"Found!" interrupted a well-known voice; and at the same moment Edward Lynne shook a shower of perfumed hawthorn blossoms from the scattered hedge which he struggled through; and repeating "Found!" in his full echoing voice, stood panting before the startled girls. "I have had such a hunt!" he exclaimed joyfully—"such a hunt for you, Helen! I have been over Woodland brook, and up as far as Fairmill, where you said you would be—oh, you truant! And I doubt if I should have caught you at last, but for poor Dash"—and the sagacious dog sprung about, as if conscious that he deserved a large portion of the praise. Rose was astonished at the perfect self-possession with which, after the first flush of surprise, Helen received her lover. Nor was poor Rose unconscious that she herself occupied no portion of his attention beyond the glance of recognition which he cast while throwing himself on the sward at Helen's feet.

"We must go home," said the triumphant beauty, after hearing a few of those half-whispered nothings which are considered of such importance in a lover's calendar; "the dew is falling, and I may catch cold."

"The dew falling!" repeated Edward.—"Why, look, the sky is still golden from the sun's rays; do not—do not, dearest Helen, go home yet. Besides," he added, "your grandmother has plenty of employment; there is Mrs. Howard's companion, and one or two strangers from the hall, at your cottage—so she is not at all lonesome."

"Who did you say?" inquired Helen, eagerly, now really losing her self-command.

"Oh, some of Mrs. Howard's fine friends. I never," he continued, "see those sort of people in an humble village, without thinking of the story of the agitation of all the little hedgerow birds, when they first saw a paroquet amongst them, and began longing for his gay feathers. Do not go, dear Helen—they will soon be gone; and I do so want you to walk as far as Fairmill Lawn. I have planted with my own hands this morning the silver firs you said you admired, just where the bank juts over the stream. Do come."

"Rose will go, and tell me all about it, but I must get home. Granny cannot do without me; besides, Mrs. Howard is so kind to me, that I cannot suffer her friends to be neglected. Nay, Edward, you may look as you please, but I certainly shall go." Edward Lynne remonstrated, implored, and, finally, flew into a passion. At any other time Helen's proud spirit would have risen so as to meet this outburst of temper with one to the full as violent; but the knowledge of what had grown to maturity in her own mind, and the presence of Rose, restrained her, and she continued to walk home without reply.

"And I shall go also," he said, bitterly, "but not with you." Even at that moment Helen Marsh exulted in her own mind to find his words and his steps at variance; he was still by her side. The most perilous of all triumphs is the knowledge of possessing power over the affections of our fellow creatures; it is so especially intoxicating to women as to be greatly dangerous, and those who do not abuse such power deserve much praise. Rose walked timidly behind them, wondering how Helen could have imagined any alliance in the world more brilliant—but no, that was not the idea—any alliance in the world so happy as that with Edward Lynne must be. When they reached the commencement of the village, Edward said, for the fifth or sixth time, "Then you will go, Helen?"

"Certainly."

"Very well, Helen. Good evening."

"Good evening, Edward," was the cool reply. Not one word of adieu did he bestow on Rose as he dashed into another path; while his dog stood for a moment, uncertain as to whether his master would return or not, and then rapidly followed.

"Oh, Helen! what have you done?" murmured Rose. Helen replied by one of those low murmuring laughs which sound like the very melody of love; and the two girls, in a few moments more, were in their own cottage, where Rose saw that evening, for the first time, the gentleman whom Helen had declared she did not prefer to Edward, though she would rather marry him.



CHAPTER III.

I think I have said before that the most trying and dangerous position a young woman can occupy, is that where her station is not defined—where she considers herself above the industrious classes by whom she is surrounded—and where those with whom her tastes and habits assimilate, consider her greatly beneath them. Superficial observers (and the great mass of human beings are nothing more) invariably look for happiness in the class one or two degrees above their own. They would consider themselves absurd if they at once set their minds upon being dukes and princes; they only want to be a little bit higher, only the smallest bit, and never for a moment look to what they call "beneath them" for happiness. This was particularly the case with these young girls. Their station was not defined, yet how different their practice! One was ambitious of the glittering tinsel of the world—the other, refined but not ambitious, sought her happiness in the proper exercise of the affections; neither could have described her particular feelings, but an accurate observer could not fail to do so for them. That night neither girl had courage to speak to the other on the occurrences of the past day, and yet each thought of nothing else. They knelt down, side by side, as they had done from infancy, repeating the usual prayers as they had been accustomed to do. Helen's voice did not falter, but continued its unvaried tone to the end: Rose (Helen thought) delivered the petition of "lead us not into temptation" with deeper feeling than usual; and instead of rising when Helen rose, and exchanging with her the kiss of sisterly affection, Rose buried her face in her hands; while her cousin, seated opposite the small glass which stood on their little dressing-table, commenced curling her hair, as if that day, which had completed a revolution in her way of thinking, had been as smooth as all the other days of her short calendar. The candle was extinguished, and Helen slept profoundly. The moon shone in brightly through the latticed window, whose leaden cross-bars chequered the sanded floor. Rose looked earnestly upon the face of the sleeper, and so bright it was, that she saw, or fancied she saw, a smile of triumph curling on her lip. She crept quietly out of bed, and leaned her throbbing temples against the cool glass. How deserted the long street of Abbeyweld appeared; the shadows of the opposite trees and houses lay prostrate across the road—the aspect of the village street was lonely, very lonely and sad—there was no hum from the school—no inquisitive eyes peeped from the casements—no echoing steps upon the neatly-gravelled footpath—the old elm-tree showed like a mighty giant, standing out against the clear calm sky—and there was one star, only one, sparkling amid its branches—a diamond of the heavens, shedding its brightness on the earth. The stillness was positively oppressive. Rose felt as if every time she inhaled the air, she disturbed the death-like quiet of the scene. A huge shadow passed along the ledge of the opposite cottage; her nerves were so unstrung that she started back as it advanced. It was only their own gentle cat, whose quick eye recognised its mistress, and without waiting for invitation, crawled quickly from its eminence, and came rubbing itself against the glass, and then moved stealthily away, intent upon the destruction of some unsuspicious creature, who, taught by nature, believes that with night comes safety.

Almost at the end of the street, the darkness was as it were divided by a ray of light, that neither flickered nor wavered. What a picture it brought at once before her!—the pale, lame grandchild of old Jenny Oram, watching by the dying bed of the only creature that had ever loved her—her poor deaf grandmother. And the girl's great trouble was, that the old woman could neither see to read the Word of God herself, nor hear her when she read it to her; but the lame girl had no time to waste with grief, so she plied her needle rapidly through the night-watches, not daring to shed a tear upon the work, or damp her needle with a sigh. Rose was not as sorry for her as she would have been at any other time, for individual sorrow has few sympathies; but the more she thought of the lonely lame girl, the less became her own trouble, and she might have gone to bed with the consciousness which, strange to say, brings consolation, that there was one very near more wretched than herself, had she not seen the form of Edward Lynne glide like a spectre from beneath the old elm-tree, and stand before the window. Rose retreated, but still observed him; the moon was shining on the window, so he must have seen the form, without, perhaps, being able to distinguish whose it was. Rose watched him until his silent death-like presence oppressed her heart and brain, and she closed her eyes to shut out what had become too painful to look upon. When she looked again, all was sleeping in the moonlight as before; but he was gone. At the same moment Helen turned restlessly on her pillow, and sobbed and muttered to herself. Rose felt that pillow wet with tears. "Helen!" she exclaimed; "Helen, dear Helen! awake! Awake, Helen!" Her cousin, at length aroused, flung her arms around her neck; and the proud lip which she had left curled with the consciousness of beauty and power, quivered and paled, while she sank awake and weeping on Rose's bosom.



CHAPTER IV.

Never had the bells of Abbeyweld, within the memory of living man—within the memory of old Mrs. Myles herself, and she was the oldest living woman in the parish—rung so merry a peal as on the morning that Helen Marsh was married to the handsome and Honourable Mr. Ivers. He was young as well as handsome—honourable both by name and nature—rich in possession and expectancy. On his part it was purely and entirely what is called a "love match"—one of the strangest of all strange things perpetrated by a young man of rank and fashion. His wealth and position in society enabled him to select for himself; and he did so, of course, to the disappointment of as many, or perhaps a greater number of mothers than daughters, inasmuch as it is the former whose speculations are the deepest laid and most dangerous in arts matrimonial.

