whilst Christina lay in her unconscious-gifts of fruit or flowers the neighbours ness, on the borders of life and death. sent her, her aunts presence, and the docThe two were striving together in that tor's visit all pass unnoticed, even Masolemn stillness of unconsciousness-striv- dame Ricardo began to feel somewhat uning in a desperate struggle. But she was easy. young; even now the vital power was strong within her, and she did not die. She was called back to life; back to the springs which must awaken hopes in other hearts; back to the summers with their pomps and splendours and their blaze of cruel sunshine; back to the reddening, yellowing leaves of autumn; back to the chill darkness of winter; back to the empty world. She had stretched out her hands to the great Deliverer: the Angel of Death had stood within the room; her feet had touched the cold waters, and then something had drawn her back into the jar and tumult and memories of earth. Her time was not come; she must wait before she could enter into her rest. Was it perhaps that she had not earned it? Was it that her life must have a purer ring and a more perfect harmony before it could make music with other lives around the heavenly throne? or was it that a poor young heart was breaking at the thought that she was passing from his sight, and God had pity, and would not send out His angel as yet to bring her home?

upon

Slowly, as the days succeeded one another, Christina gathered strength. Slowly the consciousness of the present was re-awakened. Her eyes ceased to wander, and rested with a look of recognition familiar objects. She was as yet quite passive; she made no effort to speak; she did not answer when they spoke to her; but she watched the gleams of sunlight which crept into the darkened room. She knew that her mother was standing by her bed; she heard the sounds of stirring life in the early morning, and at night she shut her eyes from the flickering firelight and wearily slept again.

Then there came a day when, in answer to the usual question "Are you better?" she could smile and faintly answer, "Yes." It was the first conscious word which she had uttered; her mother started as at a voice from the grave, and would have betrayed her agitation but for Mrs. O3westry's warning hand upon her arm.

"That is right, my dear," she said in her unruffled tones; "now you can sleep; " and Christina, too languid to say more, shut her eyes though not to sleep. They did not think it strange at the moment; but as time passed on, and she took food and medicine without comment or inquiry, and let the little events of the day the

They thought that it was weakness of body and deadness of mind; they did not know that it was a sickening dread of anything that might awaken recollections, which made her so passive and gave her such a shrinking from exertion. She had known long before this (long at least it seemed to her) the bitterness of the first awakening to the knowledge that the love in which she had trusted was slipping from her; she had seen the death of hope, and suffered the anguish of parting; she had faced it, and borne it with her eyes open: but now she was to feel the dead-weight of a living sorrow, into which she dared not look. She knew that she had suffered; she knew that she had been near to death; but as yet she had not looked back upon the cause. For the present the past was sealed to her. She knew that she had had a past; she was slowly passing out from a dreadful dream; her physical force was exhausted; her mental energies were weak; she had only sufficient strength to remember that she must, if possible, forget. There was a chamber in her mind crowded with memories whose threshold she dared not pass; there was a name she must not breathe and an image she must not recall. She felt vaguely that she was safer in darkness and solitude.

The familiar faces, the necessary questions, and replies, yes, even the sunshine and the blowing winds and all the sights and sounds of earth, would come to her burdened with the memory of the past; that which she dared not remember could not be altogether forgotten. No, not even though she lay in darkness and silence shutting it out; for, nevertheless, as her strength increased, gradually gleams of light found their way into that dark chamber of her heart.

"We must accustom her by degrees to more exertion;" so Dr. Evans said: "has she any friend who could come to her? She might begin to sit up a little to-morrow. At any rate you might draw the curtains and let her see a little more of the world."

Hitherto, in their dread of exciting her brain, they had kept the room almost as dark by day as it was by night. That evening they drew aside the window curtain, so that when Christina awoke she should see out on to the heath, and the bare trees stretching their leafless branches

against the sky, and the hill rising in the | cept the bare outline of Christina's history, distance.

and she could be cheerful in her persuasion that the poor child only wanted a little diversion, and time and change of scene, to get over her morbid fancies.

"You shall come home with me, Chr'stina," she said to her; this England is a dismal place in winter. You shall come to feel what sunshine is. It is no use to say No, because I will not be denied. If your mother will not come, we will leave her behind. I will wait patiently till you are a little stronger, and then you shall come and see Italy and my little Berto."

Christina shook her head gently, but made no reply. It did not matter to her; she had no desire to go, no strength to resist anything; but she felt vaguely that Italy was a long way off, too far for her to reach it.

"You need not shake your head, Christina," said her aunt; "I am not asking you to go this minute. You are getting stronger every day and to-morrow you are to go downstairs."

