"My darling, do you think I do not know what you are giving up for my sake ?"

She looked up with a bright smile.

"As if it could be anything but home where you are, Mark! I love England already, because it is your country, dear. But, Mark"-putting both arms about his neck and looking wistfully into his face "one thing I do want very much, and that is to go down to dear old Quinticook before I go away."

"You shall, dear," he answered. "We will

"Oh, Mark!" she exclaimed blushingly.

"Never mind the dresses, love. I wish you could be married in that blue dress you wore that day we went to the Ridge. Say it shall be the twenty-fourth, sweet."

And he had his own way. So it came to pass that they were married and went down to Quinticook together in just one year from the day when they said good-bye to one another under the lilacs at Content Cottage.

EARTH hides her secrets deep
Down where the small seed lies,

Hid from the air and skies
Where first it sank to sleep.

To grow, to blossom, and to die

Ah! who shall know her hidden alchemy?

Quick stirs the inner strife,

Strong grow the powers of life,

Forth from earth's mother breast,

From her dark homes of rest,
Forth as an essence rare
Eager to meet the air
Growth's very being, seen

Here, in this tenderest green.

Drawn by the light above,
Upward the life must move;
Touched by the outward life
Kindles anew the strife,
Light seeks the dark's domain,
Draws thence with quickening pain
New store of substance rare,
Back through each tingling vein
Thrusts the new life again-
Beauty unfolds in air.

So grows earth's changeling child,

By light and air beguiled
Out of her dreamless rest
Safe in the mother breast.
Impulses come to her,
New hopes without a name
Touch every leaf, and stir
Colorless sap to flame;

Quick through her pulses run
Love's hidden mystic powers,

She wakes in golden flowers
Trembling to greet the sun.

What means this being new,
Sweet pain she never knew
Down in the quiet earth
Ere hope had come to birth?
Golden he shines above,

Love wakes, and born of love

All her sweet flowers unfold

In rays of burning gold.

Life, then, means naught but this— Trembling to wait his kiss,

Wake to emotion?

There where he glows she turns

All her gold flowers, and burns
With her devotion.

Ah! but when day is done?
When he is gone, her sun,
King of her world and lover?
Low droops the faithful head
Where the brown earth is spread
Waiting once more to cover
Dead hopes and blossoms over.

Earthborn to earth must pass-
Spirits of leaf and grass
Touched by the sun and air
Break into colors rare,
Blossom in love and flowers.
Theirs are the golden fruits-
Earth clings around the roots,
She whispers through the hours,
"I will enfold again

Life's being; love and pain
Back to the mother breast

Fall as the falling dew,
Once more to pass anew
Into the dreamless rest."

M. B.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

CHAPTER XX.-"MY COUSIN JUDITH!" BERNARD did not return to Scar Foot that night. He had left word with Mrs. Aveson that he might not do so. He remained all night at Mr. Whaley's, at Yoresett, discussing business matters with him. Judith, after her return, sat up-stairs with her mother, and wondered what made her feel so wretched-what caused the sensation of fierce desolation in her heart. Mrs. Conisbrough was quickly recovering, and had begun to chat, though scarcely cheerfully. Her conversation was hardly of a bracing or inspiriting nature, and the blow dealt by the old man's will was still felt almost in its full force. Likewise, she was a woman much given to wondering what was to become of them all.

But she no longer raged against Aglionby, and Judith did not know whether to be relieved or uneasy at the change.

On Tuesday morning Dr. Lowther called, and pronounced Mrs. Conisbrough quite fit to go home on the following day, as arranged; he added that she might go down-stairs that day, if she chose. Judith trembled lest she should decide to do so, but she did not. She either could not or would not face Bernard Aglionby, and, in him, her fate. So Judith said to herself, trying to find reasons for her mother's conduct, and striving, too, to still the fears which had sprung up in her own breast, to take no heed of the sickening qualms of terror which had attacked her at intervals ever since she had seen her mother on the morning of the reading of the will-her expression, and the sudden failing of her voice; her cowering down; the shudder with which she had shrunk away from Bernard's direct gaze. That incident had marked the first stage of her terrors; the second had been reached when her mother had opened her eyes, and spoken her incoherent words about " Bernarda," and what Bernarda had said. The third and worst phase of her secret fear had been entered upon when Aglionby had solemnly assured her that, save his grandfather, he had never possessed a rich relation, on either father's or mother's side. She had pondered upon it all till her heart was sick. She saw the

