kept; his grey hair brushed out imposingly, his whole presence and bearing proclaiming his lifelong sense of irreproachableness. Julian came next; Martin had slipped a little behind; John and Ben Chadwick were staring at her from the corner of the desk. There were only five altogether, but they seemed like fifteen for a moment: and the moment was of quite indefinite length and intensity. So intense it was and so bewildering that when Julian stepped out with courteous presence from the little group she looked up to him in a timid graceful way that added a new element to his first feeling of surprise. There had been no time for thought, but quick as thought" is not the best comparison that could be made; there are quicker mental processes than thinking. Julian himself could not have told how it was that he came to be so much surprised by that first sweet deprecating smile. But somehow he felt that a dark stately beautiful girl like this cousin of his might have met him coldly and proudly without upsetting his notions of feminine ways in the least. "I am sorry that there was no one at the station to meet you, but we thought you had intended to come by a later train," he said, speaking with a certain shy grace. Mr. Serlcote said nearly the same thing without knowing it. The old man was rubbing his hands quite nervously, and there was a break in his voice that made Ben think he must be even angrier than usual. Then Julian and his father led the way into the house. There was only a narrow passage to cross. Elizabeth Serlcote, a fair blue-eyed young woman of thirty, with an amicable smile and an honest homely expression, was standing by the parlour door too uncertain to venture farther. Behind her stood Fanny and Ellen, two brightlooking but much-subdued girls of sixteen and fourteen; small, white-haired, pale-eyed Sam, aged ten, was still farther in the background. John, a boy of similar appearance but two years older, had remained in the shop with Ben Chadwick. Tea was still on the table. Mrs. Serlcote rose from her chair behind the teacups, and added her formal greeting to the rest. Julian had quite perception enough to feel that the atmosphere to which he was so accustomed himself must strike this gentle-looking stranger with a sense of stiffness and coldness. It rather distressed him and incited him to efforts that his mother and sister noted with a little wonder. Presently Agnes went upstairs with Elizabeth, and Julian remained in the sitting-room until she reappeared. It was pleasant for the younger ones to have him there. He was not one of them, he was above them and far away from them in other things than years, and these good but commonplace little things knew it; but they also knew that he was always kind to them, always had a smile and a playful word. His condescension was the one pleasant thing in their lives. Perhaps condescension is a hard word; certainly Julian's brothers and sisters would not have used it. They loved him with that rare young love that believes in return without any question. He was, however, less vivacious than usual this evening. His agreeable surprise was working in his brain, awakening an amount of curiosity that was not likely to be soon satisfied. If he had thought his cousin's appearance striking and beautiful while she was still in her travelling-dress, it was not probable that he would have any reason for changing his opinion when she re-entered the room, divested of her heavy wraps and refreshed by change of toilet. He had seen grace before, he had worshipped beauty, he had been affected by transient glimpses of human goodness, but he had never been touched as he knew that he was touched now. He could not have told you whether she had any special charm. He saw that her figure was slight and graceful, that her dark, bright, undulating hair was coiled at the back of a small, well-shaped head, that the pale oval face was redeemed from colourlessness by crimson lips of fine curve and rich lustrous black eyes that were if anything a little too large, but he knew that the power that had arrested him lay in none of these things. Where did it lie? He did not ask himself the question as he sauntered out through the kitchen to a large space behind the house that one would hardly know whether to call yard or garden. It was a curious place to find in the middle of a town like Lyme-St.-Mary's and behind a shop. There was a high brick wall with a stone coping all round it, but you could only see the bricks here and there between the luxuriant masses of ivy, broadleaved shining ivy that glittered in the light of the young moon that was well-nigh overhead. There were narrow flower borders all round, but in place of turf or gravel walks were damp green paving-stones. At one end an old fountain kept up a perpetual trickling over a few unhappy-looking ferns. You could hardly call it a pleasant place, unless you happened to be in a very pleasant mood; but it was quaint and silent, and afforded a sense of breathing space that was very refreshing to dwellers in a street. It Julian walked up and down a few times. could hardly be said that he was thinkinghardly even that he was feeling. Had his experience been less or his ignorance more he might have fancied that he had fallen or was falling in love, but this idea did not occur to him. Julian Serlcote, weak, pleasure-loving, selfindulgent young man that he was, had yet capacity for being strangely attracted by whatsoever of truth, purity, or iritual loveliness