Christina was alone when she awoke. They had been sitting up with her during the first part of the night; but she had slept quietly and they had not been afraid to leave her. It was still early morning when she opened her eyes to the sight once so familiar and now so strangely unaccustomed. A pale rosy light shone through the window and slowly spread itself over the wall before her. Christina turned from it, and a sick, faint feeling came over her. Was this the dawn that she had so often watched, standing bareheaded on the heath, with the morning air blowing about her; which had made her heart beat with its promise of happiness and shone to her through happy tears? Oh that the sun might not shine, that the light might not kill her with its revelations and remembrances! Yet this day must dawn, like so many other weary despairing days, in brightness and grace, sending floods of sunshine over the dreary heath, filling the world with light and So, gradually, Christina came back to glory. Perhaps among all the pangs the trivial monotony of every-day life; the which strike from without upon hearts silence and solitude which had wrapped wrung by human sorrow, there is none her round was over. There might be soliwhich strikes so keenly as the desolation tude and emptiness in her heart; but peoand the beauty of a dawning day. Chris-ple came and went around her now that tina could no longer hope to remain uncon- the old man was dead more often than scious. Recollections must return; they they had done before, and she must learn could no longer be driven away by physical weakness; they must be encountered in the strength of that heavenly grace for which she in her weakness had striven. She had been tossed upon a tempestuous sea the harbour lights were shining far in the distance: darkness was around her: and she was sinking: but as in her despair she let go the helm and clasped her hands to pray, dimly she could discern the Spirit of God moving upon the waters.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHRISTMAS came and went, with its bells and its holly and its merriment; but the White House had nothing to do with these things. Christina was so much better that Mrs. Oswestry had gone back to the homestead, taking Bernard with her; they thought that Christina would soon be able to leave her room, and then the fewer people there were in the house the better. She had as yet not seen Bernard, and for the present they feared to bring anyone to her who could remind her of old times. Her Aunt Lotty was a new element, and she was her best companion, with her chatter and her kindness, which was not sympathy; she knew nothing ex

to smile in answer to their words, and try to be grateful for returning strength, and hide the aching and the desolation as best she might.

"Bernard is at home," her mother said to her one day; "he would have come to see you before, only we thought it might excite you; but now that you are so much better

"I hope that he will come," said Christina, with a faint flush upon her face. An impassable, immeasurable gulf lay between the present moment and the time when she had seen him last: she seemed to have died and to have entered upon a new existence which had nothing to do with the passion and the joys and the emotions of life: these things were already in the far distance: they would live for ever; but she would not recall them; they were laid to rest like a forgiven sin.

Bernard came to her with a tumult in his heart: striding over the heath with a soft wind blowing against his face. It was one of those mild January days which, even in the midst of winter, come to us with a faroff promise of spring. The snow had melted, and left the hillside green; the little streams were flowing once mare; the

fleecy clouds chased one another against a "You mistake, Bernard," she said, and pale blue sky: there was a peaceful sweet- then she paused. No one had yet referred ness in the very air. They had told him so plainly to her misfortunes: they had that she was better, and he hoped he hard- avoided the subject, as if their words could ly knew what. Was not all that had passed either take away or add anything to what a horrible dream? Was it not possible could not be altered. Christina could not that it should be forgotten? Only last have spoken of these things; but yet Berspring and Christina had, as he thought, nard's words brought no change or pain been his. Could not this spring, as it over her face. She was thinking only how awakened her to life and strength, bring she best might comfort him, how she back to her the time when she had known should answer the chord of anguish in his of no other hopes but those she could voice and the pleading of his eyes. "It is share with him? He did not put it into a new life, Bernard," she said; "I think words; but Christina restored to life that perhaps it is difficult for anyone who meant the Christina of old times whose has not felt it to understand. God has presence and whose love had been every-willed that I should live through it. He thing to him. came to me in the pain. The pain is dyShe was lying on a low couch by the ing; but He is near me still." She lay open window. A glass with some spring back with patient smile upon her lips, flowers stood upon a little table near, and and eyes that gazed as if she saw a vision. an open book beside it. The wind was The flush of excitement with which he had blowing gently over her head. Her thin spoken had passed from Bernard's face; white hands were lying passive against the a great pity surged up in him; and in the black background of her mourning dress. silence that followed the passion died out There was a faint colour in her cheeks; of his heart. She had entered into a peace there was no look of pain upon her fore- which passed his understanding, yet he felt head; when she saw him a smile awoke no longer any desire to bring her back to upon her mouth. But, oh! why had the hopes and joys and love of earth: to they not told him? He knelt down beside, bring her back to earth, he vaguely felt, her and met her eyes; - deep, sorrowful, would be but to bring her back to darkunimpassioned eyes, which had seen a ness and misery and the face of death. great agony and had seen it conquered. Hopes and longings died within him; his mouth quivered and his face turned white. Bernard," she said, and stretched out one of her hands to him,—and the sight of his misery, even although it still seemed far off to her, brought the tears into her eyes, "you must not look at me like that. I am much better, but they should have told you that I still look a little ghost-like."

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"You must be better," he said, hoarsely. "Must I? Well, yes, I think so. I have been brought back to life." It was not the triumph of returning strength; it was not a spontaneous expression of gratitude; it was but the indifferent statement of a fact, or rather the calm acquiescence of resignation.

