want no candles-thinking how much pleasanter it would be to be dressing for a ball at that hour, when she sat down beside me and began to cry.

"Lolo," she said, "father knows all. I have tried to keep it from him, but he heard something that awakened his suspicions when at the rector's this afternoon, and on being questioned I could not deceive him."

My heart sank within me; to have Harry bitter and unforgiving seemed punishment enough. Janey went on, very sadly :

"I never told father anything except that you and Harry had got into money difficulties and had not been quite happy together of late, and he naturally guessed it was your husband who was in the wrong. You he never suspected-his youngest, his favourite." Here she clasped me close with many kisses. "But now there is nothing to

conceal, Lolo, and we must bear his sorrow as best we can."

“Is he very angry ?" I asked.

"Oh, Lolo ! was our father ever angry with us when we did wrong as children? He is grieved and ashamed, that is all. He says that he can never lift up his head again."

"Janey, let me go away. I will ask Harry to take me in, or I will earn my living as a governess. I will beg in the streets rather than

bring disgrace upon you all."

"As if we minded disgrace or anything so long as we could make things right between you two! Do you think Harry would accept aid from him?" Janey asked, in a timid voice.

“Never, never!"

pounds he has saved up, besides a
Don't you think you could per-
from us? It is so very little.”
"It would be mean to rob you
No, Janey, don't want me

"Because there is the hundred small sum deposited in the bank. suade Harry to take this little help "I will not ask him," I answered. of all the money you have in the world. to do that."

Janey said no more, and we went to bed, but I think neither of us got much sleep that night. The next morning was Sunday, such a perfect summer Sunday that it seemed as if every one must be happy! The birds were singing, the roses were out, the soft tinted clouds were sailing across the bright blue sky; the bells were ringing. As I opened my window, I saw father walking about the garden with his head bent down drearily. I dressed as fast as I could, and went down to him.

He kissed me as usual, and said he was tired. Would I sit down in the summer-house with him till breakfast was ready? We sat VOL. X., N.S. 1873.

down, Janey kissing her hand to us from the breakfast-parlour, which she was putting in order.

"Dear Janey!" father said; "never was a more devoted child than she." Then he turned to me and said, as if apologising for what looked like reproach, “And you, Lolo, have always been good to your father." We clasped each other's hands, and were both full of thoughts we hardly knew how to utter. At last father began, now in a voice that was heavy with tears:

"You must try henceforth to be as good to your husband, my dear. I don't ask more of you "

66

Oh, father! How can I make amends for what I have done? and if I could, Harry would never forgive me."

"Lolo, I know it is very hard to make amends for wrong doing; but amends must be made-first to God, then to our fellow-creatures, without thinking of their forgiveness towards ourselves. husband has indeed cause to be angry."

Your

"But surely not to be angry always, father?" I said, passionately. "What I did was done without thinking; I never meant to ruin him.” "It is no excuse for sin that we rush into it, wilfully blind to the consequences."

"Oh! father, do you call my folly a sin?"

"Folly is sin," father went on, "and the least wise of us have rules of conduct imprinted on our hearts by God that we cannot violate without knowing it. But I do not want to chide you, Lolo; your husband's anger is justifiable."

I only want you to see that

"How can I soften it ?" I cried in the same vehement tone. "He does not write, he does not come, he gives me no opportunity of telling him what I feel".

"Listen, Lolo, I have thought of a plan for bringing you two together again. I have made up my mind to go to London tomorrow morning, taking what money I have with me. I shall see your husband; I shall tell him—shall I not?—that you want to go back to him, to share his anxieties and privations, and to be henceforth his good, true, helpful wife.”

Here Janey called us to breakfast, and nothing more was said then about the proposed journey till I told her of it on our way to church. She merely said :

"Father is sure to do what is kind and wise."

Then we went through the day's duties as usual, teaching the catechism in the Sunday school, Janey leading the choir, I playing the harmonium; then coming home to cold dinner afterwards, and quiet reading in the garden. On the whole it was a cheerful day.

Monday. My father set off to London early this morning, Janey and I carrying his cloak and bag to the station. He persisted in travelling third-class, nodding adieu to us quite cheerfully from the hot, dusty, crowded carriage. We walked home without speaking. I do not know, as little could Janey guess, all that I feared. We did not say a word about father's errand throughout the day. And what a long day it was! Our little scholars had a holiday, so we had only parish work and the housekeeping to attend to. Whilst Janey went her rounds I ironed our muslin dresses and father's shirts, and after dinner she asked me to play to her. I flew joyfully to the old piano, for music was now my only pleasure, and, quite forgetting poor Janey's favourite pieces, practised some new music till she called me to her. The long afternoon was gone!

"What extraordinary music you have been playing,” Janey said, good-naturedly, "but I must have my tunes after tea all the same." We had quite a happy evening, and did not go to bed till late. There seemed so many things to talk about on that first evening we had been alone since my marriage. The next morning I was up and dressed by six o'clock, wondering how the hours would pass till our father's return at midday. Janey proposed that, as she had a little shopping to do at Bridgewood, our market town, we should walk there directly after breakfast, and accompany father home by rail. caught at the idea joyfully, and by eight o'clock we set off on our three-mile walk.