Every body was astonished. Mrs. Howard—Helen's "kind friend"—Mrs. Howard, little short of distracted for three weeks at the very least, did nothing but exclaim, "Who would have thought it!" "Who, indeed!" was the reply, in various tones of sympathy, envy, and surprise. Poor Mrs. Howard, to the day of her death, never suffered another portionless beauty to enter her doors while even the shadow of an eldest son rested on its threshold. Mrs. Myles was of course in an ecstacy of delight; her prophecy was fulfilled. Helen, her Helen, was the honourable wife of a doubly honourable man. What triumphant glances did she cast over the railings of the communion-table at Mr. Stokes—with what an air she marched down the aisle—how patronising and condescending was her manner to those neighbours whom she considered her inferiors—how bitterly did she lament that the Honourable Mr. Ivers would not have any one to breakfast with them but Mr. Stokes—and how surpassingly, though silently, angry was she with Mr. Stokes for not glorying with her when the bride and bridegroom drove off in their "own carriage," leaving her in a state of prideful excitement, and Rose Dillon in a flood of tears.

"Well, sir!" exclaimed the old lady—"well, sir, you see it has turned out exactly as I said it would; there's station—there's happiness. Why, sir, if his brother dies without children, his own valet told me, Mr. Ivers would be a lord and Helen a lady. Didn't she look beautiful! Now, please, reverend sir, do speak, didn't she look beautiful?"

"She did."

"Ah! it's a great gift that beauty; though," she added, resorting to the strain of morality which persons of her character are apt to consider a salve for sin—"though it's all vanity, all vanity. 'Flesh is grass'—a beautiful text that was your reverence preached from last Sunday—'All flesh is grass.' Ah, well-a-day! so it is. We ought not to be puffed up or conceited—no, no. As I said to Mrs. Leicester, 'Don't be puffed up, my good woman, because your niece has what folk call a pretty face, nor don't expect that she's to make a good market of it—it's but skin deep; remember our good rector's sermon, 'All flesh is grass.'' Ah, deary me! people do need such putting in mind; and, if you believe me, sir, unless indeed it be Rose, poor child, who never had a bit of love in her head yet, I'll be bound every girl is looking above her station—there's a pity, sir. All are not born with a coach and horses; no, no;" and so, stimulated a little, perhaps, by a glass of real, not gooseberry, champagne, poor Mrs. Myles would have galloped on with a strange commentary upon her own conduct (of the motives to which she was perfectly ignorant,) had not the rector suddenly exclaimed, "Where is Rose?"

"Crying in her own room, I'll be bound; I'm sure she is. Why, Rose—and I really must get your reverence to speak to her, she is a sad girl—Rose Dillon, I say—so silent and homely-like—ah, dear! Why, granddaughter—now, is it not undutiful of her, good sir, when she knows how much I have suffered parting from my Helen. Rose Dillon!"

But Rose Dillon was not weeping in her room, nor did she hear her grandmother's voice when the carriage, that bore the bride to a new world, drove off. Rose ran down the garden, intending to keep the equipage in sight as long as it could be distinguished from an eminence that was called the Moat, and which commanded an extensive view of the high road. There was a good deal of brushwood creeping up the elevation, and at one side it was overshadowed by several tall trees; in itself it was a sweet, sequestered spot, a silent watching place. She could hardly hear the carriage wheels, though she saw it whirled along, just as it passed within sight of the tall trees. Helen's arm, with its glittering bracelet, waved an adieu; this little act of remembrance touched Rose, and, falling on her knees, she sobbed forth a prayer, earnest and heartfelt, for her cousin's happiness.

"God bless you, Rose!" exclaimed the trembling voice of the discarded lover, who, pale and wo-worn, had been unintentionally concealed among the trees—"God bless you, Rose!—that prayer has done me good. Amen to every word of it! She is quite, quite gone now—another's bride—the wife of a gentleman—and so best; the ambition which fits her for her present station unfitted her to be my wife. I say this, and think this—I know it! But though I do know it, her face—that face I loved from infancy, until it became a sin for me to love it longer—that face comes between me and reason, and its brightness destroys all that reason taught."

Rose could not trust herself to reply. She longed to speak to him, but she could not; she dared not. He continued—"Did she leave no message, speak no word, say nothing, to be said to me?"

"She said," replied her cousin, "that she hoped you would be happy; that you deserved to be so"—

"Deserved to be so!" he repeated bitterly; "and that was the reason why she made me miserable. Oh! the folly, the madness of the man who trusts to woman's love—to woman's faith! But the spell once broken, the charm once dispelled, that is enough!" And yet it was not enough, for Edward talked on, and more than once was interrupted by Rose, who, whenever she could vindicate her cousin, did so bravely and generously—not in a half-consenting, frigid manner, but as a true woman does when she defends a woman, as, if she be either good or wise, she will always do.

Rose did not know enough of human nature to understand that the more Edward complained of Helen's conduct and desertion, the less he really felt it; and the generous portion of his own nature sympathised with the very generosity which he argued against. He had found one, who while she listened sweetly and patiently to his complaints, vindicated, precisely as he would have desired, the idol of his heart's first love. What we love appears so entirely our own, that we question the right of others to blame it, whatever we may do ourselves. If he had known the deep, the treasured secret that poor Rose concealed within the sanctuary of her bosom, he would have wondered at the unostentatious generosity of her pure and simple nature.

"It is evident," said Rose Dillon to herself, when she bade Edward adieu; "it is quite evident he never will or can love another. Such affection is everlasting." How blind she was! "Poor fellow! he will either die in the flower of his age of a broken heart, or drag on a miserable existence! And if he does," questioned the maiden, "and if he does, what is that to me?" She did not, for a moment or two, trust herself to frame an answer, though the tell-tale blood, first mounting to and then receding from her cheek, replied; but then she began to calculate how long she had known Edward, and thought how very natural it was she should feel interested, deeply interested, in him. He had no sister; why should she not be to him a sister? Ah, Rose, Rose! that sisterly reasoning is of all others the most perilous.

Time passed on. The bride wrote a letter, which, in its tone and character, sounded pretty much like a long trumpet-note of exultation. Mrs. Myles declared it to be a dear letter, a charming letter, a most lady-like letter, and yet evidently she was not satisfied therewith. She read scraps of it to all the neighbours, and vaunted Mrs. Ivers, the Honourable Mrs. Ivers, up to the skies. Like all persons whose dignity and station are not the result of inheritance, in the next epistle she was even more anxious to impress her humble relatives with an idea of her consequence. Mingled with a few epithets of love, were a great many eulogiums on her new station. She was too honest to regret, even in seeming, the rural delights of the country, (for Helen could not stoop to deceit,) but she gave a list of titled visitors, and said she would write more at length, were it not that every spare moment was spent in qualifying herself to fill her station so as to do credit to her husband." This old Mrs. Myles could not understand; she considered Helen fit to be a queen, and said so.



CHAPTER V.

For more than two months, Rose and Edward did not meet again; for more than four after that, he never entered the cottage which had contained what he held most dear on earth; but one evening he called with Mr. Stokes. The good rector might have had his own reasons for bringing the young man to the cottage; but if he had he kept them to himself, the best way of rendering them effective.

After that, Edward often came, sometimes with a book from the rectory, sometimes with a newspaper for Mrs. Myles, sometimes to know if he could do anything for the old lady in the next town, where he was going, sometimes for one thing, sometimes for another, but always with some excuse, which Rose was happy to accept as the true one; satisfied that she could see him, hear him, know that he was there.

It so chanced that, calling one evening (evening calls are suspicious where young people are concerned,) Edward was told that Mrs. Myles had gone over to Lothery, the next post town, and that Miss Rose was out. The servant (ever since Helen's marriage, Mrs. Myles had thought it due to her dignity to employ such a person) said this with an air of mystery, and Edward inquired which way Miss Rose had walked. Indeed, she did not know.

Edward therefore trusted to chance, and he had not gone very far down a lane leading to the common of Abbeyweld, when he saw her seated under a tree (where heroines are surely found at some period or other of their life's eventful history) reading a letter. Of course he interrupted her, and then apologised.

"The letter," said Rose, frankly, "is from poor Helen."

"Why do you call her poor?" he inquired.

"Because she is very ill; and I am going to her to-morrow morning."

"Ill!—to-morrow!—so suddenly—so soon!" stammered Edward.

Rose turned homewards with an air of cold constraint. She could not attribute Edward's agitation to any other cause than his anxiety on Helen's account, and the conviction gave her intense pain.

