ment, when waiting had worn out even her spirits, and a long-deferred hope had died within her. Ask yourself if any man could have a right to bring it upon her." "It has not been your fault; you could not know." "No, it has not been my fault; but it would be my fault if I were to hold her to it, or let her hold herself bound. It has not been my fault that what we had looked to can never come to pass. That has been a misfortune which might have happened to any man, and it must be accepted. But whatever I might do for myself, I will not for her sake embark upon a long and almost hopeless engagement." "She would not give you up because of all this," said Miss Cleasby. "No," he said; and even at this moment the proud admiration which was so strongly blended with his love for an instant lighted up his face. "No; but is not that an additional reason why I should take care of her? It is for me to save her from herself." "Perhaps you are right, Walter." "If I am wrong, it is past praying for. I cannot fight it over again." Then he got up and tramped across the stone hall into his own study opposite, shutting the door behind him. In the meantime Walter, alone in his study, was painfully and practically setting himself to the solution of these same questions. To the first he had already given a mental answer; it only remained to put his purpose into execution. He sat down before his writing-table, and leant his head upon his hands, and stared blankly at a sheet of paper. There was nothing to dis turb the current of his thoughts, there was nothing to prevent them from shaping themselves into words: no one would be likely that morning to break in upon his solitude. The tranquil sunshine lay upon the trim lawn outside, the sky overhead was blue and cloudless, the fire burnt clear and bright, the clock upon the chimneypiece was ticking with a peaceful regularity, his terrier lay asleep upon the rug. his paper was before him and his pen in his hand; and yet he was distracted and confused, and flung it down, feeling that something, not himself, must be in fault. Of course it was that clock; he had never heard it tick so loudly before; it rang in his ears so that he could think of nothing else, and almost felt constrained to count the beats. He got up hastily, feeling a personal rage against the innocent piece of mechanism, and stopped the pendulum, and put it back upon the mantelpiece with a slight bang. Then he went back to his table and put the date to his letter; but his mind was in a whirl; the canary in the passage outside was singing shrilly, and, with an angry exclamation, he flung himself into an arin-chair before the fire, feeling that it was useless to put pen to paper whilst all external agencies, both animate and inanimate, were combining against him to make thought and composition alike impossible. Augusta, as she sat by herself and reflected upon the crisis with the comparative calmness natural to some one who was, after all, but an interested spectator, could not help mentally confirming the judgment she had finally delivered as to the rectitude of the course he was about to pursue. With her heart aching over his suffering, and Christina, as yet, so happy and confident, and unconscious of the blow hanging over her, she could not be an altogether impartial judge. But she told herself that, It was not that he had not arrived at a if she had not known them, she would have resolution; he had done so, after a long said that the only possible and right course struggle which could not be repeated. He under the circumstances was to break off had longed to help her, and he had deterthe engagement. She would have said mined that it was impossible; he had that the girl would get over it in time and thought that he ought to look to her happrobably marry some one else; and as to piness rather than to his own; and he had the young man, he had no right to main-made up his mind that, though she would tain his claims, and anything was better not be able to see it now, it would be for than an engagement with no prospect of marriage. It sounded plausible, and her reason assented to it; but when she thought of Christina it was not so easy to leave out of sight the bewildering and individual complications of the case. Though she tried to resume her ordinary occupations, her mind reverted again and again to the question of how he would do it, and of when and how she would receive the tidings. her ultimate good to separate from him. It was a miserable thing for a girl to waste her youth in waiting for what might never come; he would think it dishonourable and selfish in any other man to ask it of her; it would be selfish and dishonourable in him. Thus his better nature, which called upon him to save her and protect her from her own impulse, took part against him. As to marrying without a provision, and casting her fortune and his to chance, or as to making a descent in the social scale and facing poverty and life in another sphere, the thought had but passed through his mind and made no impression upon it. He was not deficient in moral courage or unwilling to face privations for himself; but the traditions of convention made such a proceeding so repugnant to him as to appear impossible. A man, he would have said, could always make his way and fall upon his feet; but a girl was a thing to be guarded and cherished too precious a possession to be trusted to the rough chances of life. He would rather, far rather, renounce Christina, than claim her for his wife when he had not the power to shield her from everything from which he conceived that his wife ought to be shielded. At first he felt that he could not do it, and then he put a force upon himself. His delicate, sensitive organization had yet sufficient nervous power to accomplish that to which he had set his at length undivided will, at whatever cost to himself. When once he had summoned resolution for the first word, the rest followed, and he wrote with the rapidity