himself everything-not happiness alone, but even a little innocent amusement, such as reminded him of the freedom of his youth. He was too manly to grumble, but yet he felt it, and could not deny himself the pleasure of wondering how "these fellows" would like the prairies, and whether they would disperse in double-quick time if a bear or a pack of wolves came down upon them in place of their innocent partridges. No doubt "these fellows" would have stood the trial extremely well, and at another moment Powys would not have doubted that; but in the mean time a little sneer was a comfort to him. The dogcart came up as he waited, and Mr Brownlow made his appearance in his careful morning dress, perfectly calm, composed, and steady as usual,-a man whose very looks gave consolation to a client in trouble. But yet the lines of his face were a little haggard, if there had been anybody there with eyes to see. "What, Powys!" he said, "not gone with the others?" He said it with a smile, and yet it raised a commotion in his mind. If he had not gone with the others, Mr Brownlow naturally concluded it must be for Sara's sake, and that the crisis was very near at hand.

“No, sir,” said Powys; "in fact I thought of going in with you to the office, if you will take me. It is the fittest place for me."

Then it occurred to Mr Brownlow that the young man had spoken and had been rejected, and the thought thrilled him through and through, but still he tried to make light of it. "Nonsense," he said;

"I did not bring you up last night to take you down this morning. You want a holiday. Don't set up for having an old head on young shoulders, but stay and enjoy yourself. I don't want you at the office to-day."

"If an old head means a wise one, I can't much boast of that," said Powys; and then he saw Sara standing in the doorway of the dining-room looking at him, and his heart melted within him. One more day! he would not say a word, not a word, however he might be tempted; and what harm could it do to any one? "I think I ought to go," he added, faintly; but the resolution had melted out of his words.

"Nonsense!" said Mr Brownlow, from the dogcart, and he waved his hand, and the mare set off at her usual pace down the avenue, waiting for no one. And Powys was left alone standing on the steps. The young men had gone who might have been in the way, and the ladies had already dispersed from the breakfast-table, some to the morning-room on the other side of the hall, some up-stairs for their hats and cloaks, before straying out on their morning perambulations. And Sara, who had her housekeep

ing to do, save the mark! was the only creature visible to whom he turned as her father drove away. Courtesy required (so she said to herself) that she should go forward into the hall a step or two, and say something good-natured to him. "If you are not of Jack's party," she said, "you must go and help to amuse the people who are staying at home; unless you want to write or do anything, Mr Powys. The library is on that side; shall I show you the way?"

And a minute after he found himself following her into the room, which was the first room he had ever been in at Brownlows. It was foolish of Sara,— it was a little like the way in which she had treated him before. Her own heart was beating more quickly than usual, and yet she was chiefly curious to know what he would do, what he would say. There was something of the eagerness of an experiment in her mind; although she had found it very serious after he left her the last time, and anything but amusing on the previous night.

"Thanks," said poor Powys, whose head was turning round and round; "I ought to have gone to the office. I am better there than here."

"That is not very complimentary to us," said Sara, with a little nervous laugh.

And then he turned and looked at her.

She was

making a fool of him, as Jack would have said. She was torturing him, playing with him, making her half-cruel, half-rash experiment. "You should not say so," he said, with vehemence,-"you know better. You should not tempt me to behave like an idiot. You know I am ready enough to do it. If I were not an idiot I should never have come here again."

"Not when my father brought you?" said Sara"not when I-but I think you are rude, Mr Powys; I will leave you to write your letters, and when you have finished you will find us all up-stairs."

With that she vanished, leaving the young man in such a confusion of mind as words would ill describe. He was angry, humiliated, vexed with himself, rapt into a kind of ecstasy. He did not know if he was most wretched or happy. Everything forbade him saying another word to her; and yet had not her father brought him, as she said? was not she herself surrounding him with subtle sweet temptation? He threw himself down in a chair and tried to think. When that would not do, he got up and began to pace about the room. Then he rushed suddenly to the door, not to fly away from the place, or to throw himself at Sara's feet, as might have been supposed. What he did was to make a wild dash at his travelling-bag, which had been packed and brought into the hall. It was still standing there, a monument of

his irresolution. He plunged at it, seized it, carried it into the library, and there unpacked it again with nervous vehemence. Any one who should have come in and seen his collars and handkerchiefs scattered about on the floor would have thought Powys mad. But at length, when he had got to the bottom of the receptacle, his object became apparent. From thence he produced a bundle of papers, yellow and worn, and tied up with a ribbon. When he had disinterred them, it was not without a blush, though there was nobody to see, that he packed up everything again in the capacious travelling-bag. He had gone into Mr Brownlow's library because Sara took him there, without a thought of anything to do, but suddenly here was his work ready for him. He sat down in Mr Brownlow's chair, and opened out the papers before him, and read and arranged and laid them out in order. When he had settled them according to his satisfaction, he made another pause to think, and then began to write. It was a letter which demanded thought; or at least it appeared so, for he wrote it hotly three times over, and tore it up each time; and on the fourth occasion, which was the last, wrote slowly, pausing over his sentences and biting his nails. The letter which cost all this trouble was not very long. Judging by the size of it, anybody might have written it in five minutes;