my own heart so long that when I wanted to relent I couldn't. Even when her husband died, and I knew that she was suffering poverty as well as grief, I could not bend my pride to help her, except secretly. She never knew that I helped her, that I should have been glad if a reconciliation could have been forced upon me. But all that is gone, Julian. You can help to atone for your father's sin."

"It will be a very pleasant way of making atonement," said Julian, smiling; "and as to my behaving kindly to Agnes, I think it would be impossible for any one to behave unkindly to her. I look upon her coming here as the luckiest thing that has happened in my life yet."

"I trust it will prove so, Julian," the old man said, rather anxiously, certain uneasy memories troubling him somewhat. "I trust it will prove so. It should make you a little steadier; don't you think so, my boy?"

Julian's face coloured a little. For a moment he half resented the idea that improvement was possible in him, but only for a moment. His better self was in the ascendant.

"Father, I am trying to turn over a new leaf," he said. That was all, but there was a certain boyish quiver in his voice that seemed to preclude further conversation.

Years afterwards Julian Serlcote remembered that New Year's Eve by his father's fire, the parting shake of the hand, and the blessing that had never seemed to bless him.

THE OLD MAN SAID, RATHER ANXIOUSLY.

an opportunity of doing one-his manner of doing it was often quite inexplicable. If he placed a chair or opened a door he would compress his lips and knit his brows most ferociously, while she thanked him looking into his face with one of her sweet smiles. Martin generally walked off swinging his arms defiantly, or, if his temper was worse than usual, humming to himself some air or other, but producing a most dreadful timeless and tuneless noise. No one could say that the young man's behaviour was good.

Still he did his work faithfully, his own and greater part of Julian's besides. Julian did not find it easy to turn over that new leaf of which he had spoken, and it was not to be expected of him that he should persist in doing anything that was difficult or distasteful. This was the grand noon

of his life; why should he shadow it by vexing his own soul needlessly?

Therefore he still went on his way much as he had done before, and a most social and buoyant way it was. He had hardly appreciated it properly until he had made some feeble struggles against the temptations it held, temptations of which they knew nothing in that "slow" oldfashioned home of his.

Nothing was known of him there that could be openly objected to. It might be that in more than one heart there was a vague feeling of anxiety about him, but this could only be in his absence. When he was present he seemed to bring love with him and admiration and satisfac

tion.

If any charge could be brought against him substantial enough to be put into words it was the charge of idleness; but even Agnes wondered at her own temerity in making it.

Julian smiled his pleasantest, easiest smile.

'Well, I'm afraid you're about right there," he said, speaking as if he was rather complimented than otherwise. "I begin to think that I am naturally lazy. I'm certainly getting to hate work more than I used to do."

Agnes looked grave and turned paler than usual as he spoke. Work of some kind was a condition of life to her, and a sacred condition. Since Christmas she had undertaken the education of Fanny and Ellen, and it was a greater undertaking than anybody about her knew. Mrs. Serlcote was grateful to her; she had not liked the school the children had attended before, but she had no real idea of the work which was being done in her best parlour during these sunny forenoons. Yet the feeling that something was being done for her and her children helped a good deal to sweeten her sour thin nature. She had accepted the idea of Agnes as her Julian's future wife, because her Julian had so decreed, but not without a whisper of disappointment to her eldest daughter.

"Moving in such society as he does, I think he might have looked a little higher," she said.

But Elizabeth, who was short and square and in no wise beautiful, looked upon her tall, beautiful, graceful cousin as quite enough of a princess even for her princely brother. And underlying this admiration there was a firmly-growing affection. Elizabeth was by nature a motherly woman, Agnes by nature and circumstances one who could appreciate to the full a motherly friend.

As the days went on there came to be a certain reticence between them about Julian, an unacknowledged, because almost groundless, reticence. There was no doubt of his love. Seeing that Agnes was so securely his, it was not to be expected of him that he should desire to be assured of that fact at least sixteen times a day, as had been the case in the beginning of their engagement.

Their affection for each other was a quiet certainty now, not a thing to need demonstration.

