you stay with me? I am a cross-grained old fellow, and I cannot supply the place of her you have lost; yet I will do what I can."

There was no brightening look on Miriam's face, no expression of gratitude. She merely said, "And George?"

"I do not know about George. I have not seen him yet, and your father has now gone to talk over the matter, and to give him his choice."

"And he has left me no choice?" said Miriam.

that a settler's

"Why, we agreed on that point life would not do for you. Yet I must not keep you against your will."

"I must go where George goes," said Miriam. "Mamma bade me take care of him."

Before Mr. Cornwall could require the explanation of such a charge, the father and son entered the room. The young man's handsome face and easy, gentlemanlike assurance, forcibly reminded Ralph of the attractions which had won his sister's heart long years ago, and the likeness to Mr. Leigh did not incline him to greet his nephew with any great cordiality.

"Well, my boy, speak for yourself," said the father; "will you go or stay?"

"I wish to go with my father," said George.

"It is his own free choice," Mr. Leigh added; "I have not influenced him in any way."

Mr. Cornwall said, "Very well." It was evident that he intended to use no efforts to retain his nephew.

Miriam was less passive, but her entreaty was urged with the energy of despair, not with any hope of moving the person to whom it was addressed. “Papa, may not I also choose freely? You will not separate me from George?"

"My dear child, be reasonable.

Your uncle must be hurt by such an ungrateful return for his offer to adopt you: he must expect

"

"Allow me to express my own expectations," interposed Ralph Cornwall bluntly; "Miriam indeed knows what I wish, what I think best. But I cannot force her to remain, contrary to her inclinations."

"I must speak to Miriam apart," said Mr. Leigh, with a peculiar expression in his dark eyes before which the girl seemed to quail. With a pale and resolute face she prepared to obey, when Mr. Cornwall interfered to prevent any intimidation. Drawing Miriam to his side, he said with decision:

"Not so: let Miriam have the free choice of which

you spoke just now. My dear child, will you return with me to the home your mother loved so well, and where we played as children together?"

Miriam did not at once reply, and George, who had listened to the discussion with ill-concealed impatience, interposed: "Do not be foolish, Miriam. You will only be in the way if you go with us now, and I have promised to come back and fetch you when we are rich enough."

"He casts me off," Miriam thought, with a swelling

heart, and her resolution was taken.

But she withdrew

from her uncle's embrace, as if to mark that she was wholly uninfluenced by any affection for him, before she said, "I will stay."

"That is right," said Mr. Leigh; "I was confident that we might rely on your good sense. And as for you, Ralph, I do not know how we shall ever repay

"Do not speak of it," said Mr. Cornwall, hastily buttoning his coat. "I must be off. Good-bye, Miriam, I shall be with you to-morrow."

He left the room at once, while Mr. Leigh pursued him through the passage with expressions of gratitude.

"What is so shrill as silent tears?" When the brother and sister were left together, and Miriam covered her face with her hands, without uttering a word, George felt more uncomfortable than if she had heaped upon him the reproaches he was conscious of deserving.

"Don't make yourself unhappy," he said, going up to her. "The old fellow means to be kind to you, and you know I could not stay. Father said that he meant to send me to college, which would have broken my spirit. I should only get into disgrace, and you would be vexed, and he would be cross. You will get on better without me."

It was easily said, but Miriam was not easily convinced. She made no reply, and as she heard her father returning, she hastily retreated, to carry her griefs back to the dark and silent chamber of death.

CHAPTER III.

Through every rift it moaned in vain,
About its earthly prison,

Seeking some unknown thing in pain,
And sinking restless back again,
For yet no moon had risen:

Its only voice a vast dumb moan,

Of utterless anguish speaking;

It lay unhopefully alone,

And lived but in an aimless seeking.

LOWELL.

THREE weeks after his visit to Edinburgh, Mr. Cornwall left his own small domain in the twilight of a summer's evening, to welcome the Mordaunts' return to the Mains. It was a pleasant walk, through winding lanes and footpaths across the small grass fields still to be found in the more secluded parts of Dorsetshire, where the innovations of high farming have not penetrated. Mellowed by distance, the plaintive call by which the cattle were summoned from their pastures, had a certain music of its own, not out of harmony with the flood of song poured from every hedgerow. The shy, uncouth man was peculiarly susceptible to the influences of nature, and he responded cordially to the greeting which met him almost as soon as he entered the bosquet skirting the Mains' garden.

"Oh, Uncle Ralph, I thought I should meet you! How pleasant it is to be at home!"

Susan Mordaunt was the speaker. She looked bright and happy, her joyous bearing seeming to exult in the consciousness of youth and strength. Her broad straw hat hung, filled with flowers, on her arm, so that her head and throat were bare, and the soft summer breeze gently lifted her wavy hair.

Mr. Cornwall looked at her with great satisfaction. "I am glad you think it pleasant, Susan. Where are the others?"

"Each one riding his own hobby. Patty and Minny are in the paddock, feeding the ponies; Lily is in the garden, but she will find nothing there so pretty as my wild spoils; only look at this creamy honeysuckle! Ailie has already been summoned to the gardener's house, to doctor a sick child. And Mamma I think that poor Mamma must be sitting over the tea-tray, wondering what we are all about. We must really go home."

"Mr. Mordaunt has not come down with you?" said Mr. Cornwall.

"No; he cannot get away till next month. And that reminds me to ask after your belongings. What have you done with Miriam, Miss Leigh, what am I to

call her?"

-

Mr. Cornwall did not look gratified by the reminiscence, but he only said, "I call her Miriam, and you had better do the same. She is at home."

"All alone?"

"She seems to be best pleased with her own company."