"I believe that I am content, Bernard," she said; "I have tried to be content.' Then he felt how impossible it was that she should ever be anything more.

"Christina," he said, "I had not thought -I had not known. Must it never be different? can nothing bring back your life to you? It is not life only to exist: some people's lives, I know, are made up of suffering and sorrow; but God did not mean it, He could not have meant it to be so with you."

--

He sat with her for an hour or more, and they talked softly at intervals of ordinary things of his work, of his friends, of the garden at the Homestead, of his mother and their Aunt Lotty. And the afternoon lights shone over the heath and rested on her head as Bernard sat at the window, watching.

"It is good of you to have come to me, dear Bernard; you will come again, won't you?" she said when he went away.

Of course he came again: he came with flowers or books or drawings: he read to her, he talked to her of things which still had a hold upon her heart.

"That boy of yours cares for nothing as he cares for Christina," his Aunt Lotty said to his mother. "It is not many young men that would give up their time and their pleasures for her as he does: have you ever thought

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'No, never," said Mrs. Oswestry hurriedly; "let them alone, I beg, Lotty. They were always together as children, you know; there is nothing else. It is natural enough that they should cling together now; they are both young, and we are not." She was an essentially upright woman; but at this moment she did not speak with entire conviction; only dreading any indiscretion which might destroy

by the light of common day. They were glad, certainly, that she was not to die; but at the same time, perhaps, they missed a little the romance of the tragedy they had expected.

about any signs of feminine distress; "never mind about Mrs. Warde; you shall go up to London next time I go, and look in the shop windows and choose something pretty for yourself."

"She will go to Italy, and fall in with In the meantime Augusta pursued her some other young man," they said; "or way in entire unconsciousness of the hopes perhaps she may marry her handsome she had dashed and the impression she cousin, after all." Then they went to call had made. She had chosen for herself, upou Mr. Warde's wife, determined to and she was happy in her choice. Yet keep clear of the subject. They went to she felt strangely cut off from her former call full of curiosity, and of anticipations life. The Park gates were shut and all the which were destined to be disappointed. windows closed: no one had as yet taken The little house which Mr. Warde had possession of the place; she walked that made his parsonage had nothing new or way one day, and looked wistfully up the interesting about it. The drawing-room approach, and then she glanced on to the was furnished with severe simplicity; White House, and a pang shot through there were none of the pretty useless her. As yet she had heard nothing of knick-knacks which seem to belong so Christina; she dared not go to the house; necessarily to a bride's drawing-room; indeed, there was no attempt at ornament of any kind, except a stand of flowers in the window, and over the mantlepiece that little miniature in an oval frame of Captain Cleasby as a little boy, which had once hung over the chimney-piece at the Park. Miss Cleasby herself did not look in the least bridal; she was just the same as she had always been: she received her visitors in the same leisurely indifferent manner with which she had been wont to receive them at the Park; except that her dress was plainer, there was nothing to mark the change. Perhaps not unnaturally, the neighbours went away disappointed and affronted. Augusta's manner might suit Miss Cleasby, though it had never made her popular; but it was quite out of place now that she was Mr. Warde's wife, and, so to speak, one of themselves.

"I never was one to be touchy," so Mrs. Sim said to her husband; "but really she might have been a little more civil. She never said a word about her wedding tour nor anything. I think it is very hard upon the neighbourhood when a couple set up house together without a single pretty thing to show one. I wonder where they can have put away their wedding presents. I suppose they are too good for us. I did ask her something about London and the fashions, but I declare she did not seem to know anything about it. As to her gown, I should have been ashamed to wear such a thing except in the garden; and I had so counted on seeing some of the trousseau,”. - so said poor little Mrs. Sim with regret and vexa

she dared not inquire. She felt that that friendship could never be renewed; that that bond had been broken for ever. Her husband had been to see the Norths, but he had not seen Christina; he brought back word that she was rapidly gaining strength, and that in a few weeks she was to start for Italy.

"She does not know that you are in the place as yet, Augusta; her mother and aunt both think that you had better not meet. They never speak to her of the past. They do not wish to agitate her needlessly."

Augusta acquiesced with a sigh; she felt that she had no right to force her presence upon the Norths, and she not only refrained from going to the White House, but also took pains to avoid Christina's haunts; nevertheless, as it so often happens, chance brought about the meeting against which they would have guarded.

Christina had promised that Janet's baby nephew should be her god-child. The little brown-faced creature had been brought to see her; she had looked at it with languid amusement; and now it was old enough to be taken to church. There had at first been no idea of her being there in person, but when the afternoon came it was so mild a day that Christina said she would hold it at the font herself. They attempted to dissuade her, but she was gently persistent.

"It will please them, I know," she said, "and I have so seldom an opportunity of pleasing anyone now."

Thus it was, that when Mr. Warde laid down his book and turned to take the child, it was Christina who stepped forward to lay it in his arms. She looked very pale, but that was perhaps partly the