If Agnes was a little surprised that this state of things came to pass so soon, her surprise must be forgiven to her. She was young, over-earnest in all that she did or felt, and utterly inexperienced.

Besides, be it noted that she kept such surprise altogether to herself. Once reading "Dora" to herself one evening when Julian was out, she paused awhile as she read of how William had failed to love his cousin

"Because

He had been always with her in the house."

Was it, then, possible that people could see too much of each other? The idea remained with her, weighed upon her, finally wrought into her mind, so that she kept out of Julian's way somewhat more than she had done. This was the one artifice that she used, and it was quite harmless. Julian never discovered that she had made any change.

“A

CHAPTER IV.-MRS. TALBOT.

And oh! how much I loved him what can tell?
Not words, nor tears. Heaven only knows how much;
And every evening when I say my prayers,

I pray to be forgiven for the sin

Of loving aught on earth with such a love.

Sir Henry Taylor: Philip Van Artevelde.

ND because they had no root they withered away."

That was Dr. Deane's text one summer Sunday morning. Joshua Serlcote's pew was far away up in the west gallery, close to the organ and the choir. The roof was just overhead, the old oak rafters seeming to shut out light and air and sun--everything, in fact, but dust and dirt. A dingier, more unwholesome, more distracting place wherein to pray and praise could never have been conceived. Yet the old square pew was almost always full. Joshua and his wife sat by preference with their backs to the pulpit, which was somewhere in the dim east, and had a large, dusky-looking stained glass window behind it; the four younger children sat in a prim row opposite. Elizabeth and Martin had latterly occupied the seat by the door, so that Julian and Agnes might sit near each other at the opposite end.

66

But this morning Agnes was sitting there alone, and it was not the first time that this had happened. Julian had been subject to headaches, and he could trace them to other causes than sitting for so many hours on a Sunday in that stuffy old organ-loft." Agnes had offered to sit with him elsewhere, but her offer had somehow or another been evaded. Was it his absence only that made her look so sad? Was it fancy that made old Joshua's face seem more stern and grave than usual?

"Because they had no root they withered away." The words seemed to ring through the aisles like a denunciation. Over and over they came in the sermon as a conclusion to solemn warnings, to affectionate entreaties, to passionate appeals. Joshua Serlcote stirred in his seat uneasily; Agnes sat hushed, almost breathless. It was sad work, sadder for certain shortcomings of her own.

"Withering away." Yes, we see the process

going on on every side of us-souls withering under the deadly chills of indifference, perishing under the deadlier blight of sin-and we make no effort, or only the most miserable effort, enough to satisfy our own most miserable conscience.

It seemed to Agnes possible to make any, the most desperate, effort as she sat there; but when the moment came for conscious exertion there was both pain and difficulty in it.

Julian seemed to be more unlike himself than ever that Sunday afternoon. He had taken even more pains than usual with his appearance; there was a certain air of extra neatness and trimness about him. This was for her sake, Agnes did not doubt. Of course he would ask her, as he always did, if she were not ready for the long pleasant walk that had grown into a pleasant custom.

But he did not ask her; he sat in the drawingroom with a book in his hand which she could see that he was not reading; and there was something in his face and in his attitude that made her heart beat quicker than it should have done as she went up to him.

She took out her watch and held it playfully before his eyes. Julian looked at it stolidly; not a muscle of his white, handsome, clear-cut face moved as he uttered the monosyllable.

"Well?"

"Do you see the time?"

"I hope so."

"Do you know why I wish you to see it?"

An uneasy little frown passed momentarily over his face. He had his own plan for spending the afternoon, and he had not expected any difficulty of this kind. But he was not a man to trouble himself uneasily.

"I can't say what special reason you may have," he replied, speaking in the same impassive tone as before.

"Then I must tell you," Agnes said, still smiling, and speaking with a certain half playful sweetness. "I want you to take me to Elmthorpe this afternoon to the church. The service is at three o'clock."

Julian coloured and hesitated. His voice was smoother and more courteous when he spoke again.

