done me justice. If so, so much the better for us both. But if not, I have still enough to take us both across the seas-to America."

"What! and leave my father? Never!" She drew herself back from him at the bare thought. Then her father's parting words recurred to her remembrance: "He is come to ask you to marry him because he knows that to-morrow he will be a beggar;" and she once more relented towards her lover he was incapable of a baseness, and she seemed to owe him a reparation for having listened to a suggestion to the contrary.

"You love your father, then, more than me!" cried Richard. "I wish I did!" thought Maggie bitterly.

"Why should these old people for ever cross the path of youth?" continued the young man vehemently. "If my uncle would have permitted us to marry, all would have been well; and now your father is the obstacle.-Don't be afraid, Maggie" (for his passion was terrible to witness, and she shrank before it); "it is my love for you that makes me wild. I came to-day to ask you to be my wife, because I had so great a trust in your love that I thought, 'Even at this lowest ebb of my fortunes, she will not refuse me.'"

She shivered, and sighed, and shut her eyes. If women had been the chief customers of the house of Thurle & Co., Richard Milbank would have been the best man of business in that establishment, instead of the worst. He knew well that, with a girl such as Maggie Thorne, his very misfortunes would be the most eloquent pleaders for him.

"It is not much, indeed, that I have to offer you, Maggie," he went on; "perhaps nothing beyond a loving heart and these willing hands. They shall henceforth, however, work diligently for you, dearest, if you will let them. They shall be your bread-winners, if bread is to be won."

"I am not afraid of starving, Richard," replied the girl,

with a touch of pride. "It is not the fear of that which would deter me from becoming your wife."

"What, then?" inquired he quickly. "Is it the fear of my breaking my good resolutions? Will you not trust me? Will not believe me?"

you

"I believe you, Richard: I am sure you mean what you say."

"But you would have proofs? I had thought that true love was more confiding;" his tone was sorrowful, and full of tender pleading, but the glance which accompanied it, and fell upon her down-drooped face, was impatient, disappointed, angry even. "Well, what matters?" continued he. "It is not as if I came to say: 'Will you marry me to-morrow, Maggie?' I only ask from you the assurance that you will be mine. Then, whatever change of fortune happens, I shall be content. Whatever may be lost, I shall still have won. My own dear, darling Maggie, tell me that you will one day be mine! You do not answer!" cried he, drawing her closer towards him; "but your silence speaks for you as sweetly as any words! On the ground yonder I read your answer, too, which was written before I put the question." He pointed to the sanded floor, on which, as she had sat by her father's side, she had mechanically traced the letters of her lover's name— "R. M." "May I take my happiness for granted, love? Your cheek is white, but I will change this lily to a rose.' So saying, he pressed his lips to hers, and she, with a low, soft cry, half-sigh, half-sob, returned his kiss. And thus they plighted troth. He would have repeated the pleasant ceremony, but that she withdrew from his passionate embrace.

"Go, Richard! go!" cried she. "I have done your bidding; your fate and mine are henceforth one; but you must leave me now."

"I am your slave, dear Maggie, now and for ever, and

must obey you. For the present, then, good-bye. Tomorrow may have good news in store for us, after all."

"Do not count upon it, Richard. Nor is it riches, even if you should be rich, that will make you happy."

"I know it, Maggie; for, rich or poor, I am now sure of happiness. But if the old man has relented, it may be realised at once. Think of that, sweetheart. And mean

while, good-bye, my own, my very own!"

With a kiss snatched from her forehead, for she had covered her face with her hands, he left the arbour, and the next minute she heard the front-door close behind him. He was gone, and had taken her heart; yet well she knew it was not in safe keeping.

Her eyes fell upon those two tell-tale letters upon the ground, and she erased them, slowly and reluctantly, with her foot.

omen.

"Vows written in sand!" sighed she. "It is an evil I have done wrong; yet how could I do otherwise? O Richard, Richard! I have given myself to you, in spite of my own heart's foreboding. Do not betray my trust."

CHAPTER III.

THE BROTHERS.

THERE are some natures that never count the cost of anything they can obtain on credit, but think only of the gratification of the moment; but this could not be said with justice of Richard Milbank; he thought only of his own personal gratification, it is true, but he sometimes looked forward to it a week, or even a month, in advance. He had come that afternoon, just as Mr Thorne had foreseen, while yet a chance of prosperity remained to him, to persuade Maggie to become his wife; and, if possible, upon the instant-that is, as soon as the law would permit it-to marry her. Of "saving common-sense" he had none, and even his wits (of which he had plenty) were rendered almost wholly useless to him, from his excessive egotism. Having decided upon some line of conduct conducing to his own pleasure, he did not give himself the trouble to place himself in the position of the person through whom the pleasure was to be obtained-an omission that forms the social safeguard of the world, which would else be at the feet of the Selfish. But even he perceived that to have put off his proposal until he was actually pronounced a beggar by his uncle's will, would lay him open to some suspicion of selfishness. As it was, the meagre hope of his having been left something by old Matthew Thurle, was the rag with which he covered his shamelessness. He had offered himself to Maggie, whether he should be rich or poor;

B

"and what more," said he to himself, "could be expected of any man?"

He was very fond of Maggie-after his fashion: prouder of her, when she was present, than of any other girl in the world; but in her absence, her image did not by any means so monopolise his heart as to prevent it receiving other impressions. Those who were the most charitable to Richard Milbank's faults lamented his "extreme susceptibility;" others called him a dissolute and abandoned fellow. As to his protestations of penitence and resolutions of amendment, it would have been a compliment, to call them moonshine: they were not even a genuine reflection of virtue. He adopted them as expressions most likely to please Maggie's ear; just as, had she been of a more frivolous disposition, he would have used the language of flattery or passion. If there was any recognised calling in life in which he would have succeeded, it would have been that of the stage-lover; for whether the object of his adoration had been a "singing chambermaid" or a "serious widow," he would have played his part equally well. The wits of most sharp people run to making money, and there stagnate, as in a pond of yellow mud; but those of Richard ran to making love. They had also another channel

-which the virtuous vaguely call "gambling transactions; " but in this he was not so successful, though equally diligent. This man, however, was not a mere selfish voluptuary. When passion was aroused he became reckless of all consequences, not only to others, but to himself. Disappointment did not. sour him-for vinegar is not made in a moment-but rendered him at once both desperate and dangerous. To conclude this slight sketch of Mr Richard Milbank's character, we must add in fairness that, in addition to the great attraction of his looks, he was what is termed (by a not very discerning class of critics, however) exceedingly "good company," and was the idol of his particular public-which was to be found.