ness was his safeguard. If he could be quite assured of my indifference, his thoughts would turn into another channel, and, young as I was, I had had sufficient experience to be aware that the food of love is hope. Destroy the one and the other will most probably die. How anxiously I listened after Louise had taken the note, very much fearing that he would insist upon seeing me again—and yet, woman like, longing to be forced into saying something more kind; and how, afterwards, when I heard Miss Milicent speak to him in the lobby, and counted his footsteps descending the stairs, a perverse injured feeling took possession of me, and I alternately blamed myself for the foolish vanity of my suspicions, and accused him of wounded pride for having so quickly accepted my note, every one who knows the weaknesses and inconsistencies of the human heart will easily imagine. Any how the deed was done. I was never to know his feelings, and vanity must from thenceforth be contented to sleep in ignorance, whether the love that had been rejected was a truth or an imagination.

I do not know whether it may appear selfish or unnatural, but it was not till John Hervey had left the house,—as I learnt from Miss Milicent, without any word of remembrance or question as to my plans,-that I recollected I had still an unopened letter from Roger to read. Then, as I once more sat alone in my chamber, with an indescribable feeling of dreariness and disappointment at my heart, I opened it, and in a few moments I was transported back to Sandcombe, satisfied, quite satisfied, that I had done rightly.

"MY DEAREST URSIE,

"I have not written to you lately, because I have been constantly expecting you home. We none of us thought, when you left us, that you would be away so long. I don't wish to hurry you, or make you uncomfortable, but I want very much to see you. When I was in Canada I did not mind being away from you so much, because it was necessity, and you were coming out to join me; but Sandcombe is dif ferent, and there are a good many things about which we should like your opinion. It may look selfish to write in this way, when you are so usefully employed, and I had a battle

with myself before I made up my mind to say anything, but I don't speak for myself only, though I could do so. We lived so many years together, dear Trot, and they were very happy ones. Women are said to have braver hearts than men, and I begin to think it must be true, for you can do better without me than I can without you. I am a man of few words, and very often I can't say things when I wish to do so; but you have been a chief blessing to me, and may God reward you for it, and make you happy. I am afraid at times I have vexed you, especially of late; but there has been no lack of love. I sorely want you home." The rest of the letter contained merely some details about the farm and housekeeping, but Jessie's name was not once mentioned.

If

Leave Roger and Sandcombe, and marry John Hervey ! If the most devoted love that ever mortal felt had been offered me in compensation, I could not then have accepted it. There was a tone in Roger's letter, a quiet, sober sadness, which spoke to me of his disappointment far more than words. It was only a disappointment; there was no anxiety. there had been, he would have mentioned it openly, for he hated mysteries; but it was a sadness which I fancied he did not himself comprehend, and which he seemed to turn to me to explain and soothe. He was very childlike in some of his ways, at least with those whom he quite knew and trusted; his expressions of affection were always so simple and straightforward, and his penitence was the same. When he did anything wrong, or which he considered wrong, he owned it in a few words, and always without any excuses. I felt now, as though he was no match for Jessie; as if, with all his manliness and sense, and knowledge of worldly things, he was too innocent and true to be on his guard against the deception of a woman's weak, vain heart, and the gentler feelings which I had lately bestowed upon Jessie were turned into bitterness, as I thought once more how unworthy she was of him.

The letter shown me by Mrs. Temple! I had not forgotten it, though with the incessant press upon my mind I had as yet found no leisure to determine what should be done about it. I did not choose to ask questions about it, and so expose myself again to Mrs. Temple's unkind remarks. But

I could not make up my mind to whom it was addressed, or for what purpose it had been written. Though it had been sent to Mrs. Temple through Mr. Macdonald, it was most probably part of some communication made to Mrs. Price. However that might be, it so increased my distrust of Jessie's prudence and openness, that I think it would have driven me home at all hazards, if I had not felt that the time was past when her folly could do harm to others, whatever it might to herself.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

