to help her in all her troubles. He was out of spirits when he wrote all this; but, as he was not prone to speak sadly about himself, he only showed it by writing more shortly than usual. He had fancied, however, that the letter was too demonstrative, and had sat for some time biting his pen and deliberating within himself; at last he despatched it, in a fit of strenuous determination not to change again. It would bring forth a kind answer from her surely, he thought.

It brought forth no such thing.

Constance was intensely provoked by this assumption of authority; and she felt a strong inclination to write to him immediately, that she was not "troubled" at all, only had had a slight headache during the week. Her mother-in-law's remarks had irritated her also, and she was ready to charge Mr. Erskine with entering into a conspiracy with Mrs. Everett which no one would have supposed to be likely. She was more accustomed than most people are to act upon the impulse of the moment, and that night she wrote upon it, asking Mr. Erskine what right she had ever given him to take upon himself the supervision of her acquaintance? and begging that if she had ever done so, he would bring her to book by reminding her of the occasion. She spoke in terms of warm commendation of her friends the Stanleys (for whom she did not care at

all), and begged, finally, that she might never again be troubled by such officious care. Woman fashion, she poured forth her wrath upon the man who she knew would bear it. To be lectured for flirtation was more than she could endure; and she especially hardened her heart with the thought—“ If I had compromised myself for him, he would not have been so tender-hearted, perhaps." I know not how far Mr. Erskine's magnanimity and self-denial went, but perhaps that last reflection of Constance's was not altogether wrong.

The next morning was one which Constance long remembered. She was in bed when her maid took the letters for the post, and idly watched her as she left the room with them in her hand. It was a beautiful sunshiny morning, and that winter-day seemed to be aping summer, but to Constance it was a sorry make-believe; she would colour all around her by whatever feeling she was possessed of for the time being, and she was just then very melancholy. In truth, the prospect of many years of nominal marriage, and of her lonely, childless life, was enough to sadden one so young and so impulsive.

She was talking to her mother-in-law after breakfast, kneeling opposite to her with her arms resting on the table, having been arranging flowers that were just brought in from the greenhouse; and now she had been telling Mrs. Everett, whom she had

quite softened by her pretty winning ways, that she had written to Southampton to say that she was coming if it were but for the chance of Frank's knowing her, she would go. She had given up a projected visit to the Stanleys, and appeared, as she in truth felt, indifferent about it.

They were still talking on, Mrs. Everett predicting her son's recovery and how far more devoted he would be to his wife henceforth, and Constance listlessly hearing her, when Edgar came quickly in with a letter in his hand, Emmy, who was behind him, white and trembling, nearly crying. He seemed uncertain what to do first, or whom to address first,he had not expected to find Constance there. The old woman looked round as he entered, and started. "Edgar, speak, my dear, it's not-not-" she said, in a sharp quivering voice.

Constance knew that it was: she knelt there without moving, and looked fixedly at Edgar and Emmy. Some instinct told her, and she did not start as she heard Edgar say, taking his mother's hand, "It's Frank, poor fellow!" When Emmy came to her, she got up, walked stupidly to the sofa, and sat down. It was a deliverance; but it had come so quickly, and answered so fearfully soon to her thoughts, that it stunned her. She leant her head upon her hand, and felt a nervous tendency to laugh; she hated herself, and would have given

her right hand or her right eye to have shed tears. It was horrible suffering, only to feel remorse at not grieving. Soon tears came: it is difficult to say why, but she wept heartily and sincerely.

That was a long day of whispering, talking, and settling. They talked low, as if they were paying the dead some respect; and as if animated conversation would disturb him. Constance was in her

room all day; Mr. and Mrs. Everett, too, were generally up-stairs; the girls, William, and the two Edgars, fidgeted about the house. Frank had died suddenly in a fit, just when they fancied that he was recovering. The funeral was to take place at Ilderton, and there were many things to arrange. The girls and Louisa were very busy, and immediately began a correspondence with shopkeepers about mourning.

The first thing which aroused Mrs. Everett was their having taken too much upon themselves without consulting her; and then, when appealed to, she wanted to know if "they could not leave her quiet for only one day, the first day she knew her boy was dead."

Mr. Everett walked restlessly about the house, and ended by going to Constance's room; he took hold of her hand and sat silently for a little while, then went away, and presently came back again. He knew what Constance felt, and what the blow

was to her the two could sympathize best together. Emmy, too, who had been grown up for six months, and whose knowledge of the world was proportionately large, expended a great deal of feeling upon Constance, and wondered if she would ever be like her former self again. In spite of some very cynical opinions which she entertained respecting men and society (for Emmy did not wish to be behind-hand in knowledge of the world), her inmost creed was sentimental, and she was as ready as the rest of womankind to give away her heart. She should always be in love with her husband, always-she knew that-if he were Sir Hugh.

Edgar was the eldest son now: not that he rejoiced over it, poor fellow; he would have said that he was sorry, only he did not know how; but Constance, who always remembered to say the right thing at the right moment, said so for him. In a few days the funeral took place, and the handsome first-born, whom father and mother had so delighted in, was resting in the family burial-place.

Mrs. Francis Everett's mourning was a double one, for two days afterwards her aunt died; and the whole of her fortune, which was a large one, fell to Constance. And that young, winning woman was saved-saved from great misery, most likely-by her weak, worthless husband's death. How would she have borne her fate for many more years? How

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