which the myrtle blossomed, and roses, clustering round the white-washed cottages, bloomed in wild luxuriance. For some distauce the tree-growth was scanty, but ample amends were made by the noble hedgerows garlanded with flowers, and the sweet-smelling myrtles, which grew as large as trees; but when the eye glanced far away into the distance there rose a lofty range of hills, linked to each other by gentle undulations, all bearing upon their crowns innumerable giant trees, which, as the twilight gathered in, and the wind swayed their massive tops, seemed like mountain spirits who had charge of the intervening vale of life and beauty that stretched away from their roots to the bold cliffs which overhung the sea.

And what a prospect it was from the summit of those cliffs! Far away, over the blue waters, the white sails filled out with the wind, like the wings of some new mermaids of the ocean, called up thoughts too big for words, and although gazed upon in the times of calm unheaving quiet, too solemn for ordinary conversation. From one spot the eye ranged over a vast expanse of rocks and sand, the former of which, thrown into fantastic shapes, looked like the jaws of horrid sea-monsters whose delight it was to destroy and swallow up the humble fisher's skiff or the mightier armaments of war. Even in calm hours, when their snaky folds were covered with sea mosses, there was a strange terror in their rugged aspect; but in the hours of storm, when the blasts were unyoked, their aspect was truly terrible. When a stiff southwester blows, then all these rocks, roused from their slumber, become busy champing and churning the mighty rollers and big waves into snow-wreaths which fly high in air and then sweeps with such violence inland that the spectator is fain to lie his full length upon the cliff, holding on by bank and bush, lest he, too, should be borne from the spot by the unyielding spirit of the storm.

From another spot, and overlooking a vast expanse, where the sea had formed a bay, there was another kind of scene. Right away to the opposite range of cliffs was an undulating sheet of yellow, not sand, but wholly composed of shells, which lay fathoms deep, in every variety and form, to be ground, by the roll of the rising and falling tides, into powder. At times a party of visitors were to be seen walking over them, intending to pick out specimens, but ere they had gone far they had to cast away the earliest of their choice, until at length, amid the profusion, they found it difficult to make a selection. Crunching and rolling beneath their feet, this immense collection of shells called up thoughts of the infinite world of life and beauty, of which they were but the wrecks, and as each tide, washing them up from the cavernous bed of the ocean, brought in a new layer, the mind of the beholder was filled with wonder that so much skill and wisdom should have been displayed by the Great Maker, when, apparently, the only result was a heap of untenanted homes left to change into shell-sand upon that open coast.

Mrs. Durton and Mary were comfortably lodged, and during the earlier months of their residence, there were many reasons for hoping that a positive recovery was to be anticipated. As time wore away, however, these faded, and, indeed, the invalid was compelled to abandon all her easy outdoor exercises. Still Mary attended upon and nursed her with the affection of a daughter, and although there were times when she inwardly mourned over the postponement of her marriage, upon the whole she was content with her lot, and happy in the performance of her duties. Although we have not mentioned the fact, the reader will have been aware that all along loving letters were passing to and fro, in which the affianced ones spoke of the future with

out dreaming that it could be overshadowed by care and encompassed with danger: The letters of Mary were alike rich in tokens of her affection, and in descriptious of the scenery around her home; but while speaking with a childlike joyousness of the caves and sheltered nooks upon the coast, in which the arbute and larustinus grew like trees, she scarcely ever failed to introduce some reflections upon the wondrous Architect of the Universe, the parts of which gave her so much delight. Hers was a pious and devotional nature, running over with tenderness and trust; and it is sad to reflect upon the fact that while penning her love-fraught letters, which abounded with hopes of the future, the Fates were busy weaving the meshes of a sorrowful web, from whose hold, to say the least, her eventual escape would be difficult.

She had recently made a new male acquaintance, and the reader, not without marking well his whole manner, must also become acquainted with him. Not that there was anything either in his life, aims, or thoughts, which happens to be worthy of that honour, but because of the influence he exerted upon the fortunes and happiness of those personages whose life-history is here being narrated.

The Reverend George Bridling-the gentleman alluded to-was a man of great verbal piety, who scarcely ever went out without a stock of tracts in his pocket, to distribute to the poor. These stray leaves served the double purpose of gaining him a good name as a religious man, while they saved his purse by relieving him from the necessity of giving alms to the needy, or small pecuniary rewards to those who went his errands, or carried his parcels. No man stood more in need of servants than did this gentleman, for he was continually calling some one to do his bidding. Instead of paying in carnal food, he gave spiritual bread, and never without dwelling upon the higher value of the latter, which he said was not properly esteemed by the people. The tracts cost him nothing, for he begged them of those who were in the habit of keeping a supply, and sometimes when he asked for a bundle, the good-natured souls presented him with a sovereign, or even more, to purchase a supply. They were sure that he would make good use "of a larger number than they had on hand; which probably he would have done, but somehow his memory failed him in such trifling matters, for he never made a purchase from the agents. He had enough given him to serve his purpose, and the tract money went for kid gloves, cravats, or elegant boots.

