แ 'Impossible!" I observed.

"We couldn't hear of such

a thing, Jessie; you mustn't think of it."

"I don't, you may depend upon that," she replied. "I said to the cook, when she told me it had been suggested, that I should leave at once if it was at all insisted upon. Why, Ursie, a girl might well have two days in one to get through all her work if she has to wait upon Mrs. Temple. She sits before the glass, when she is dressing, fidgeting with her hair, and her maid standing behind her, just as though there was nothing else in the world to be thought of but that she should look her best, and the morning is gone before one has time to look round. I will do any thing in the world for Mrs. Weir; but I would rather fifty times over scrub the floor than attend upon Mrs. Temple."

"You must keep your own ground, Jessie," I said. "It is the only way with Mrs. Temple. But take care to be respectful to her."

"I am that, I think," said Jessie," and the servants tell me I am a favourite; but it is not home, Ursie."

That was the root of the matter! and I don't think there was any want of affection in my manner then, as I tried to console her, telling her that Sandcombe was a home whilst I was in it, and that God would never leave her without one if I were removed from it. The way in which she listened to me made me feel what Mrs. Weir was doing for her, leading her to the right comfort, and showing her by example that religion is a dress to be worn every day, and not kept for Sunday. It was the one thing Jessie needed to give her strength, and how charming she would be if she had it! only I wished I could be quite sure that nothing was kept back from me. Roger, like me, noticed Mrs. Weir's influence. He and I went with Jessie half across the down, and we talked about serious things, chiefly about a sermon upon trust which Mr. Richardson had preached that afternoon. His remark to me afterwards was, "A written sermon may be good, Ursie, and a spoken one better; but an acted one is the best of all. Jessie has gained a whole year in thought and principle since she has been with Mrs. Weir."

I was not sure myself whether it was so much as a year, but time would show.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE Saturday after that I went into Hove for some shopping and marketing, and Mary Kemp with me. I stopped at Longside on my way back, and had a cup of tea, and sent the parcels home in the chaise, intending to walk myself. We expected the Farmer and John Hervey to come in about the same time, and I hoped that Roger might make his appearance too, as he also had been into Hove; but finding they were late, I did not like to wait, and set out to walk home alone, leaving word for Roger that I meant to go through Dene. The Prices were, I knew, away, so I thought I might take their road, which shortened the way. I never ventured on such a liberty when they were at home, though there was in fact a right of way through the grounds for every one. The place was kept in good order, and as I had not seen the garden for some time, I asked the gardener if I might go in at one of the little gates of the shrubbery and walk round. The plantation, which I remembered as a collection of stunted shrubs, intersected with sandy walks, was now grown into a little copse of thick trees, pleasantly shading the house. Passing through it, I crossed the turf and went down to the lower pond that I might have a full view of the garden. The foliage of the trees was beautifully fresh and green; the flower-beds on the sloping lawn were filled with roses; the turf was as smooth as on the day I first looked upon it, smooth as no other turf ever was in my eyes. There stood the low stone house with its bow windows, and trellised verandah sheltered on one side by the steep woody bank, in which was cut the rough flight of steps leading to my favourite seat; whilst behind rose the darker mass of trees planted in the hollow of the down, and the stone column above them raising its head, as it were, to meet the white clouds which floated majestically across the summer sky. It was very lovely and intensely quiet. The fountains were not playing, so that there was not even the plash of water to break the stillness; and when the old clock over the stables struck six, it gave no impression of a disturbing sound, but only of a solemn voice bidding me mark and ponder upon the silence.

I took off my bonnet for coolness and sat down upon a bench to rest, for I was very tired. My thoughts carried me back to the days gone by when Dene was my home. They were thoughts that seemed to have no direct purpose. They might rather be called attempts at recollection, which were almost like a dream, there was so little connection in them. But they were very pleasant, even though some sadness mingled with them. I indulged them, not thinking how time was going on; so little conscious indeed of what was passing at the moment, that before I was aware of a footstep I felt two hands on my shoulders and a kiss on my forehead, and starting up saw Roger behind me.

"How could you frighten me so!" I exclaimed. "I did not know you were near.

"I thought it was the kindest way," he said. "It ought not to frighten you; I always came upon you so when you were a child."

