In the village of Fairleigh-where everybody's business was understood to be also largely that of their neighbours-there existed no doubt about the matter. It was all very well to suggest that Dr. Graham's frequent visits to the Manor were strictly of a professional nature. The villagers knew better. Major Beale's gout might not improbably necessitate a call now and again; but the chief attraction for Horace within the park boundaries was the presence of the fair, fragile girl, whom his predecessor had appropriately styled the belle of Fairleigh. Any other plea was vain, an insult to common sense.

And in the current opinion of the country-side it was a good match. Even more arrogant and haughty than retired Anglo-Indians are usually supposed to be, it was known that the proprietor of Fairleigh Manor was, nevertheless, far from rich. He had inherited an estate hampered by many and grievous encumbrances; and having decided personal leanings towards luxury and habits of unthrift, had done little to lessen the burden. House and land were strictly entailed; and at the Major's death-as Winifred was his only child-would pass to a distant cousin. It was probable that for his daughter's future he had made but a slender provision. Horace Graham was a young doctor, who had purchased the lucrative practice of the invalid Mr. Carrow. He was of indisputable birth as well as of unblemished reputation. He would certainly be able to keep a wife; and Major Beale could find no reasonable ground of objection to him as Winifred's suitor.

Moreover, in the possession of youth and good looks, fortune had smiled on each. Both were tall. Winifred was slight of figure, charming in feature, graceful of movement as a young fawn. Horace could have put forward distinct claims to be considered a handsome man. He was broad-shouldered and clean-limbed, with merry, frank countenance, curly locks, and an honest blue eye. As Hotley, the local post-master, declared, "it was a treat to see the pair, and put one into a pleasant temper straight away."

That indecision of ardent lovers which, after all, is not indecision; that uncertainty which at heart is the sweetest, subtlest assurance; those fears which are but the under fringe of the most blissful hopes, cannot

last for ever. The romance may be enjoyable, but will inevitably reach its close. The restless spirit grows impatient to be over the Rubicon of avowal The momentous question must be asked.

It was thus with Horace Graham. With the close of the Midsummer quarter he had been a full twelvemonth in Fairleigh, and could estimate the varied advantages of his situation. His ledger proved that he was making decided progress. In a mood of exhilaration he stepped out into the straggling village street, and as fate would have it, met Winifred Beale. There was an impulsive greeting, and then a few sentences of the most decorous commonplace. But the young doctor's caution was cast to the winds -soft, balmy July ones.

"Miss Beale-Winifred," he said, in a changed low tone, "I want to have a few minutes of private conversation with you. We cannot talk here, with people passing and repassing. Shall you be at home this evening about six? Will you let me call?”

The girl trembled. She perfectly understood what was intended; what her consent would be taken to imply. "Yes-s," she murmured, "I shall be at home, Mr. Graham."

"Then, if no pressing patient interferes-and I shall not thank one who does-I will come across. I am exceedingly obliged for the permission." With a warm grasp of the hand, and a dainty lifting of his hat, Horace continued his journey.

Winifred returned to the manor in a state of shy expectant happiness. Had she possessed a mother her secret would have betrayed itself half a score of times in the course of that long afternoon. But the Major merely noted that his daughter was one hour singularly grave and quiet and the next brimming over with phenomenally high spirits. He was vaguely puzzled, but a girl was always more or less of a mystery, he believed. It was useless to make inquiry.

Slowly the tedious hours ebbed into eternity. The strokes of six from the ponderous hall clock echoed into the drawing-room, and mantled Winifred's cheeks with a sudden rosy flush. Horace was not quite punctual, then. But perhaps the irksome patient, of whose possible interference he had so lightly spoken, had actually appeared. It became Winifred to remember that a doctor's time was never absolutely his

own.

Another quarter had passed, and then the half was chimed. This was a mysterious lingering, indeed. The girl had grown so excited that she could scarcely dissemble her agitation. She toyed with a rose that her father had brought in from the garden. A little later she tripped out into the hall and up the oldfashioned staircase. Here a recessed window commanded a full view of the Fairleigh Road. She

pounds; that, or a prosecution?" said the doctor, wearily.

"Very succinctly stated, and quite accurate," answered Philip.

Sixteen hundred pounds was very nearly the full extent of Horace Graham's resources. If he lost such a sum it would be folly to dream of marrying. On the other hand, the disgrace of his brother's exposure would quite as effectually destroy his hopes of winning Major Beale's assent to his proposal; and would probably injure his standing and professional prospects in Fairleigh in the bargain.

"I suppose you must have it," he groaned.

II.

HORACE GRAHAM no longer cared for Winifred Beale's society. If the girl could rely upon the evidence of her senses, it was impossible to arrive at any other conclusion. He rarely came to the Manor now, unless the Major sent for him. He studiously ignored every opportunity for a tête-a-tête. It was hard for Winifred to comprehend the change. The mystery deeply pained her, but it was one to which she had no clue. The young doctor had never satisfactorily explained his broken engagement. Some semi-coherent excuse-of a flower show he desired to see established in Fairleigh-he had pleaded for his venturesome demand for confidence. But Winifred not unnaturally looked upon the escapade as a treacherous trifling with a regard that, perhaps it gave her a pang to think of it-she had exhibited too openly.

Winifred was a brave girl, and she cloaked her wounded spirit in a quiet maidenly pride, which, without the least intention of rebuke, conveyed a subtle reproach to the heart of the delinquent whenever he entered her presence. The desertion tried her grievously; but, if she could prevent it, no trace of disappointment should be detected by Horace Graham. In reality, he noted the symptoms, and suffered with her very possibly, suffered more keenly.

