CHAPTER I. "But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, THE Rector of Eversfield was dead. Five-and-twenty years he had labored among his people—had wrestled for them in prayer-had preached, to the best of his ability, God's Truth, standing Sunday by Sunday in the same place. He had known sorrow in the course of those years; and he had lived it down. He had known the sting of calumny; and he had lived that calumny down. And joy, in sweetness and in fulness, had arisen upon him; and had faded. Now all alike was blended into a dream. The book was closed. "After life's fitful fever, he slept well." It was the day but one preceding the funeral. A chilly November day-sleet falling at intervals -the wind moaning dismally, as it swept the last leaves from the rectory trees. Dismally, likewise. th ame wind moaned within the house; through and about the closed blinds, up and down the narrow staircase, and the passage to which that staircase led-a passage ending in two doors, set side by side. The first of these two doors enclosed the chamber in which the coffin, with its silent burlen, awaited the final change. The other opened a etty room, daintily furnished, where a was glimmering upon white curtains, upon chintz draperies, upon a little writing-table in knick-nacks, upon books, scrolls, pictures. upon the face of a young girl. he girl lay stretched upon the bed. Her were closed; her eyebrows slightly coned, as in pain. She was not beautiful; she T tiot, critically speaking, pretty; but she had e soft brown hair, a delicate profile, a sweet mouth, a fair, blue-veined complexion. She appeared to be about eighteen or, at the utmost, nineteen years of age. "I fancy she is half unconscious," whispered a voice at the door. Two ladies, walking noiselessly, had entered. One, rubicund, portly, and a little vulgar, led the way, with the manner of a person who feels herself quite at home. The other, short, small, refined, was evidently a stranger. Her dress, a travelling-dress, was somewhat dusty, as though fresh from the railroad; and the expression with which she looked toward the bed spoke much of curiosity, more of anxiety, but nothing of recognition. "My dear!" said the rubicund lady, softly; "Gabrielle!" The girl opened her eyes. "Your cousin has come to say 'How do you "Yes." "I thought so. You had better lie down again." "Perhaps I had." She lay down as she spoke, and turned her face away. For just now she was alive only to one awful fact: that her father-not her father only, but her friend, her mother, her all-was gone away, out of her reach, out of her world; to one strong desire: that death might speedily take her, as, where, it had taken him. Olivia stood for some minutes, silently watching-so deep in thought that, when her companion touched her elbow, she started as though aroused from a dream. “I think we may as well go down-stairs, " | whispered the rubicund lady; "she's better alone, Miss Gordon-better alone." THE drawing-room, although small, was pretty and comfortable; but it was lonely, with the loneliness of death. Beside the fire stood a large arm-chair, to which the rubicund lady pointed. "That was the poor rector's special chair," said she, sighing-unable, nevertheless, to conceal her delight in the office of cicerone among scenes so mournful; “in that very chair, Miss | Gordon, was he sitting when the stroke took him. " "The stroke was totally unexpected, I fear?" "Ah! deary me, yes; he had seemed every bit as well as usual. I had met him in the village in the afternoon-him and Gabrielle; and afterward they had come home, and had their | teas, and were sitting, like they sat most evenings, by the fire: Gabrielle on that footstool, Miss Gordon, and the poor rector, as I said, in the chair." 66 Yes "9 "He dozed off-so Gabrielle tells me-being tired. Presently she noticed something peculiar in his breathing; looked up, and saw a change. Some girls would have screeched; but screechings are not in Gabrielle's way. She only just rose from her seat, and walked into the kitchen, and asked the cook to please come and look at | her papa, for he didn't seem well. So cook came, and saw in a minute how it was-she lost her own mother by a stroke." "He did not die that evening?" "No; they sent for Mr. Barber, my 'usba who brought him so far round that he opened eyes and seemed to know us. And he lay all | night through, holding Gabrielle's hand, and look | ing, looking at her. Until, of a sudden, towa morning, he said, 'My darling!'-and then, 'G bless you!'-and died." "Poor Gabrielle !" "Ah! you may well say that. She is one with whom all things go very deep; it has been so from her childhood. And she was quite wrapped up in her father. To tell you the truth, Mr. Barber fears serious consequences, if she con tinue in her present state. I 'ope, though, she will revive under your influence, Miss Gordon, as she gets to know you better." "I regret exceedingly," replied Miss Gordon, "that we are such strangers to her. But we have always failed in persuading Mr. Wynn to come and see us at Farnley. He could not bring his mind to undertake so long a journey from his parish; much less to send Gabrielle alone." "She has never been anywhere alone, poor child! It is a singular coincidence; but, only last week, when the poor rector and my 'usband were talking-the rector as well, to all appearance, as you or I-'Barber,' he said, 'If ever any thing should happen to me,' he said, 'write to my cousins in Yorkshire-Mr. and Miss Gordon. They are almost the only relatives I have, this side the grave.' So when the melancholy event occurred, my 'usband knew what to do. And most kind it is of you, I'm sure, to respond | thus promptly." "I could not have borne to stay away," Olivia repeated; "Mr. Gordon will follow me to-morrow. I suppose there is a room which he—” "Can 'ave? Oh, certainly. Mr. Godfrey's room, just as he left it. I will give orders." "Mr. Godfrey's room!" exclaimed Oliv “Who is Mr. Godfrey ? " Mrs. Barber was about to answer; and had fact begun, with a "What, Miss Gordon! y have never heard of Mr. Godfrey?"-when t conversation was interrupted by the house-r who came to say, that Mr. Barber and to were at the door, that he could not wait, a if Mrs. Barber wished to go home with ay ch should thank her to make haste. ire "Perraps, then, you'll excuse me, MAlso don," said the rubicund lady, rising; “I T return shortly, and to stay the night; but'es just have a peep at my children first, an acte Mr. Barber's supper. Please' to make as n |