might come in his way. His knees were not yet so stiffened into brass that worship was impossible. His devotion might be of the vaguest nature, but perhaps a little pity might be mingled with blame for this. He had never come into close contact with virtue much higher than his own. Whatever yearning after better things there might have been in him had been allowed to lie dor mant so long that he had ceased to suspect its existence. He had been stirred to-night, and he knew that he had, and he accepted the knowledge without impatience. The remembrance that he had promised to spend the evening with Whitehouse came upon him rather unpleasantly; he even felt his face, which was very fair and delicate, grow hot over the thought. For once he almost wished that he had not been quite so intimate with this cynical clever friend of his. Perhaps it would be possible to withdraw a little. So he dreamed as he walked up and down over the mossy stones. It was a mild evening, the moonlight fell softly, the stars seemed to shine out of the past, out of his younger and purer days. But he was young yet, he reminded himself, barely two-and-twenty; and if he could never be innocent again—well, he need not stain his soul more deeply than it was stained already. He was thinking now to good purpose, and his thought presented a graphic Bible-picture, a picture of a man who was rich and a sinner, and who not only repented but made restitution, and this mainly because he was moved thereto by the sight of a Holy Face, by the sound of a Holy Voice; in a word, by the power of goodness to communicate itself. There had been no rebuke, not even remonstrance; but indeed unlooked-for friendliness, unexpected kindliness. This man Zaccheus had repented. Julian knew but very little of repentance. He was in the habit of going to church on a Sunday morning, his father's wish being the main motive for the uncharacteristic proceeding, but he knew that he was not much the better nor much the wiser for going there. He very seldom listened to the sermon, or even pretended to listen. Now for one moment, though he hardly knew it, there was thirst in his soul, a desire to begin life afresh on new and higher terms. Nevertheless he must keep his engagement at Whitehouse's handsome villa in Buxton Grove. Before he went, he returned to the sitting-room to say "good-night." He should not be late, he said; it was his usual phrase on going out, and for once he meant it. He lingered about in a curious way before going. Agnes was resting in an old crimson-covered easy-chair. Her pale sweet face, her dark bright hair and eyes, seemed to strike him as something more vividly new and fresh every time he looked at them. He wished she would talk more. Hitherto she had only answered when any one spoke, but her answers were made in such a low pleasant voice, and with such a winning smile on her lips and in her eyes, that he could not help waiting about in the hope of extracting from her more than response. But perhaps she was tired; or it might be that her grief was too new and strong for ordinary conversation. He His walk that evening was a pleasant one. recalled things that he had hardly seemed to note at the time. Until he found himself no longer alone he had no thought save thought of his new cousin. CHAPTER 11.-"THE WILD ROSE BLOSSOMS FAIR." Love took up the glass of time and turned it in his glowing hands, A ND what of this cousin herself? In all this stir of change and new impression, was she quite unstirred? Was she really as calm and placid as her smile seemed to betoken? Was the soul within her as unmoved as she herself appeared to be? We all know the story of Elaine ! we have most of us been struck into a certain sadness of mood by its pure simple truthfulness. The noble knight had not yet stepped with all grace into that rude hall, when the guileless maiden, without one thought of sin, or sorrow, or shame, "Lifted up her eyes And loved him with that love which was her doom." Read how we will, no thought of improbability strikes us here. The maiden was all unused to love and ways of love. The strange knight, with his mellow voice, his courtly ways, his touch of melancholy, might well seem to her the goodliest man that "even among ladies ate in hall," and noblest; and, seeing this, it was small wonder that all night long his face should live before her, and that when the morning dawned her heart's secret should blaze itself in the heart's colours on her simple face. No sense of suddenness jars upon us as we read; none of unmaidenli ness. Nor is it probable that any such sense jarred upon the maiden herself. Certainly this Elaine of ours felt none, neither had she any sorrow or fear or dismay of any kind. Her only feeling was a nameless and indefinite one of joy. Some good thing had happened to her. When she sat alone in her own room at night she sat wonderingly, but altogether peacefully; even her great sorrow for the dead was subdued and quiet within her. Her grief had never-save for one day, the day of the funeral-been of a wild and uncontrollable nature. The cross of bereavement was heavy. She was but a girl-hardly yet nineteen-inexperienced, and almost alone in the world, for the far-off uncle and cousins were only names to her then, and the sense of helplessness and forlornness strikes very chill to a heart like hers. The fact that her mother had died was not in itself a bitter one. Mrs. Dyne had been very tired, and not sorry when time for rest had come. Death had no sting for the one that was taken, nor any terror for the one that was left. The pain of separation was deep and ceaseless, and it had seemed to Agnes that it never could be any other until that day when there shall be no more pain. But although she had shed tears secretly and sadly, they had not been unsubmissive tears. Before coming to Lyme-St.