"Stay, Rose," he said. Rose walked steadily forward. "There is," he continued bitterly, "a curse, a spell upon this place. Do you not remember that it was here—here, within five yards of where we stand—that she first—. But where's the use of thinking of that, or any thing else," he exclaimed with a sudden burst of passion, "where a woman is concerned? They are all, all alike, and I am a double fool! But go, Rose, go—enjoy her splendour, and lie in wait, as she did, for some rich idiot!"

It was now Rose's turn to interrupt. Turning upon Edward, with an expression of deeply insulted feeling, "Sir," she said; and before she proceeded the cold monosyllable had entered his heart; "Sir, my cousin Helen did not lie in wait; a woman's beauty may be called a snare, if you please, but it is not one of her own making; she was sought and won, and not by an idiot; and it is ungenerous in you to speak thus now, when time, and her being another's wife"—

Poor Rose had entered on perilous ground, and she felt it, and the feeling prevented her proceeding. She trembled violently; and if Edward could have seen her blanched cheek and quivering lip, he would have checked his impetuosity, and bitterly reproached himself for the rash words he had uttered. If he could but have known how devoutly the poor fond beating heart loved him at that moment, he would, rustic though he was, have fallen at her feet, and entreated her forgiveness. Doubtless it was better as it was, for if men could see into women's hearts, I very much fear their reliance on their own power would increase, and that would be neither pleasant nor profitable to themselves or others; the very existence of love often depends on its uncertainty. Some evil star at that moment shed its influence over them, for Edward Lynne, catching at Rose's words, answered,

"You need not, I assure you, entertain your cousin with an account of how I grieve; and remember, believe me, I take good care to prevent any woman's caprice from having power over me a second time."

"You do quite right," replied Rose—"quite right." They walked on together until they arrived within sight of the cottage door, but neither spoke.

"I have a great deal to do—much to prepare. I must wish you good-night. Good-bye, and a kinder—temper." She faltered.

"Going," said Edward—"going away in such haste; and to part thus. There must be some mistake. I have watched you narrowly, suspiciously, as men do who have been once deceived; and I have seen no trace of unwomanly ambition in you; I little thought you would, on the slightest hint, so willingly embrace the first opportunity of entering into the sphere I thought you dreaded—as I do."

"I told you Helen was ill."

"A megrim—a whim—a"—

"You do her wrong; she has been a mother, and her child is dead."

"A blow to her ambition," said Edward, so coldly that Rose (such is human nature) breathed more freely. Was it possible, then—could it be possible—that his feelings had been excited not by the remembrance of Helen, but the thought of her own departure? Yet still her simple sense of justice urged her to say, "Again you do her wrong; Helen has a great deal of feeling."

"For herself," he answered tersely, "I dare say she has."

"I did not think you could be so unjust and ungenerous," replied Rose; "but you are out of sorts to-night, and will be sorry before morning. You were always hasty, Edward. Good-night—good-bye."

"Good-bye, then, Rose—good-bye;" and without taking her hand, without one kind word, one sign of love, Edward Lynne rushed through the garden gate and disappeared.

Rose entered the little parlour, which of late had been well cared for. The old sofa, though as stiff and hard as ever, triumphed in green and yellow; and two cushions, with large yellow tassels, graced the ends, and a huge square ottoman, which every country visitor invariably tumbled over, stood exactly in front of the old seat. Upon this Rose flung herself, and, covering her face with her hands, bent down her head upon the stately seat. Her sobs were not loud but deep; and as she was dealing with feelings, and not with time, she had no idea how long she had remained in that state, until aroused by a voice, whose every tone sent the blood throbbing and tingling through her veins.

"Rose—dear Rose!"

Blushing—trembling—ashamed of an emotion she had not the power to control—Rose could not move, did not at all events, until Edward was on his knees beside her—until he had poured forth his affection—had assured her how completely she had possessed herself of his respect and admiration; that his feelings towards her not being of that passionate nature which distracted him with love for Helen, he had not truly felt her value until the idea of losing her for ever came upon him; that then he indeed felt as though all hope of happiness was to be taken away for ever—felt that he should lose a friend, one on whose principles and truth he could rely—felt that in her his all was concentrated. It is only those who, having loved long and hopelessly for years, find that love returned, and at the very moment when they were completely bowed down by the weight of disappointment, can understand what Rose experienced. She did not violate any of the laws of maiden modesty, because she was pure in heart and single of purpose; but she was too truthful to withhold the confession of her love, and too sincere to conceal her happiness.

"I will give you a promise; but receive none," said the generous lover. "I should be indeed miserable if I, for a moment, fancied you were controlled only by a promise. I rely upon you solely and entirely; no matter with what temptations you may be surrounded. If Helen is so much admired, you must be admired also; but I do not fear you will forget me; for now my only astonishment is how I could have preferred the spirit and power of the one to the tender and womanly grace of the other." In the midst of these effusions, so dear to lovers' hearts, Mrs. Myles entered. Many and many a time had she prayed that Edward Lynne might transfer his affections to Rose Dillon; it would be such "a capital match for her, poor thing." She would repeat to herself, "Yes, quite the thing for her, though, of course, for Helen I could not hear of it—yet quite the thing of all others for her." This frame of mind continued until the invitation arrived, and it was determined that Rose should visit her cousin. "It is," argued the good woman in her own way, "it is only to nurse her strong and well again, I dare say; but yet, who knows, she may see some one, or some one may see her? She certainly is a very pretty, modest-looking girl; and I have heard say that modest-looking girls are sometimes greatly admired among the grandees in fashionable places, because of their rarity. I shall certainly show the cold shoulder to Edward Lynne the next time he comes, and give him a hint as to the expectations I have for Rose. I must not suffer the poor child to throw herself away—oh no!—oh no! Edward Lynne is a very nice young man certainly; and if Rose had not been going to London"— She opened the parlour door as she so reasoned; and the peculiar expression which passed over the countenances of both, convinced her that every thing was proceeding in opposition to her "prudential motives." Edward frankly expounded all, to her entire dissatisfaction. "She did not," she said, "at all approve of engagements; she would not sanction any engagement except at the altar; she thought Mr. Lynne (Mr. Lynne! she had never in her life before called him any thing but "Ned") she thought he ought to have spoken to her first as became a gentleman." And Edward, provoked beyond bearing at what always upstirs a noble soul—mere worldly-mindedness—replied, "that he never professed to be a gentleman; he was, and ever would be, a farmer, and nothing more; and for all that, he thought a farmer—an honest, upright, English farmer—might have as correct ideas as to right and wrong as any gentleman." At this Mrs. Myles became very indignant; like the frog in the fable, she endeavoured to think herself an ox, and talked and looked magnificence itself, until at last she felt as if being her grand-children was enough to entitle Helen and Rose to sit before a queen. She talked of Edward,—his occupation, his barns, his cows, horses, and sheep—until Rose, all gentle as she was, roused, and said, that for herself she had no ambition beyond that of being the useful wife of an honest man; that Edward had honoured her, and, sorry as she should be to displease the only parent she had ever known, she had plighted her faith in the temple of her own heart to him—and as long as the plight was of value in his eyes, it could not be withdrawn. How truly did Edward Lynne feel that she indeed would be a crown of glory to his old age, as well as to his manhood's prime!