MRS. WEIR's fever increased, and she was in great danger. We watched her incessantly for many days. At last she was so ill that we gave up all hope. Then there came a sudden change, and she sank to sleep and awoke exhausted, so that life could scarcely be discovered, yet calm and consciousconscious that she was dying. For there was no thought in any of us that she would recover, and I may add, indeed, no hope, except-yes-Miss Milicent hoped. If ever there was a bitter wakening to the knowledge of neglected duties, and a wish to make amends, in the heart of any human being, it was in hers during that period of troubled watching. We were alone in the midst of the crowded world of Paris, without visitors or friends, for Mrs. Temple's suspicious guardianship was lessened by her fears, and wishing apparently to have no excuse for communication with what she considered an infected house, she had left Paris, and stationed herself at St. Germains, to be within reach whenever any change should take place. One letter had been received from her father by Miss Milicent. In it Mr. Weir made some general inquiries for his wife, and said that he was still for the present at Brussels. And now that Mrs. Weir's consciousness had returned, the difficulty was how to communicate the fact that he had again left her. This, however, was not so difficult a task as I had feared. It seems as though God were pleased at times to bestow at the close of life, a singular quietness of mind and forgetfulness of worldly anxieties to those who have long striven to please Him. And of one thing I am quite

certain, that the habits of self-control and acquiesence in His will which are attained, it may be, only through long struggle, and with a constant sense of defeat, whilst the spirit is in its full energy, bring forth their perfect fruit in hours of weakness, being ripened into fulness by the sunshine of God's more abundant grace. Mrs. Weir from her nervous, susceptible temperament, her disappointments and sorrows, had passed a troubled life; repose had been a blessing unknown to her. Even when externally there was little to disturb her, her over-scrupulous conscience, and her little whims and pecularities, had been a fertile source of unhappiness. But she had battled with these temptations. For years she had sought to control herself, to suffer patiently, and to feel that "in quietness and confidence must be her strength;" and, latterly, forced more vigorously into the conflict by Mrs. Temple's ignorance of the human heart and natural severity of character, she had brought herself to a degree of self-denial and self-control which it was even painful to witness. I thought it hard upon her at the time, and, notwithstanding the result, I would not for worlds inflict the same penance myself, neither would I advise any other persons to attempt such a course of discipline. There are certain drugs which are dangerous poisons in our own hands, though healing medicines in the hands of a wise physician; and so there are chastisements and trials which, brought upon us by God's Providence, work for our eternal good, whilst, if inflicted by our own will, they tend to spiritual pride and narrowness of mind. If the life which Mrs. Weir led under Mrs. Temple's government had been marked out by her own conscience, it would probably have ended in some morbid delusion; as it was, though often exaggerated, and tinctured by the peculiarities of her character, there was to be found in it the spirit of humble submission and humility, and the ornament of that "meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price."

And now it had its reward. Yet it seems to me that there is nothing more striking, I may even say startling, than the knowledge of the "much tribulation" through which those who may truly be called the saints of God have been prepared for the enjoyment of His Kingdom. If they, so

pure-minded, humble, devoted, loving, required so much sorrow, what must be needed for us, who now in health and prosperity are giving half our heart to the service of Christ, and half to the service of Mammon? As I watched Mrs. Weir gradually, hourly, sinking into her grave, I felt as though the hard probation of centuries would never bring me to the same heavenly mind. That was a distrust of God's grace, but it was not easy to overcome it; and even the gentle tenderness and affection towards myself, shown in Mrs. Weir's every look and tone, and repeated to me in words of love which can never be forgotten, made me only feel the more my own coldness and the depth of my ingratitude towards God.

Mrs. Weir asked for her husband almost the first moment that she was restored to consciousness. Miss Milicent and I had arranged beforehand what we should say, and we told her that he had left Paris on account of some business, and that we did not think he would be able to return just yet. She received the information very quietly, and, as I thought at the time, without suspicion; but the following day, when she rallied for a few hours, she called Miss Milicent to her bedside, and made her bring a pen and ink, and write a few lines from her dictation. They were very few, and I saw the large drops fall from Miss Milicent's eyes, as she noted down the words; when they were ended, she brought the note to me, and laying it before me, said, "It's no use to deceive her, Ursie. She has a quicker sight than we have.” I read,―

"DEAREST GEORGE,

"Something tells me you are gone away in trouble. May God help you in it! I have never been any comfort to you. I ask your forgiveness for this, and all my other short-comings, and I thank you that you have allowed me to be with you. Our daughter, Milicent, will do more than I have ever done to make you happy. I pray you to love and cherish her. Dearest George, though I am a grievous sinner, God, of His great mercy, has given me peace through Jesus Christ. I beseech Him to give it to you also. If it had been his will, I should have been glad to tell you myself, that I am now, VOL. II-11