my father, we lost sight of each other, and have never met since."

"Nor had any communication."

"We heard from him, among other friends, in those first sad days, expressing sympathy, and offering such assistance as was in his power. All such offers were of

course declined."

"But that was right," said Susan, with kindling eyes; "have you got the letter?"

"I did not know the instinct of romance was so strong," said Ailie, smiling: "I suppose that I must make an end of the story. I had the letter, but I destroyed it about two years ago!"

"And why?"

"It was when I heard of his marriage."

But Ailie went on in

"You need not pity

Susan could only caress the hand she held in hers, afraid to look up or speak again. the same quiet voice as before. me, dear. My life here has been a happy one from the first, and it has been still happier since I knew certainly that there was no other in store for me. For then all restlessness was stilled, and there was an end of hope deferred."

"Dear Ailie! I wish that every one was as good as you. But one comfort is, that the story quite bears out my opinion of mankind.

"Men were deceivers ever,

One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.".

"My dear child!" Ailie began in an admonitory tone, when she was interrupted by Lily's entrance.

"Oh, Susan! Mamma sent me to look for you. The Ashfords drove up to the door as we did, and she wants you to come down to entertain the girls."

"Surely she might have kept you instead," said Susan. "You can go down and say that I am dressing, or going to dress. My hair is really not presentable."

"It will do very well if you put on your hat again," said Miss Alison.

"And Mamma told me to call you," Lilias added.

"Well, I suppose I must go," said Susan, as she tied on her hat with a sigh. "I know that I would rather hoe turnips every day, and all day long, than submit to the thraldom of young-ladyhood."

"Susan will not find only the Ashfords in the drawingroom," observed Lilias demurely: "we overtook Leonard and Mr. Merton in the approach; Leonard met him as he was going to call at Kilworth, and they turned back together."

Instead of making any remark on this information, Miss Alison asked Lilias to summon her sisters to the school-room tea.

CHAPTER IX.

Du mal qu'un amour ignoré
Nous fait souffrir,
J'en porte l'âme déchirée

Jusqu'à mourir.

A. DE MUSSET.

"I SHALL come back in the autumn," said Leonard. The assurance was given in reply to Miriam's half-reproachful inquiry whether he was really going to Scotland.

"In October. And in November they all go to town, so that you will be here only a month."

"Why, I could not stay much longer, even if the Mains were not deserted. The law-courts meet in November, and I mean to work like a tiger. You know you are to teach me to like hard work."

"But I shall be here," said Miriam.

"I am not so sure of that. If we cannot induce Uncle Ralph to take a town house, you must go to town with the Mordaunts. It would never do for you to pass the winter in the solitude of Duck Dub."

"I do not mind the solitude."

"But I mind it for you. I want to transform you into a sociable being."

Miriam's reluctant smile implied that the task would

be no light one, and the prospect of accompanying the Mordaunts to London, or of remaining at Duck Dub, appeared to be equally distasteful.

"By that time," said Leonard, making another effort to brighten her sad face, "by that time you must

have some tidings of George."

"Perhaps," said Miriam; "but I don't know why I should care. George's letters tell so little; and indeed I know that there is nothing good to hear."

"I dare say he will write more fully than you expect. A real separation often developes a genius for correspondence. And at all events you will hear from your father."

"No," said Miriam steadily, "he will not write, nor do I wish that he should. You think me unforgiving," she added, as Leonard made no reply.

"I do not blame you, Miriam. I was only thinking how terrible must have been the wrongs which have nourished such bitterness in your gentle nature."

"It is not my own wrongs which I resent," " said Miriam; "but I will try to forget even hers, if you think I ought. Do you go to-morrow?"

"To-morrow," repeated Leonard. "Shall you miss me much?"

"So much!" repeated Miriam simply, while she raised her soft eyes, full of sad tenderness, to his face. They were sitting in the shrubbery at Duck Dub, and it was with difficulty that Leonard resisted the impulse to raise

to his lips the little hand which lay passive in his grasp. But he did resist it: a small remnant of discretion reminded him that Miriam was not yet seventeen, and that their acquaintance was only of four days' duration.

Circumstances came to the aid of his resolution, in the form of Uncle Ralph. Sauntering through his domain, he came unexpectedly on the two young people, who seemed so satisfied with each other's society that he was indisposed to disturb them. But he had a glimmering consciousness that such forbearance was not in accordance with Mrs. Mordaunt's views of decorum, and as he relied implicitly on her judgment in the arduous charge he had undertaken, he resolved to approach. "Why, Leonard," he asked, looking nervous and ashamed of his intrusion, "how did you come here?"

"By the legitimate footpath," said Leonard coolly. "If you ask why I came, it was for the sake of wishing you both good-bye. I am off to-morrow."

"So Susan told me," said Mr. Cornwall. "She seemed quite vexed, poor child, by the shortness of your stay."

"I am duly flattered," replied Leonard, "though it occurred to me that Susan was sufficiently occupied with her own affairs to care little about it."

"You mean, with Mr. Merton," said Uncle Ralph, with a puzzled air. "It seems that the report is all over the country, and people were continually making allusions which I did not understand, until Job asked me whether they were not keeping company. Now I don't