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twenty minutes, and Rachel was very glad, for her mind and her companion's were just then most differently attuned.

"We must go home," said Rachel at length; “mother will be uneasy. It will be light till ten o'clock, and there really is no danger, and would be none if we stopped here till morning; still, she always gets anxious if I am out long after sunset. Come, Honor, we can go back a shorter way

than we came."

“Hush! there is some one in the wood-some one crashing among the brambles.”

"Do not be frightened; it is not any one who will hurt or insult us. Still, I am sorry anybody should find us here so late—it is past nine. Let us wait till they have gone by. It is more than one person; I hear voices.”

"They are coming this way."

"Hush!"

A sudden thrill went through Rachel's frame. One voice was the voice she loved best in all the world-the voice whose faintest whisper she would have recognised among a thousand other voices-the voice that was always to her the richest music that the earth could give. In another minute two gentlemen stood before the girls. They carried fishingbaskets on their shoulders, and they were laden with rods and sundry tackle. One of them, of course, was George Trevanion, and the other his companion, Grosvenor Smith, a sinister-looking man, with pale face, dark eyes, and lowering brows-a man dressed like a gentleman, and speaking like a gentleman, and having the general air of a gentleman, yet with an indescribable something in feature, and expression, and tone, and movement, that betrayed a lack of true and genuine breeding.

George at once recognised Rachel, and put out his hand. Honor noticed, as did also Mr. Smith, how long he held in it Rachel's trembling fingers. "Have we frightened you? asked George gently, and before he released the fluttering hand he was holding in a most expressive clasp. Honor wondered if he spoke to Ethel Gray in that tender tone, and

with that air of deferential respect and unmistakable devotion. "We came here to fetch our bait-can, for we tried bottom-fishing earlier in the day; we hid it away in that hollow stump. Did you find it out?"

"No," said Rachel, like one who dreams a happy dream, and, knowing that it is a dream, wishes not to waken.

"But who is this young lady? The friend you were expecting to stay with you?"

"Yes," was again the aborbed answer; but suddenly Rachel saw the strange man's dark eyes fixed upon her, as if reading her like a plainly-printed book. There was just light enough for her to catch the unpleasing glance, and it roused her from her reverie, and she introduced Miss Butterfield to Mr. Trevanion, and Mr. Trevanion introduced his friend, Mr. Grosvenor Smith, of London. Then, after a few light sentences, such as people utter for the sake of saying something, they all turned back through the wood. Mr. Smith offered his arm to Honoria, and the two walked first, and were soon far ahead of George and Rachel, who took the twilight stroll very leisurely. Through the deep shade of the lane, with the elm-leaves whispering about them, they went their way, and they did not come up to Honor and Mr. Smith till they had nearly reached the village. Not very much had been said, but George knew now what he was to Rachel Meacham. He had guessed the truth before, and now he knew it. And Rachel for the hour forgot that such a person as Ethel Gray existed. It was past ten when the girls got home, and Mrs. Meacham was as angry as it was in her nature to be. Anger and grief too would have filled her bosom had she known what that Saturday night's walk had done for Rachel. Grief for her daughter, and bitter anger against the man who was so weak and who yielded always to temptation.

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CRIFF! dear old Criff! do leave those papers a while, and have a walk in the garden; I have a thousand things to say to you."

"One minute, Ethel; these proofs must go back to-night, even though to-morrow be my sister's wedding-day. 'Pity the sorrows of an editor.'

"Cannot I help you?"

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No, I think not. Ah, yes! here are the correspondence' strips; there is sure to be some atrocious English, and some mis-spelt words. Take care what you are about, Ethel.”

