warblings of love, and the lowing of the brown-eyed oxen in the fields far, far below them.

Then Cyril says with slow emphasis,

'I don't believe it. It is a lie! It is impossible!' 'It is true. I feel it so. Something told me my happiness was too great to last, and now it has come to an end. Alas! alas! how short a time it has continued with me! O Cyril!-smiting her hands together passionately what shall I do? what shall I do? If he finds me he will kill me as he often threatened. How shall I escape?'

'It is untrue,' repeats Cyril, doggedly, hardly noting her terror and despair. His determined disbelief

restores her to calmness.

'Do you think I would believe, except on certain grounds?' she says. 'Colonel Trant wrote me the evil tidings.'

Trant is interested, he might be glad to delay our marriage,' he says, with a want of generosity unworthy of him.

'No, no, no. You wrong him. And how should he seek to delay a marriage that was yet far distant?'

'Not so very distant. I have yet to tell you'with a strange smile-my chief reason for being here to-day: to ask you to receive my mother to-morrow, who is coming to welcome you as a daughter. How well Fate planned this tragedy! to have our crowning misfortune fall straight into the lap of our newly-born content! Cecilia '-vehemently—there must still be a grain of hope somewhere. Do not let us quite despair. I cannot so tamely accept the death to all life's joys that must follow on belief.'

'You shall see for yourself,' replies she, handing to him the letter that all this time has lain crumpled within her nerveless fingers.

When he has read it, he drops it with a groan, and covers his face with his hands. To him, too, the evidence seems clear and convincing.

6

'I told you to avoid me. I warned you,' she says presently, with a wan smile. I am born to ill luck; I bring it even to all those who come near me; especially, it seems, to the few who are unhappy enough to love me. Go, Cyril, while there is yet time.'

"There is not time,'-desperately-'it is already too late.' He moves away from her, and in deep agitation paces up and down the secluded garden path; while she, standing alone with drooping head and dry miserable eyes, scarcely cares to watch his movements, so dead within her has all youth and energy grown.

you

'Cecilia,' he says suddenly, stopping before her, and speaking in a low tone that though perfectly clear still betrays inward hesitation, while his eyes carefully avoid hers, 'listen to me. What is he to you, this man, that they say is still alive, that you should give up your whole life for him? He deserted you, scorned you, left for another woman. For two long years you have believed him dead. Why should you now think him living? Let him be dead still and buried in your memory; there are other lands,'-slowly, and stili with averted eyes,- other homes; why should we not make one for ourselves? Cecilia,'-coming up to her,' white but earnest, and holding out his arms to her'come with me, and let us find our happiness in each other!'

Cecilia, after one swift glance at him, moves back hastily.

'How dare you use such words to me?' she says, in a horror-stricken voice; 'how dare you tempt me? you, you, who said you loved me!' Then the little burst of passion dies; her head droops still lower upon her breast; her hands coming together fall loosely before her in an attitude descriptive of the deepest despondency; 'I believed in you,' she says, 'I trusted you. I did not think you would have been the one to inflict the bitterest pang of all.' She breathes these last words in accents of the saddest reproach.

A A

'Nor will I!' cries he with keen contrition, kneeling down before her, and hiding his face in a fold of her gown. Never again, my darling, my life! I forgotI forgot you are as high above all other women as the sun is above the earth. Cecilia, forgive me.'

'Nay, there is nothing to forgive,' she says. But Cyril 'unsteadily--you will go abroad at once, for a little while, until I have time to decide where in the future I shall hide my head.'

'Must I?'

'You must.'

And you, where will you go?'

'It matters very little. You will have had time to forget me before ever I trust myself to see you again.' Then I shall never see you again,' replies he, mournfully, if you wait for that. "My true love hath my heart, and I have hers." How can I forget you while it beats warm within my breast?'

'Be it so,' she answers, with a sigh, it is a foolish fancy, yet it gladdens me. I would not be altogether displaced from your mind.'

She lays her hand upon his head as he still kneels before her, and gently smooths and caresses it with her light loving fingers. He trembles a little, and a heavy dry sob breaks from him. This parting is as the bitterness of death. To them it is death, because it is for

ever.

He brings the dear hand down to his lips, and kisses it softly, tenderly.

'Dearest,' she murmurs, brokenly, 'be comforted.' "What comfort can I find, when I am losing you?' "You can think of me.'

"That would only increase my sorrow.'

Is it so with you? For me I am thankful, very thankful for the great joy that has been mine for months, the knowledge that you loved me. Even now, when desolation has come upon us, the one bright spot in all my misery is the thought that at least I may

remember you, and call to mind your words, your face, your voice, without sin.'

'If ever you need me,' he says, when a few minutes have elapsed, 'you have only to write "Cyril, I want you," and though the whole world should lie between us, I shall surely come. O my best beloved! how shall I live without you?'

'Don't--do not speak like that,' entreats she, faintly. 'It is too hard already, do not make it worse.' Then, recovering herself by a supreme effort, she says, 'Let us part now, here, while we have courage. I think the few arrangements we can make have been made, and George Trant will write, if—if there is anything to write about.'

They are standing with their hands locked together, reading each other's faces for the last time.

'To-morrow you will leave Chetwoode?' she says, regarding him fixedly.

"To-morrow! I could almost wish there was no to-morrow for either you or me,' replies he.

'Cyril,' she says with sudden fear, 'you will take care of yourself, you will not go into any danger? Darling'-with a sob-'you will always remember that some day, when this is quite forgotten, I shall want to see again the face of my dearest friend.'

I shall come back to you,' he says, quietly. He is so quiet, that she tells herself now is a fitting time to break away from him; she forces herself to take the first step that shall part them remorselessly.

'Good-bye,' she says, in faltering tones.

'Good-bye,' returns he, mechanically; with the slow reluctant tears that spring from a broken heart running down her pale cheeks, she presses her lips fervently to his hands, and moves slowly away. When she has gone a few steps, frightened at the terrible silence that seems to have enwrapped him, benumbing his very senses, she turns to regard him once

more.

He has never stirred; he scarcely seems to breathe, so motionless is his attitude; as though some spell were on him, he stands silently gazing after her, his eyes full of dumb agony. There is something so utterly lonely in the whole scene, that Cecilia bursts into tears. Her sobs rouse him.

'Cecilia!' he cries, in a voice of mingled passion and despair that thrills through her. Once more he holds out to her his arms. She runs to him, and flings herself for the last time into his embrace. He strains her passionately to his heart. Her sobs break upon the silent air. Once again their white lips form the word 'farewell.' There is a last embrace, a last lingering kiss.

All is over.

CHAPTER XXIX.

The flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies;

What is this world's delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.-SHELLEY.

Ar Chetwoode they are all assembled in the drawingroom-except Archibald, who is still confined to his room-waiting for dinner; Cyril alone is absent.

'What can be keeping him?' says his mother at last, losing patience as she pictures him dallying with his betrothed at the Cottage while the soup is spoiling, and the cook is gradually verging towards hysterics. She suffers an aggrieved expression to grow within her eyes as she speaks from the depths of the softest arm-chair the room contains, in which it is her custom to ensconce herself.

'Nothing very dreadful, I daresay,' replies Florence,