-Mary's she had done what she could to nerve herself for the first few days of strangeness and dependence-for she was altogether dependent on the bounty of Joshua Serlcote. Some thought she had that if no work were found for her to do in her uncle's house work might be found elsewhere-perhaps in a school. She could not be idle, and she had never had proof "How savoureth of salt The bread of others, and how hard a road The going down and up another's stair." * Now already change had passed "over the spirit of her dream," the grand change that comes but once into any life. The thought of leaving her uncle's house came to her like a sudden pain, and she made haste to put it away from her. There was no more any feeling of strangeness. The days came and went, each one bringing some touch of hope or joy or promise, each one moving her to a new and glad surprise that life should be so rich, so beautiful, and yet so calm and quiet. Ah! she would never again dread any change, or any coming event that might throw shadows before. She would remember the tears she had shed in the railway carriage as she came to LymeSt.-Mary's; she would never forget how the shower had come before the sunshine. There is something that it is no misuse of language to call sacred about the birth of true, pure love in the heart of any good man or woman. No levity of thought or word is possible. coming from any other person strikes with a painful jar. Such This jarring element was perceptible not seldom during the first few weeks of Agnes Dyne's life at the house in the Corn Market. When or how she had betrayed her secret she did not know, but it was a secret no longer. The ways of the people about her were not as her ways, nor as the ways of her mother had been. Agnes could hardly doubt that Julian's love had grown at least as rapidly as her own. There was reason why doubt was not possible, but he had not yet spoken openly, nor was she anxious that he should. She was already happy-quietly happy in this sense of a new and warm affection; but that others should see it and jest over it before it was securely hers seemed strange and cruel. L'erhaps there was a not altogether unsatisfactory side to the matter. No one disapproved ; rather it seemed that they were inclined to approve too prematurely. Elizabeth could hardly remember the time when her father had been in such good temper and spirits; and Martin Brooke, who was quite aware how matters were tending, had much ado to repress himself when Ben Chadwick winked to him knowingly from behind the opposite counter. But let Ben be forgiven; it was almost his only mode of adequate expression; and it must be conceded that there was much to be expressed in those days. There was the singular and not-to-be-defined improvement in Julian Serlcote himself; there was the presence of the beautiful stranger, who made * Dante. such a difference in the house, and whose smile and kind word Ben would have run a mile to win any day; and more than all this, there was the change in old Joshua. It certainly was amusing to see the tall, thin, upright old man, walking up and down his shop with that military gait of his, rubbing his hands approvingly, smiling to himself, uttering half words and ejaculations of satisfaction, then overhearing his own voice and turning to speak sharply to Ben as a natural consequence. Perhaps no one understood it all better than Martin Brooke. Martin had lately acquired a habit of looking out into the market-place, with a more than usually sad look in those blue-grey eyes of his. Looking out one December morning not much more than a month after Agnes's arrival, he saw two tall figures cross the street. The taller one was Julian, looking, Martin thought, more like a prince than a shopkeeper. He certainly was a fine-looking young man, and had an air about him that was considered quite one of distinction by the inhabitants of Lyme-St.-Mary's. Julian Serlcote never passed along the streets unnoticed. His straight well-built figure, perhaps somewhat straighter since he had become a captain of volunteers, would have commanded attention anywhere. He was very fair, with a smooth delicacy of complexion that might have given him a girlish look but for his abundant whiskers and soft yellow moustache. He had grey eyes, mild affectionate grey eyes, that "Seemed to love whate'er they looked upon.' No one was ever known to wonder at his popularity. Of course Martin did not wonder, nor did he even envy him; that feeling was kept back, not so much by the high hand he held over himself, as by the love ne had for his cousin, the pride he felt in him. Yet it must be owned that something shook him as Julian and Agnes passed by together on this particular morning. He did not know what it was, he never knew. They were not talking, hardly looking at each other, but there was something in the face of each that drove Martin away from the shop window, finally from the shopaltogether. That day a battle was fought under Joshua Serlcote's roof, one that Joshua never dreamed of. There might be no victory to speak of, but there was a hard struggle for it. Julian and Agnes going out for the first walk they had taken alone, had no thought of any suffering young man behind the counter of the shop in the Corn Market; each was stirred with a multitude of thoughts, but Martin had no share in them. bourhood of Lyme-St.