How welcome seemed the stir and noise of even quiet little Bridgewood after the seclusion of the last few weeks! But as we passed the gay shop-windows, displaying jewellery, bonnets, and shawls, I turned suddenly cold and sick, remembering that for such trumpery as this I had made myself, and all dear to me, ashamed and unhappy. When we reached the station, however, and I caught a glimpse of father's white head in a third-class compartment, I ran towards it with a feeling of hope.

We had just time to find seats when the train moved off. The carriage was crowded, and we were separated from father, so that talking was out of the question; and what with the heat, noise, and discomfort, I almost forgot my suspense. When we got out father asked for a little water, and we took him into the station-master's parlour, as he seemed quite overcome with the heat. "I am afraid the journey to London this weather has been too much for the vicar," the good station-master said, anxiously. "Had we not better borrow Mr. Jones's gig to drive him to the vicarage ?"

"No, no, thank you; indeed, I am quite refreshed," father said, and

taking Janey's arm, set out; I, carrying his little bag, walked on the other side. I guessed all now. His mission must have failed, or he would have spoken at first.

When we were safe out of hearing he stopped a moment, took each of us by the hand, and said in a trembling voice, “God bless you, my children. I have done my best, but that has failed. You must comfort each other."

We walked home very sadly. On the threshold my father took me in his arms and kissed me, unable to speak. I knew what he wanted to say-dear father!

It was a bitter day. I cannot bear to write of it.

Later, Janey told me that father had seen Harry, and that he had coldly, though courteously, refused his money, and also his mediations on my behalf. What exactly took place between the two we never knew, but I felt sure, from the little my father said, that Harry must have behaved to him in a proud, hard manner. How could I help resenting such behaviour? The more I thought of it the more I blamed my husband, and the less I felt disposed to make any more attempts at reconciliation.

December 1st.

Weeks and months have passed, bringing nothing but trouble. That journey to London made our father very ill, and, though he got over it, he has never been the same since. Sometimes Janey and I fear that he will have to give up the Sunday duties altogether, in which case we must engage a curate, a great expense to us. His memory seems to be going gradually, and we sit nervously through the services, dreading lest he should make some painful blunder. The poor people are very good, and do not grumble when the sermon is omitted, or when Farmer Jones reads the lessons; but of course this cannot go on much longer. Yesterday a child was buried, and at the last moment Janey had to send off for a neighbouring clergyman to officiate, the funeral having to wait till he came. To-day there is a baptism, and very likely that will have to be put off too. Poor Janey's hair has grown grey with so many anxieties. And I feel sometimes as if I ought to wish myself dead, being the occasion of them all.

Meantime, Harry has only written two short letters; in the first he said that he had so far settled affairs as to be able to accept the temporary post abroad he had before filled; and in the second, which came a few months later, and which was more cheerful in tone, that he was gradually paying off our debt, and hoped to be clear in two years' time.

There was not a word of tenderness, not a hope held out to me of reconciliation; and I could only answer, him in his own key. Of what use to humble myself a second time in vain ?

We try to make the best of things, but the prospect is dreary.

December 8th.

This morning, as Janey glanced over the newspaper, she let it fall from her hands with a sudden start. Harry's eldest brother had died abroad suddenly, and my husband was now the head of the house, and the possessor of an estate. My father and Janey were almost wild with joy, seeing in this turn of affairs certain and speedy reconciliation between Harry and myself. His brother we did not know, and we could but think of ourselves just then. I shut myself up in my room, and tried to realise my new position. It was not all exultation that I felt after a little while.

I had pictured to myself quite another kind of regeneration in store for myself, and another kind of forgiveness from my husband, and thought how good it would be to share the burdens I had placed upon his shoulders: to show, by every possible act of forethought and self denial, how entirely I had repented of my folly, and how determined I was upon atoning for it. To be suddenly rich, free from the necessity of sacrifice, to have my husband compelled against his will to be generous. I could not bear the thought of it.

He would fetch me to his new home and coldly ignore all that had passed; he would never reproach me either in word, thought, or deed. He would never let the world know what had divided us. Of this much I felt assured. But would he now believe in the sincerity of my penitence? Would he credit without the testimony of facts that I was the wiser for my sorrow? Yet to look at the other side of the picture was pleasant. Harry loved leisure, ease, elegance, and I could but think that in time we should be happier for having all these. Poverty had not made us generous or good, perhaps prosperity might do so; and if, in time to come, Heaven sent us children to share our good fortune, what husband and wife need be happier than we two?

I was roused from these thoughts by Janey, who wanted me to help her in making up the Christmas doles for the poor people. She seemed rather frightened now at the excess of her own rejoicing. "We can't be quite sure how Harry may receive the news," she said; "he may still prefer not to come to England yet awhile, and, after all, we ought to wait till we hear more." That day passed, and the next, and no news came of him. I listened breathlessly at every sound of carriage wheels. I made an excuse to go to the station whenever a