The scene—for there are "scenes" wherever human passion runs wild—ended by Mrs. Myles working herself into the belief that she was the most ill-used old lady in the British dominions. She commanded Edward from her presence; and though Rose wept and knelt at her feet, she refused to be pacified, declaring that if it had not been for the rheumatism, she would herself act as nurse to Helen, and not suffer so low-minded a creature as Rose Dillon to look on the splendour of her cousin's house. What she thought of that splendour, an extract from a letter—not the first or second—which replied to those she had received from Edward, will best tell:

"I have seen a great deal to astonish—every thing seems wonderful in London—only I wish the people seemed more really happy. I have been thinking that happiness is not a sudden thing like joy; it is more quiet—it takes time to be happy—and the people here have no time. In the midst of the gayest party, they do not suffer themselves to enjoy it, but keep hurrying on to the next. I remember when we were children, Helen and I, we have sat an hour over a bunch of wildflowers, yet not discovered half their beauties; surely excitement and happiness are not twin-born. Since Helen has been better, numbers of ladies have called, so beautifully dressed, and so gentle-mannered and reserved, one so very like the other, that they might have all been brought up at the same school. They never appear to confide in each other, but make a talk, after their own calm fashion, about small things. Still, when they talk, they do not say much, considering how highly bred they are. I have listened throughout an entire morning (a fashionable morning, Edward, does not begin until three o'clock in the afternoon), and really could not remember a single observation made by a drawing-room full of ladies. We could not talk ten minutes with dear Mr. Stokes, without hearing something that we could not help remembering all the days of our lives. It is wonderful how superior Helen is (I am not afraid to tell you so) to every one around her; there is a natural loftiness of mind and manner visible in her every movement, that carries off her want of those pretty accomplishments which the ladies value so highly. And then she is so beautiful, and her husband is so proud of having the handsomest woman in London for his wife; and one artist begs to model her ear, another her hand—you cannot think how fair and soft and 'do-nothing' it looks,—and as to her portraits, they are in all those pretty painted books which Mr. Stokes calls 'vanities.' There is a queer, quirky, little old gentleman who visits here, who said that Helen owed her great success in society to her 'tact.' Oh! Edward, she owes her sorrow to her ambition. Would you believe it possible that she, the beauty of Abbeyweld, who for so long a time seemed to us satisfied with that distinction, is not satisfied now. Why, there is not such an establishment, no, not at Mrs. Howard's, as that which she commands. Oh! Edward, to have once loved Helen, is to be interested for her always; there is something great in her very faults; there is nothing poor or low about her. That little cranky old gentleman said the other evening while looking at her, 'Miss Rose, a woman, to be happy, should either have no ambition, or an ambition beyond this world.' Do ask Dr. Stokes if that is true."



CHAPTER VI.

After she had been a little longer in town, Rose saw more clearly the workings of that ambition which had undermined her cousin's happiness. She saw where the canker ate and withered, but she did not know how it could be eradicated. Something which women understand, prevented her laying open the secrets of the house to Edward; and yet she desired counsel. Possessing much observation as to the workings of the human heart, she had but little knowledge as to how those feelings might be moulded for the best; and she naturally turned for advice, and with the faith of a Christian spirit, to the pastor who had instructed her youth. He had loved them both, and she longed for his counsel, in the—alas! vain—hope that she, a right-minded but simple girl—simple as regards the ambition of life's drama—might be able to turn her cousin from the unsatisfied, unsatisfying longings after place and station. The difference in their opinions was simply this—Rose thought that Helen possessed everything that Helen could desire, while Helen thought that Helen wanted all things.

It was morning—not the morning that Rose had described to her lover, but not more than seven o'clock—when Rose, who had been up late the previous night, was awoke by her cousin's maid. On entering Helen's dressing-room she found her already dressed, but so pale and distressed in her appearance, that she could hardly recognise the brilliant lawgiver of the evening's festivities in the pale, languid, feverish beauty that was seated at her desk.

"Dear Helen, you are weary; ill, perhaps," exclaimed her gentle cousin. "You have entered too soon into gay society, and you suffer for the public restraint in private."

Her cousin looked steadily in her face, and then smiled one of those bitter disdainful smiles which it is always painful to see upon a woman's lip.

"Sit down, Rose," she said; "sit down, and copy this letter. I have been writing all night, and yet cannot get a sufficient number finished in time, without your assistance."

Rose did as she was desired, and, to her astonishment, found that the letters were to the inhabitants of a borough, which Mr. Ivers had expressed his desire to represent. Rose wrote and wrote; but the longest task must have a termination. About one, the gentleman himself came into the room, and, as Rose thought, somewhat indifferently, expressed his surprise, that what he came to commence, was already finished. Still he chid his fair wife for an exertion which he feared might injure her health, and evinced the strongest desire to succeed in rescuing the people of L—— from the power of a party to which he was opposed; hinting, at the same time, that the contest would drain his purse and many of his resources.

"And let it," exclaimed Helen, when he left the room, "let it. I care not for that, but I will overturn every thing that interposes between me and the desire I have to humble the wife of the present representative. Look, I would hold this hand in the fire, ay, and suffer it to smoulder into ashes, to punish the woman who called me a proud parvenue! She did so before I had been a week in London. Her cold calm face has been a curse to me ever since. She has stood, the destroying angel, at the gate of my paradise, poisoning every enjoyment. Let me but humble her," she continued, rising proudly from the sofa upon which she had been resting; "let me but humble her, and I shall feel a triumphant woman! For that I have watched and waited; anxiety for that caused me the loss of my child; but if Ivers succeeds, I shall be repaid."

Rose shuddered. Was it really true, that having achieved the wealth, the distinction she panted for, she was still anxious to mount higher? Was it possible that wealth, station, general admiration, and the devoted affection of a tender husband did not satisfy the humbly-born beauty of an obscure English village? Again Helen spoke; she told how she had at last succeeded in rousing her husband to exertion—how, with an art worthy a better cause, she had persuaded him that his country demanded his assistance—how he had been led almost to believe that the safety of England was in the hands of the freeholders of L——; and then she pictured her own triumph, as the wife of the successful candidate, over the woman who had called her a parvenue. "And, after all," murmured poor Rose, "and after all, dear Helen, you are really unhappy."

"Miserable!" was the reply—"no creature was ever so perfectly miserable as I am! The one drop of poison has poisoned the whole cup. What to me was all this grandeur, when I felt that that woman looked down upon me, and induced others to do the same; that though I was with them, I was not of them; and all through her means. Ivers could not understand my feeling; and, besides, I dare not let him know what had been said by one of his own clique, lest he should become inoculated by the same feeling."

"Another fruit," thought Rose Dillon, "of the evil which attends unequal marriages."

"But my triumph will come!" she repeated; "Ivers must carry all before him; and who knows what may follow?"

"Still unsatisfied!" thought Rose, as she wandered through the splendid rooms and inhaled the perfume of the most expensive exotics, and gazed upon beautiful pictures, and listened to the roll of carriages, and heard the kind fond voice of Helen's devoted husband urging the physician, who made his daily calls, to pay his wife the greatest attention. "Still unsatisfied!" she repeated; and then she thought of one of Edward's homely but wise proverbs—"All is not gold that glitters;" and she thought how quite as beautiful, and more varied by the rich variety of nature, was the prospect from the parlour-window of the farm-house, that was to be her own. "And woodbine, roses, and mignonette breathe as sweet odours as exotics, and belong of right to the cottages of England. Ah!" continued the right-minded girl, "better is a little and content therewith, than all the riches of wealth and art without it. If her ambition had even a great object I could forgive her; but all this for the littleness of society." This train of thought led her back to the days of their girlhood, and she remembered how the same desire to outshine manifested itself in Helen's childhood. If Mr. Stokes had been there he could have told her of the pink gingham, with her grandmother's injudicious remark thereupon—"Be content with the pink gingham now, Helen—the time will come when you shall have a better;" instead of—"Be always content, Helen, with what befits your sphere of life."

That day was an eventful one to Rose. In the evening she was seated opposite the window, observing the lamplighter flying along with his ladder and his link through the increasing fog, and wondering why the dinner was delayed so much beyond the usual hour—when the little old cranky gentleman, whose keen and clever observations had given Rose a very good idea of his head, and a very bad one of his heart, stood beside her. In a few brief words he explained, that seeing she was different to London ladies, he had come to the determination of making her his wife. He did not seem to apprehend any objection on her part to this arrangement; but having concluded the business in as few words as possible, stood, with his hands behind him, very much as if he expected the lady he addressed to express her gratitude, and suffer him to name the day. Firmly and respectfully Rose declined the honour, declaring "she had no heart to give," and adding a few civil words of thanks to the old gentleman, who would have evinced more sense had he proposed to adopt, not marry her. Without a reply, the old gentleman left the room; but presently her cousin entered, and in terms of bitter scorn, inquired if she were mad enough to refuse such an offer—one that would immediately take her out of her humble sphere, and place her where she might be happy. Rose replied, with more than usual firmness, that she had learned, since she had been with her, the total insufficiency of rank and power to produce happiness. "I am convinced," she continued, "that it is the most likely to dwell where there are the fewest cares, and that the straining after distinction is at variance with its existence. To be useful, and fulfil well the duties of our native sphere, is the surest way to be happy. Oh! Helen, you do not know what it is; you look too much to the future to enjoy the present; and I have observed it ever since you threw away the handful of jessamine we had gathered at the grey fountain of Abbeyweld, because you could not have moss roses like the squire's daughter."