"I am afraid you will have to wait till another Sunday, Agnes dear," he said. "I'm awfully sorry, but the fact is I have an engagement." "An engagement for to-day?"

66

Yes, you little Puritan. I hope I shall live to see you holding a regular levée every Sunday afternoon."

He was speaking flippantly now, almost defiantly. Agnes's thoughts were turning back upon the words that had so stirred her in the morning.

She sat down on a stool almost at Julian's feet, clasping her hands lightly on her black dress, looking up into his face with a smile that might have touched him had he been in a less unapproachable mood.

"Julian," she said, "you know you do not think me a Puritan; you have even said that you wondered to find me so little Puritanical. And I know there are engagements and engagements—

some that one might keep on a Sunday without fear of wrongdoing. Would you mind telling me where you are going to-day? If you think that I ought not to have asked you, say so, and I won't press for an answer."

"I do think you ought not to have asked me, but I don't mind answering you in the very least. I am going to Mrs. Talbot's; she is at home this afternoon. I promised her I would look in.”

Agnes was silent; there was much to be thought about. Julian had introduced her to Mrs. and Miss Talbot-a widowed lady and her daughter, who had lately come to live in Buxton Grove, and Mrs. Talbot had shown herself gentle and friendly, but Agnes was not quite sure that there could ever be much sympathy between them. The feeling-or rather the instinct-that she had in the matter was very vague, very intangible, but Julian had perceived it, and made it tangible at

once.

Helena Talbot was still a handsome and attractive woman; her daughter Lerna, aged seventeen, promised to be quite as handsome; therefore it was not wonderful that Agnes should fail to look kindly upon them as his friends.

So it was that Julian said, not without some satisfaction, "I am going to Mrs. Talbot's; she is at home' to-day."

The idea of a reception of this kind on a Sunday was as new to Agnes as it was to the inhabitants of Lyme-St.-Mary's generally. Julian had a notion that she would be "rather shocked," as he put it to himself. She was certainly saddened.

"I know very little about things of this kind," she said, "nor how far people may be prepared to defend them, but I think it is a pity that a Christian should do anything to need defence from such a standpoint as that."

Julian smiled superciliously. "Oh, I don't expect you to approve of anything Mrs. Talbot may do; her notions and yours will never fit. She is the least narrow-minded of any woman I have known."

"I was not thinking of Mrs. Talbot, Julian; I was thinking of you. There is only one Sunday in the week-only one day wherein to feel a little safer from distraction-a little more separate from the world, so that one's heart

'May deeply take and strongly keep The print of heaven.'"

"You are a dear, good little creature," Julian said, rising from his chair with an ill-suppressed yawn. "I wish I were half as good; and if you don't worry me perhaps I may take you to Elmthorpe Church next Sunday."

Then he went out, less satisfied with himself than he seemed to be-in fact, hardly satisfied at all. It was in his mind once, as he went up the quiet, deserted-looking Corn Market, to go back, to lay before that future wife of his certain struggles that he had had, certain misgivings that beset him, certain miserable gnawings of conscience, but he kept on his way until the desire had left him.

Yet, believe the best of him; he half hated himself for the mood that he had been in during the past hour, though it had been more a feigned mood than a real one; and he acknowledged to himself in all sincerity that he was growing even less worthy of his cousin and her love than he had been before.

If he had gone back he might have been moved even deeper still; he might have found Agnes Dyne on her knees and in tears; he, who prayed so little for himself, might all the rest of his life have remembered hearing another pray so earnestly for him.

"But of all sad words of tongue or pen

The saddest are those-' It might have been.'

Yes, believe the best of him, and pity him. He was weak, and he knew it; his temptations were strong, and he knew it not.

How should he know? He had never in his life looked a temptation in the face determined to

resist it.

Temptation!-if you could but look at that. A power of darkness, strong, subtle, unsleeping; leaving no point unassailed; harassing the watchfullest Christian most, succeeding best where he thought himself the strongest; harassing not at all the unwatchful, but making what havoc can be made in the strictest silence.

