into one of his tête exaltée moods, and wrote such articles that the printers trembled in their shoes as they set up the type, and the correctors of the press stood aghast, and wondered whether the publishers of Christendom would be prosecuted for a libel, or for any number of libels rather, as the editor that week struck out right and left, and behind and before, and charged away, as if he represented the "Six Hundred" in his own proper person. There was no one to remonstrate, no one to modify his astounding propositions, or to qualify his bold and rash assertions. John Barrington was very nearly crazy, and poor little dove-like Mrs. Lovell was in an agony lest certain articles, which she had surreptitiously read in proof, should find their way, unaltered, uncurtailed, into the columns of the paper. Would not people declare that instead of Christendom, it ought to be called Heathendom? Poor little woman, except that the editor was kind to her in his own rough, gruff way, her life must have been very much like that of a dove, mated by mistake with a golden eagle, or a humming-bird married by some blunder to an ostrich !

Any way, Christopher must come straightway back again, or Fleet street would explode from Temple Bar to Ludgatehill, and the offices of Christendom be laid in ruins! And Criff went back, but in his absence so much mischief had been achieved that it could not be repaired, and the partners had quarrelled fiercely; and soon there was deadly feud between. them; and what was to be done? So, after New Year'sday, it became rather a dreary time for Ermengarde; all November and December she had been anticipating Criff's visit; now it was over, and she had nothing else to look forward to.

Robert Carfax was dreary also, in his comfortable rooms at Dorsett's Folly; he did not like to think of Singlehurst shut up, and unvisited by Christmas cheer, save such as the gardener and his wife might keep in the three small rooms allotted for their occupancy. But, at the same time, he never repented that he had shut up the Manor House; so

long as he was its legal master, and Marcia refused to be its mistress, he would never live in it himself, though it had been the home of his mother's family for generations; neither would he permit any stranger to inhabit it. While Marcia lived, he had but one alternative-either she must reign there as of old, or it must remain untenanted.

But why did he so seldom visit the Orchard House? Perhaps he thought it would be as well that Marcia should miss him, and learn to expect him, and desire his coming. Perhaps he thought it better for his own sake to refrain from a pleasure that was always followed by so keen a pain, from association with one whom he loved more and more at every interview; but who, if she really loved him at all, persisted in loving him too wisely and not too well. Or perhaps this was Marcia's own view of the case—he was displeased, and resolved to banish her from his heart and mind. Presently she heard of his being a good deal at Silverdale, and then Lady Charlotte's name and his were coupled, and people were struck with the suitability of such an alliance; and the slight rumour quickly became a piece of current gossip, well authenticated; and Marcia, by some unfortuitous accident, was always hearing of it. She was very glad, she told Ermy, that it should be so. Lady Charlotte would make an excellent wife, malgré her hobbies; and the Earl and the Countess would be so pleased to have their daughter settled so close at hand; and it was time Mr. Carfax married again,” and more to the same effect, which she said in all good faith, telling herself that she did not mind one bit about it, and no one would be better pleased to call upon Lady Charlotte Trevanion-Carfax than herself.

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But Ermengarde took her up quite testily.

"Nothing of the kind," she said, with an unusual heat; "no Lady Charlotte will ever reign at Singlehurst. Robert Carfax is not the man to transfer his affections from one

woman to another! He has told you that he loves you, and he will be faithful, however long his probation may endure." "But I told him I would never marry him."

"I think it was very wicked of you to say so, Marcia; and it would be more wicked still if you meant it.'

"Ermy!"

"Yes, it is true. You love him, and there being no just cause or impediment you ought to be joined in lawful matrimony."

"Perhaps we might, if only I had remained mistress of the Manor.'

"Such weak, foolish pride!"

"I cannot bear to take all and give nothing, or next to nothing."

“Marcia, I am disappointed in you. In perfect love there is neither giving nor receiving. If you were pressed to make a match of mere expediency, you might well hesitate; then, indeed, you would feel that the advantages were chiefly on your side. As it is, for a little foolish pride, and a dread of what the world may say, you are sacrificing not only yourself, but one of the best men living."

