indulge. There was nothing at all wonderful in Mark's prompt measures with Dick Miller, for his temper was quick and his arm strong; but why should he care whether Dick Miller had a spite against him, when he had always hitherto snapped his fingers at Dick and all the world? It was strange; but there was no solving this riddle, so she left it alone. She had really thought almost enough about Mark for this one evening. How he himself would open his eyes if he knew that she had been sitting idle all this time, musing about him in the dark. He never could comprehend her taste for dreaming, and was apt, moreover, to shake his head at it. He took no kind of delight in reveries and air castles. Nay, even the legends of ghosts and hobgoblins, knights-errant and love-lorn damsels-which had such a weird fascination for her when retailed to him only provoked scornful mirth, until, in her chagrin, she was ready to complain that he was as provoking as Aunt Becky herself. More often, however, her thoughts, when they two were together, insensibly took their colour from his mind, and busied themselves with the living creatures around them, or the wonders of the sea and land. other sympathies in common. And they had mocking listener to any true tale of peril or adventure, and it was worth a good deal to see his eyes sparkle, and to hear the emphatic That was a fine fellow!' which would come as his commentary on some noble deed. Ah well! in spite of his sometime harshness and perversity, in spite of his contempt for poetry and romance, still the happiest hours of her life she owed to Mark. No one could ever take his place, unless—until—and then as the long vista of coming years stretched out before her mind's eye, and she recalled her aunt's grim prophecy, she sighed, and would fain have pictured, as she used to do, some fairy prince coming to deliver her, poor little Cinderella that she was, from this grey life of teaching and sewing. But her fancy, when it had reached that flight, sank helplessly to earth again, and she began to discover that she was getting chilled and tired, and that it was quite time she went to bed. Her last waking speculation was as to whether Mark would have time for one more good-bye the next day. He did not appear; and after all, as she told herself, she had not really expected him. CHAPTER III. 'There is confusion worse than death, HERE are some on whom Dame gifts with an impartial hand, and who live out their lives amid alternating sunshine and storms. On others no bright ray ever falls, and the sharp blast, the heavy thunder-cloud, are all their portion. But, perhaps, a yet harder lot is theirs whose hitherto fair sky is suddenly overcast, never to clear again; and of these last, Jane Cameron was one. She had married the man of her choice, had borne him two comely children; and she had reached middle age before she knew what deep sorrow meant. They were living on their farm at Althorpe, in the west country, when the first blow fell, heralding those that were to follow. Their girl-they had a son and daughter-was growing up into a sunnyfaced damsel, the pride of her parents' heart, when she suddenly drooped, fell ill, and died within three months. The father never held up his head again. His wife, hiding her own heart - pangs, strove her utmost to support and soothe him; but though for awhile he went about his fields and directed his men as of old, all spirit had died out of him, and he was a bowed and broken man. Slowly, but surely, she noted his strength too failing, his step growing more feeble, his seat in the saddle exchanged for an arm-chair by the chimney corner; and before two more years had gone over their heads, she had laid him to rest by his daughter's side in the village churchyard. Then the mother and son were left alone in the world together. He was her first born, and had always been her special dar |