You remember that pathetic line in Mrs. Browning's "Cry of the Children" ?—

"Our Father,' we say softly for a charm."

It is probable that Julian Serlcote had said his charm over that morning; that the words "Lead us not into temptation" had passed through his mind with more or less recognition of meaning in them. That he had paused at all to think over the temptation the day might hold for him is less probable; if he had he might have turned back even at the gate of that newly-furnished villa in the Grove.

Yet there was nothing in it specially baleful. Mrs. Talbot was the widow of a London physician, and the daughter of a man well-remembered in Lyme-St.-Mary's, an upright magistrate, a friend to the poor, and a neighbourly man to his neighbours. Helena Talbot was not rich; nay, she confessed openly that she came back to "the home of her childhood" at least as much for the sake of economy as for the sake of sentiment. Yet she gave sentiment at least its weight, on this as on all other occasions.

Julian thought she looked younger than ever this afternoon, and handsomer, though he did not fail to perceive that much of this impression might be owing to her unapproachable knowledge of effect. She wore no cap, her glossy plentiful black hair, which curled naturally, was relieved by a background of palest pink damask curtain; the light that was in the room was subdued, etherealised with the subtlest skill; all was harmony, repose, point lace, old china, and graciousness.

Several of Julian's friends were already there

when he went in; among them were the Miss Oakleys and their brother, and Dr. Sargent, all of whom greeted him with a warmth that he would have been very sorry to miss.

Mrs. Talbot was less fervid, but much more impressive. Julian was drawn in spite of himself to look closely again and again into those dark, meaningful eyes of hers. It was mere curiosity. What was it they expressed? He found himself wondering, guessing, longing to find out what message they were so softly and mysteriously delivering.

She had a strange power of attracting sympathy, though no one could say precisely why she needed any. She had friends, health, competence, and her "darling Lerna;" still, most people spoke of her as poor Mrs. Talbot.

Julian himself felt a certain something that was not pity, and yet had the dangerous force of it, something that seemed to awaken an altogether new emotion within him. Friendship, doubtless, it was, he said to himself, speaking in utter ignorance of the meaning of that sacred word, a "friend."

Even in this beginning of things he hardly. approved of the fact that Mrs. Talbot had so many other friends, was so gracious and kind to all alike. Especially did he dislike her acceptance of Dr. Sargent's florid courtesies. The doctor was a widower, a short, stout, good-natured man, popular everywhere by sheer force of goodnature. He had little else to recommend himuntil to-day Julian had not known how little, but he was now enabled to decide without much dissatisfaction that the doctor was deficient in that nameless virtue that people call tact. People had come who were very dubious about coming, and who were quite prepared to protest silently and politely against anything that should turn their dubiousness into regret. Each had his own line drawn, and the hardest and fastest lines were drawn by those who had had to leap the highest stone walls in order to be present.

Mrs. Talbot had quite perception enough to be aware of this element of watchful doubt, and was diplomatic enough to disarm it most sweetly. Perceiving that Dr. Sargent had drawn Julian, Mark Oakley, and some others into discussing the arrangements for a volunteers' ball, and that the discussion was being listened to with silent but sufficiently evident disapprobation, she asked for a little music.

"Clarice dear," she said, turning to the younger Miss Oakley, with a certain gentle emphasis in her voice that made itself felt all through the room-" Clarice dear, would you be kind enough to sing us that touching little hymn, 'In sad misfortune's saddest hour'? I will play it for you on my new harmonium, which I have bought on purpose for Sunday use. And, Mr. Whitehouse, wiil you favour us by taking the tenor ?"

She spoke in such plaintive, measured tones, and suppressed a sigh so touchingly as she finished speaking, that Mr. Whitehouse felt as if he would be glad to sing for her until he had no longer breath to sing. The whole order of things seemed changed as she swept with dignity

across the room and laid her white hands softly upon the keys.

