said Mr. Sandon. Stephen was surprised, but Mr. Sandon went on to talk of the suddenness of his arrival and Miss Sparrow's last attack, whilst he was preparing to break the real cause of Georgy's nonappearance.

Aunt Jane was secretly wishing that Stephen might be made duly alive to Georgy's wickedness. The children were all gone except Poppy, who, sitting on a low stool, with a picture-book upon her knee, was eagerly listening to every word which fell from the lips of her elders.

"Where is your sister now?" asked Mr. Sandon of Stephen.

"She has a pretty house in the New Forest. Georgy would like that country very much. I will take her there soon, if I can."

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Georgy is not going with you," said a grave, distinct voice; "because she says she won't marry you, because she won't; and because papa says he's sure she likes somebody else, and he is very angry about it."

Except the mother, who gasped out, "Poppy!" nobody spoke.

Then Mrs. Sandon took away the unfortunate Poppy, and the other two remained together.

"Confound that child, she is always in the way! her mother never remembers that she is in the room, and talks of everything before her. I must have

told you, Stephen, so I may as well begin now: you have not received either Georgy's last letter or mine, I fear. Nearly five months ago, she told me, without assigning any reason for her change, that she would not marry you."

"She has forgotten me; is that what you mean?” "I do not exactly know that; girls are changeable." "I should not have thought that Georgy was," Stephen answered, stoutly. "And so you think that she has forgotten me? It was not your fault, Robert ; I am sure you would have done all you could to prevent it. It was a foolish thing in me to go away for three years. I have thought so sometimes since." Stephen blamed no one, but his look and tone bespoke his disappointment, poor fellow ! "Three years,

three years," he muttered to himself.

Mr. Sandon went on to recount Georgy's departure, or rather flight, her eccentric return to Millthorpe Grange, and that now she had left Mrs. Erskine's protection and was living with her aunt.

"No one was unkind to her?" asked Stephen, more sharply than he usually spoke.

"I have had enough to bear from her without being asked that," was the answer.

"I am not blaming you, for I know nothing about it; but cannot look you it all in the same light

that I do, Robert.

upon I should like to see Georgy

myself, indeed I should."

Stephen did not wish to leave Grainthorpe immediately. For three years he had looked forward to his return, and to his marriage; and now that the whole prospect had vanished, and nothing had as yet taken its place, poor Stephen felt a perfect castaway.

He played with the children, who three years ago had ruled him, and who now quickly resumed the practice. He obtained Poppy's forgiveness next morning; he found her crying up-stairs in the schoolroom, because she was too wicked to come down. He evaded orders by taking her into the garden, and would not return to the drawing-room till she was allowed to do so. Stephen's opinion of Aunt Jane's unkindness to Georgy was rather increased by Poppy's revelations and remarks. Poppy and her playfellow were constantly going into the garden; which place of resort always drew on a conversation about Georgy.

He soon received another letter from her, which he answered, acquiescing in her decision, but saying that he wished to meet her again, and have at least one farewell conversation with her.

CHAPTER XXI.

MISS SPARROW's summons was immediately answered, not only by Mr. Sandon, but by Stephen. Georgy had not expected the latter, and it seemed to her as if three years had been put back when she heard his voice. When she entered the room, a stout, florid, but originally fair-complexioned man was standing by her uncle.

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Georgy," he said, warmly and cheerily, as if it were a matter of course to meet her again; "it is a long while since I have seen you: how pale you are looking nursing your poor aunt does not agree with you.

This cordiality was very acceptable just then, and she felt grateful to him for it. It seemed so natural to see him again. Perhaps those other people whom she had known since his departure, were all an uneasy dream; and altogether she disliked the meeting less than she had expected.

One day more, and the time from which nature shrinks had come: their aunt was dying; and Mr. Sandon had not arrived too early. The old woman

fell into a heavy slumber, and the three watched through the night by her bedside: before morning that sleep was death.

Last words and deathbed scenes occur oftener in books than in reality.

Last words are oftener the mutterings of some perhaps trivial dream-the request for some comfort, or some change of pillows; the grateful recognition of some loved one-than phrases which contain the full expression of the life-thought, or maxims which shall be the guidance of those who remain behind. Our lives, not our deathbeds, most furnish these.

Georgy was terribly alone: there was no one now to call her "child" any more. The last link between herself and her youth seemed gone in that kind old woman, whose goodness she had at first so little valued. Mr. Sandon, when away from the influence of his wife, soon became more placable, and readily forgave Georgy; who could not refuse, in the first warmth of the reconciliation, to return to Grainthorpe with her uncle.

"Then you will not marry Stephen ?" said Uncle Robert, sadly.

"No, I cannot."

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Well, I will tell you what you have brought upon him," and he put on the hopeless air which a man assumes when called upon to explain what he is perfectly aware will never be understood.