descending field, and a wide stretch of country lay beyond.

Blue

It was a grey sort of day, but the grey, Quakerlike in softness, had a beauty of its own. mists gathered in hollows, or circled clumps of trees, and a silver brook wound through the broad pasturelands. Outlines of hills stood in purple clearness against a yellow-white horizon, which caught a pinkish hue towards the west. Slight glimmers of green near at hand gave promise of spring.

Muriel, with her head thrown backwards, and her hand on the ivy-clad wall, took in the picture dreamily. There was something un-English and out of the common about her; and about the curve of her mouth, and the fall of her eyelids, a touch of repression and sadness.

Knowing she ought to hasten on, she yet delayed. The extreme quiet of all around infected her with a curious disinclination to move. Few people passed along this upper road at any time, and in winter it was especially lonely. Muriel had met none, and did not expect to meet any. She was in a mood for solitude, and had become so much wrapped up in her own thoughts as to be quite unaware of a break in her solitude.

For she was alone no longer. In the road, at a short distance, stood a gentleman, holding somewhat aloof; and a small maiden of eight years-a browneyed child of delicate make, with hair in a flaxen cloud falling below her waist-had crept stealthily to her side.

The touch on her sealskin jacket made Muriel start.

66

66

'I thought it was you," said the child.
Why, Connie!"

Muriel caught the little figure in her arms, and held it fast. A passion of pain and pleasure went into the clasp, mingled with a guilty feeling; for this was against orders.

"O cousin Muriel, you never come to see us now."

"No, Connie, I can't," said Muriel, standing upright again, with the two small hands between her own. "You must not ask me why."

"I know why-partly," nodded Constance. "And I think somebody is very naughty; I do, cousin Muriel."

"Little girls are no judges," said Muriel. "Ah, but I'm perfectly sure mamma thinks the same."

"Connie, how do you come to be here? You cannot have walked."

"Oh no, Mr. Fortescue drove us in, and we're going to meet him at the mile-stone. Papa could have walked it, but I couldn't."

Muriel became suddenly conscious of the figure waiting in the background. "John!" she cried eagerly, and the two came together.

"I was not sure if I might venture," said John

Rivers.

He was vicar in the neighbouring town, four miles distant, and in addition to being Muriel's first-cousin he had been brought up as her brother. The halflight showed him to be an Englishman of the refined type, without her foreign colouring, having a certain compact energy in each step and motion, and yet a touch of his little daughter's delicate look.

O John!"

"He has acted a father's part, and has a father's authority."

"And could nothing make it right for me to go against him?”

"If I were dying, you might come to me at all hazards, I think."

"John, don't talk of such a thing!" and tears filled her eyes. "How are Rosie and the boys?" "The boys are blooming. Rosamund is pretty well as to health, and as bright as usual." "I never knew Rosie anything else. is disobedience," said Muriel suddenly. "What is?"

"Standing here, talking to you."

John, this

You think he would not like us to exchange even a few words?"

Muriel was silent. She could not make up her mind to say how strong the embargo as to intercourse had been.

"One thing is clear," John remarked, "and that is that you have no business to walk along this road in the dusk. Go home as fast as you like, but I shall not think it right to leave you till the turnpike is in sight. You may throw all blame upon me."

The last thing she was likely to do, seeing that the wish of her heart was to bridge over the chasm between her cousin and her grandfather. They set off together, however, Connie clinging to Muriel on her other side.

"How are you all at home?" asked John.

"Just as usual. Mamma seems very well, and I think Lilias is stronger than last year. Grandpapa keeps wonderfully hale."

"Does he ever speak of me?"

'Never, unless I bring up your name; but he has almost cured me of that. I can't bear to hear him say such hard things. O John, when I look back to the days when you could say and do nothing wrong, I can hardly believe in the change."

"There is a standing cause," said John briefly. "I always feel guilty."

"You! Your affair was a mere side-incident. Never trouble yourself about that, my dear Muriel, Could you have taken any other line?"