The music was not good. Clarice Oakley's voice was thin and uncertain; Edgar Whitehouse did not know his part. But no one seemed to mind; they were all listening to Mrs. Talbot, who was putting in a few contralto notes in tones that were almost startling in their impressiveness. Julian's susceptible emotions were raised to a new platform without his knowing it; it was almost as if he had never heard any one sing before. The time went on, and the music went on; some of the people went away, but it never occurred to Julian to do anything but wait until Mrs. Talbot should sing again.

He seemed to waken up from a kind of dream to find himself the only visitor remaining. Mrs. Talbot was talking to him, explaining her Sunday evening arrangements, in tones of greatest confidence. Lerna was sitting on a footstool staring at him with dreamy vacant eyes, caressing her mother's soft white hand. The sun was coming in at the west window more directly than it had done before.

"May I trouble you to draw the blind down, Mr. Sericote?" Helena Talbot said, sighing again, and speaking beseechingly.

Julian complied with a sense of irritation at the smallness of the trouble, and looked about listlessly to see if there was nothing more to be done. Then he glanced at the clock and blushed slightly. Ought he not to go? He hesitated to sit down again, and Mrs. Talbot perceived his hesitation.

"You are not thinking of going!" she said, in a friendly way, "I was hoping you would stay to tea."

The invitation was not given too impressively: Julian had been wishing for it, but he was confused, strangely confused this afternoon. uttered something that sounded like "thanks," but in a very undecided manner.

He

"Of course it will be very dull for you," she said. "We are not entertaining people. Lerna and I can sing for you a little, that is, if you care for singing."

"I care for singing more than for anything else in the world—that is, for your singing," he said, with an abandon that startled himself and made Mrs. Talbot smile in spite of the settled melancholy which forbade indiscriminate smiling.

Ah," she replied, looking at him with more than ordinary sadness in her beautiful eyes. "You should not say things like that to me now. My voice is gone; all is gone that made life worth living. What happiness remains to me in the future can only come to me through the happiness of my darling Lerna. If you like singing so much you shall hear her sing. To me it is like hearing the voice of my own youth again."

Julian looked down at the pretty childish stupid-looking girl with a look on his face almost as vacant as her own. Lerna was no more to him than any other pretty thing among Mrs. Talbot's surroundings. The idea of her singing reminded him of the doll that he had brought from Paris for his little sister Nelly, a doll that said "Mamma” in a most uncanny fashion.

Nevertheless he was constrained to admit that the girl had a voice-and a sweet, well-trained voice that blended with her mother's very effectively. It was not necessary now that no narrowminded person was present to keep to that odious buzzing harmonium. Julian and Mrs. Talbot had a little laugh over the idea of one instrument being more sacred than another, then they laughed again over the people who were supposed to hold such ideas.

It was wonderful how well they agreed. Julian had never before met with any one who understood him so well, who presupposed his views so exactly, and who appraised his superiority with so much delicacy.

Was there not something complimentary in the mere choice of the music she played and sang? There was no need to keep to hymns and airs from oratorios now. French songs were sung that Julian understood and enjoyed, Italian duets that he did not understand but enjoyed still more, for Mrs. Talbot had to interpret them, and the interpretation required smiles and glances and other unconventional and fascinating modes of expression, some of which were very intoxicating to a man so young, so impressionable, so utterly light-headed and light-hearted as Julian Serlcote

was.

Very young he was and very happy that evening, with a new and transcendent happiness that he never tried to define.

His emotion was too much of the nature of delirium for him to have any dread of consequences. He thought of Agnes somewhat uneasily as he walked home, but Agnes had gone to bed; indeed, the whole family had gone save Martin.

Julian would not have been sorry if Martin had been in bed also. What right had a stupid boy like that to give himself airs about nothing? Julian liked Martin, and altogether approved of Martin's liking for him; but he did not like to have his pleasant, open advances met with silence and sullenness because he had chosen to make a quiet visit on a Sunday evening.

Her

Agnes was far wiser, and she was a dear good girl after all, Julian said to himself after receiving her smiling tender greeting next morning. There was no rebuke there, tacit or other. face was cloudless, her eyes clear and calm. She had spoken of her trouble to Him who alone knew of it as she knew; and with Him she had left it for weal or further woe.