"Foolish girl!" she answered, "has not perseverance in the desire obtained the moss roses?"

"Yes," said her cousin, sadly, "but now you desire exotics. I should despise myself if it were possible that I could forget the affection of my heart in what appears to me the unsubstantial vanities of life. Dear Helen, in sickness or sorrow let me ever be your friend; but I must be free to keep on in my own humble sphere."

It seemed as if poor Rose was doomed to undergo all trials. Helen was not one to yield to circumstances; and though her physician prescribed rest, she lived almost without it, avoiding repose, laying herself under the most painful obligations to obtain her end, and enduring the greatest mental anxiety. Not only this; she taunted poor Rose with her increased anxieties, affirming, that if she had not rendered the old gentleman her foe by the ill-timed refusal, he would have assisted, not thwarted, her cherished object; that his influence was great, and was now exerted against them. "If," she added, "you had only the common tact of any other girl, you might have played him a little until the election was over, and then acted as you pleased."

This seemed very shocking to Rose, and she would have gone to Abbeyweld immediately, but that she thought it cruel to leave her cousin while she felt she was useful to her. "Ah, Rose!" she said, when poor Rose hinted that in a short time she must return, "how can you think of it?—how can you leave me in an enemy's country? I dare not give even my husband my entire confidence, for he might fancy my sensitiveness a low-born feeling. I can trust you, and none other." Surrounded, according to the phrase, "with troops of friends," and yet able to trust "none other" than the simple companion of her childhood! "And yet," murmured the thoughtful Rose, "amongst so many, the blame cannot be all with the crowd; Helen herself is as incapable of warm, disinterested friendship as those of whom she complains."

Rose Dillon's constancy was subjected to a still greater trial. Amongst the "troops of friends" who crowded more than ever round Mr. Ivers while his election was pending, was a young man as superior to the rest in mind as in fortune, and Rose Dillon's ready appreciation of the good and beautiful led her to respect and admire him.

"Is it true, Miss Dillon," he said to her one morning, after a lagging conversation of some twenty minutes' duration—"is it true, Miss Dillon, that you have discarded altogether the attentions of Mr. ——?" and he named the old gentleman whose offer had been so painful to Rose, and who was now made painfully aware that the subject had been publicly talked of. This confused her. "Nay," he continued, "I think you ought to be very proud of the fact, for he is worth two hundred thousand pounds."

"If he were worth ten hundred thousand, it would make no difference to me," was the reply.

"Then, you admit the fact."

Rose could not tell a falsehood, though she confessed her pain that it should be known. "I intend," she added, "to remain in my own quiet sphere of life; I am suited for no other."

The gentleman made no direct reply, but from that hour he observed Rose narrowly. The day of the election came, with its bribery and its bustle. Suffice it, that the Honourable Mr. Ivers was declared duly elected—that the splendour of the late member's wife's entertainments and beauty, were perfectly eclipsed by the entertainments and beauty of the wife of the successful candidate—that every house, except one, in the town was splendidly illuminated—and that the people broke every pane of glass in the windows of that house, to prove their attachment to the great principle of freedom of election. "God bless you, cousin!" said Rose; "God bless you—your object is attained. I hope you will sleep well to-night."

"Sleep!" she exclaimed; "how can I sleep? Did you not hear the wife of a mere city baronet inquire if late hours did not injure a country constitution; and see the air with which she said it?"

"And why did you not answer that a country constitution gave you strength to sustain them? In the name of all that is right, dearest Helen, why do you not assert your dignity as a woman, instead of standing upon your rank? Why not, as a woman, boldly and bravely revert to your former position, and at the same time prove your determination to support your present? You were as far from shame as Helen Marsh of Abbeyweld, as you are as the wife of an honourable member. Be yourself. Be simply, firmly yourself, my own Helen, and you will at once, from being the scorned, become the scorner."

"This from you, who love a lowly state?"

"I love my own birthright, lowly though it be. No one will attempt to pull me down. I shall have no heartaches—suffer no affronts?"

"Oh!" said Helen, "if I had but been born to what I possess."

"Mr. Stokes said if you had been born an honourable, you would have grasped at a coronet."

"And I may have it yet," replied the discontented beauty, with a weary smile; "I may have it yet; my husband's brother is still childless. If I could be but certain that the grave would receive him a childless man, how proudly I would take precedence of such a woman as Lady G——"

Rose looked at her as she spoke. In the glorious meridian of her beauty—a creature so splendid—of such a fair outside—with energy, and grace, and power—married by a weak ambition—an ambition achieved by the accident of birth—an ambition having neither honour, nor virtue, nor patriotism, nor any one laudable aim, for its object. And she sorrowed in her inmost soul for her cousin Helen.



CHAPTER VII.

Rose never, of course, made one at the brilliant assemblies which Mrs. Ivers gave and graced; she only saw those who breakfasted or lunched in the square, or who, like the little old gentleman, and one or two others, joined the family circle. The excitement of an election, and the (pro tem.) equality which such an event creates, brought her more into contact with her cousin's acquaintances than she had yet been, and gave the gentleman, who evidently admired her, an opportunity of studying her character. There was something strange in a young woman, situated as was Rose, preserving so entirely her self-respect, that it encircled her like a halo; and wherever it is so preserved, it invariably commands the respect of others. After the first week or two had passed, Rose Dillon was perfectly undazzled by the splendour with which she was surrounded, and was now engaged in watching for a moment when she could escape from what she knew was splendid misery. If Helen had been simply content to keep her own position—if she had, as Rose's wisdom advised, sufficient moral courage to resent a slight openly, not denying her humble birth, and yet resolved to be treated as became her husband's wife—all would have been happiness and peace. Proud as Mr. Ivers was of her, her discontent and perpetual straining after rank and distinction, watching every body's every look and movement to discover if it concealed no covert affront, rendered him, kind and careful though he was, occasionally dissatisfied; and she interpreted every manifestation of his displeasure, however slight, to contempt for her birth. Rose suffered most acutely, for she saw how simple was the remedy, and yet could not prevail on Helen to abate one jot of her restless ambition. The true spirit of a Christian woman often moved her to secret earnest prayer, that God, of His mercy, would infuse an humbler and holier train of thought and feeling into Helen's mind; and, above all, she prayed that it might not come too late.

"You do not think with Mrs. Ivers in all things, I perceive," said the gentleman I have twice alluded to.

"I am hardly, from my situation," replied Rose, "privileged to think her thoughts, though perhaps I may think of them."

"A nice distinction," he answered.

"Our lots in life are differently cast. In a week I return to Abbeyweld; I only came to be her nurse in illness, and was induced to remain a little longer because I was useful to her. They will go to the Continent now, and I shall return to my native village."

"But," said the gentleman, in a tone of the deepest interest, "shall you really return without regret?"

"Without regret? Oh yes!"

"Regret nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Suppose," he continued, in a suppressed tone of deep emotion—"suppose that a man, young, rich, and perfectly aware of the value of your pure and unsullied nature, was to lay his hand and heart"—

"I pray, I entreat you, say not another word," interrupted Rose, breathlessly. "If there should be any such, which is hardly possible, sooner than he should deign to make a proposal to me, I would tell him that before I came to visit my cousin, only the very night before, I became the betrothed of another."

"Of some one, Rose, who took advantage of your ignorance of the world—of your want of knowledge of society?"

"Oh no!" she replied, covering her face with her hand; "oh no! he is incapable of that. He would have suffered me to leave Abbeyweld free of promise, but I would not."

"And do you hold the same faith still Rose? Think, has not what you have seen, and shared in, made you ambitious of something beyond a country life? Your refined mind and genuine feeling, your taste—do not, I implore you, deceive yourself."

"I do not, sir; indeed, I do not. Pardon me; I would not speak disrespectfully of those above me. Of course, I have not been admitted into that familiarity which would lead me to comprehend what at present appears to me even more disturbed by the littleness of life than a country village. Conventional forms have, I fear, little to do with elevation of mind; they seem to me the result of habit rather than of thought or feeling. I know this, at least, 'All is not gold that glitters.' I have seen a tree, fair to look at in the distance, and covered with green leaves, but when approached closely, the trunk was foul and hollowed by impurities, and when the blast came, it could not stand; even so with many, fair without and foul within, and the first adversity, the first great sorrow, over-throws them."

"But this may be the case with the poor as well as the rich, in the country as well as the town."

