stairs as fleetly as if some evil thing was pursuing me.

"The Lady" was still in high bad humour. Glynne was very kind, chatting away just as in days gone by.

"I do not think you can tell Mr. Grant now, that you have never spoken to Uriel since she came into this house. You have talked to her all dinner."

Partly because my dear Miss Harrington would not vouchsafe me a word, and partly because, as long as there are Mr. Grants in this world, it is of no use doing your best to be virtuous. They'll put a bad construction on the blowing of your nose."

66

My Lord, I beg you will remember to whom you are speaking, and I also wish you to understand Mr. Grant is a friend of mine, as well as relation."

"Far be it from me to deprive you of such a friend; keep him all, I'll none of him."

"That is the matter of which I complain, my Lord. He is your clergyman, you ought to be friends, he is anxious to do you good.'

"I have seen no anxiety on his part yet; he

has only blackened my name with the foulest crime-"

"He did not mean you did it; he only implied that others would think so."

God forbid I should have the like opinion. of my fellow creatures; I have too good an opinion of human nature. I thought the fellow an ass, but upon my word he is a sort of an ass I should be sorry to kick, for fear I—”

Here Glynne proved, I am grieved to say, that he had forgotten none of his old uncle's lessons in strong language.

My Lord, I will not be insulted."

My Lady, I am in a passion."

My Lord, I am ashamed of you."

My Lady, I am ashamed of myself. Nellie, give us some music, to soother us over."

CHAPTER XII.

"From the ingrained fashion

Of this earthly nature

That mars thy creature ;

From grief, that is but passion;
From mirth, that is but feigning ;
From tears, that bring no healing;
From wild and weak complaining;
Thine old Strength revealing,

Save, oh, save."

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

It is sad to awake in the morning with eyes more heavy from grief than when they closed down with sleep; and to feel the weight growing lower from head to heart, as each perception unfolds itself from the dreams of night to the realities of day. It appeared to me that I was at once degraded, and rightly so. I had had some of Mrs. Grant's thoughts and ideas: I was

not wholly innocent. I was a wretch-unworthy to be entrusted with any high or noble work, unfitted to do the deeds that had been placed before me. So I took the pangs that assailed me straight into my heart, that they might use their stings without hindrance from any weak shield of fleshly matter.

that

Having to depart very early in the morning, I had bidden farewell to "my cousin" over night. Yet it was not her cold, somewhat sulky adieu that oppressed me. Neither did I feel anger the work of so many months had been forgotten, and that I was less to her now than the acquaintance of a few weeks; though many times had I somewhat merrily likened myself, in my own mind, to the unlucky little Jenny Wren, who had had the unexpected gift of a cuckoo's egg in her nest, and had consequently weary work to satisfy the wants of her great nestling. I tried to get up a little rightful anger, because my cuckoo had said to the little willing wren, "I beg you will make no noise in the morning, as you are to go so early I have a difficulty in composing myself to sleep again, when once awakened." I thought I would have said something so different at part

ing; but to think of these as her last words, made me sad, not angry. And then I half knew why my heart was so heavy. I had not succeeded in my work. All those months had been thrown away; "the Lady" was as little inclined to do right for righteousness' sake, as when I first knew her. While she was rather more uncomfortable to deal with, because her perceptions were brighter, and her capacities more alive.

Not even the thought that I was again, as it were, homeless, friendless, had to leave what I did love, duties which were pleasures, and hopes which were always leading me on, affected me so much, as the thought that I had failed in "my

A Derbyshire morning of mist and damp did not assist me to be cheerful. An early departure is of all things the most trying to one's temper; shivering and doleful one's self, an aggrieved and injured air is also assumed by the servants, whose every look speaks the hardship of being torn from their much-required rest at such unearthly hours.

I would willingly have corded my trunks my