of a man who has formed a determination and dares not go back to examine the grounds upon which he has arrived at it. "DEAREST CHRISTINA," 12th November. - he wrote the first that it was the last time he might use them, and words mechanically, and then he remembered could not bring himself to make any other but the accustomed beginning. "DEAREST CHRISTINA, -I came home last night, but I could not come to you, because it was so late and I had something to say which I could not say then; yet I could not meet you and remain silent. Now, I still do not know how to say it. I had meant to have written from London, but to the last I was hoping against hope. I had thought myself so secure; I had thought it was impossible that anything should come between us; and at first I could not believe it, or face the reality. All these conflicting thoughts had maddened and bewildered him during the last ten days, and he had thrust aside the only thing which might have saved him. For there was a voice which sang to him of a love that cannot die; of a faith that no earthly honour can approach and no earthly chances shake. There was a voice which told of something higher than the right and wrong of his own standard; of a trust which cannot be broken, and of a promise tell you how it is that I am so poor a man as to "It is useless to go back upon the causes, or which cannot be recalled. But human have nothing to depend upon except myself. voices mingled so loudly with the heavenly When this place is sold, there will be nothing strain, that he could not distinguish it left except a few hundred pounds in trust for from them; they were the voices which Augusta. She has had a home offered to her by told him that he could not give up Chris-our uncle, and for a man it does not so much tina because of the pain to himself; they matter; and yet, Christina, I can think of nothwere the voices which made him shrinking but ourselves. My life must be a life which from the effort, telling him of the blank life that lay before him, of the dreariness of the future and the sweetness of the past; they recalled to him her looks and words, and made him desperate at the thought that they would soon be to him nothing but a memory. All this he thrust from him as unmanly weakness, and with this he thrust out an angel unawares. He had arrived at a conclusion of which his judgment approved, and to which his reason assented, and now it only remained to put it upon record. It would be better that she should know what awaited her before they met; nothing else remained to be done; he had only to write to her but what? Only to tell her that what had been her life must be cut short now before it had had time to blossom; only to say that the past must be forgotten; that it must be nothing to her; that she must learn to be happy in some other way. Only to say that they must part, and part for ever. you cannot share with me: I could not ask it, and I will not accept the sacrifice. It must be a struggle; I must encounter things which I would put far from you; and I know that, at whatever cost, it is better that what has to be done should to keep the hope of claiming you before my eyes, be done quickly. It would be a mockery for me even if I could remain in England. You are too far above the world to understand its ways, but it will be impossible for our engagement to continue. Your grandfather would not allow it, and he would be right. Christina, you will believe me when I say that I would have given worlds to spare you; but I cannot suffer without making you suffer. "It is best that we should face the truth at As to the rest, what can I say? People once. will tell you that I am false, and cruel, and worldly it will be best for you to believe that they are right. I do not ask you to forgive me; only remember that I could not do it unless I loved you; remember that you have glorified my life by the past weeks of short unclouded happiness, and that, although they may never return to me, no other days will ever efface their memory or take their place. Yours ever, "WALTER CLEASBY." It was a blank cold statement of the fact. Yet what could he say? What right had he to say more? He had put it plainly; partly understanding that she would not be able to comprehend the truth unless it came to her in all its nakedness; partly conscious that his words must strike her at first with incredulous wonder. He did not read again what he had written; he dared not look again upon the letter which sealed his fate; but he rang the bell and gave it at once to the servant. "I want this to be taken to the White House," he said; "not immediately; it will be time enough when the letters go to the evening post.' He could not keep the letter in his sight for fear that he might be tempted to recall it, yet something impelled him to leave Christina a few hours more of unconscious happiness, and made him shrink from bringing nearer, by however short a time, the possibility of a meeting. CHAPTER XXI. MR. NORTH had passed a restless night; he was no better, but rather worse, in the morning, and his daughter-in-law in alarm sent for Mrs. Oswestry and for the doctor. The latter could only reiterate his opinion that there was nothing immediate to be apprehended, but the old man was growing weaker, and the coming winter would probably be his last. As for Mrs. Oswestry, she was calm and composed under all circumstances; but she shared in Mrs. North's fears, and, after visiting her father, came to consult with her as to the best means of softening and brightening the last months of his life. Christina coming into the room an hour later found them still in close consultation, and wondered vaguely what they could find to talk about for so long together. "But do you think that he would see her if she came?" Mrs. North was saying; "it is a long journey, and it would be hard upon her to take it for nothing. He has never mentioned her name for years, to my knowledge." 