For some years this gentleman had been diligently looking about for two treasures a rich wife and a good living. He had once been employed as a Curate by the Vicar of Mattacombe, during his absence upon the Continent; then for some months he served in the same capacity at Boltsunder, near Crosswood; after which he engaged for six months at Moult, and just when the time for which he had been engaged expired, the health of the Vicar of Mattacombe again failing so seriously as to necessitate his return to Italy, Bridling was offered a re-engagement in the capacity of Curate. For some days he hesitated about accepting the offer, because of feeling that if his employer died, the living was sure to be sold, and, next, because there was little chance of meeting with a rich wife in that neighbourhood. The low state of his exchequer, however, operated powerfully in favour of his giving an affirmative reply, and when he remembered that there was a chance of some rich invalid being smitten by his personal appearance, set off by his studied manners, the letter announcing his acceptance of the engagement was written.

Scarcely was he settled in the vicarage before he began to plume himself

upon having reached the desired haven. A garrulous old servant informed him that there was a sick lady lodging over the way who was very rich, and had not a chick or child to leave her money to, so it was all to be for the beautiful young lady, who, like a daughter, attended and nursed her.

Pricking up his ears at this piece of news, he inquired farther, and found that the two ladies had been lodging there above twelve months; that the invalid grew daily weaker, which was known by her being unable to continue the wheel-chair airings; that the young lady never left her side except to go to church, at which she had not been known to miss a single service; that she never walked home with gentlemen, many of whom had offered to escort her; and, finally, that the amount of money to be left to the said young lady was

enormous.

Part of this was true, but how the old crone had managed to glean so much, was a mystery. Mrs. Durton had made a will, in which her property was given to Mary, but how that had transpired, it were hard to say, unless through the solicitor's copying clerk, or some other subordinate. Bridling was so well-pleased with the information, and so certain of success in winning the lady, that he actually presented the old woman with a shilling—a larger amount by one-half, than he had given her during the whole period of his previous residence, so that it was not difficult to understand why the old woman asked at least a dozen persons if the coin were a good one.

On the second day after receiving this information the Reverend George Bridling, in the course of parish visitations, called upon Mrs. Durton, and was kindly received. He chatted away his half-hour without touching upon any serious point; but just before leaving he intimated that, if it were perfectly agreeable to them, he "would ease his conscience by frequently calling to utter words of consolation, and to learn a lesson of patience from one who bore her severe trials with so much fortitude and Christian humility."

Such an offer could not be declined with any grace; and, in fact, although from different motives, neither of the ladies was desirous of declining it. Mrs. Durton said she should feel herself obliged by his calls, not because she cared to have her soul searched by an inexperienced curate, but through thinking that his conversation would furnish a pleasing relief to Mary; while the latter heartily concurred in the wish that he should frequently call, through imagining he would be able to work upon the religious nature of the sick woman. And upon that point she was quite uneasy, for her fear was that Mrs. Durton was not fairly prepared for death. Within a month Bridling was perfectly at home in their apartments, and not unfrequently it happened, that when Mary was absent he managed to bring the conversation round to the matter of the rumoured will, when, to his great joy, he learned that Mary would possess a fortune certainly not less than £12,000, but probably it would come nearer to the round twenty. By dint of continually praising both Mary and the liberality of her Aunt, he elicited all the facts necessary to convince him of the beautiful nurse being no idle speculation, and in every sense worthy of his pursuit. Immediately, without imagining that he had a rival in the field, or that there could be a doubt of his success, he commenced operations, in order, without delay, to secure his prize.

Bridling had been in the habit of viewing his countenance in the glass several times during the course of every day, but never yet had he seen himself as others saw him. Owing to some obtuseness in his powers of perception and comparison, he had fallen into the error of believing his form and features to be perfect, whereas they were the very opposite. Whatever

there was which could be treated as passable in his general appearance, had been so abominably changed and toned down by his attempt to look severely pious, that nothing remained which was either commanding or manlike. His height was about five feet six; figure inclined to obesity; his eyes were a lightish hazel, and his hair, which he wore rather long, was light auburn. His voice was naturally full and strong, but through doing the pious to the aged, and the sentimental to the younger ladies, he had contracted the habit of speaking in a tone which was neither musical nor attractive unto any but the melon-headed portion of the community. Fond of quoting poetry, and bound by his theory, that "piety in speech ensures a rich wife to any deserving curate," he scarcely ever spoke for any length of time without introducing lines from the Psalms, or from some of the orthodox religious poets. Strictly estimated, his conversation was as insipid as his aims were contemptible. There was neither honour, virtue, nor manhood in him, and yet he was a favourite among the spinsters. Mary had generally treated him with sisterly kindness, which he vainly conceived was a proof of the tender passion. At times, however, she had felt inclined to treat him with less respect; that was when he dined with them. He was an enormous feeder, and, as a rule, he never permitted an untasted dish to leave the table. Animalism was her abhorrence, and nothing but respect for his cloth enabled her to avoid a public exhibition of her feelings of disgust. When he began to speak to her in what he intended to be the tender tones of passionate affection, she wondered at his change of manner, yet did not suspect his intentions. It is true that he had come to feel a sort of liking for her, which, perhaps, in such a man, was the nearest approach he could make to love; but as all he said was in the half-business, half-pious tone, she heard, but comprehended him not; and, to his great mortification, he was compelled to admit the thought, that he had a favoured rival. Nor was he long held in suspense, for Mrs. Durton informed him of the fact, that she was to be the bride of George Lester.

