Roger's wife in devotion to him than Jessie has been," he added, "though her love may be great now.

I paused to reply. An indescribable yearning for affection a sense of wasted feelings-oppressed me. It was something with which I could not trust myself, and I turned from the subject abruptly, and said, "We must talk now of Mrs. Weir; we have said enough of Sandcombe."

All John Hervey's thoughtful tenderness of manner vanished. I could not tell why. He became the straightforward, prudent man of business; and in a few moments we were as deep in the intricacies and difficulties of Mrs. Weir's affairs as though Roger and Jessie, Sandcombe and Dene, had existed only in fiction.

CHAPTER LXX.

MISS MILICENT Would not see John Hervey that evening, and I was half afraid that she might take it into her head again to make some excuse the next morning; but she came to me soon after eight o'clock, prepared, as she said, to go into all particulars. I think her resolution had been strengthened by hearing that M. Dalange might be in Paris almost immediately. She wished me to be present at the interview; but I declined. My position in the family was already sufficiently awkward. I had more authority than could properly have belonged to me under ordinary circumstances, and it was a perpetual effort to me to keep my place so as not to create ill-will. I was more especially particular as regarded moneymatters. What I had done already was entirely on the plea of Mrs. Weir's health, for which I felt myself responsible. I had no business to interfere in any other way, and I had already made John Hervey aware of the danger I dreaded from Miss Milicent's imprudence, so that he would be quite sufficiently on his guard.

The interview was a very long one. I began to be fidgety as it drew near to twelve o'clock, lest Mr. Weir should come out of his room, and be roused by the sight of a stranger; but, just as the clock struck, the door of the salon

opened, and John Hervey ran down-stairs, whilst Miss Milicent went to her room. That augured no satisfaction on her part; if she had been pleased, she would have come at once to tell me.

Mr. Weir had his breakfast and read his letters. I happened to go into the room at the time, and remarked that he looked troubled. He spoke to me hastily, and desired me to tell Miss Milicent to be ready for him in ten minutes. This was an excuse for going to her, which I was glad to have. She heard my message without making any reply; but as I was going away, she called me back again.

"You are dying to know, Ursie. I wish you would speak out and say what you want. Your John Hervey and I have had a quarrel."

I replied that I had fancied as much.

"Yes; we have had a quarrel, and we may have_many more before we have done. He talks law to me, and I can't endure law."

"Only, unfortunately, Miss Milicent, we are all forced to do so," I said.

It may

"I don't choose to be forced. I never have attended to it yet, and I don't see why I am to begin now. be law, but it isn't justice, Ursie Grant, that a woman should not have the control her own money."

"And how can Mr. Hervey interfere?" I asked. "He says there are trustees. I don't care for trustees. When my old aunt left me my money, she meant me to do what I liked with it, for she was very fond of me. She always gave me five shillings at Christmas, and half-a-crown at Easter, and she never dreamed of my being worried in this way."

"But if Mr. Hervey tells you the truth, Miss Milicent," I replied, "you will scarcely be angry with him."

"I don't see that. When the doctor gives you a dose of medicine, you are not obliged to him, and, ten to one, but you would throw it away if you could."

"Not quite," I answered. "I take it, though I dislike it."

"Well! and so have I taken what John Hervey says. I listened to him like a lamb; but I told him I didn't be

lieve a word he said; and I mean to talk to my father about

it."

This would indeed produce a storm. I trembled for the consequences of my advice when I thought how it might affect Mrs. Weir. "Is Mr. Hervey coming here again, Miss Milicent?" I asked.

"I don't know.

He will be of little use if he does come.

What am I to say to M. Dalange?"

"That you can have nothing to do with his schemes, I imagine.'

Very well for you to say, Ursie," was her answer; "but if you have to save a father from ruin-" her voice trembled, and she stopped.

It was very true. In my interest for Mrs. Weir I forgot the claims of the other parent, and I longed to see John again, that I might hear from himself what advice he had given. From Miss Milicent I could expect nothing but vagueness. She went out with her father and left me alone with Mrs. Weir. It was a very cold day, and the wood fire, though bright and cheerful, did not thoroughly heat the apartment like one of English coal. Mrs. Weir sat hovering over it. I could not make her warm, though I wrapped her in shawls, and rubbed her feet and hands. She only allowed me to do this for a little while, and said she was afraid I should tire myself. "And it is not well to be waited upon so much, Ursula," she added; "so you had ' better go out and leave me."