66 But I have spoken of her to him," said Mrs. Oswestry; "I do not say that he has shown any interest, but at least he has borne it patiently, and I feel if she were here "Of whom are you talking? asked Christina. "Is it a secret? Shall I go away?" exclaimed Christina, looking from one to another in her astonishment. Perhaps not; as your mother says, her name was never mentioned here, and she must have married when you were quite a little girl, though she is the youngest of us all." "And you always were so indiscreet, Christina," interposed her mother; "I never knew what you might say, or what wild fancies you might take into your head. Your grandfather did not wish to speak of her, and you were never likely to see her, so there was no use in telling you about it." "But why was she not to be spoken of?" 66 "She made a marriage your grandfather did not approve," said Mrs. Oswestry; "she married an Italian, and your grandfather had always such an objection to foreigners. It happened whilst she was paying a visit away from home, and your grandfather would never be persuaded to see him or give his consent to the marriage. Lotty would have her own way; there was no objection to the man except his nation; he had good birth though he was not a noble; and in a pecuniary point of view it was a very good match. She waited until she was one-and-twenty, and then she went away and was married from a mutual friend's house. I was the only one of our family there, and your grandfather never forgave her." "But does she write? Where does she live? When is she coming?" cried Christina, becoming interested. "She has always kept up a correspondence with me. She lives in Florence, where her husband has some business, and there she has brought up her children. She had two children, and lost her only girl two years ago; the boy is about twelve or thirteen, and is still at school. So she says that she could easily manage to be absent from home for a few months, and if my father would receive her she would like to see him again before he dies." "How strange! that I should have an aunt that I have never heard of before!' said Christina: but after all it did not excite her very much, and when Mrs. Oswestry took her leave late in the afternoon, her thoughts were no longer engrossed by the idea of her unknown aunt, but were busying themselves in speculations whether Miss Cleasby had heard from her brother that day, and whether she would know when he was coming home. as to She had made up her mind that she would go to the Park to see Augusta; but and pride and passion surged up in her as she turned out of her gate the servant heart. She had trusted him, and how had met her with the letter. She took it (as he repaid her trust! It was cruel; it was we so often take our death-blows) care-impossible that all that had been should lessly, unconsciously, with a word of come to an end, and yet she felt that it thanks to Lewis, thinking that it was some had come to an end already. If he could note from Miss Cleasby; but as she turned speak the words which he had spoken it over in her hands and caught sight of if he could feel what he had felt, there the address, suddenly the colour flushed could be no escape and no recall. Such into her face and a pang of undefined ap- words cannot be forgotten. She could not prehension shot through her. It was un- even understand what it was that he reasonable, it was absurd; there was in feared; it was he himself who had shaped truth nothing to make her afraid-only their fate. All the bitterness would have that Walter must be at the Park; and if been taken from the blow if only she could he were at the Park, why had he not come have felt that it had not come from his to her? Some accident must have bap- hand. Oh, why had he done it? pened; some disaster must have befallen him. 66 Was that the man from the Park?" said Mrs. North, meeting her in the passage. "Has Miss Cleasby written to you?" 66 "Yes-no-nothing," said Christina, passing on hastily. It was not until she had reached her room and locked the door that she opened the letter. Her eager eyes glanced all over it, her face flushing and paling as she read, and when she had ended she thrust it from her with a kind of impatience. Once more she read the words, but without their making any distinct impression upon her. She was striving painfully to grasp their meaning, but she could not make it out. She dropped the letter from her hands and gave a low cry of pain and bewilderment. "I-I don't understand. What does it mean?" she said aloud, although there was no one to hear or answer. The letter lay unheeded upon the floor; she lay crouched up upon the bed pressing her face upon the pillows, and cried again piteously, "I don't know what it means." But we cannot in the first shock of sorrow find for long refuge or relief in personal indignation. Walter was right; if she could have shut him out from her heart-if she could have refused to forgive him, it would have been easier for her; but she could not do it. She was still fiercely resisting her fate, but misery had overcome resentment, and love and pity had, towards him, taken the place of every other feeling. After a time her mother knocked at her door and, on entering, found her still in her hat and cloak, but busying herself with something upon the dressing-table. She turned her face for a moment towards her mother, and then Mrs. North gave a frightened exclamation, as if she had seen a ghost. "Christina! What is it? What has happened?" she exclaimed. -I am rather cold," said Christina, shivering, and put out her hand to steady herself against the table. "Your grandfather wanted to see you; but you cannot go to him now," said Mrs. North. "I wish, Christina, you would not go and make yourself ill. I am sure that it is bad enough as it is, with your grandfather at death's door, for anything that we know, and your Aunt Margaret so bent upon bringing Lotty over to make things worse, and all the worry about your marriage." 