"All the world would say it was a marriage of expediency, on my part at least. Everybody knows that I professed myself a life-long spinster, as lady of the Manor. What would be the natural conclusion if now I altered my determination, and accepted the lord of Singlehurst?"

"It would matter very little as to people's conclusions; nothing would matter, nothing ever does matter, but the real state of the case. If God and your heart approve, all the rest may safely be defied."

"Well, you would not have me recall Mr. Carfax ? Perhaps he no longer cares for me: no longer wishes me to be his wife. I will wait and see what all this is about Lady Charlotte."

"You may spare yourself the trouble, Marcia; but I am really out of all patience with you. You are either very blind or very obstinate-perhaps both. There! I shall feel better now that I have scolded you so heartily. It is such a comfort to a woman to have her say.”

AFTER Lady Mary's wedding, West Copley and Great Copley seemed to return to their old monotonous, uneventful course of life; and if a public diary had been kept, day after day, and even month after month, this entry would have shone forth conspicuously on every page-"Nothing particular happened," and ditto, ditto, ditto might have been followed till the book was full. And yet changes are insensibly wrought, even when no sudden or startling events are to be recorded. If nature abhors a vacuum, she also abhors any continuance of that state of being which, like a neuter verb, expresses neither action nor passion. She will have changes -she will have progress-she will not let things remain in statu quo; but she often labours quite as effectually in peace, and silence, and obscurity, as in tempest, pestilence, and flood; and while the world and the people in it seem at rest, and there are neither wars, nor rumours of wars, nor mighty revolutions, nor convulsions of society, the work of change is imperceptibly going on, and the present is not as the past, nor will the future be as it is now, nor will to-morrow even be exactly like to-day. Great events are not the substancematter of which lives are made, they are only interruptions to the general course of nature; and society no more dashes from era to era than the child darts at once into the youth, or the mossy bud into the full expanded flower.

And so, in the two years that succeeded that dreary winter after Rachel Meacham's death, things were silently preparing for certain issues that were gradually approaching, and many changes were really being wrought, though of such apparent unimportance that they were not noted by any one. Perhaps the person who distinguished himself most was Grosvenor Smith; for he lived in so much state,

and gave so many splendid entertainments, and rode about the country with his distinguished visitors in such victorious style, that his doings were always a fruitful theme of conversation, and insensibly he came to be, in some sort, the great man of the neighbourhood.

As for George, he had little to do with the Bank in those days; he came down now and then, and, as in old time, won golden opinions even from those who were most inclined to censure him. He was still the same careless, gay, witty, kind-hearted George as ever; still as frank, and radiant, and fascinating; and still as handsome as when Robert Carfax saw him first in the coffee-room at the "Crown." But somehow he did not care much now to be at Copley; he had shunned the place ever since Rachel's death, and never, if he could help it, would he set foot in the village that was so replete with memories of her. In Rachel's grave had been buried much of the uncharitableness, and all the scandal that censorious tongues had set a-going; when the poor girl died, her neighbours were content to forgive her, and, before the early snow-drops were springing on her quiet grave, they had come to the conclusion that she had been cruelly wronged that common report had done her bitterest injustice, and many of them really wished they had suspended judgment, and not been so ready to condemn her, another "Hero done to death by slanderous tongues."

But somebody must be blamed, and not the slanderers themselves; and now the very people who had been most eager to extenuate George's share of the indiscretion were loudest in their reproaches against him. Yet, when he came he disarmed all his foes; his sweet smile, his sunny blue eyes, and his pleasant words, always at command, pleaded his cause more effectually than all the elaborate defences in the world. Nevertheless, in many hearts lingered a secret distrust; and many an one who succumbed to the popular idea in his presence, reverted to the old prejudice as soon as ever he went away again. Yes, certainly, when you came closely to consider the state of affairs, George Trevanion