are born of earth must ever mingle. Left alone, Elizabeth Stevens did not weep over the dead and buried past, did not cry out for fear of the desolate future, as a weaker woman might have done. After all, she was but reaping that which she had sown— a fine, rich harvest had sprung up from the small seeds sown broadcast with a bitter tongue long years ago.

"It was justice, terrible justice," Betty acknowledged, as she paced up and down in the room where Mr Elliot had lately stood; and excepting his blessing, which still echoed in her ears, and his forgiveness, she had nothing left out of the wreck she had made of her life. He would remember her for ever, if he remembered her at all, as the woman he had forgiven, not as the woman he had loved.

"Elizabeth! Bessie! Betty! or Bet! are you ever coming down to tea?" in Jack's voice.

Then, "Don't make such a row," from Bob; "what a heartless little beggar you are!"

A quick, "I'm not more heartless than any one else because I want my tea."

A scuffle outside the door, during which Betty rapidly blew out the candle. "Don't quarrel,

boys," she said, trying to separate the combatants; 66 come down-stairs with me."

No time for Elizabeth Stevens to mourn over a lost love or a blighted life. With a little hectic spot burning on either cheek, and the unnatural brilliancy of her eyes hidden behind her spectacles, she dispensed tea and bread-and-butter, listened to

the children's comments on the strange priest they had seen depart, and whom Nelly had recognised; told to the curious the story of Tom Elliot's life, and of the work he had entered on,-all this without a break in her voice. Later on, finding Susy weeping grievously, and striving to comfort her, she drew from her the confession that she had never liked Cicely, and that she was so sorry now.

All these various things, coming in the day's work, precluded the possibility of Betty's indulging in any private sorrow. And it was only when the hour of rest arrived and she found herself alone, secure from all interruption, that Elizabeth had leisure to weep scalding tears over the unforgotten, but now never-to-be-recalled Past.

312

CHAPTER XXVI.

MUCH IS TO LEARN, MUCH TO FORGET.

"She was a woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love,
Not speaking much."

DELICIA MAINWARING was standing alone in her dark, old-fashioned drawing-room, meditating. Yes, meditating, or day-dreaming, though it was three o'clock in the afternoon; so that there was not even the excuse of firelight or twilight for such an unheard-of proceeding.

Her plain black dress fell in straight folds about her tall figure; for though six months have passed since Cicely's death, Miss Mainwaring still wears mourning.

What is she thinking of, we may wonder, as she stands thus? Not leaning against anything, or fidgeting, but calmly erect, with hands lightly clasped the whole attitude suggestive of strength and repose.

But though all about her is so much the same, there is a faint trouble visible in the depths of the dark grey eyes. This woman, one would say, is no

longer only a calm unmoved spectator, or even a tender comforter-she also has been down into the arena. For the sympathy of the ignorant, and of those whom suffering has taught, is widely different; and sorrow would never embitter Delicia Mainwaring, as it might have done Elizabeth Stevens.

What is it, we may wonder, that has taught Delicia the meaning of the word "sorrow"? What is it she is thinking of, her face the while bearing that expression? Is it because of the tragedy that darkened the lives of her friends over the way, and in which she had her share; or is it for the loss of a friend who had said "farewell" to her this Christmas-time past—a friend whom she had never seen since?

"I cannot understand it," she said at length, speaking aloud, as was often her custom when alone. "I thought when he came back to England" -she paused, and walked slowly once up and down the room. "But Betty says she has seen him often, so I can only suppose what he said that afternoon was just the truth, and that that was to be the end of it." And then, her face flushing a little, "I hope Elizabeth will not mistake my expressions of surprise when I heard he was in London-had even been to their house-for it would not do if she were to say anything to him."

Here Delicia became aware that she was dreaming over impossibilities, and questions to which she might never hope to obtain an answer, and otherwise wasting her time; so with a quick sigh, and

a low "I wish he had not said he would come today!" she drew a chair up to the writing-table, and set herself to the task of copying music.

She had not made much progress, however, when there was a loud ring at the bell, followed by steps on the stairs, and Cyril Stevens entered the room.

"Poor Cyril!" "Poor Mr Stevens!" That was what every one who saw him said, speaking according to their several degrees of intimacy; and Miss Mainwaring was no exception to the rule.

Her heart ached whenever she saw the thin haggard face and sad forlorn eyes, and there is scarcely anything she would not have done to restore to him the peace of an easy conscience. What was it about the man that proved so attractive, even to those who could not but acknowledge that his faults were many and grave?

Even Delicia, who had felt on the night that Cicely had denounced her that Cyril Stevens had for ever forfeited all claims to her regard, had long ago granted him forgiveness, and had striven her best to turn his repentance into a right groove by the power of sisterly sympathy and affection.

But notwithstanding her pardon, and the fact that he had leant more than ever against her since the shock and terror of that April night, Cyril had never appeared since then at No. 1, and he glanced nervously round on entering, as if dreading a revival of the horrors of that night in his mind.

Miss Mainwaring saw and recognised the reason of that quick look, and it pained her deeply to note