THE FIRST VIOLIN."

deep flush which overspread Mrs. Conisbrough's face every time that Bernard's name was mentioned, and her own desire to "depart hence and be no more seen" grew stronger every hour. Late in the afternoon of Tuesday, Mrs. Conisbrough, tired of even pretending to listen to the book which Judith had been reading to her, advised the latter to take a walk, adding that she wished to be alone, and thought she could go to sleep if she were left. Judith complied. She put on her hat and went out into the garden. Once there, the recollection came to her mind, that to-morrow she was leaving Scar Foot-that after to-morrow it would not be possible for her to return here: she took counsel with herself, and advised herself to take her farewell now, and once for all, of the dear familiar things which must henceforth be strange to her. Fate was kind, in so far as it allowed her to part on friendly terms from Bernard Aglionby, but that was all she could expect. If, for the future, she were enabled to stay somewhere in shelter and obscurity, and to keep silence, what more could be wanted? "By me, and such as me, nothing," she said inwardly, and with some bitterness.

In addition to this feeling, she was wearied of the house, of the solitude, and the confinement. Despite her grief and her foreboding, she being, if not "a perfect woman," at least a “noblyplanned" one, felt strength and vigor in every limb, and a desire for exercise and expansion, which would not let her rest. She wandered all round the old garden, gathered a spray from the now flowerless "rose without thorns," which flourished in one corner of it, sat for a minute or two in the alcove, and gazed at the prospect on the other side with a mournful satisfaction, and then, finding that it was still early, wandered down to the lake-side, to the little landing-place, where the boat with the grass-green sides, and with the name "Delphine" painted on it, was moored.

"I should like a last row on the lake dearly," thought Judith, and quickly enough followed the other thought, "and why not ?" So thought, so decided. She went to the little shed where the

oars were kept, seized a pair, and sprang into the boat, unchained it from its moorings, and with a strong, practiced stroke or two, was soon in deep water. It gave her a sensation of joy, to be once more here, on the bosom of this sweet and glistening Shennamere. She pulled slowly, and with many pauses; stopping every now and then to let her boat float, and to enjoy the exquisite panorama of hills surrounding the lake, and of the long, low front of Scar Foot, in its gardens. A mist rushed across her eyes and a sob rose to her throat as she beheld it. "Ah," thought Judith, "and this is what will "and this is what will keep rising up in my memory at all times, and in all seasons, good or bad. Well, it must be, I suppose. Shennamere, good-bye!"

She had rowed all across the lake, a mile, perhaps, and was almost at the opposite shore, beneath the village of Busk. There was a gorgeous October sunset, flaming all across the heavens, and casting over everything a weird, beautiful light and glamor, and at the same time the dusk was creeping on, as it does in October, following quickly on the skirts of the sunset.

She

She skirted along by the shore, thinking, "I must turn back," and feeling strangely unwilling to do so. She looked at the grassy fringe at the edge of the lake, which in summer was always a waste of the fair yellow iris; one of the sweetest flowers that blow, to her thinking and to mine. She heard the twittering of some ousels, and other water-birds. She heard the shrill voice of a young woman on the road, singing a song. raised her eyes to look for the young woman, wondering whether it were any acquaintance of hers, and before her glance had time to wander far enough, it rested, astonished, upon the figure of Bernard Aglionby, whose presence on that road, and on foot, was a mystery to her, since his way to Scar Foot lay on the other side of the lake. But he was standing there, had stopped in his walk, evidently, so that she knew not from which direction he came, and was now lifting his hat to her.

This question called up a smile to Judith's face, and she asked, leaning on her oars: "And why not, pray?"

"It is dangerous. And you are alone, and a lady."

Judith laughed outright. "Shennamere dangerous! That shows how little you know about it. I have rowed up and down it since I was a child; indeed, any child could do it." "Could it? I wish you would let me try, then."

