could dance and flirt and sing a little; that was all that could be said for her, and to suppose that Arthur would ever—

And yet Graeme grew a little indignant standing there looking at, but scarcely seeing the beautiful things in Savage's window, and she inwardly resolved that never again should she wait for the convenience of the free-and-easy occupant of the carriage standing a few doors down the street. She had time to go over the same thoughts a good many times, and the conclusion always was that it was exceedingly impertinent of Mrs Grove, and exceedingly foolish of Arthur, and exceedingly disagreeable to herself, before she was recalled by her brother's voice from her enforced contemplation of the beautiful things before her.

"Mrs Grove wanted to speak to you, Graeme," said he, with a little embarrassment.

"I could hardly be expected to know that by intuition," said Graeme, coldly.

"She beckoned. Did you not see?"

"She beckoned to you; she would hardly venture on such a liberty with me. There is not the slightest approach to intimacy between us, and never will be, unless I have greatly mistaken her character."

"Oh, well, you may very easily have done that, you know very little about her. She thinks very highly of you, I can assure you."

"Stuff!" pronounced Graeme, with such emphasis that she startled herself, and provoked a hearty laugh from her brother.

"I declare, Graeme, I thought for the moment it was Harry that spoke for Mrs Gridley in one of her least tolerant moods. It did not sound the least like you."

Graeme laughed, too.

"Well, I was thinking of Harry at the minute, and as for Mrs Gridley—I didn't mean to be cross, Arthur, but something disagreeable that she once said to me did come into my mind at the moment, I must confess."

"Well, I wish you a more pleasant subject for meditation on your way home," said Arthur. "Wait till I see if there are any letters. None, I believe. Good-bye."

Mrs Gridley did not occupy Graeme's thoughts on her way home, yet they were not very pleasant. All the way along the sunny streets she was repeating to herself, "so absurd", "so foolish", "so impertinent of Mrs Grove", "so disagreeable to be made the subject of gossip," and so on, over and over again, till the sight of the obnoxious carriage gave her a fresh start again. The lady did not beckon this time, she only bowed and smiled most sweetly. But her smiles did not soothe Graeme's ruffled temper, and she reached home at last quite ashamed of her folly. For, after all, it was far less disagreeable to call herself silly than to call Arthur foolish, and Mrs Grove impertinent, and she would not think about it any more. So she said, and so she repeated, still thinking about it more than was either pleasant or needful.

One night, Charlie Millar paid them a visit. He made no secret of his delight at their return home, declaring that he had not known what to do with himself in their absence, and that he had not been quite content or at his ease since he sat in Graeme's arm-chair three months ago.

"One would not think so from the visits you have made us since we came home," said Graeme, smiling. "You have only looked in upon us. We were thinking you had forsaken us, or that you had found a more comfortable arm-chair, at a pleasanter fireside."

"Business, business," repeated Charlie, gravely. "I assure you that Harry out there, and I here, have had all that we have been able to attend to during the last three months. It is only to the unexpected delay of the steamer that I owe the leisure of this evening."

"You expect us to believe all that, I suppose," said Graeme, laughing.

"Indeed, you may believe me, Miss Elliott. It is quite true. I can't understand how it is that my wise brother can stay away so long just now. If he does not know how much he is needed it is not for want of telling, I assure you."

"You hear often from him, I suppose?"

"Yes. I had a note from Lilias the other day, in a letter I got from my mother. She sent 'kind regards' to the Misses Elliott, which I take the present opportunity of delivering."

"Business having hitherto prevented," said Rose.

"You don't seem to have faith in my business engagements, Miss Rose; but I assure you that Harry and I deserve great credit for having carried on the business so successfully for the last three months."

"Where is Mr Gilchrist?" asked Arthur.

"Oh, he's here, there, and everywhere. But Mr Gilchrist is an 'old fogey,' and he has not helped but hindered matters, now and then. It is not easy getting on with those slow-going, obstinate old gentlemen; I can't understand how Allan used to manage him so well. However, he had unbounded confidence in Allan's powers, and let him do as he pleased."

"And the obstinate old gentleman has not unbounded confidence in the powers of you and Harry?" said Arthur, laughing. "Upon the whole I think, in the absence of your brother, it is as well, that you two lads should have some check upon you, now and then."

