awaken as she walked across the heath to her aunt's house.

think you get all the sunshine up here, Aunt Margaret."

"Do we?" said Mrs. Oswestry; "yes, think that you are right as to the sunshine, but I hope that we do not quite mo

I

"Am I come too early, Aunt Margaret?" she said, as she pushed open the door and found Mrs. Oswestry giving out the linen from the cupboard in the pas-nopolize it." sage.

Peace brooded over the house; peace was within, and peace without,-in the sunny garden outside, and in the pretty drawing-room. There was an atmosphere of quiet about the roses, and the bees, and the poultry in the yard. It was sheltered from the winds by the hill which rose behind it, and all was tranquil within; the first crocuses bloomed under the garden wall, or the last roses shed their leaves upon the gravel-walks.

Mrs. Oswestry was standing, a tall figure in her long black dress, among the piles of white linen, with the sweet spring air blowing in upon her from an open window, and she turned her full, steady eyes upon Christina as she came in, and held out her hands and kissed her with a smile of welcome.

"You are welcome, my dear," she said, with a touch of her father's ceremony: and then she led the way into the little drawing-room, with its pretty bay window full of flowers, the scent of them stirred by every soft gust through the window and she sat down in her own chair and took up her work, and Christina sat down also, but did not very well know

what to say.

"Had you anything particular to say to me?" said Mrs. Oswestry. She looked at Christina, who was twisting her hat about in her hands, though it was not usual with her to be at a loss for words: and then Christina felt how impossible it was for her to answer such an appeal by any confidence. It was an opening, perhaps, but an opening of which it was quite impossible to take advantage. It would be much better to introduce the subject casually; so she put it away for the pres

ent.

"No, no, Aunt Margaret," she said, "only I thought that I would come. Bernard said I could come."

"You do not come so very often, but you are always welcome," said Mrs. Oswestry and she smiled, for she was not a woman to reproach anyone for neglecting her. "It is not very lively here, and there is nothing to amuse you."

"I don't think of amusement," said Christina; "you would not imagine I wanted it, if you knew me better. I always like this house, it is so bright. I

Christina did not answer, but she leant her chin upon her hand, and looked out through the framework of creepers which clustered round the window.

"Christina," said her aunt, after a little pause, "I sometimes think that you do not make the most of what comes to you."

Christina coloured a little, and turned her eyes upon Mrs. Oswestry, and upon the instant took up arms.

"I don't know what you mean, Aunt Margaret. I suppose we are not like other people exactly; but I don't see how I can make the most of what I have not got. You can see for yourself that we are not spoilt by pleasures, and except that, I don't see how you can know about it; only I suppose Bernard

"Bernard has nothing to do with what I am saying," said her aunt, interrupting her. I speak from my own observation, and for your good, Christina."

"I speak to Bernard sometimes, I know," said Christina quickly, not noticing the interruption, "and tell him things, because I have no one else to speak to; but if he makes other people blame me

"Oh, Christina, my dear child," said her aunt; "oh, Christina, why do you pretend to think it is Bernard? You know well enough he never blames you."

Christina hung her head and coloured again, and a sudden smile flitted across her face. She knew it, of course, quite well; but no one, not even Bernard himself, had ever put it to her so plainly before. Then she lifted up her head, and, moved by a yearning and an impulse to seek for sympathy, was about to make her confession and give her confidence, had not Mrs. Oswestry gone on without giving her time to answer.

"I am not speaking as Bernard's deputy, and I will not say that his thoughts always agree with mine, though I believe that he hides nothing from me," said his mother: and she spoke with the proud confidence of a woman who has yet to learn that she does not hold the first place in her son's heart. Mrs. Oswestry was a just and impartial woman, but yet the first knowledge would have been bitter to her, and Christina could not tell her that it was so. She looked round again at the room, at the muslin curtains blowing in the wind, at the creepers outside, and the glass of

spring flowers on the rosewood work-table, and nailed up some straggling creepers; and all the trivialities which make a house and gradually, standing in that peaceful a home, and she sighed again as she atmosphere, looking up into the serenity thought of the contrast. of Mrs. Oswestry's face, Christina felt the spirit of the place creeping over her, charming away her longings, and filling her with the contentment of rest. After all, what could she desire more? One day this would be her home.

"It is all very different with us," she said.

CHAPTER IV.

Yet Mrs. Oswestry's drawing-room was not luxurious, nor even very orderly. There was a drugget on the floor, and the mirror over the mantlepiece was small, and the chintz had seen better days, and¦ Bernard's compasses and rules and draw- ALTHOUGH it was so early in the year, ing materials were littered about on one the sun was still in the south when Chrisof the tables; but yet it had the unmis- tina turned homewards, with that feeling takeable air of a room to which people of calm contentment and rest, the precome for rest and cheerfulness and domes-dominant one within her; and the Hometic peace; and this was a look quite un- stead she was leaving behind her still known to the rooms at the White House. stood forth in her mind as the end to be Christina went over to the table where desired. Bernard's drawings were strewn about, and began to turn them over; not because she cared much about them, but because she was a little ashamed of her last speech, to which her aunt had made no response, and she was glad to change the subject.