"I am sure of it, sir. No station can be altogether free from impurity; but in the country the incitements to evil seem to me less numerous, and the temptations fewer by far; the most dangerous of all, a desire to shine, to climb above our fellows, less continual. The middle class is there more healthy and independent."

"And all this owing to the mere circumstance, think you, of situation?" interrupted the gentleman.

"I am only country bred, sir, as you know," replied Rose, earnestly but meekly; "and the only advantage I have had has been in the society of one you have heard me mention before now—our worthy rector—and he says it would make all that is wrong come right, if people would only fear God and love their neighbour."

"I believe," said the gentleman, "he is right, quite right; for out of such religion springs contentment, and all the higher as well as the humbler virtues. Yes, he is quite right." Much more he urged Rose, with all the persuasive eloquence of warm affection, to discover, if it were possible, she could change. He tried her on all points, but she replied with the clear straightforward truthfulness that has nothing to conceal. She wavered in nothing: firm to her love, steady to her principles, right-thinking and clear-sighted, he felt that Rose Dillon of Abbeyweld would have added the dignity of virtue to the dignity of rank, but that her mind was of too high an order to bend to the common influences that lead women along the beaten track of life.

They parted to meet no more; and Rose shed tears at their parting. "I did not wish you to make a declaration that did me too much honour," she said; "but I entreat you to say nothing of it to Mrs. Ivers. My own course is taken, and God knows how earnestly I will pray that you may find one in every way worthy your high caste of mind and station."

I wonder would Edward Lynne have quite approved of those tears; I wonder would he have been pleased to have observed the cheek of his affianced bride pressed against the drawing-room window, to catch a last glimpse of the cab which dashed from Mr. Ivers' door. Perhaps not—for the generous nature of woman's love and woman's friendship, is often beyond man's comprehension—but he would have been pleased to see, after she had paced the room for half an hour, the eagerness with which she received and opened a letter from himself; to have witnessed the warm kiss impressed upon his name; to hear the murmured "dear, dear Edward!" Her heart had never for a moment failed in its truth—never for an instant wavered.

That day week the cousins separated. "You must come to me when I return, Rose," said Helen—"you must come and witness my triumphs. My husband's brother is very ill—cannot live long—but that is a secret. I trust Ivers will make a figure in the lower, before called to the upper house; if he does not, it will break my heart. There, God bless you, Rose; you have been very affectionate, very sweet to me, but I do, I confess, envy you that cheerful countenance—cheerful and calm. I always think that contented people want mind and feeling; but you do not, Rose. By the way, how strangely Mr. —— disappeared; I thought you had clipped his wings. Well, next season, perhaps. Of course, after this, you will think no more of Edward." Fortunately for Rose, Helen expected no replies, and after a few more words, as I have said, they parted.

In little more than three months, Rose Dillon and Edward Lynne were married.



CHAPTER VIII.

"It's a decent match enough," said old Mrs. Myles to the rector when two years had elapsed, and she had become reconciled to it. "Of course Rose never could have taken the same stand as Helen, who has been a lady now more than a year; though she's a good, grateful girl, and Edward very attentive—very attentive indeed—and I must say more so than I expected. Helen, I mean my lady, you know, has, as she says in her last letter, a great deal to do with her money—of course she must have; and so, sir, pray do not let any one in Abbeyweld know that the little annuity is not continued—regularly, I mean," she added, while a certain twitching of her features evinced how much she felt, though she did not at the moment confess it, the neglect of one she so dearly loved. Like most talkative people, she frequently talked away her sorrows; and, thinking she would be better if she opened her heart, she recommenced, after wiping away a few natural tears: "You see, sir, Helen—I mean her ladyship—said she would make it up by-and-bye to me, and so she ought, poor dear thing; for I sacrificed both myself and her cousin Rose for her advancement; and really I cannot tell how the money goes with those great folk. Only think," proceeded the old lady, bringing her face close to Mr. Stokes, and whispering—"only think, she says she never has five pounds she can call her own. Now, as I told Rose, this is very odd, because my lord is so very rich since the death of his brother, ten times as rich as he was at first, and yet Rose says they are poor now to what they used to be—is not that very strange? She says it is because of the increased expenditure, and that I don't understand; but it's very hard, very hard in my old days. If she can't live upon thirty thousand a-year, I wonder how she expects her poor old grandmother to live upon thirty pounds, for that's all my certainty; and the little farm, I must say, would have gone to destruction, but for Edward Lynne—he does every thing for it, poor fellow. She never sends me a paper now, with her presentations, and dresses, and fine parties, printed in it at full-length; she's ashamed of her birth, that's it; though sure you and your lady, sir, noticed them both like equals, and I never even asked to go near her, though his lordship invited me more than once—and he even came to see Rose, as you know, ay, and a good ten mile out of his way it was to come—a good ten mile—and kissed her baby, and said he wished he had one like it, which they say Helen never will have. Oh, it was a pity that first one of her ladyship did not live! It is so cruel of her not to let me see the papers with an account of her fine doings, all in print—very cruel—I who loved her so, and took care of her—I never could find out from Rose whether or no she thought her happy. Ah, Rose is a good girl! not, however," added the old lady, again wiping away her tears—"not, however, to be compared to her ladyship; and I would not say what I have done to any one in the world but you, sir, who have known them all their lives."

So talked old Mrs. Myles, and so she continued to talk at intervals, during the next five years, growing weaker in mind and body, until at last she took to her bed. "I could die happy," said the old woman, "if I were to see Helen once more; write to her, Rose, and tell her so; she will not refuse to see me, her first friend—only once."

Communications between the cousins had ceased for a long time, but Rose wrote. Mrs. Myles sent twice every day to the post-office—and her hopes, so constantly disappointed, increased her fever; at the end of a week, a letter came.

"Give it me, Rose, give it me!" exclaimed Mrs. Myles, "it is from my own darling child, bless her!—my beauty! Oh, deary me! I'm sure that's a beautiful seal, if I could only see it; prop me up—there. How the jessamine blinds the window—now my spectacles—so"—She tried hard to read, but the power of sight was gone. "She used to write the best hand in the school, but this fashionable writing is hard to make out," observed the old woman; "so do you read it, Rosy."

"Here is ten pounds to begin with," said Rose, placing the gossamer note before her.—Mrs. Myles mechanically took up the money, and played with it as a child plays with a toy, and Rose read the few words that accompanied the gift:—"Grieved to the heart to hear of the illness of her ever dear relative—would be miserable about her but from the knowledge of Rose being the best nurse in the world—begs she will let her know how the dear invalid is by return of post, and also if there is any thing she could send to alleviate her sufferings."

While Rose was reading the letter, Mrs. Myles's long thin feeble fingers were playing with the note, her dim eyes fixed upon the window; large round tears coursed each other down her colourless cheeks. "No word about coming, Rose—no word about coming," she muttered, after a pause; "send her back this trash," she added, bitterly—"send her back this trash, and tell her the last tears I shed were shed not for my sins, but for her cruelty." She continued to mutter much that they could not understand; but evening closed in, and Rose told Edward that she slept at last; she did certainly, and Rose soon discovered that it was her last sleep. The money was returned; and again five years elapsed without Rose hearing, directly or indirectly, from her rich and titled cousin. In the mean time, Edward and Rose prospered exceedingly; three handsome, happy children blessed their home. Their industry perfected whatever Providence bestowed; nothing was wasted, nothing neglected; the best farmers in the neighbourhood asked advice of Edward Lynne; and the "born ladies," as poor Mrs. Myles would have called them, would have forgotten that Rose was only a farmer's wife, if wise Rose had been herself disposed to forget it. But great as their worldly prosperity had been, it was nothing to the growth and continuance of that holy affection which cheered and hallowed their happy dwelling—the chief characteristic of which was a freedom from pretension of all kinds. Rose suffered appearances to grow with their means, but never to precede them; and though this is not the world's practice, the duty is not on that account the less imperative. They were seated one evening round their table, Edward reading, while his wife worked, when the master of the post-office brought them a letter.

"It has lain two days, Measter Lynne," said the man, "for you never send but once a-week; only, as I thought by the seal it must be something grand, whoy I brought it down myself."

It was from Helen!—from the ambitious cousin—a few sad, mournful lines, every one of which seemed dictated by a breaking heart.

She was ill and wretched, and the physician had suggested change of air; but above all her native air. Would Rose receive her for a little time, just to try what its effect might be?—she was sure she would, and she would be with her immediately.

