unfaithful and inconstant; but there are words that have double and treble meanings, and looks and tones that convey all that the most ardent lover could desire; and George Trevanion had not been slow to avail himself of these, and there had been many passages between Rachel and himself that had been better far omitted. "He meant no harm;" that is what he always said when conscience would speak out; "it was the way of young men to make pretty speeches to pretty girls, and of course Rachel knew it, and took his words and looks at what they were really worth, and nothing more!" And Rachel did know it; for, from the very first, her heart misgave her, for of course Mr. George Trevanion was no match for her, and she resolved that next time he came she would treat him exactly as she treated every other gentleman, and not concern herself about the way he spoke and looked, nor take any special interest in his conversation. And then he came, looking so blithe and handsome, such a sweet smile on his sunshiny face, and such winning tenderness in his tone, and bearing himself so like an honourable, courteous gentleman, that all these good resolutions were put to flight, and Rachel's idol was set up again and more reverently worshipped than before. "Oh, if I had but been born a lady, like Miss Ethel Gray!" she whispered to herself when shut up in her own quiet room at night; "and yet I can play and sing, and read a French book, and do fancy work, and not make mistakes in grammar; and Miss Williams says she knows no one who can indite a letter better and more quickly than I can. Still, there is a difference-I know it, and see it, and feel it daily. I can never copy Miss Ethel's quiet grace; I cannot wear my best silk dress as she wears her morning prints and ginghams, and I cannot speak with that pure, clear accent, softly and slowly, as she and as he always speak! Oh! why did I ever see him? why did he ever look as if he cared about me? Why did he talk to me in that gentle, persuasive way, just as I have heard him talk to my Lady Charlotte, and my Lady Mary, and to Mrs. Marcia, and to Ethel Gray

herself? Why did not my mother bring me up to be useful in the house? Why did I go to school to be made into an imitation lady? And oh! why did Mr. George do as he has done? And yet what has he done? He has only amused himself as young men will; but did he never think I might take his play for earnest ? No! it never occurred to him that what was pastime for himself might be misery for me!"

Truly, if George Trevanion went henceforth on his path with all the prudence, and rectitude, and steadiness imaginable if he straightway married sweet Ethel Gray, and proved the best of husbands and a model townsman, he had done mischief enough already! He had brushed the fresh bloom from one opening flower, for Rachel Meacham never could be that which she would have been had he never crossed her path. He had carelessly won affections he did not prize; he had literally stolen what he did not care to keep; and, if he thought at all about the matter, it was only to excuse that which was after all inexcusable, that which Robert Carfax would have scorned and turned away from, as from deliberate treachery and wickedness. It was strange how much he seemed to learn from those few light words of George's, "By the bye, Mrs. Meacham has a very pretty daughter," though perhaps at the moment he judged the young man more hardly than he deserved; for, to do George justice, he was not what the world would call "wicked." He was no libertine, no base deceiver; he reverenced women too much to insult or injure them; he was only thoughtless, regardless of consequences, given to self-indulgence. Endowed with many brilliant gifts, with much that was fine, even noble, in his composition, he yet possessed no guiding principle. He did good as he did wrong, because it pleased him; and one or two dark canker-spots marred all the native beauty of his character. Christianity would have made a man of George; but I need scarcely say he was not a Christian, though I daresay he would have been startled and astonished if any one had whispered the unwelcome truth in

his ear. For he went regularly to church, he had no vicious habits, and no one could lay any especial sin to his charge; besides, he was charitable, very kind to his inferiors, and he reverenced old age in the person of his venerable and cranky relative, Mr. Constantine. What, then, did he lack? He lacked the one thing needful, the sole and only thing that could have saved him from himself. He lacked the principle that true religion gives, and so he threatened to make shipwreck of himself.

After a little while Robert Carfax handed him his card, and then George exclaimed, "Why, you are a relation, man; my own kith and kin! You must not stop at an inn; come home with me to the Bank: my uncle and aunt Prudence will be glad to see you."

"Thank you for your hospitality, but I would rather, I think, stay here to-night. I intend visiting the lady of Singlehurst Manor to-morrow."

