no law, to my thinking, turn the ceremony of marriage in God's temple, and at God's altar, into a civil contract. If what this fluttering woman said was true, how dark was the abyss on the brink of which Sir Oswald stood. Oh, had the rich, the beautiful, the admired, idolized heiress, no friend to warn her of the peril of her frivolity! I suppose my thoughts were written on my brow. The coarse woman asked if I was ill, and without waiting reply, inquired if I had any message to her young lady. "No!-what message could I send? Miss Mansfeld did not need the embroidery, that was enough, there was no more to say."

She fidgeted about my room: there were some small flowers worked on satin, for bags, the produce of my leisure when I had no orders. She inquired the price of one. I was so bewildered and miserable I could not tell her. Perhaps I would let her keep it as a souvenir? I passed it to her without a word. She looked at me, shrugged her shoulders-rolled it up-and then attempted to kiss me. I drew back and opened the door: but nothing disconcerted her; she laughed the sort of laugh that is simply frivolous or impudent, and while putting my embroidery in her pocket told me "I was certainly not a French girl." I accepted as a compliment what she intended as an affront. I believe I had never before seen a Frenchwoman, but I was instinctively proud at not being like her.

I found myself tearing up, bit by bit, every atom of the designs I had made for my Four Seasons. The disappointment was cruel, but the accompanying information was overwhelming. I clung feverishly to the hope that what the woman said was either false, or distorted by her own impurity it seemed so utterly impossible. When my father returned from his walk he saw by my aspect that Miss Mansfeld had not been; and while I was thinking what I should say to him, he shook his head, repeating twice

"Nor will she come-nor will she come! My Mildred, I fear you have been right and I wrong! how can it be? how can it be? so like an angel-so fascinating-and he worshipping to adoration. I met some of the men whom I know, and who are employed at the Hall; they say that Miss Mansfeld's caprice and tyranny is worrying Sir Oswald to death. She is not content with knowing her power, but she must exhibit her slave even to the vulgarest eyes; she absolutely renders him contemptible" "She cannot do that," I exclaimed indignantly; "neither man nor woman is born who can render him contemptible."

"You know nothing about it, girl! how should you? she makes him say and unsay-do and undo; with her, the whim of to-day is the castaway of to-morrow; yet the very workmen declare they could lay their hands under her feet and worship as she passed. Common, coarse fellows talk of her as if she were a goddess. Now listen," continued my father, “I have heard more than I have repeated; more than I can remember; and yet for all that-though I could have almost cursed her-she passed me but now, flying her ponies over the brow of the hill, though the road is

hardly finished, the groom behind, on his horse, stumbling over the fresh broken ground. I watched her, almost breathlessly. She knew me, Mildred, and half standing, while her veil streamed like a summer cloud behind her, she kissed her hand to me twice. May God forgive me, I could have sunk upon my knees. Now that I am free to think again, I can almost believe in old spells and witchcraft. I never had that feeling towards your mother, Mildred-never--and she was such a woman! My poor pupil! how will it terminate? Perhaps when they are married she will change. She must love, that is certain, for all her torturing. Such a speech as he made at the dinner they gave him at our county town on his return to the country; and there was a ball afterwards, and she refused to dance with him, or any one. I have heard there is an old curse on Brecken Hall-and I

He fell into a fit of musing, striking his stick against the floor, until my dear grandmother (she always did the right act at the right time) reached down the family Bible (feeble as she had grown, she could still lift that), and pushing it towards him, sat down again at her own little table.

VI.

I MAY as well tell you here, my dear Mary, that soon after Sir Oswald's return I was visited with my first great sorrow. I did not feel it as keenly then as I have done since. I feel it now—yes, now, when I am one year older than she was when she was removed. I feel it now-so that tears drop upon this paper while I write. It was not a stormy trial-nothing to make the blood boil, or set the brain on fire-nothing to make us forget God's mercy, and despairingly question the rightness of His judgment. No! all was still, and calm, and peaceful as an infant's sleep. I have already written that my grandmother became enfeebled in mind and body; but the wonder was this, that while her mental powers seemed torpid in all worldly matters, her spiritual light increased. To her all things here were fading away-all things beyond becoming brighter. Her memory grew so imperfect-shattered, as it were-one bit and another only, here and there, withstanding the surges of time, all the rest gone-that we ceased to talk with her about the past; but texts of Scripture-old-world hymns-the Parables of our Lord, she would repeat with eyes kindling into the brightness of youth. She daily became weaker; yet we, my father and myself, could not whisper of her danger to each other. Her skin continued fair and unwrinkled, and her complexion delicate as a fading girl's. She would totter into my room leaning on her staff, and, when seated in her corner, look up, like a pleased child, and say, "Here am I." She would murmur out fragments of Scripture, which came to me as if inspired; they were always apt, and full of teaching or consolation, whichever I needed most. Oh, how I longed to live over again my life with her, that I might be a better comfort to her who had been such a wonderful blessing to me. Every hard word-and my temper then would rush into sudden enmity even

with the loving authority that age has a right to exercise over youthnay, every unfitting word I ever uttered to her became as a giant of sin before me; terrible to think that I could have angered her!

I have said she had been such a wonderful blessing to me-she is so still. I feel that even now she sees what I record; and yet my very soul thrills with anguish unspeakable when I think how she passed from me, when nature was at its brightest the very sunshine on her silver hair, her well-worn, honest hand resting on her Bible. The moment before she had said, "Here am I." I looked again; her eyes met mine-stilly, and awfully. I said, "Grandmother!" She did not smile when I said "grandmother;" then, indeed, I knew I should see that smile no more. This is enough for you to read. Hers was one of my best influences of LIFE; the best of all-next to THE BOOK-as regards ETERNITY. I could fill a volume with memories of her virtues; but you would not care to read it, my Mary! Such records are precious only to those who have lived with the departed day by day, and hour by hour; those who will take the holy memories to their graves in "God's acre."

I return to my text.

To the passionate admiration Sir Oswald excited in my young untouched heart was now added a sympathy, which my father unconsciously increased by repeating all he heard about his future bride, and then driving me half mad by palliating her cruelty and caprice. He also seemed possessed of the one idea. Sir Oswald again called. He still spoke of his purposed school; indeed, the building had commenced. He questioned me, as if the plan of educating the village girls being confided to my care was not abandoned, at least by him; but he said that Miss Mansfeld might have other views-" she knew best." Whenever he mentioned her with reference to any movement he always said, "she knew best," as if to confirm it to himself and others.

He looked ill; his manner, I thought, had caught one hue of hers; it was uncertain-pre-occupied! How he could endure what he had endured from his affianced bride was almost impossible to conceive. The wedding-day had been twice fixed; and twice changed. I prayed fervently, and amid floods of passionate tears, for his happiness. All this was known only to my Maker and myself. I have crept for half a mile behind the roadside hedge—concealed amid the sweet revelry of nature, amid wild roses, and woodbines, and gigantic gatherings of tangled convolvulus, and even hard and bitter brambles-I have borne the summer sun and summer rain, to see him pass. I once prevailed on my father to go to Mansfeld church; and, under cover of my thick veil, I watched how he watched her; how, sometimes, they two would from the same book read psalm or gospel; then she would turn away and read from her own little volume, as though he were not there. What light he shed upon her from his dark luminous eyes! I dared cast no stone at the sinfulness of setting up a clay idol, even in God's house, for, had I not done the same? Again Sir