"Strange," said Edward, "how nature will assert and keep its power; when luxury, art, skill, knowledge, fail to restore health, they tell you of native air, trusting to the simple, pure restorative, which is the peasant's birthright, as infallible. I wonder, Rose, how those fine people like to be thrown back upon the nature they so outrage."

"Poor Helen!" exclaimed Rose, "how dispirited she seems—how melancholy! I ought to feel afraid of your meeting her, I suppose, Edward; but I do not—you have grown satisfied with your poor Rose. We shall be able to make her very comfortable, shall we not?"—and then she smiled at the homeliness of the phrase, and wondered what Helen would say if she heard her.

It was not without sundry heartbeatings that Rose heard the carriage stop, and assisted Helen to alight; nor could she conceal her astonishment at the ravages which not past years but past emotions had wrought on her once beautiful face.

The habit of suppressing thoughts, feelings, and emotions, had altogether destroyed the frank expression of her exquisitely chiselled mouth, which, when it smiled now, smiled alone; for the eyes, so finely formed, so exquisitely fringed, did not smile in unison; they had acquired a piercing and searching expression, altogether different from their former brilliancy.

The elevated manners, the polished tone which high society alone bestows, only increased the distance between the two cousins, though Rose was certainly gratified by the exclamation of pleasure which told how much better than she anticipated were the accommodations prepared by her humble relative.

"Such pretty rooms—such beautiful flowers! Rose, you must have grown rich, and without growing unhappy. Strange, you look ten years younger than I do!"

"Late hours, public life, and anxieties," said Rose.

"Yes, that last appointment his lordship obtained, the very thing above all others I so desired for him, has completely divided him from his home. We hardly ever meet now, except at what I may call our own public dinners."

"And he, who used to be so affectionate, so fond of domestic life!" involuntarily exclaimed Rose.

"And is so still; but the usages of society, the intrigues and bustle of public business, quite overthrow every thing of that kind. Oh, it is a weary, wearying world!"

"But to a mind like yours, the achieving an object must be so delightful!"

"Ay, Rose, so it is; but that sort of thing soon passes away, and we have no sooner obtained possession of one, than another still more desirable presents itself. How peaceful and happy you seem. Well, an idle mind must be a perpetual feast."

"But I have not an idle mind, not an idle moment," replied Rose, colouring a little; "my husband, my children, my humble household, the care of the parochial schools, now that poor Mr. Stokes has grown so infirm"—

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Helen; "and yet, Rose, when I look at you, even now, I cannot but think you were fitted for better things."

"Better than learning how to occupy time profitably, and training souls for immortality!" she replied; "but you are worn and tired, let me wait upon you this one night, as I used long, long ago to do—let me wait upon my own dear cousin, instead of a menial, this one night, and to-morrow you shall see Edward and the children."

The worn-hearted woman of the great world laid her face upon her cousin's shoulder, and then fairly hid it in her bosom. Why it was, He only, who knows the mysterious workings of the human heart, can tell; but she wept long and very bitterly, assigning no cause for her tears, but sobbing and weeping like a sorrowing child, while the arms she had flung round her cousin's neck prevented Rose from moving. Their tears once more mingled, as they had often done in childhood—once more—but not for long.

"Leave me alone for a little, and I will ring for my maid," she said at last; "I am too artificial to be waited upon by you, Rose. It was otherwise when you used to twine gay poppies and bright flowers in my hair, telling me, at the same time, how much wiser it would have been to have chosen the less fading and more fragrant ones."

"Her husband—and her children!" thought Helen; "if she had neither children nor husband, she would have been of such value to me now; noisy children, I dare say, troublesome and wearying. Native air! native air, indeed, ought to work wonders." It would be hardly credited that Helen—the beauty—the admired—the woman of rank—bestowed quite as much trouble upon her morning toilette as if she had been in London. Such was her aching passion for universal sway, that she could not bear to be thought faded by her old lover, though he was only a farmer; and this trouble was taken despite bodily pain that would have worn a strong man to a skeleton.

It would be difficult to say whether Helen was pleased or displeased at finding Edward Lynne what might, without any flattery, be termed a country gentleman, betraying no emotion whatever at the sight of one who had caused him so much suffering, and only anxious to gratify her because she was his wife's relative. She thought, and she was right, that she discovered pity, and not admiration, as he looked upon her.

"You think me changed," she said.

"Your ladyship has been ill and harassed."

"Ah! we all change except Rose."

"Ah!" replied the country bred husband, "she, indeed, is an exception; she could not even change for the better."

And then the children, two such glorious boys, fine, manly fellows. "And what will you be?" inquired her ladyship of the eldest.

"A farmer, my lady."

"And you?"

"A merchant, I hope."

"Your boys are as unambitious as yourself, Rose."

"I fear not," she answered; "this fellow wants to get into the middle class; but Mr. Stokes says the prosperity of a country depends more upon the middle class than upon either the high or the low."

To this Helen made no reply, for her attention was occupied by the loveliness of Rose's little girl. The child inherited, in its perfection, the beauty of her family, and a grace and spirit peculiarly her own. Rose could not find it in her heart to deprive her cousin of the child's society, which seemed to interest and amuse her, and the little creature performed so many acts of affection and attention from the impulse of her own kind nature, that Helen, unaccustomed to that sort of devotion, found her twine around her sympathies in a novel and extraordinary manner; it was a new sensation, and she could not account for its influence. After a week had passed, she was able to walk out, and met by chance the old clergyman. He kissed the child, and passed on with a bow, which, perhaps, had more of bitterness in its civility than, strictly speaking, befitted a Christian clergyman; but he thought of the neglect she had evinced towards old Mrs. Myles, and if he had spoken, it would have been to vent his displeasure, and reprove the woman whose rank could not shield her from his scorn. She proceeded towards the churchyard. "Look, lady!" said little Rose; "father put that stone over that grave to please mother. The relation who is buried there took care of my mother when she was a littler girl than I am now, and he told me to strew flowers over the grave, which we do. See, I can read it—'Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Margaret Myles, who died the seventeenth of June, eighteen hundred'—and something—I can hardly read figures yet, lady. 'This stone was placed here by her grateful relatives, E. and R.S.,' meaning Rose and Edward Lynne."

The coldness of the clergyman was forgotten in the bitterness of self-reproach. "I was a fool," she thought, as she turned away, "to fancy that my native air could be untainted by the destiny which has mocked me from my cradle."

"Ah! lady dear," exclaimed a crone, rising from a grave where she had been sitting, "don't you remember old Betty? They all said in the village you'd be too proud to look on your grandmother's grave; but you're not, I see. Well, that's good—that's good. We had a funeral last week, and the vault of the old earl was broken in. The stupid sexton stuck his pick in amongst the old bricks, and so the great man's skull came tumbling out, and rolled beside the skull of Job Martin, the old cobbler; and the sexton laid them both on the edge of the grave, the earl's skull and the cobbler's skull, until he should fetch a mason to mend the vault, and—what do you think?—when the mason came, the sexton could not tell which was the earl's skull and which was the cobbler's! Lady, you must understand how this is—it's all the same in a hundred years, according to the saying; and so it is. None of them could tell which was the earl's, and which the cobbler's. My skull may lie next a lady's yet, and no one tell the difference."

The lady and child hastened from the churchyard, and the old woman muttered, "To see that! She's not half as well to look at now as the farmer's wife. Ah! 'All is not gold that glitters!'" How happy it is for those who believe in the truth of this proverb, and from it learn to be content!

It might be a week after this occurrence that Helen sent for Rose. The lady either was, or fancied herself better, and said so, adding, it was in her (Rose's) power to make her happier than she had ever been. Reverting to the period when her cousin visited her in London, she alluded to what she had suffered in becoming a mother, and yet having her hopes destroyed by the anxiety and impetuosity of her own nature. "At first," she said, "the trouble was anything but deep-rooted, for I fancied God would send many more, but it was not so; and now the title I so desired must go to the child of a woman—Oh, Rose, how I do hate her!—a woman who publicly thanks God that no plebeian blood will disgrace my husband's title and her family. I would peril my soul to cause her the pain she has caused me."

"You do so now," said Rose, gently but solemnly. "Oh! think that this violence and revenge sins your own soul, and is every way unworthy of you."

