if I confess that work does not form my ideal of happiness?"

"Perhaps," said Miriam, "you have no great object in life."

"Hitherto I have had none but my own worthless self," replied Leonard. "Perhaps you will tell me what is yours."

"You know," Miriam answered, with a glance at the book he carried.

"I know what you have lost. Forgive my thoughtless question. But since she is taken from you

Leonard stopped short, checked by the agitation his words awakened. Yet it was only evinced by the nervous gesture with which Miriam clasped and unclasped her slender fingers, as she walked on with downcast head. Her steps did not falter, and when she spoke, her voice was calm and clear. "I can go to her. And in the meanwhile, I may, I must fulfil her charge."

"In taking care of George? It seems a strange charge for one so young and tender. And do you know, Miriam, that I am almost jealous of this unknown brother?"

Miriam only replied by a shy, startled glance, and Leonard said gently, "You are offended because I call you by your name. I did not mean it, and yet I cannot unsay the word, since we are to be friends, cousins or may I be your other brother? That will be best of all; and so you must call me Leonard."

"Leonard," repeated Miriam, after only a moment's hesitation, as she placed her hand in his. On her side the unconsciousness of a child was prettily mingled with the deep feelings of a woman. His sensations may be

less easily defined; but the touch of that little hand sent a thrill of joy and manly pride through his frame. By that action, Miriam accepted his guardianship.

"You will not feel so lonely now," Leonard said, after a moment's silence.

Miriam's whispered 'No' was scarcely audible; but she presently looked up. "They said that you had only come for a few days."

"Then we must make the most of those few days," rejoined Leonard, with a pleased smile. "And I shall come back in the autumn. By that time you will feel more at home here, less afraid of Uncle Ralph; and you must learn to like Susan."

They had reached the gate which bounded the Mains property, and Miriam seemed to fancy that Leonard would go no further, for she stopped short, and held out her hand for the book.

"No," said Leonard, "it is but fair that I should carry it back. Besides, I ought to pay my respects to Uncle Ralph, and to old Madge. We used to be great allies."

"You seem to be friends with every one."

"And you with no one. I wish you would try my

Uncle Ralph.

6

theory of universal benevolence.

It would make life

easier; and indeed it pays in all ways."

"I don't care whether it pays, as you call it," said Miriam a little scornfully. "I know that it is pleasant to love and be loved; but it is not my way to begin first. No one has been unkind, and yet I felt that all looked coldly, and thought me an intruder. You are the first who seemed to care for me for my own sake.”

"I shall not quarrel with that distinction," said Leonard, "but I don't intend to be the last. When Uncle Ralph knows you, you will supplant even Susan in his affections."

"There is no danger of that," said Miriam, "though Susan seems to think so, and that is the reason she dislikes me."

"I shall take Susan to task," said Leonard; but Miriam opposed his intention with an eagerness which brought the tears into her eyes.

"Indeed you must not. I will never tell you anything again, if you repeat what I say."

"That threat will seal my lips. Do not look' so startled, Miriam, and as if you could not trust me; but remember that you are to tell me everything. However, we must not pursue our discussion of likes and dislikes at present, for here is Uncle Ralph striding over the stile. What a study of dress it is! I wonder how much he pays his tailor for cutting his coat after that antediluvian fashion. I speak advisedly; that green surtout is

cut after the pattern of Mr. Noah's, in a child's Noah's Ark."

And Miriam laughed,

a natural, light-hearted

laugh, which fell on Mr. Cornwall's ear as a most

unwonted sound. He had often complained to Susan that the child could not even smile.

CHAPTER VIII.

Rosalind. O, how full of briars is this working-day world! Celia. They are but burs, Cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery. AS YOU LIKE IT.

"WHERE have you been all the morning, Leonard?" said Mrs. Mordaunt, as he entered her drawing-room some time after the luncheon-tray had been dismissed.

Leonard gave the same account of his proceedings as on the foregoing evening, and with the same composure. "To Duck Dub. I was on my way there with Miriam Leigh, when we fell in with Uncle Ralph, who asked me to have luncheon at their dinner, and I stayed accordingly."

"What a concession!" observed Susan, who stood in the open window, impatiently playing with her ridingwhip. "You used to be fine on Madge's cookery. We have been waiting to start on our ride until Papa declared that he would wait no longer and went to order the horses round."

"So my uncle is going," said Leonard, in a tone expressive of anything but satisfaction.

"Susan," said Mrs. Mordaunt, "will you run up and ask Lily if she would like to drive with me this afternoon?" And she only waited until her daughter had left the room in compliance with this request, to con