Four months had elapsed, and, instead of the height of summer, it was early winter. Already a slight snowfall had taken place, and, gazing upwards at the sombre heavens, people were expecting a still heavier storm. Dr. Graham had just ridden in from a round of visits. He was both tired and hungry, and was anticipating with satisfaction an hour or two of rest and recreation. But at his well-spread table he found a self-invited guest, and the dream of comfort which had buoyed him up through the petty worries of the afternoon faded in an instant.

“Why, Phil! you back again so quickly!" he ejaculated.

"Where should the needy seek relief except in the land of plenty?" replied the prodigal, with a shameless smile. You were so kind and considerate before that______ ""

"Stop! thundered Horace. "If it's a fresh loan

"And sixteen hundred before, which was to have been repaid in six or eight months at latest.” "I can't help it, Horace; I really can't." "You do not try to alter it. You have had opportunity after opportunity, and what have you done with them? I have to work and keep steady, and you prey upon my savings. You talked of brotherly kindness in July. Is this how you display the virtue?"

The young doctor's long-harboured grief, and his resentment at the blighting of the one romance of his life, burst the bonds of his ordinary reticence, With a novel fire in his eyes he faced the scapegrace listener.

"You will care little or nothing, of course,” he continued, fiercely; "but you robbed me in the summer of something of infinitely more worth than money." And then he told Philip Graham of the sacrifice he had made.

DEAR HORACE,-I am happy to enclose you four hundred pounds in part payment of my (monetary) debt. The remainder, I trust, will follow at early dates. Have no scruple about receiving it; it is honestly come by. Your generosity has done what no reprimands or good advice ever could do. It showed me what a selfish scoundrel I had been for so many years. It awoke remorse, I humbly hope a repentance towards God as well as man. I have obtained a good appointment--with Archer Bros. — and am living a very quiet, hardworking life. I propose most thoroughly to reform. How is Miss Beale? Surely

now you will be able to marry. I will be no obstacle in your path to happiness. With deepest feelings of gratitudeI am, yours truly, PHILIP GRAHAM.

In reading this there was a real pleasure, except for the spasm of pain afforded by the last sentences. Horace replied at much length, and concluded"With Miss Beale I fear my relations are for ever ended. She naturally thinks me a traitor, and explanation is all but impossible. Besides, there are rumours in Fairleigh of another suitor. Even now he may be accepted. I must just live the feeling down."

Two days after the dispatch of this communication Horace was startled by a third visit from his brother. Philip arrived at the surgery very late, and on foot. What occasioned still greater surprise, he had plainly approached from the opposite direction to the Fairleigh station.

There was a cordial shake of the hands, and then Philip commenced his explanation.

"I have been to the manor," he said, calmly. "I couldn't sit comfortably down and allow you to

"Test the matter for yourself, I say, Horace, onlyI wouldn't give much for your rival's chances; and the girl is worth winning."

Matters having travelled to this climax, Horace judged it wisest to do as he was bidden. He first sent a note, and then quickly followed it to the Manor drawing-room.

"I would have waited for you," Winifred whispered shyly; "neither poverty nor what you style disgrace could have outweighed your love, Horace. But the suspense has after all only shown me how noble you are."

"Perhaps we may both say that our path, in God's good Providence, has led through trial to trust," the young man answered, thankfully. W. J. I

A PARABLE 00 high for me to reach!"

The sigh came from a corner of a meadow, where sighs seemed out of harmony with the sunlit life of birds, and flowers, and

grasses.

It was such a busy world that the whisper came and went unnoticed, and the Clover kept its secret safe within its quivering crimson heart.

No one would have suspected the Clover of such a secret at all; he was always so frank

and friendly; ready with a greeting word for any passing acquaintance, never grudging the bees what he had to give when they called on their honeysearch, happy even in the chilling presence of the eastwind itself. Of all the field flowers he was the first to catch a glimpse of hope in bad weather; and whilst the storm lasted, safe to reassure the fainter hearts around him by his example of steady cheerfulness. But this morning something had come between him and the blue sky to which his head was always lifted so bravely.

Again the sigh came, "Too high for me! I cannot make her hear!"

NATURE.

This time the West Wind caught the whisper. The Clover was one of her especial favourites, for he made the air so sweet round him, and she liked to waft on the fragrance as she passed in the day's work. So she paused to listen.

"What is wrong, Clover? Don't be vexed; I could not help hearing what you said."

The Clover flushed; but the other flowers were busy over their own concerns, or gossiping with the bees, and would not be likely to overhear; and he was in trouble, and needed a friend.

"I wish I were you!" he cried, "then I could go where I liked, and not be obliged to stay down here in this dull lonely corner."

"He that is down need fear no fall," answered the West Wind. "You are safe here, and I have to go to all sorts of horrid places."

"I should not wish to go very far! Oh! it is so hard to stay here! Tell me, what does She say to you when you pass her?"

His friend laughed a little, for she had seen and heard a good deal in her journeyings backwards and forwards amongst the world, and guessed what must be coming now; but she only asked

"Who is She? Why don't you talk to her, instead of wasting your time grumbling to me?"

"She would not listen yet, and I don't know how to make her hear."

"The daisies have all a good word for you, I know." "Oh, but She isn't a daisy," Clover replied eagerly. "I knew you would think that; I had better not tell you her name, because you will only laugh at me, and think me very foolish."