Helen did not heed the interruption. "To add to my agony," she continued, "my husband cherishes her son as if it were his own; the boy stands even now between his affections and me. He has reproached me for what he terms my insensibility to his perfections, and says I ought to rejoice that he is so easily rendered happy—only imagine this! Rose, you must give me your daughter, to be to me as my own. Her beauty and sweetness will at once wean my husband's love from this boy; and, moreover, children brought up together—do you not see?—that boy will become attached to one of the 'plebeian blood,' and wedding her hereafter, scald to the core the proud heart of his mother, as she has scalded mine!"

"I cannot, Helen," replied Rose, after a pause, during which her cousin's glittering inquiring eyes were fixed upon her face—"I cannot; I could not answer to my God at the last day for delivering the soul he gave to my care to be so tutored (forgive me) as to forget Him in all things."

"Forget God!" repeated Helen once or twice—"I forget God! Do you think I am a heathen?"

"No, cousin—no—for you have all knowledge of the truth; but knowledge, and profiting by our knowledge, are different. My little gentle-hearted girl will be happier far in her own sphere. I could not see her degraded to bait a trap for any purpose; she will be happy, happier in her own sphere."

The lady bit her compressed lips; but during her whole life she never gave up a point, nor an object, proving how necessary it is that the strong mind should be well and highly directed. Small feeble minds pass through the world doing little good and little harm, but to train a large mind is worth the difficulty—worth the trouble it occasions: its possession is either a great blessing or a great curse. To Helen it was the latter, and curses never fall singly. "You have boys to provide for," she said, "and if I adopted that child, I would not suffer their station to disgrace their sister."

"I am sure you mean us kindly and generously; nor am I blind to the advantages of such an offer for my boys. Their father has prospered greatly, and could at this moment place them in any profession they chose—still influence would help them forward; but the advancement of one child must not be purchased by"—Rose paused for a word—she did not wish to hurt her cousin's feelings—and yet none suggested itself but what she conceived to be the true one, and she repeated, lowly and gently, her opinion, prefacing it with, "You will forgive in this matter my plain speaking, but the advancement of one child must not be purchased by the sacrifice of another."

"Your prejudices have bewildered your understanding," exclaimed the lady. "Whatever my ambition may be, my morality is unimpeached; a vestal would lose none of her purity beneath my roof."

"Granted, fully and truly; woman's first virtue is untainted, but that is not her only one; forgive me. I have no right to judge or dictate, nor to give an unasked opinion; I am grateful for your kindness; but my child, given to me as a blessing for time and a treasure for eternity, must remain beneath my roof until her mind and character are formed."

"You are mad, Rose; consider her future happiness"—

"Oh, Helen! are you more happy than your humble cousin?"

"She would be brought up in the sphere I was thrust into, and have none of the contentions I have had to endure," said Helen.

"A sphere full of whirlpools and quicksands," replied the mother. "The fancy you have taken to her might pass away. She might be taught the bitterness of eating a dependant's bread, and the soft and luxurious habits of her early days would unfit her for bearing so heavy a burden; it would be in vain then to recall her to her humble home; she would have lost all relish for it. It might please God to take you after a few years, and my poor child would be returned to what she would then consider poverty. Urge me no more, I entreat you."

Helen's face grew red and pale by turns. "You mock at and mar my purposes," she said. "My husband was struck by the beauty of that child, and I longed to see her; but I am doomed to disappointment. I never tried to grasp a substance that it did not fade into a shadow! What am I now?" Her eyes rested upon the reflection, given by the glass, of the two cousins. "Look! that tells the story—worn in heart and spirit, blighted and bitter. You, Rose—even you, my own flesh and blood—will not yield to me—the only creature, perhaps, that could love me! Oh! the void, the desert of life, without affection!—a childless mother—made so by"—She burst into tears, and Rose was deeply affected. She felt far more inclined to yield her child to the desolate heart of Helen Marsh, than to the proud array of Lady ——; but she also knew her duty.

"Will you grant me this favour," said Helen at last; "will you let the child decide"—

"I would not yield to the child's decision, but you may, if you please, prove her," answered her mother.

The little girl came softly into the room, having already learned that a bounding step was not meet for "my lady's chamber."

"Rosa, listen; will you come with me to London, to ride in a fine coach drawn by four horses—to wear a velvet frock—see beautiful sights, and become a great lady. Will you, dear Rosa, and be my own little girl?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the child, gleefully; "that I will; that would be so nice—a coach and four—a velvet frock—a great lady—oh! dear me!" The mother felt her limbs tremble, her heart sink. "Oh! my own dear mother, will not that be nice? and the beautiful sights you have told me of—St. Paul's and Westminster—oh! mother, we shall be so happy!"

"Not me, Rosa," answered Mrs. Lynne, with as firm a voice as she could command. "Now, listen to me: you might ride in a coach and four, instead of on your little pony—wear velvet instead of cotton—see St. Paul's and Westminster—but have no more races on the downs, no more peeping into birds' nests, no more seeing the old church, or hearing its Sabbath bells. You may become a great lady, but you must leave and forget your father and me."

"Leave you, and my father and brothers! You did not mean that surely—you could not mean that, my lady—could they not go with me?"

"That would be impossible!"

"Then I will stay here," said the little girl firmly; "I love them better than every thing else in the world. Thank you, dear lady, but I cannot leave them."

"Leave us, then, Rosa," said Helen, proudly. The child obeyed with a frightened look, wondering how she had displeased the "grand lady."

If Helen had been steeped to the very lips in misery, she could not have upbraided the world more bitterly than she did, giving vent to long pent-up feelings, and reproaching Rose, not only for her folly in not complying with her wish, but for her happiness and contentment, which, while she envied, she affected to despise.

"You cannot make me believe that the high-born and wealthy are what you represent," said her cousin. "A class must not be condemned because of an individual; and though I never felt inclined to achieve rank, I honour many of its possessors. It is the unsatisfied longing of your own heart that has made you miserable, dear Helen; and oh! let me entreat you, by the remembrance of our early years, to suffer yourself to enjoy what you possess."

"What I possess!" she repeated; "the dread and dislike of my husband's relatives—the reputation of 'she was very handsome'—a broken constitution—nothing to lean upon or love—a worn and weary heart!"

"You have a mine of happiness in your husband's affection."

"Not now," she answered bitterly; "not now—not now." And she was right.

The next day she left the farm, where peace and prosperity dwelt together; despite herself, it pained her to witness such happiness. It is possible that the practical and practised theories she had witnessed might have changed her, had she not foolishly thought it too late. Her disappointment had been great; from the adoption of that child she had expected much of what, after all, is the creating and existing principle of woman's nature—natural affection; but this was refused by its mother's wisdom. Her worldly prospects had been doomed to disappointment, because she hungered and thirsted after vanities and distinctions, which never can afford sustenance to an immortal spirit; and even when she desired to cultivate attachment, it did not proceed from the pure love of woman—the natural stream was corrupted by an unworthy motive.

Again years rolled on. In the records of fashionable life, the movements and fetes of Lady —— continued to be occasionally noted as the most brilliant of the season; then rumours became rife that Lord and Lady —— did not live as affectionately as heretofore; then, after twenty years of union, separation ensued upon the public ground of "incompatibility of temper"—his friends expressing their astonishment how his lordship could have so long endured the pride and caprice of one so lowly born, while hers—but friends! she had no friends!—a few partizans of the "rights of women" there were, who, for the sake of "the cause," defended the woman. She had been all her life too restless for friendship, and when the sensation caused by her separation from her husband had passed away, none of the gay world seemed to remember her existence. Rose and her husband lived, loved, and laboured together. It was astonishing how much good they did, and how much they were beloved by their neighbours. Their names had never been noted in any fashionable register, but it was engraved upon every peasant heart in the district. "As happy as Edward and Rose Lynne," became a proverb; and if any thing was needed to increase the love the one felt for the other, it was perfected by the affection of their children.

"I think," said the old rector, as they sat round the evening tea-table, "that our school may now vie with any in the diocese—thanks to the two Roses; twin roses they might almost be called, though Rosa hardly equals Rose. I wonder what Mrs. Myles would say if she were to look upon this happy group. Ah dear!—well God is very good to permit such a foretaste of heaven as is met with here." And the benevolent countenance of the good pastor beamed upon the happy family. "I have brought you the weekly paper," he continued; "the Saturday paper. I had not time to look at it myself, but here it is. Now, Edward, read us the news." The farther people are removed from the busy scenes of life, the more anxious they are to hear of their proceedings; and Edward read leading articles, debates, reviews, until, under the head of "Paris," he read as follows—"Considerable sensation has been excited here by the sudden death of the beautiful Lady ——."