"By Jove!" cried George, laughing merrily; "this is exciting. Another suitor for Mrs. Marcia, I suppose. The plot thickens."

"I do not understand you in the least," replied Mr. Carfax gravely. "I never saw Mrs. Marcia Trevanion in my life; till to-night I scarcely knew of her existence." He did not relish this kind of inuendo; he thought such observations from the acquaintance of an hour, though he might be distantly related or connected, quite too familiar. Besides, love, courtship and marriage were themes on which Robert Carfax never jested. But it was impossible to be angry with that merry face before him. He could not look coldly and severely into those bonnie blue eyes, that seemed dancing with delight, and brimming over, as it were, with kindly fun. George replied: "Everybody who goes to Singlehurst falls in love, or is supposed to fall in love, with Marcia and her broad acres. But she is not going to marry anybody, I believe. She has queer notions, and sets up for a strong-minded spinster. She actually calls herself Mrs. Marcia Trevanion; and she keeps her own accounts, and

keeps them wonderfully square too; and she manages everything precisely, and has sent her steward to the right-about because she found out that he was not exactly honest, and that he oppressed the tenants, and that sort of thing, you know. A wonderfully independent, plain-spoken lady is my cousin Marcia."

"You are cousins, then?" "Second cousins.

She comes of the elder branch of our family, and I of the younger, worse luck! And the estates are not limited to the male line. I must stick to the Bank."

Carfax thought he did not look as if he were made of the stuff of which bankers of repute are commonly composed; but of course he did not say so, and he wondered whether George himself were one of Mrs. Marcia's rejected suitors. It was a question he could not ask, for he had no more idea of taking liberties with other people, than of suffering liberties to be taken with himself; but George was troubled with no such delicate reticency, and his next abrupt speech rather startled Robert Carfax : "Are you a married man?"

"I am

a widower," he gravely replied; and George straightway looked at his hat, and observed that it had no black band, so that Mr. Carfax had doubtless had time to reconcile himself to his bereavement. He would fain have asked more, but there was something in Mr. Carfax's stern, sad face that repressed even his volatility and insouciance, the truth being that his random question had touched a sore place in Robert's history. His marriage had been the great mistake of his life. His wife had been a pretty, goodtempered little thing, without much soul, and not peculiarly endowed with intellect, and as incapable of understanding her husband as if he were an algebraic problem, or the differential calculus itself! And, as she never could add up her weekly accounts correctly, it is very clear she could not have distinguished herself in mathematical studies. And though it may be all very well to say with Tennyson, "I cannot understand, I love!" unless "her faith is fixed and cannot move," a woman may haply find herself in a very

equivocal position, especially if she neither tries nor cares to understand her lord. Besides, a man gets tired of daily rations of bread-and-butter and sugar; as years roll on their way, and when the sugar is all used up, and only very ordinary bread-and-butter remains, it is worse still.

Presently George was telling Mr. Carfax that he was not one of Mrs. Marcia's lovers; that he was engaged to the sweetest girl in the world, and was very shortly to be married. "And by the bye," he continued, "I must be going. I promised Ethel I would look in to-night. You must see her, and tell me what you think of her; and you will like Criff, old Criff, her brother a very peculiar man is Christopher Gray, though he and I don't get on together. He is editor of the Copley Chronicle, and quite a literary man; and I hate literary men, and especially editors. They think so much of themselves, and are so atrociously imperious and arrogant. But you will like him, and he will like you. He does not like me; perhaps it is that which makes me dislike him. 'No love lost,' you know-the common saying." And George rode away on his handsome hack, and Robert meditatively ate his dinner.

"GOOD-BYE, Mrs. Meacham. I am very sorry about the rose, and I will not forget to find you something better," said George, as he left the gateway of the "Crown." "How deliciously cool it is now ! the air is quite fragrant with the perfume of flowers. I shall have a charming ride. By the way, you will be having Rachel at home soon, I suppose ? Did you want Lady Charlotte's rose for her?"

"Never mind about the rose, Mr. George," replied the