"Only I am not a child now," I replied, laughing, "and so I am not accustomed to be ' come upon.' Is it late? must we go?" and I stood up.

"Not yet," he said, "there is no hurry," and he threw himself on the grass at my feet. "It looks very pleasant,

Trot."

"Very," I said, and I sighed, and sat down again.

"Very," he repeated-"but I would not go back to be

I was silent.

"I would not go back to be as we were," he repeated. "I would rather take the hope of what we may be."

"Oh! Roger," I exclaimed, "never. If a home in Canada were paradise, it could never be to us like Dene! and you know"

"What do I know?" he said, and a half smile curled his lips.

I looked him full in the face, and then I brought out the words:"You know I can never be with you.'

"Are you so sure of that, my little Trot?" he said.

He did not change countenance in the least, except that the curling smile seemed to spread so that he could with difficulty repress it.

"Sure, because of William's condition," I replied. "I did think at one time that perhaps he would marry again, and so I should be set free, but I see no prospect of it now."

"Neither do I," was Roger's reply.
"Then I must stay," I said.

"No, surely."

"I could not leave him."

"And I can never live with you," I exclaimed. Roger, can you bear it so quietly?"

He was silent.

"Oh!

"Can you bear it so quietly?" I repeated, and I felt the choking grief rise in my throat.

Suppose I stay too," he said. He turned round and looked at me earnestly.

I could not speak; I was afraid to misunderstand him. He went on hurriedly:-"We might do very well together, and it might be better in many ways, and we need not leave Sandcombe. We might be very happy; you and I, Trot, and " he hesitated.

I started back, as I was about to fling my arms round his neck, for I heard the words " Jessie Lee, if she will have me.

I have tried to exercise self-control on many occasions. I never struggled so hard as at that moment.

In a calm, forced, yet gentle tone, at least I think it was gentle, I said:"Roger, dear, when did that thought come into your mind?"

He leaned his head upon his hands, as he answered"From her childhood, I believe, but I don't know, don't ask me, Ursie. It might have been better that I had never

seen her."

It was

The impulse I felt to speak out my thoughts was checked. It was no dawning love, that I could battle with it. a deep-seated affection, and I must accept it. My heart was crushed with a pressure which few could understand, but I said, as I passed my hand fondly over his head :-" If she will make you happy, no one will wish that you had never seen her."

"You don't like it," he exclaimed, and he rose up. "I can't say; talk of yourself," I replied. "Had we not better go home?

"There is no hurry. Surely you can spare me five minutes, Ursie."

Instead of anwering him I walked on. He followed me. We said nothing for several minutes, at length Roger spoke again.

"I don't know why I have mentioned it to you, except that I can't keep anything from you. It may all come to nothing. I have no reason to think she cares for me: perhaps," and he paused, "perhaps the reverse. I thought I would ask you first, for you would know."

"Do you mean whether she loves any one else?" I said. "Yes, she might, and I am so much older,-like her father, she may be afraid of me."

"Dear Roger," I said, "those are questions which no one ought to answer but Jessie herself. If I were to give you my opinion twenty times over, you would not take it. No, is never no, unless it is said by the right person."

"And you won't give me hope," he said.

"I will give you neither hope nor fear. If, upon due consideration," and I know that I stressed the words, "you think that Jessie Lee is the woman above all others, likely to make you a good, useful, sensible wife, then go and ask her yourself; you are your own master, and she is her own mistress."

I felt quite sure that I had pained him, and my heart reproached me for my tone.

"You can't understand, Ursie," he said, after a pause; and a dagger's thrust could not have given me the anguish of those few words.

"I can; yes, I can, indeed," I exclaimed, and I spoke truth; for a dawn of light had broken upon me. "It is you, Roger, but don't let us talk about that;-you know how I love you,-only be happy."

He repeated the word happy in a doubtful tone, adding, "One can't be happy in suspense

We were then on the top of the down. Roger stopped irresolute. I saw what was in his thoughts. He looked towards Compton. "Are you going that way?" I said. I turned in the other direction, but he delayed me. "Ursie, I can't bear this; you must stay and listen to me. God knows how I have fought with myself, and He knows also how I have thought of you."