"Not at all, I assure you," said Charlie. "As for Harry—Miss Elliott, I wish I could tell you half the kind things I hear about Harry from our correspondents out there."

Graeme smiled brightly. She was permitting herself to rely entirely upon Harry now.

"But, Charlie," said Will from his corner, "what is this nonsense you have been telling Harry about Arthur and the beautiful Miss Grove?"

Charlie started and coloured, and so did Graeme, and both glanced hastily at Arthur, who neither started nor coloured, as Graeme was very glad to perceive.

"Nonsense!" said Charlie, with a great show of astonishment and indignation. "I don't understand you, Will."

"Will," said Rose, laughing, "you are mistaken. It was Mr Green who had been hinting to Harry something you remember; you read it to us the other morning."

"Yes, but Harry said that Charlie had been saying something of the same kind," persisted simple Will, who never dreamed of making any one feel uncomfortable.

"Hinting!" repeated Charlie. "I never hint. I leave that to Mrs Gridley and her set. I think I must have told Harry that I had seen Arthur in the Grove carriage one morning, and another day standing beside it talking to Miss Fanny, while her mamma was in ordering nice things at Alexander's."

Graeme laughed, she could not help it.

"Oh, that terrible carriage!" said Rose.

"A very comfortable and convenient carriage I found it, many a time, when I was staying at Mrs Smith's," said Arthur, coolly. "Mrs Grove was so polite as to invite me to take a seat in it more than once, and much obliged I was to her, some of those warm August mornings."

"So you see, Will," said Charlie, triumphantly, "I was telling Harry the simple truth, and he was mean to accuse me of hinting 'nonsense,' as you call it."

"I suppose that is what Mrs Gridley meant the other day when she nodded so significantly toward the Grove carriage, and asked whether she was to congratulate us."

Rose spoke with a little hesitation. She was not sure that her brother would be quite pleased by Mrs Gridley's congratulations, and he was not.

"Oh! if we are to have Mrs Gridley's kind concern and interest in our affairs, we shall advance rapidly," said he, a little crossly. "It would of course be very desirable to discuss our affairs with that prudent and charitable lady."

"But as I did not suppose there was on that occasion any matters to discuss there was no discussion," said Graeme, by no means unwilling that her brother should see that she was not pleased by his manner and tone to Rose.

"Oh! never mind, Graeme," said Rose, laughing, "we shall have another chance of being congratulated, and I only hope Arthur may be here himself. Mrs Gridley was passing when the Grove carriage stood at our door this morning. I saw her while I was coming up the street. She will be here in a day or two to offer again her congratulations or her sympathy."

"Was Mrs Grove here this morning?" enquired Arthur. "She must have given you her own message then, I suppose."

"She was at the door, but she did not get in. I was out, and Graeme was busy, and sent her word that she was engaged."

"Yes," said Graeme, "I was helping Nelly, and I was in my old blue wrapper."

"Now, Graeme," said Will, "that is not the least like you. What about a wrapper?"

"Nothing, of course. But a call at that hour is not at all times convenient, unless from once intimate friends, and we are not intimate."

"But perhaps she designs to honour you with her intimate friendship," said Charlie.

Graeme laughed.

"I am very much obliged to her. But I think we could each make a happier choice of friends."

"She is a very clever woman, though, let me tell you," said Arthur; "and she can make herself very agreeable, too, when she chooses."

"Well, I cannot imagine ever being charmed by her," said Graeme, hastily. "There is something—a feeling that she is not sincere—that would spoil all her attempts at being agreeable, as far as I am concerned."

"Smooth and false," said Charlie.

"No, Charlie. You are much too severe," said Arthur. "Graeme's idea of insincerity is better, though very severe for her. And, after all, I don't think that she is consciously insincere. I can scarcely tell what it is that makes the dear lady other than admirable. I think it must be her taste for management, as Miss Fanny calls it. She does not seem to be able to go straight to any point, but plans and arranges, and thinks herself very clever when she succeeds in making people do as she wishes, when in nine cases out of ten, she would have succeeded quite as well by simply expressing her desires. After all, her manoeuvring is very transparent, and therefore very harmless."