Bridling had met the rector of Crosswood, had heard him preach, and, through a correspondence kept up with Miss Margery Poinder, he was kept well-informed of the rumours afloat respecting the rector being an unorthodox man. His observations, with a view to discover the character of Mary, had convinced him that she was so thoroughly bound up with the popular religious ideas, as to be incapable of linking her fate with one who repudiated those theories, and upon that hint he resolved to work, being assured that her affection for George Lester could thus be overthrown. He was upon his guard, however, in approaching the subject, for at first he merely intimated his joy at learning that she was acquainted with the rector of Crosswood, whom he "had met and heard preach." Mary's eye lighted up with joy, for believing that all who knew Lester would love him, she had no doubt of Bridling having much to say in his favour. In this, however, she was disappointed, and when she asked how he liked the sermon, he solicited pardon for declining to answer that question. On the following day she reverted to the subject, but still without obtaining any distinct answer, and it was not until a fortnight had passed away that, after protesting how much pain it gave him to mention the fact to one who was so much interested, he "confessed that the sermon struck him as being altogether at variance with sound doctrine, and better suited for the platform of the freethinkers than the pulpit of a church."

Having thus broken the ice, he poured in a volley of regrets, adding how

much the good, pious people of Crosswood were alarmed about the strange sermons preached by their rector, and then closed up with reading a few sentences from a letter received that morning from Margery Poinder, in which that young lady intimated that

"The latitudinarianism of the rector has become so marked that, in connection with myself, several ladies have resolved upon remaining away from the parish church."

Mary heard all this without giving any external sign of her internal agony. Most young ladies would have refused to believe the charge, and so, perhaps, would she, had it not been for the fact that Lester's mother had so frequently spoken with her upon the subject, as fearing that George would quit the Church. All this now came back to her memory, and although for a few moments she succeeded in blotting it out, they had scarcely passed away before, as in letters of fire, traced by some supernatural power, she saw the writing" Thy beloved Lester is an unbeliever!”

That night it was fortunate for Mrs. Durton that she slept soundly, for had she been wakeful she must have heard the sobbing of Mary, who neither slept nor lay upon her bed to seek sleep, but gave herself up to those passionate outbursts of grief which indicate the depth and intensity of the soul's agony. Towards morning she became more composed, not that hope had chased away the conviction that what she had heard was true, but she had prepared herself to meet with a calmer aspect the difficulties which lay before her. But her mind now became troubled about what it was her duty to do. Should she write and tell Lester all she had heard? Should she merely mention that her mind had been alarmed by vague rumours? The latter course was instantly abandoned as unworthy, for as yet she had never stooped to equivocation or deceit, and could not now begin. Days passed and she wrote several letters, none of which were despatched, some were "too cruel,” some "too kind." Probably weeks would have been allowed to escape had not a letter from Lester reached Mrs. Durton, in which his alarm was expressed that Mary was indisposed. A full fortnight had passed without his receiving any letter, and unless he heard by return of post he should be compelled to visit Mattacombe to obtain the necessary information.

The worthy woman, astonished by the contents of this epistle, questioned Mary as to her reasons for not having written with her usual regularity, and then learnt, for the first time, in what way Bridling had been the active cause of mischief. Older, and having more experience-recalling also to mind various conversations he had held with her about the future prospects of Mary-she at once divined that he aimed at supplanting Lester, and with this came the idea that his speeches were a foul calumny. But all her arguments based upon that assumption were powerless, for the long-cherished fear had been transmuted into certainty, and probably no evidence short of Lester's solemn denial could have served to restore Mary's peace of mind.

Mrs. Durton declared that Lester was a noble-hearted man, and that were it her case she would not be deterred by his unorthodox opinions from becoming his wife. Mary confessed that were it only for herself she could risk all, and do the same. "But," she continued, "I dare not, for others would be involved; moreover, my pledge to the dying must not be broken."

After much conversation it was finally decided that Mary should immediately write to Lester, giving him to understand both what she had heard, and what suffering it had caused her. This was done, but without producing the results which Mrs. Durton so earnestly desired.