aunt Glegg, that Lucy was really going away in a few days to Scarborough with the Miss Guests, who had been heard to say that they expected their brother to meet them there.

Only those who have known what hardest inward conflict is can know what Maggie felt as she sat in her loneliness the evening after hearing that news from Mrs Glegg - only those who have known what it is to dread their own selfish desires as the watching mother would dread the sleeping-potion that was to still her own pain.

She sat without candle in the twilight with the window wide open towards the river; the sense of oppressive heat adding itself undistinguishably to the burthen of her lot. Seated on a chair against the window, with her arm on the window-sill, she was looking blankly at the flowing river, swift with the advancing tide, - struggling to see still the sweet face in its unreproaching sadness, that seemed now from moment to moment to sink away and be hidden behind a form that thrust itself between and made darkness. Hearing the door open, she thought Mrs Jakin was coming in with her supper, as usual; and with that repugnance to trivial speech which comes with languor and wretchedness, she shrank from turning round and saying she wanted nothing: good little Mrs Jakin would be sure to make some well-meant remarks. But the next moment, without her having discerned the sound of a footstep, she felt a light hand on her shoulder, and heard a voice close to her saying, `Maggie!'

The face was there - changed, but all the sweeter: the hazel eyes were there, with their heart-piercing tenderness.

`Maggie!' the soft voice said. `Lucy!' answered a voice with a sharp ring of anguish in it.

And Lucy threw her arms round Maggie's neck and leaned he pale cheek against the burning brow.

`I stole out,' said Lucy, almost in a whisper, while she sat down close to Maggie and held her hand, `when papa and the rest were away. Alice is come with me. I asked her to help me. But I must only stay a little while, because it is so late.'

I was easier to say that at first than to say anything else. They sat looking at each other. It seemed as if the interview must end without more speech, for speech was very difficult. Each felt that there would be something scorching in the words that would recall the irretrievable wrong. But soon, as Maggie looked, every distinct thought began to be overflowed by a wave of loving penitence and words burst forth with a sob.

`God bless you for coming, Lucy.'

The sobs came thick on each other after that.

`Maggie, dear, be comforted,' said Lucy now, putting her cheek against Maggie's again. `Don't grieve.' And she sat still, hoping to soothe Maggie with that gentle caress.

`I didn't mean to deceive you, Lucy,' said Maggie, as soon as she could speak. `It always made me wretched that I felt what I didn't like you to know... It was because I thought it would all be conquered, and you might never see anything to wound you.'

`I know, dear,' said Lucy. `I know you never meant to make me unhappy... It is a trouble that has come on us all: - you have more to bear than I have - and you gave him up, when - You did what it must have been very hard to do.'

They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped hands, and cheeks leaned together.

`Lucy,' Maggie begain again, `he struggled too. He wanted to be true to you. He will come back to you. Forgive him - he will be happy then... '