-Mary's. It was a pleasant day to be out if even there had been nothing special to make it pleasant. Probably Julian Serlcote had no very particular intentions when he asked his cousin to take a walk with him that morning. She had come down to breakfast looking even brighter and prettier than usual; and a sudden thought had crossed his mind that it would be very satisfactory to be seen walking by her side in the Grove Road. That was the fashionable promenade, and Julian knew that, though there might not be many there to envy him his companion, there would certainly be a few to envy Agnes hers. He was not behind any man of his y years in capacity for estimating his own value as a desirable parti. He had given the invitation rather lightly, but he saw with some pleasure that it was not so lightly accepted. He noted Agnes's blush and shy grace of manner with a certain feeling of self-congratulation. Mrs. Serlcote was watching them both. "It seems to me that you are two very sly young people," she said, prefacing her remark with a silly broken laugh. "But don't think that I can't see what's going on," she continued, shaking her head with a feigned disapproval meant to be highly humorous. Agnes looked up, only half comprehending, but blushing far more deeply than before. Would she ever learn to understand this aunt of hers? Julian coloured with annoyance, but he made no reply. Experience had taught him the wisdom of accepting much of his mother's unwisdom in utter silence. Still the remark helped to strengthen the consciousness that already existed in those two minds. Julian was sorry for Agnes, and his sorrow expressed itself in a new tenderness of tone and manner. It was strange how every unimportant little thing that had happened had helped to draw them together. Julian was half surprised when he found himself caring so much for his cousin's opinion, thinking of her comfort, her wishes, her happiness, her peace of mind. This was altogether a different matter from flirting with that brilliant young person Arminelle Oakley. "Flirting "-he was quite sure that was the right word. The matter had gone no farther than that, and it should never go so far again. Nevertheless, it could hardly be said that he was very sorry to see the Miss Oakleys approaching. He had always thought them fine women. They were large, highly-coloured, richly-dressed, and of the haughtiest bearing. Julian's vanity had been flattered by his intimacy with them, but somehow he did not feel so proud of them this morning. He caught the curious glance of one, the disdainful smile of the other, and he passed on merely raising his hat. He could not introduce his cousin. He felt more strongly than ever her real superiority to these and other women of his acquaintance. The wavering state of mind in which he had been since the first evening of Agnes's arrival had not been very distasteful to him. He had not been slow to perceive that she was moved by something more than mere gratitude for his various little kindnesses, and it pleased him to think that whenever he should cease to waver himself he was not likely to be subjected to any further uncertainty. On the whole, though he acknowledged to himself now that he was very much in love, he was rather afraid that the one grand event of his life's history was going to unfold itself rather tamely. If only Agnes had been a little less natural and simple-minded, a little more arch and diplomatic, or if even his father had not been so openly satisfied, it is probable that Julian would have been more in earnest. Of course he did not acknowledge all this to himself, and on two or three recent occasions he had felt a certain amount of blissful impatience to have what he termed his "fate" settled. At other times he had had misgivings, and serious ones. A jest tainted with irreverence, a grave sin spoken of lightly, an unkind or uncharitable criticism, would bring a look of sadness to Agnes's face that made Julian in his ordinary mood look somewhat dubiously towards a future passed entirely by her side. He would have to give up something-doubtless more than he liked to acknowledge even now; but, all the same, it would be a very appalling thing for a man of his temperament to be bound to a wife whose views might become more ascetic as the years went .on. He was not quite clear as to what he meant by "asceticism," but he was pleased with the word. Thus it will be seen that the young man, like most other human beings, had two selves. That first sight of Agnes's face had awakened his higher and better self as it had not been awakened for years, but it had been as the lighting of a lamp that could not burn steadily for want of oil. Now it shot up brightly, now it died down-vanished almost out of sight. Still, he had decided pretty firmly in his own mind that he should ask Agnes to be his wife on some not very far distant day; but he had a vague notion floating in his head that he should like the matter to be brought to a crisis by some event or other that should relieve his soul of the sense of tameness. Various thin schemes occurred to him: he would go away, and find out from that stolid but loving elder sister of his how Agnes bore his absence; or he would take the first opportunity of flirting with some