naïve wisd›m about politics, and James respectfully listening.

There is wisdom in the prudent limitation of our prayer-book, “A man may not marry his grandmother:" a deep symbolism is involved in it, if no literal application. It means that a man shall not marry one who, although she may be wise, good, and even well-favoured, has no real power over his heart. Women sometimes give up men; nay, would even seek out and kneel before their future wives: let them be models of wisdom and goodness; but "let him marry his grandmother," is the inner thought of that agonized heroism. It was a selfish feeling akin to this which made Georgy accept the vision of Mr. Erskine's marriage which rose before her.

She was brought back to the ball, the people, and the recollection of Mrs. Evelyn Lorraine's greatness, by Mr. Erskine, who had come to ask her to dance with him. She assented, struggled through a quadrille, laughed and talked, and explored the refreshment room; till suddenly he asked, in mentioning the day when she had first arrived at their house, "Was I not in a detestably gloomy humour that morning?" It was said laughingly and gently, and yet it annoyed her intensely: she did not like that cool way of making amends, if any were required. She answered, laughing, but shortly:

"Indeed, I did not remark any alteration in you.'" After that everything grew less pleasant: she was glad even to leave James when they saw Mrs. Erskine, who was seeking them to go home.

They talked eagerly on the way back, and Georgy said that she had enjoyed herself very much. Mrs. Erskine went rapidly upstairs, and Georgy followed, but stood with her hand upon her door, and listened as she heard Mr. Erskine's voice downstairs, and his footsteps as he went into his sitting-room. She would not have prolonged her visit there a day, if by her own wish she could have done so; and yet she reckoned up every hour that yet remained to her, as a miser would his hoard: every footstep that she heard, and every time she looked at him, she computed as a sort of gain. Then a twinge of vexation came upon her, as she still heard those words, "Was I not in a detestable humour that morning?" They had been said with a faint tone of royalty, which made the remembrance of them intolerable to her.

She felt that she was in a false position. What had she come there for? and the words returned to her again, carrying with them a homily of their own. Then she tried to turn against him, to criticise him, and to reflect coldly; but she could not find in her heart one harsh thought. All that he said was well said; all that he did was well done. She

loved him in all ways, as mothers love their children: for his virtues, and still more for his faults. Then she started again, and her heart beat violently as she heard his footsteps when he came upstairs and shut the door of his room. Life was very long she thought, as she lay down that night, and remembered that one more day would end this.

The next morning passed quickly. Georgy never saw Mr. Erskine, and in the evening she was left alone again. There was a lurking hope in her breast that perhaps he would come again: it had grown up in spite of herself. She had not seen him all day, and so-perhaps: but it grew late, and her vision was not destined to be realized. She sat

at the window, watching the line of lamps which seemed to urge the departure of the summer twilight. Those lamps and that dull, bald street meant home to her; and to-morrow she would leave home, and never find it again. She always knew his footsteps and felt his approach; but this time Mr. Erskine had pushed back the curtain which hung between the drawing-rooms, and was standing by her before she was aware of his presence.

“Oh! you have come," she said, abruptly.

66

Why, did you expect me?"

"No; not at all," she answered (still more abruptly), and took up her work; sitting with her back to the window, where she could not by any possibility see.

"You cannot see.”

"I forgot," she said, laughing, and turned towards the window.

"You are very industrious."

"Well, one must do something."

"I never heard you moralise so sternly before." Then there was a short pause. She had never mentioned Grainthorpe to him when she could help it; never spoke to him of her quarrel with her uncle and if he ever alluded to it, always resolutely passed over the subject—now he mentioned it suddenly.

66

e;

Georgy-Miss Sandon, you are not very happy at Grainthorpe?"

She looked up at him and coloured. "Tell me, if it is not an impertinent question; you were engaged by your uncle's desire, not your own."

"No, no, I did it-it was my doing--I wanted to get away-I did it," she said, rather incoherently. "My child, was it only to get away from Grainthorpe that you engaged yourself?"

She got up quickly, and going to the window, sat down there, and said, "It was very foolish of me; but I shall make myself quite happy at Grainthorpe : I am not going to marry at all."

"Not?" "No."

She did not see him half smile at her effort to brave it out unconcernedly. She had never looked

L

so childlike as when she uttered that deliberate decision, "No;" and she was too unconcerned to look at him. He sat down beside her in the window, and bent very near her. He had bent down so once before; and her heart beat as it had done once before, by the pianoforte at the Grange. There was so much deference, and so much gentle respect in his manner, and yet it was so calmly assured-it always fascinated and mastered her.

66 Do you love no one, then?"

He took her hand; but his sentence appeared so completely finished, that she drew back, and snatched her hand away. It seemed as if he were crossquestioning her at his pleasure. For one instant he looked at her as she crimsoned, and her eyes grew angry and full of tears; then he said, quite humbly: "Could you ever be my wife? Do you love me enough?"

She did not lift her eyes, and, as if the words were very difficult to speak, she said: "You know I do.”