"What is Bernard doing? where is he gone?" she asked: and the elder woman, who could not, of course, read her thoughts, imagined that there was embarrassment in her voice. But she was wrong, for Christina could speak quite openly of her cousin; and if she spoke less frankly than usual, it was not upon his account, but because she was dissatisfied with her visit and vexed with herself.

"Bernard is gone to Overton; he is drawing some plans for the new church, but if you can stay, he will be back by tea-time, and then he can walk home with you," said her aunt.

She did not approve of Christina; she did not altogether like her; but if her boy had set his heart upon it, she would not stand in his way; and if it were to be, it had better be done openly, and with everyone's knowledge.

A sort of vague satisfaction filled her as she made her way back across the heath more slowly than she had come, no longer quickened by the sense of enterprise and exhilaration with which she had set out. She was not now thinking of the future as comprehending anything new or unaccustomed, and she started a little when she came to she entrance of the wood, and, suddenly lifting her eyes, saw Captain Cleasby coming towards her, ready to open the gate.

She was not exactly shy, for it was not usual with her, and in point of fact, there was nothing to cause her embarrassment, only she was curious to know if he would recognize her again, it had been so dark when he called, and she had been so much in the background.

It was a very lonely spot, a little wood in a hollow between two ridges of moorland, where hyacinths and anemones mixed themselves with the tangled undergrowth.

Christina stood still, doubtful one moment, and then Captain Cleasby lifted his hat and put his hand on the gate. He was coming through the wood with his And then Christina's heart smote her, dogs at his heels, and as Christina stepped partly for her own reticence, partly for forward one of them snarled and showed the confidence shown in her. Would it his teeth. His master struck him with his be so, she wondered, if her aunt knew of cane and made his apologies, and then he what had been between them? She al-recognized Christina and claimed her acmost wished that it had never been, but his words could not be forgotten: she had told him she might change, but she knew that he at least was pledged forever.

"No, I cannot wait for Bernard," she said; "I must go home, but thank you all the same, Aunt Margaret:" and she went over and kissed her aunt with sudden compunction.

After that they went out together, and fed the poultry, and looked at the hives,

quaintance.

"It was so dark the other evening, I did not suppose that you would know me again," she said.

"I am not thinking of the other day," he answered, smiling; "but I think I should have known you again, although you were such a little girl when I saw you last!" and such a pretty little girl, he thought to himself, but he did not say 'it.

and he was not much at home, but still his | her to the house where she would one day presence brought light and warmth and be brought as his bride. colour into her life. In the early, mornings, coming in to breakfast fresh from bathing in the river, his fair hair still hanging damp about his face, rushing up the stairs, clattering along the passages, striding across the heath, whistling to himself as he drew his plans; even when he sat over his book in the evening his sunshiny presence made itself felt, and Christina sometimes found herself breaking into sudden unaccustomed laughter, from the very contagion of his boyish lightheartedness.

These were happy days, when in spirit they could still go back to their childhood and almost realize its dreams. They were days for Bernard without one cloud or presentiment of evil; and as for Christina, she was happy in the present, and took no thought for the future.

Captain Cleasby was away, and his sister was in deep mourning, and had not been seen except in church, so there were no interruptions or agitations from with

out.

If life could always go on as smoothly and easily and thoughtlessly, it would not be hard to look for nothing else. And the hedges were white with hawthorn blossoms, and the cuckoos were calling among the Park trees, and spring was blossoming into summer; and was it wonderful that Christina too should leave the winter behind her, and forget that it had ever been? It was a time of almost childish happiness whilst it lasted; and though it was shortly to depart, how could she know | that it would not come back? Bernard was going away, certainly, but it was not for always. She should miss him, but she could look forward to his return, and he would not take all her sunshine with him. He was going to the north, on some business connected with his profession: it would help him on, he would see more of the world, and would have something to tell when he came back.

Christina too thought of it as she sat under the elm, tying up the roses which he threw into her lap. The soft wind rustled the leaves above her head, the doves were cooing in their cage, the butterflies were flitting about among the flowers, the shadows were quivering upon the lawn, the whole air was musical with the hum of insects, and sweet with the fragrance of summer. She thought no longer that she should change, and she told him so, bringing the quick blood to his cheek with a sudden flush, making him start and turn his eyes upon her with a look which she remembered afterwards, when the scene came again before her eyes, distinct in all its features - of the sheltered garden, and the roses, and the flickering sunlight, and Bernard standing before her with that radiance in his face which she was never again to see but in retrospect.

"You will not forget, Christina," he said; and there was a happy confidence in his voice, a belief in her which nothing could diminish or destroy.