66 "I will not go to grandpapa," said Christina, quickly; "I am very tired, and my head aches. I think I will go to bed." And yet in some sort she did understand; she understood with a shrinking dread that a horrible misfortune was hanging over her, although its form was shadowy and undefined. She was afraid again to look upon the words which told her of it; more than half an hour had passed before she took the letter again into her hands. Then at last she understood, understood what he would do what he had done already. His creed was not hers; she could not even grasp its articles, nor comprehend their influence upon his actions: his faith was not her faith; yet to his standard she must conforın, and by his will she must abide. She sat motionless for a few moments, as if stunned by "I wish I knew what it is," said Mrs. the blow; and then, as the first incredu- North to herself, as she went downstairs lous horror grew less, natural resentment again. "Christina is so unlike herself; "Do you feel as if you had caught anything? asked Mrs. North, anxiously. "There is scarlet fever in the village, Janet tells me, and if you think 66 No, no," said Christina, hastily; "I am not ill, only tired." she is ill, or something must have hap-| pened. I wish I knew what it is." "You never will talk of anything to your mother," said Mrs. North, plaintively. She was not long left in ignorance." Any other girl would want a little symWalter Cleasby, following out in his own pathy; any other girl would be sorry for mind with painful distinctness the course me too, because I have thought a great which events were taking at the White deal of your future, Christina; and it is House, and seeking for any means by very hard upon me to have to break it to which he might lighten Christina's burden, your grandfather. If you had any natural had considered that she might be called feeling, Christina, you would like to see upon for explanations, and would have to what he says to me." put into words what she had as yet hardly realized to herself. If he could save her from it, he would. He put little faith in the judgment or forbearance of Christina's "Oh, Christina," said Mrs. North, remother; but he wrote to her, briefly an- proachfully, but with some natural tears ;' nouncing what had happened, and implor-"why are you so rebellious? We must ing her to leave Christina this night un- not fight against the troubles which are disturbed by questions. He acknowledged that he had no longer any right to stand between them; but as a matter of course taking to himself all the blame of what had occurred, begged that he alone might bear the weight of her reproaches. "As if a mother could leave her child to bear her trouble alone!" Mrs. North said to herself, with some natural indignation; and yet she was not angry because Captain Cleasby, under the circumstances, had chosen to give Christina up. It was in her eyes the only thing which he could have done; but as to speaking to her child, she certainly might be allowed to judge for herself. And then she went upstairs and knocked at Christina's door, still holding his letter in her hand. Christina was unconscious of everything except her own misery, and it was not until her mother had knocked and called to her two or three times that she rose from her bed and went to open the door, pushing away her loosened hair from her face. "I don't want to read it," said Christina, pushing away the offered letter; "what can he say?" sent to us; it is fighting against grace, it is fighting against God." She hardly knew why she said it, poor woman; she had need of help herself and she did not feel able to help Christina, but yet she felt instinctively that she was wrong, and the words, though the result of a weak and wavering conviction, were not without their effect. When Christina was left alone, they reechoed in her heart. Was she indeed fighting against grace- fighting against God? She knew little of any religion but the natural and spontaneous religion of youth. God was good, and the world was beautiful, and she rejoiced in it, and was thankful because she was happy. She had had to struggle, and she had struggled, in her own strength; she had fallen, she had repented, and she had risen again. But now she had entered upon another struggle, in which she felt that her own strength would not be sufficient to her: the waters had gone over her, and she knew that she was sinking; the inevitable was pressing upon her, and she saw no means of escape. And yet she was fighting fighting fighting, as she had thought, against her fate; thrusting away the cross which had been put upon her and the cup of suffering which she must drink : and as yet she had not thought that she was fighting against God. As the truth made itself manifest to her in the lonely hours of that night, the most momen"It is a great misfortune," Mrs. North tous night of her life, in which for the first went on; I feel it for you very much time she sent up a cry for help, not that but it is better to know the worst. Cap- she might obtain what she desired, but tain Cleasby is acting rightly, though, you that she might accept what was given, not know I never liked him; and if you had that she might do her own will, but God's, been married, you know not that the cross might be taken away, but that she might be able to bear it, so the bitterness was taken from her sor "He has written to me," said Mrs. North. "Oh, my poor child, what can I do for you? It has always been the way with us, but I had begun to hope that it might be better for you; and all seemed so certain; but of course we never know." Christina was sitting on the edge of the bed, with her hand clasping the iron rail, and she hardly seemed to hear her mother, but looked at her vacantly with tearless eyes. Christina started, and the colour flamed into her face. "Not now, mother," she said; "don't row by the nearness and the constraining let us talk of it now." influence of the Divine, and a Light shined |