"I have not read to you to-day, dear Ma'am," I replied. "Perhaps if you would let me do that you would be better."

"No; not now, thank you. I am cold, Ursula. People in Paris are always cold. They said so when I was young. It was a long time ago. I came to Paris then, and I had a little sister, and she came too, and somebody else came. But I wish to do my duty to my husband, and so I am with him. If he wishes to go back, I shall go back too."

There was a connection of ideas in the speech, incoherent though it was. I, who knew her history, could trace it, and I thought I would try the experiment of taking her back to those old times. "Were you a large party, Ma'am," I said, "when you first came to Paris?"

"There were five of us, Ursula; my father, and my mother, and my sister, and-my husband doesn't like his name mentioned, so you won't ask me about him. But Paradise is a happy place. He must be quite at home there now, for he has been there a long time."

"It won't be very long before we shall all be at home there, I hope, dear Ma'am," I said.

"Not long;-no; and Mr. Richardson said, one day, I need not be afraid, and I don't think I am. But, Ursula, I should like to be thankful as I ought; for you know Heaven is a gift."

แ

"It is not easy to be thankful aright, I am afraid, Ma'am," I said; "many care so much more for earth than they do for Heaven."

"Is it so?" and Mrs. Weir looked up at me with an air of momentary wonder. "They cannot know what it is. Ursula, do you ever think how pleasant the angels' language will be?

Think! alas! that future existence in which Mrs. Weir already lived, was to me-busy, and anxious, and interested in the things of this life-still far, far off. I laid my hand upon hers, and said: "Dear Ma'am, I have never learnt to think as I ought, though you have often tried to teach me, but if you will tell me now about the angels' language, I am sure I shall be glad to listen."

"Oh no," she replied sadly, but very gently. "It cannot be told, it can only be thought about. My mind wanders when with you, Ursula. It never wanders with my Saviour, only sometimes it grows so mournful because he suffered, and had no help, and no one thanked Him. And then I do not quite know about my life now, I cannot think, and I forget; yet I still talk to Him; and if my head is confused he understands. But I should like the angels' language. They must always tell quite what they mean, and I cannot."

Mrs. Weir passed her hand over her eyes, and a painful look of bewilderment rested on her features. Yes, she was confused, troubled,-life was a misty perplexity to her; yet through it all, the love which is the one great, enduring reality, was growing, and strengthening, and gathering into itself every other feeling,-even that which had been the VOL. II.-10

blissful dream of her youth. She was urgent with me that I should go out; and, finding that I really could be of no material use to her for the next hour or two, I consented, as I had really seen very little of Paris, and the woman of the house had promised to take me to the Hôtel de Ville, and several other places which she said were worth seeing. A greater contrast could not have existed than between the quietness and sacredness of Mrs. Weir's room, with the society of one whose thoughts were dwelling with the angels, and the gay crowd which thronged the streets of Paris. I was amazed; I could not help being so, and for the time I was engrossed by the scene. Now I doubt if I could be, under similar circumstances; but those were comparatively my young days, and life, with all its trials, and even some at the moment very pressing, was full of novelty and excitement in that foreign land.

CHAPTER LXXI.

WE went to the Hotel de Ville, and the Church of Notre Dame, and afterwards to the Palais de Justice and the Sainte Chapelle. My eyes were dazzled with bright colours, and I was almost tired of saying "How beautiful!" for I had never seen anything in England that could be in the least compared to the grandeur and richness of the buildings in Paris. But my mind was a little distracted by the thought of John Hervey. I did so very much wish to see him, and hear from his own lips what had passed in his interview with Miss Milicent. I looked for him at every turn, fancying I should know his English face and figure at any distance; but it was a useless search, and I had given up the wish as foolish, when just as we were ascending the steps leading to the Palais de Justice, a party came up whom I recognized as Mr. Weir, Miss Milicent, and, I thought, M. Dalange. I don't know that I was exactly surprised to see them. M. Dalange had been expected every day, but I very much disliked meeting him, and I hurried forward with my companion, hoping the others would go into the Sainte Chapelle, and that