"Would you like it, really?" asked Judith, in some surprise.

"There is nothing I should like better, if you will let me."

"Then see! I will row up to the shore, and you can get in and pull me back if you will, for I begin to feel my arms tired. It is some time since I have rowed, now."

This was easily managed. He took her place, and she took the tiller-cords, sitting opposite to him. It was not until after this arrangement had been made, and they were rowing back in a leisurely manner, toward Scar Foot, that Judith began to feel a little wonder as to how it had all happened-how Bernard came to be in the boat with her, rowing her home. He was very quiet, she noticed, almost subdued, and he looked somewhat tired. His eyes rested upon her every now and then with a speculative, half-absent expression, and he was silent, till at last she said:

"How came you on the Lancashire road, Mr. Aglionby, and on foot? I thought you would be driving back from Yoresett."

"I did drive as far as the top of the hill above the bridge, and then I got out to walk round this way. You must know that I find a pleasure which I cannot express, in simply wandering about here, and looking at the views. It is perfectly delightfui. But I might say, how came you to be at this side of the lake, alone and at sunset ?"

"Good-afternoon," he responded, coming down to the water's edge, and looking, as usual, very

earnest.

"You are not rowing about here all alone?" he added, in some astonishment.

That " 'everything" came out with an energy which smacked of anything but resignation pure and simple.

"Bidding good-bye? Ah, I must have seemed a bold, insolent intruder, at such a moment.

I

wonder you condescended to speak to me. I wonder you did not instantly turn away, and row back again, with all speed. Instead of which-I am here with you."

Judith did not reply, though their eyes met, and her lips parted. It was a jest, but a jest which she found it impossible to answer. Aglionby also perhaps judged it best to say nothing more. Yet both hearts swelled. Though they maintained silence, both felt that there was more to be said. Both knew, as they glided on in the sharp evening air, in the weird light of the sunset, that this was not the end: other things had yet to happen. Some of the sunset glow had already faded, perhaps it had sunk with its warmth and fire into their hearts, which were hot; the sky had taken a more pallid hue. At the foot of the lake, Addlebrough rose, bleak and forbidding; Judith leaned back, and looked at it, and saw how cold it was, but while she knew the chillness of it, she was all the time intensely, feverishly conscious of Aglionby's proximity to herself. Now and again, for a second at a time, her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his figure. How rapidly had her feelings toward him been modified! On the first day she had seen him, he had struck her as an enthusiastic provincial politician: he had been no more a real person to her than if she had never seen him. Next she had beheld him walking behind Mr. Whaley into the parlor at Scar Foot; had seen the cool uncompromising curve of his lips, the proud, cold glance in his eyes. Then, he had suddenly become the master, the possessor, wielding power undisputed and indisputable over what she had always considered her own, not graspingly, but from habit and association. She had for some time feared and distrusted his hardness, but gradually yet quickly those feelings had changed, till now, without understanding how, she had got to feel a deep admiration for and delight in his dark, keen face; full of strength, full of resolution and pride; it was all softened at the present moment, and to her there seemed a beauty not to be described in its sombre tints, and in the outline expressive of such decision and firmness, a firmness which had just now lost the old sneering vivacity of eye and lip.

It all seemed too unstable to be believed in. Would it ever end? Gliding onward, to the accompaniment of a rhythmic splash of the oars, and ripple of the water, with the mountains

apparently floatingly receding from before them, while the boat darted onward. A month ago this young man had been an obscure salesman in an Irkford warehouse, and she, Judith Conisbrough, had been the supposed co-heiress, with her sisters, of all John Aglionby's lands and money: now the obscure salesman was in full possession of both the lands and the money, while from her, being poor, had been taken even that she had, and more had yet to go. She felt no resentment toward Aglionby, absolutely none: for herself she experienced a dull sensation of pain; a shrinking from the years to come of loneliness, neglect, and struggle. She pictured the future, as she glided on in the present. He, as soon as he had settled things to his pleasure, would get married to that tall, fair girl with whom she had seen him. They would live at Scar Foot, or wherever else it list them to live; they would be happy with one another; would rejoice in their possessions, and enjoy life side by side:while she-bah! she impatiently told herself-of what use to repine about it? That only made one look foolish. It was so, and that was all about it. The sins of the fathers should be relentlessly and unsparingly visited upon the children. He, her present companion, had said so, and she attached an altogether unreasonable importance to his words. He had held that creed in the days of his adversity and poverty, that creed of "no forgiveness." If it had supported him, why not her also? True, he was a man, and she was a woman; and all men, save the most unhappy and unfortunate of all, were taught and expected to work. She had only been forced to wait. Perhaps, if he had not had to work, and been compelled to forget himself and his wrongs in toil, he might have proved a harder adversary now than he was.