one else in her presence, and then confess the purpose that his wickedness had had in it. But he did none of these things; instead, he walked by the side of a broad, still river, with low banks and gliding barges, and towing-paths all along its margin from one town to another. There was a long low line of distant hills, blue and hazy, the smoke of a far-off town floated beyond the brown-grey woods. On the opposite side of the river miles of flat green pasture-land stretched away into the distance, dotted with village spires and groups of trees. Everywhere the mild, warm sun was shining, lighting up the river, throwing picturesque grey shadows. It was the dreamiest and pleasantest of winter days. "Did you think it strange my asking you to Did you walk much when you were at home?" "Yes, every day; mother used to insist on it." Julian heard the slight change of tone, noted the touch of sadness. "Then I shall insist," he said, speaking with a half playful authoritativeness. A soft pink blush suffused Agnes's face, her large dark eyes drooped sadly. Julian did not see that they were full of tears, he only saw that the smile on her lips was a little sad, and that she was struggling with embarrassment. you," "You mustn't think that no one cares for he went on, drawing a little closer to her, and speaking in lower accents than before. "I know what it is to be a stranger in a strange land. There is nothing I would not do to save you from such suffering as I have known myself." Agnes looked up astonished, ready to smile with surprise. Julian suffering! Then the thought came: "But how else could he have learned such sympathy-such precious sympathy as this that was making her heart beat now?" "But I don't feel that I am uncared for," she said. "You have been so kind-you and my uncle and all of you. Have I seemed indifferent or ungrateful?” "No, certainly not; but I was not meaning that kind of caring-that general affection that you could not help winning wherever you went." What then was he meaning? Was it coming true, that wild, sweet dream-her first dream-her last? Beautiful she had always been, but she stood like one transfigured to a new and higher beauty now. They had sauntered on to where the river rippled through the arches of the old grey bridge at Elmthorpe. Julian Julian took her hand in his as they stood by the parapet. She did not withdraw it, nor turn away her face. The moment was too solemn for the littleness of coquetry, even had the skill to practise it been hers. No. "He had not dreamed she was so beautiful;" and to see her standing there "rapt on his face," as if he were some noble being, worthy not only of her love, but of her reverence and devotion, caused him a moment of vague, undefined pain. Neither knew how long the silence had lasted when it was broken. "I was not thinking of that kind of affection," Julian said; "it can never content you-it can never content me again. I feel now how true it is that "The love of all Is but a small thing to the love of one." Then he stopped a moment, the sudden So passed one of the great crises of Julian Serlcote's history-perhaps the greatest of all. For many days after that day by the River Trent he could hardly realise his own exceeding great happiness. Pleasures and joys of a certain stamp had been his before, and he had usually looked upon himself as a very deserving recipient of anything of that kind that might come in his way. Troubles, or rather annoyances, had been apt to move him to a certain surprise. Now his first instinct was to walk a little carefully. There was even reverence enough in him to be afraid of the intoxication that threatened to supervene. Congratulations were poured in upon him from all sides, sincere and insincere, the latter the loudest. Perhaps none of them touched him so much as his father's satisfaction, which he did not quite understand until more than a week had passed away; then late one evening-New Year's Eve it was after they had been sitting alone for a time, discussing the future-Julian's future, and Agnes's -the old man suddenly put down the long clay pipe, which was his sole form of self-indulgence, and turning his head away, Julian saw with distress that tears were dropping slowly over his father's face. The son was not by nature much more demonstrative than the father, yet tenderness of heart was not wanting in either. Julian put his cigar aside instantly, and involuntarily laid one hand softly on the old man's shoulder. "For pity's sake, don't let these things trouble. you!" he said, with much emotion. "There is no need even to think of any change for a while. We can wait, we wish to wait, and when the change does come it need not make much difference to you. You will always be master here." "No, no, my boy, it is not that," Joshua said, with some difficulty, "it is not that. I should like to go. I should like to live a little way in the country, to end my days among green fields; I have always thought I should like that. No, it is other things that overcame me.” "Then try not to think of them, father." "I can't help it, Julian; I can't help it. I am getting old, and the past is more to an old man than the present or the future. There are things in the past that pain me, that I thought would pain me on to the end, but if you marry Agnes and behave kindly to her I think they will not trouble me so much. I loved her mother more than she knew, but because she wouldn't do as I wished her to do I steeled myself against her, hardened |