higher natures are. He had not the glaring faults which often distinguish these; but he had not their excellencies: he was no hero, neither were any of the people here described. He was only one of the most loveable beings who have ever walked through life. It was a strange chance that had made these two meet, and strangely had Georgy's tenacious nature clung to him.

He was such a contrast to her: she was naturally grave, slow in company, and could do nothing brilliant. She wondered so at his ready power of adaptation, which could answer back to all things, and every description of person, so quickly. She admired his sparkling cleverness, as none other had ever done; whilst she felt the rest and satisfaction which his deep, true intelligence must give her. Morally and intellectually he had first roused life in her; and every fault, every weakness (if he had such), was but another link to him. It was not possible that Georgy could have been to him the hundredth part of all this; and he did love Constance: it was at once his condemnation and his excuse.

He was deeply pained at the knowledge of the grief which he must have given Georgy: there was no fatuity in the feeling, for in spite of the world and its influence, he had retained great simplicity of character in many points. He knew her enough

to know that she truly loved him, and it was a knowledge which he had rather have been without. He wrote to her again, and if she would, she could have retracted; but all was over between them. He could make no reparation: any further intercourse which there might ever be between them must be begun by her.

CHAPTER XX.

GEORGY left the Grange that day: to stay longer seemed impossible. James Erskine had gone also, that he might not meet her again, or make her leave the place too quickly. But there was still Mrs. Everett, and Georgy had said to herself, as she had seen her asleep, it was the last time she would ever look at her. Before she was gone, however, Constance came running to her room.

"Georgy, you are not going, surely! What is the matter? Why did you never come and see me this morning?"

"Yes, I am going directly."

66

Why, are you afraid of Mr. Sandon's appearing to fetch you? indeed, my dear Georgy, you must manage to stay."

"No, I can't."

"What is the matter?"

66

Nothing; I cannot stay here always, and so I am going;" she looked musingly at Constance.

"But, dear, why won't you tell me what has happened? Come and stay with me, if you want a

P

place of refuge, I should be so glad to have you: now you should settle that at once; " and in her genial good-nature, she would have taken any trouble, and set off immediately to Grainthorpe, if she could have been of any use to Georgy.

"No, that cannot be; thank you all the same, dear Mrs. Everett. Good-bye!-I am going downstairs now."

Constance came to the head of the stairs, and leant over the bannisters in her white dressinggown. Georgy still looked at her, and thought vacantly how marvellously graceful she was; and Constance, who did not know her thoughts, fancied that something had happened, as she met the other's intent look.

So they separated, and Constance went back puzzled at her behaviour; wondering what her sudden departure meant, and why she did not explain it.

Miss Sparrow received her niece most kindly. Georgy said that her uncle was still angry, that she could not stay too long at Millthorpe Grange, and so had come again to ask hospitality from her

aunt.

The kind old woman assented to all, and only said, that "it was fortunate she was at home; Georgy never writing when she visited her friends, but always appearing suddenly." She said no more,

and never questioned her as to what had induced her sudden return. Georgy fancied that this was only because she took no especial notice of the circumstance; but the aunt was not so devoid of perception. Her niece never mentioned the Erskines now, and she had seemed so happy in their society but a little time ago: they were surely connected in some way with this sudden change.

She was right; but, kindly and prudently, did not say so. She did all that was in her power to make Georgy happy; and perhaps the only good which she could do was to leave her unquestioned.

A still gray life they both led. The aunt in her quiet, uniform course of tending all those around her; being friends with, not patronizing, poor people; befriending her relatives, and working hard for all whom she could help. Georgy required nothing; she passed her days in a forced round of mechanical occupation; she dreaded being unoccupied for a moment, for then tears would start into her eyes: never a burst of tears, only a few that seemed wrung forth by a burning pain, and brought her no relief. Her love was a bitter reality, which she would have put from her; but she could not. There were days when one idea pressed so heavily upon her, that not for one moment was she without the consciousness of it; she tried to thrust it from her, but the strength failed her.