"No," said Christina; "no, Bernard, I think not. Why should I change? There is no place to me like this. I wish you were not going away. Dear Bernard, how happy we have been!"

She sighed a little, but not as she had so often sighed, from weariness, or longing, or discontent, but simply from a regret which comes to us when we are happiest, a regret born of the joy which, like all other earthly joys, must sooner or later fade before our eyes.

The world too seemed very beautiful to Bernard, but he did not put his thoughts into words; they were happy, and was it not enough?

So they sat together under the trees, and wandered about among the roses for an hour or more of the golden afternoon, and then parted: he striding along the lanes to Overton at the rapid pace which belonged to his long limbs, and she mak"All the same I wish you were not going her way back across the heath towards ing!” she said, as she walked across the her own home. heath with him on the afternoon before his departure.

He had some orders to give at the Homestead on his way into Överton; he was to leave next morning, and he had asked her to go with him. The garden required to be looked to, and she could take back some roses for her mother, so he had said, and as they turned their backs upon the White House and the stony road, he thought to himself that he was bringing

If she had ever been true to Bernard, she was true to him now: she had no thought, as she had said, of change, or of anything else to be desired than life with him in his home, where storms and tempests could not penetrate; where all was peace, and rest, and love; where they should always be as happy as they had been to-day; where she should be safe from the world and from herself.

The calmness of the afternoon had

stilled her, and she lingered with that indifference to the lapse of time which belongs to happiness. Slowly she made her way amongst the yellow gorse, although the sun was sinking behind the hill, and the sunset lights were glowing in the west. Slowly she came along the narrow path, but immediately in the direction of the path she caught sight of a figure lying in the heather; and though she was thinking of other things, and the figure was still a long way off, she knew quite well that it could be no one else than Captain Cleasby.

tain Cleasby, who cared neither for Christina's belongings nor for her life and surroundings.

But Christina herself was a different matter, and in a sort of a way he meant it when he said that he had had his reward. He said it carelessly, and in truth Christina paid little heed to his words; only as he talked to her she forgot for the moment the garden and the Homestead, and the peacefulness which she had left so regretfully. She thought no more of Bernard, and the visions which he had put before her had faded from her mind. It was not that consciously she compared him with Captain Cleasby and found him wanting. Captain Cleasby had not his beauty, nor his frankness, nor his sunny smile. Indeed, he was not, strictly speaking a handsome man at all; he was almost too slight, and there was no glow of health or ardour or impulse in his face. But yet there was an attraction about him; if there was not beauty, there was grace, and a look of dis"Itinction which harmonized with his manner, the manner of a man who has seen the world and can afford to be indifferent to it. And all this again was very new to Christina.

He was lying with his elbow resting on the ground, and his chin propped up on his hand; his little terrier lay at his side, and he had a book spread open on the heather before him. He was quite close to the path, so that Christina's dress would have almost touched him as she passed; but it was not till she was quite close that he was conscious of her, and sprang up hastily from his lair.

"A thousand pardons," he said; thought no one ever came here. Are you on your way home? Ah, what lovely roses!"

66

They come from my aunt's garden," said Christina; "they don't grow well at the White House."

"You have been to see your aunt? how virtuous!" said Captain Cleasby. "It is a social duty which has no recompense unless she has quarrelled with all her nearer relations. I have been doing my duty too, pursuing my studies in solitude, and now I have my reward:" and he put his book into his pocket and took up his cap and walked on with Christina, as if it were a proceeding to which no one could have taken exception.

He was quite right as far as Christina was concerned; her grandfather did not like her to speak of him, it was true; it reminded him of old times; but, as she had said, it could not matter to her, and she cared nothing about the past.

"How generously your aunt has cut her flowers!" said Captain Cleasby, looking at the long stalks and clusters of buds and fresh green shoots which had fallen a prey to Bernard's ruthless knife.

"It was not my aunt; my aunt is away," said Christina; "it was Bernard Oswestry, my cousin."

"Then Bernard Oswestry, your cousin, must be prepared to render up his account when she comes back," said Captain Cleasby, lightly.

"You will come and see my sister, I hope," he was saying. "She sees no one now, but she will be glad to see you if you will come some day. She should come to you, only you know that there are objections;" and he remembered his own receptiou, and smiled at the reeollection; for, to be sure, that moment, so full of painful embarrassment to Mr. North and of interest to Christina, was nothing to him but a trifling incident, and not even a very amusing one.

66

Some day, perhaps," said Christina: and she hesitated, remembering her mother's fears and her grandfather's injunctions.

"That means you will not come; but why not?" said Captain Cleasby. "Are you afraid of us? What are you afraid of?"

"He does not like our having anything Bernard Oswestry, and his mother, and to do with you," said Christina, distinctly; the White House, were all nothing to Cap-but she could not help laughing a little as