"Transparent! Harmless!" repeated Charlie. "You must excuse me if I say I think you do the lady's talents great injustice. Not that I have any personal knowledge of the matter, however: and if I were to repeat the current reports, Miss Elliott would call them gossip and repudiate them, and me too, perhaps. She has the reputation of having the 'wisdom of the serpent;' the slyness of the cat, I think."

They all laughed, for Charlie had warmed as he went on.

"I am sure it must be very uncomfortable to have anything to do with such a person," said Rose. "I should feel as though I must be always on the watch for something unexpected."

"To be always on the watch for something unexpected, would be rather uncomfortable—'for a continuance,' as Janet would say. But I don't see the necessity of that with Mrs Grove. I think it must be rather agreeable to have everything arranged for one, with no trouble. You should hear Miss Fanny, when in some difficult conjunction of circumstances—she resigns herself to superior guidance. 'Mamma will manage it.' Certainly she does manage some difficult matters."

There was the faintest echo of mimicry in Arthur's tone, as he repeated Miss Fanny's words, which Graeme was quite ashamed of being glad to hear.

"It was very stupid of me, to be sure! Such folly to suppose that Arthur would fall into that shallow woman's snares. No; Arthur's wife must be a very different woman from pretty little Fanny Grove. I wish I knew anyone good enough and lovely enough for him. But there is no haste about it. Ah, me! Changes will come soon enough, we need not seek to hasten them. And yet, we need not fear them whatever they may be. I am very sure of that. But I am very glad that there is no harm done."

And yet, the harm that Graeme so much dreaded, was done before three months were over. Before that time she had it from Arthur's own lips, that he had engaged himself to Fanny Grove; one who, to his sisters, seemed altogether unworthy of him. She never quite knew how to receive his announcement, but she was conscious at the time of feeling thankful; and she was ever afterwards thankful, that she had not heard it a day sooner, to mar the pleasure of the last few hours of Norman's stay.

For Norman came with his bride even sooner than they had expected. Graeme was not disappointed in her new sister, and that is saying much, for her expectations had been highly raised. She had expected to find her an intellectual and self-reliant woman, but she had not expected to see so charming and lovable a little lady. They all loved her dearly from the very first; and Graeme satisfied Norman by her unfeigned delight in her new sister, who was frank, and natural and childlike, and yet so amiable and wise as well.

And Graeme rejoiced over Norman even more than over Hilda. He was just what she had always hoped he might become. Contact with the world had not spoiled him. He was the same Norman; perhaps a little graver than he used to be in the old times, but in all things true, and frank, and earnest, as the Merleville school-boy had been.

How they lived over those old times! There was sadness in the pleasure, for Norman had never seen the two graves in that quiet church-yard; and the names of the dead were spoken softly. But the bitterness of their grief had long been past, and they could speak cheerfully and hopefully now.

There was a great deal of enjoyment crowded into the few weeks of their stay. "If Harry were only here!" was said many times. But Harry was well, and well content to be where he was, and his coming home was a pleasure which lay not very far before them. Their visit came to an end too soon for them all; but Norman was a busy man, and they were to go home by Merleville, for Norman declared he should not feel quite assured of the excellence of his wife till Janet had pronounced upon her. Graeme was strongly tempted to yield to their persuasions, and go to Merleville with them; but her long absence during the summer, and the hope that they might go to Emily's wedding soon, decided her to remain at home.

Yes; they had enjoyed a few weeks of great happiness; and the very day of their departure brought upon Graeme the pain which she had almost ceased to fear. Arthur told her of his engagement to Miss Grove. His story was very short, and it was told with more shamefacedness than was at all natural for a triumphant lover. It did not matter much, however, as there was no one to take note of the circumstances. From the first shock of astonishment and pain which his announcement gave her, Graeme roused herself to hear her brother say eagerly, even a little impatiently—

"Of course, this will make no difference with us at home? You will never think of going away because of this, Rose and you?"

By a great effort Graeme forced herself to speak—

"Of course not, Arthur. What difference could it make? Where could we go?"

When Arthur spoke again, which he did not do for a moment, his tone showed how much he was relieved by his sister's words. It was very gentle and tender too, Graeme noticed.