The sister and brother sat working quietly for a little while; Ethel's task was finished first. But at last Christopher dashed off the final hieroglyphic, which was supposed to be a correction of the printer's blunders, and rolled up the proofs and dispatched them, and then he was free to walk with Ethel whithersoever she desired to go. They went straight to the orchard, where they would be least likely to be disturbed, and there, in the mingled twilight and moonlight, under the heavily laden fruit-trees, Christopher had his last talk with Ethel Gray. A few hours more, and she would be Mrs. George Trevanion; and the brother knew what the sister never guessed at how changed henceforth would be their relations with each other. Sister and brother, loving each other right dearly, and trusting each other completely, they would ever remain ; but there would be a change—a change rather to be felt than to be described, for marriage makes all the difference. And it is right that it should be so; it is right that a woman should give to her husband that which hitherto she has given to the members of her own home-circle-her first thoughts, her first consideration,

her first and most sacred confidences. She revolves in a new orbit, of which her husband should be the centre; she has new duties, new hopes and fears, new happiness, new aims; to a great extent old things have passed away, and all things have become new; and in the same sense in which the Blessed One declared that he who hated not father and mother, and wife and children, and brethren and sisters, yea, and his own life also, was not worthy to be His disciple, must the wedded wife "forget her own people and her father's house."

The evening was very soft and warm, and the air was unusually dry, and they could stand, without fear of being chilled, leaning on the low mossy wall that divided the orchard from the water-meadows, and watching the shining flow of the peaceful river and the dim shadows gathering on the hills that swept the far horizon. For a few minutes neither spoke. Ethel's heart was very full, and Christopher was struggling with a sense of foreboding and depression that had haunted him all day. He looked at his sister, and the moonbeams were glistening on the tears that were silently streaming down her cheeks; and then their glances met, and with a sort of cry that was half pain, half gladness, she drew close to him, and nestled in his arms, like a frightened dove that is pluming its wings for inevitable flight. And, folded in that long-tried, safe embrace, the pent-up hysterical passion of hours burst forth, and she sobbed and wept convulsively, clinging ever closer and closer to her brother.

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Ethel, dearest, what is it? Nay, this emotion is too much; you will be ill. It will do you good, you say! Yes, tears are an immense relief sometimes; but not such tears as these, my birdie. Now, unless you are reasonable, I shall take you back to the house, and we shall lose this last quiet chat, upon which I know you have been counting very much."

"Not the last, Criff," said Ethel, struggling for composure. "One of the things that pleases me most in this marriage is that I shall not be really leaving you. It is just an eight

minutes' walk from the Bank to Town-Head House. shall be meeting every day."

We

“Yes, for a while; but, my pet, we do not expect Ethel Trevanion to be Ethel Gray."

“Criff, now the time has come, do you know—I wouldn't say it to anyone but you, and perhaps I ought not to say it at all-now that it is too late, I am frightened. I wish we had waited another year."

"What is it you fear, Ethel?" asked Christopher, kindly and calmly. But quiet as he was, his heart was beating loudly, for Ethel's words echoed his own thoughts. He feared a hundred things, and he, too, wished he had insisted on Ethel's remaining at home for another year.

"I'm afraid of the change, Criff-afraid that you will miss me-afraid that I shall miss you all-afraid lest the happiness I have counted upon should never be. But, I dare say, all girls who have a happy home feel so the day before their wedding."

"Perhaps; and yet if I ever have a wife I should like her to come to me in the very fulness of a deep, entire content; to have no misgivings, no falterings; to give herself up to me with a perfect faith, a most unwavering trust."

"Oh, Criff, any girl who was worthy of you would feel all that. Who could mistrust you, Criff? Who could feel any misgivings respecting you?"

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'Ethel, don't you feel as much for George?"

"I feel everything that I ought to feel for him, Criff, I am sure of that; but-it is the last time I shall ever talk so freely of him-I am afraid-no, not afraid exactly; oh, Criff, you know what I mean."

"You do not mean that you doubt him?"

"Oh, no; it is not doubt, only a sort of nervous misgiving. And do not be vexed, dear-I think it is you who have caused the feeling. Oh, Criff, yours is such a large, such a tender heart; but you will not love my George as he deserves. You do not understand each other. If you and he were united in mind and spirit I should have the full,

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