Carfax gathered the story, the old, old story, of a lover's hopesand fears, when he feels instinctively that circumstances are against him. It seemed that at first, when the guardian becamea suitor, the girl was frightened and repelled; but as timepassed on, and she began to review her orphan condition, and to consider the goodness and the kindness of the man who asked her to be his wife, she wavered, and at length consented. Then came a series of happy letters, every line bearing the impress of a tender and affectionate yet manly spirit. There was something very touching in these simple, frank love-letters, yellow as they were with age, and nearly undecipherable; very touching this record of a love that had ended, I was going to say so unhappily, but I would rather say so nobly, so self-sacrificingly! It was still more touching when it came to another series, of a later date. From these epistles, still tender, still devoted, still ingenuous, Robert learned how his father had met his mother, and, knowing nothing of her engagement, had loved her; how the love had been returned; and how poor Eleanor had discovered too late that the grateful, daughterly affection she bore her good, kind guardian was not the love with which a woman should give herself to the husband of her choice. Yet still she had striven to be true; she had dismissed Mr. Carfax, and had resolved never to see him more, when Captain Robert made the discovery of her painful position, and at once, and with apparent cheerfulness, relinquished her to his rival.

He besought her to pardon him for his foolishness, his selfishness, in trying to appropriate to himself, "a grim old bachelor," the treasure of her early love. Not for one instant would he hold her to a promise he never should have extorted; not for worlds would he mar her girlish happiness. He recalled Mr. Carfax himself, and made arrangements for their marriage, falling quite back naturally, as it seemed, into his old character of guardian.

One letter, the last of the series-the last, indeed, that Eleanor Trevanion ever received from Captain Robert-drew some tears from Robert Carfax's eyes. It was so simple, so

tender; he strove so heartily to reconcile the poor, selfaccusing child to herself; he made so light of the sacrifice he was making; he assured her that he knew and felt it was for the best, and that he would not have it otherwise-only she must always think of him as a dear friend, as a father, if she would, and in all trouble, need, and adversity she must come to him. In conclusion he assured her that she had done what was quite right, and that in her happiness he found, and should ever find, his own, even though half the globe should interpose between them.

There were no more of these letters, which were tied together with a faded satin ribbon-so faded that Robert could not guess at the colour; and with them was a little bunch of withered flowers-so withered that the profoundest botanist could not tell their species.

There were other letters, too, of small importance school-girl epistles, for the most part, several from a cidevant governess, very prim, very full of copy-book maxims and of very cramped caligraphy; and one valentine, all darts, and flames, and Cupids, with two doves holding in their beaks a wedding-ring that might have fitted Glumdalclitch, and the suggestive hint of a church in the background. Also there was a little packet, containing a child's rattle with coral and silver bells, a pair of little socks in fancy knitting, and a sachet of rare perfume.

Besides, there were several family documents, which Robert thought he would look over with Marcia at some future day, and he was putting them back unopened into their hiding-place, when one of them attracted his regard. from its comparatively fresh and recent aspect. He took it up, and read what was inscribed on the cover, and as he read he became as one transfixed. The words were, "The will of Captain Robert Trevanion, of Singlehurst Manor, West Copley, in the county of -." Then followed the date: it was two years later than the date of the will under which Marcia inherited.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

ROBERT'S TEMPTATION.

How long Robert Carfax sat staring at the strangely discovered document he never knew. For a curious idea flashed upon him, a sort of presentiment that he knew what were the contents of the long hidden will of Captain Trevanion; and while thought succeeded thought, and wonder, curiosity, and perplexity followed thick upon each other, the night waned, and the fair May morning broke in all its orient splendour.

