of Susan than with compassion for the sacrifice which had wrung Miriam's crushed and desolate heart.

"And I do not even know that it was right," she thought. "He loved me, as I shall never be loved again, and George, for whom I have given up all, will never care nor understand. Perhaps Leonard had the right to decide, and now it is too late. If he had called me 'my child' only once again before leaving me for ever!"

And then, utterly exhausted by the events of the morning, Miriam laid down her head, and soon slept like a tired child, nor could the sound of wheels arouse her, though they bore away the hero of her bright and brief romance. Before she awoke, Leonard was some miles away from the Mains.

The first intimation of Leonard's hurried departure was given to the servant, for whom he rang, to desire that the dog-cart might be got ready to convey him to the station. Then he locked himself into his room while he tossed his things into a portmanteau, and only came into the drawing-room to say that he must be off at once to catch the train. Susan and her mother were there, while Mr. Cornwall and Mr. Mordaunt paced the gravel below the windows, too much absorbed in their discussion to note Leonard's entrance.

At a sign from her mother, Susan retreated to the anteroom, and Mrs. Mordaunt said, in a deprecating tone, “I dare say you are wise to go, Leo, but I hoped to have a little talk with you first."

"Least said, soonest mended," Leonard rejoined with a light scornful laugh. "Good-bye, Aunt Helen. I suppose we shall meet in Charles-street, in November."

"And where shall you be in the meanwhile?"

"That is more than I can tell you. You may send my letters to my chambers."

"You will not suffer this disappointment to make you reckless, Leo," said his aunt, laying a gentle hand on his arm. But he shook it off, and answered with the same scornful laugh:

"If it does, it is no fault of yours, Aunt Helen. Wish the two uncles good-bye for me, and thank them for the morning's work which they are now discussing so complacently."

Susan still stood in the anteroom, and she lifted her troubled face to her cousin's when he would have passed by without a word: "May I not say how sorry I am, Leonard?"

"Not to-day, Susan. Some weeks hence I may be able to bear condolence." But he turned back, just as he had reached the door: "Susan, be kind to Miriam. She needs it, for she stands alone now, and her brother certainly can be neither stay nor comfort."

"I will," said Susan earnestly, and the assurance was repaid by a grateful pressure of her cousin's hand. In another moment he was gone, and Mr. Mordaunt and Mr. Cornwall only came round the corner of the house

in time to see the retreating wheels of the dog-cart, while Susan stood in the doorway.

"So!" said Mr. Mordaunt with a smile, "our Cæsar, who came, saw, and conquered, pursues the parallel by taking up his baggage and departing. Is he much cut up, Susan?"

"Yes," said Susan briefly; and she would have turned into the house if Uncle Ralph had not detained her.

"Stay with me, Susan. Your Papa is going off to the farm, and I want to have a talk with you."

"You must have your talk out to-day," said Mr. Mordaunt, as Susan prepared to comply, "and then let the subject rest. It has been a foolish episode, and I don't want to have all my girls' heads filled with nonsense."

Mr. Cornwall promised obedience, and carried off Susan in triumph. "It is always satisfactory," he said, "to have a talk with you, because you have softness, as well as sense. I think Mordaunt is hard on the young people."

"Papa," said Susan, "can scarcely believe in the depth of an attachment which sprang up so suddenly." "And what do you think, my dear?"

"I think," said Susan, her voice slightly trembling, "that Leonard's whole heart is Miriam's, and that, however disappointed in her, he cannot now be free, if he would."

"You mean, that he is disappointed by her submitting so readily?"

"Naturally," said Susan.

"And you would not have done the same in her place?"

"I will tell you when I am tried," said Susan, forcing a laugh.

"I am inclined to think," said Uncle Ralph, "that Miriam's attachment will be more lasting than Leo's. For I know enough of her to believe that where she loves, it must be for life."

"Then why did she give him up so easily?"

"Because she thought it right to sacrifice herself for George. I admire her for that, without thinking her the least more lovable. In fact," said Uncle Ralph despondingly, "I feel that this affair has destroyed our last chance of coming to a better understanding, since I cannot conceal from myself that I have acted like a brute. She will wander about Duck Dub, a pale and reproachful ghost, or perhaps pine to death.”

Susan had no consolation to offer; she said that the sun made her head ache, and left him to indulge in these gloomy anticipations.

CHAPTER XVII.

Oft in the Passions' wild rotation tost,
Our spring of action to ourselves is lost;
Tired, not determined, to the last we yield,
And what comes then is master of the field.

POPE.

BEFORE a sufficient time had elapsed to verify the several predictions that Miriam would pine to death, and Leonard be made reckless by his disappointment, the more immediate consequence of their engagement appeared in its effect on a third person. Mr. Merton had only waited until he was sure of his ground, to pay his addresses to Susan in form; and on the evening of Leonard's departure, that assurance was given by her submitting to be the object of his exclusive attentions, instead of discouraging them as formerly. Early on the morrow, Susan was called down to give her own answer to the declaration he had come to make, and when they appeared together, the happy agitation of her lover betrayed that the reply had not been unsatisfactory. Susan seemed to shrink from her mother's tearful caress, as well as from her father's half-rallying congratulation, and she escaped as soon as possible, not to her own room, but Ailie's; which had so often been her haven in trouble and perplexity.