The boat glided alongside the landing place. He sprang up, jumped upon the boards, and handed her out.

"It is nearly dark," he observed, and his voice, though low, was deep and full, as a voice is wont to be, when deep thoughts or real emotion. has lately stirred the mind. "We will send out to have the things put away." He walked beside her up the grassy path, as silent as she was, and her heart was full. Was it not for the last time? As he held the wicket open for her, and then followed her up the garden, he said :

"Miss Conisbrough, I have a favor to ask of you."

"A favor, what is it?"

"Only a trifle," said Aglionby. "It is that you will sing me a song to-night-one particular song."

"Sing you a song!" ejaculated Judith, amazed. And the request, considering the terms on which they stood, was certainly a calm one.

'Yes, the song I overheard you singing on Sunday night, Goden Abend, Gode Nacht!' I want to hear it again."

They now stood in the porch, and as Judith hesitated, and looked at him, she found his eyes bent upon her face, as if he waited less for a reply than for compliance with his request-or demand-she knew not which it was. She conquered her surprise; tried to think she felt it to be a matter of entire indifference, and said, "I will sing it, if you like."

"I do like, very much. And when will you sing it?" he asked, pausing at the foot of the stairs. Judith had ascended a step or two.

"Oh, when Mrs. Aveson calls me down to supper," she answered slowly, her surprise not yet overcome.

Yet (he thought, as he stood by the window), whether he had done it easily or not, it had been done. He had asked her, and she had consented. What else would she do for him, he wondered, if he asked her. Then came a poignant, regretful wish that he had asked her for something else. In reflecting upon the little scene which was just over, he felt a keen, pungent pleasure, as he remembered her look of surprise, and seemed to see how she gradually yielded to him, with a certain unbending of her dignity, which he found indescribably and perilously fascinating.

"I wish I had asked her for something else!'' he muttered. "Why had I not my wits about me? A trumpery song! Such a litle thing! I am glad I made her understand that it was a trifle. I should like to see her look if I asked her a real favor. I should like to see how she took it. Something that it would cost her something to grant-something the granting of which argued that she looked with favor upon one. Would she do it? By Jove, if her pride were tamed to it, and she did it at last, it would be worth a man's while to go on his knees for it, whatever it was."

He stood by the window, frowning over what seemed to him his own obtuseness, till at last a gleam of pleasure flitted across his face.

though I don't know why. One might easily obey that kind of master-but what does it all matter? After to-morrow afternoon all this will be at an end."

Aglionby turned into the parlor, as she went up-stairs; the smile lingering still on his lips. All the day, off and on, the scene had haunted him in imagination-Judith seated at the piano, singing, he standing somewhere near her, listening to that one particular song. All day, too, he had kept telling himself that, all things considered, it would hardly do to ask her to sing it; that it would look very like impertinence if he did; would be presuming on his position-would want some more accomplished tactician than he was, to make the request come easily and naturally.

He rang for lights, and pulled out a bundle of papers which Mr. Whaley had given him to look over, but on trying to study them he found that he could not conjure up the slightest interest in them; that they were, on the contrary, most distasteful to him. He opened the window at last, and leaned out, saying to himself, as he flung the papers upon the table:

"If she knew what was before her, she would not come down. But she has promised, and heaven forbid that I should forewarn and forearm her."

The night was fine; moonless, but starlight. He went outside, lit his pipe, and paced about. He had been learning from Mr. Whaley what a goodly heritage he had entered upon. He was beginning to understand how he stood, and what