Robert was roused by hearing the chirping of the birds: and, looking towards the window, he saw that the darkness had passed away, the young leaves were quivering, and the sweet breath of the lilacs came up from the half-wild gardenplot below; already there were surging waves of amber light upon the hill-tops far away, and the river shone whitely through the shadows of the early dawn. He threw back the casement, that the fresh, cool air of the young day might come in; and, leaning on the sill, he seemed to be intently watching the flushing of the great sunrise clouds, and the brightening of the meadow-lands and woodlands, as the grey tints melted into warmer hues. But in reality, though he saw and felt the loveliness of the dewy, smiling landscape, he was still absorbed in anxious thought, and scarcely conscious of the fact that he had been sitting up all night, and that he was physically weary, though never in his life had he felt less disposed to go to bed and sleep. Now he marked the glow upon the Stanford woods, now he caught the first gleam of sunlight, striking on the ruddy leaves of the tall, budding poplars, and now be buried his face in his hands, and seemed to be communing with his own heart, or perhaps asking guidance of Him who had often, in the days that were past, shown him the way wherein he should walk, and led

his wavering feet out of the labyrinth into the paths of peace, and safety, and uprightness.

"Yes!" he said at length, "I will take counsel with my friend. I can rely upon Christopher Gray; he is a man of broad views, and of a noble spirit: his judgment is sound, his common sense unquestionable; he will help me to a right discrimination in this matter! Besides, he can tell me much which I desire to learn: he knows the circumstances of Captain Robert's death, and will be nearly as good an authority as Marcia herself."

And having made these remarks to himself, Mr. Carfax wisely concluded to go to bed and to sleep, if he could. Christopher was coming over to breakfast by the earliest train which stopped at West Copley, and that was at 7.45. And being endowed with a splendid constitution, Robert Carfax was not kept awake by all the excitement he had undergone for the last few hours, as a man with more delicately strung nerves would have been. Under the same circumstances Christopher would have been too restless to lie down at all: slumber would not have visited his eyelids, nor composure his spirits, for at least some length of time.

But Robert, having made up his mind to dismiss the subject for the present, lay down, closed his eyes, and in less than five minutes was wandering in the land of dreams; for he was one of those supremely happy people who can sleep at will. So differently were those two men constituted, who yet were such close and stedfast friends.

Christopher came as punctually as the train would bring him, and ready for him was his host, looking as brisk as if he had enjoyed his usual complement of repose, and quite ready to do justice to the good cheer which his housekeeper had provided. Mr. Gray, too, was looking unusually robust; the sweet morning air had fanned his brow, and brought some healthy colour to his pale cheeks, and given him a most unromantic appetite. Indeed, Christopher Gray seemed now all the better for his long illness and his weary convalescence.

Probably for long his brain had needed rest, and the respite from continuous hard work, however brought about, was certainly a gain. Then his understanding with Ermengarde had been such a relief! He could speak to her now of all his hopes and fears, and all his prospects for the future; her quiet brightness cheered him, and her smile never failed to scatter the depression that still occasionally visited him when he overtasked his slowly returning strength, or thought too anxiously about the new life awaiting him in London.

It was a beautiful morning when they set forth towards the Abbot's Pool, taking the very road which Rachel and George, with their companions, had traversed nearly a year before, when poor Rachel had been taught to believe that the arm on which she leaned would be her defence and her support through the remainder of her days.

Poor girl! she was a little worn then with the anxiety and the fears that had preyed upon her, but she was still very beautiful, and so fond, so gentle, so unsuspecting, so ready to believe the flattering words that were so softly breathed by lips so trusted! And now she was fading like a flower whose stem is snapped, now the brilliance of her beauty had passed away, her good name had been assailed; her mother said her heart was broken, and there were some village crones who shook their heads ominously, and declared that she was dying!

The sun came glinting through the green arched canopy of interlacing boughs; the bubbling spring trickled clearly and musically along its mossy, pebbly bed; the birds kept up one ceaseless song of praise, and the white stitch-worts mingled their star-like blossoms with the turquoise-coloured gems of the germander speedwell, and the paler blooms of the delicate ground-ivy. But she who had once walked there in innocence, and peace, and girlish happiness-and afterwards in a fevered ecstasy of strange, unreal bliss-and still later in such anguish of spirit as only a wounded heart can know, would walk there nevermore! Not for her were the spring's fair flowers, nor the vivid green of the tender-hued wood-sorrel,