calmness learnt-in the heartless world, she thought-knowing not that love's agony gives to its martyrs a strength, almost superhuman, first to endure, and, then enduring, to conceal.

She saw him speak and smile-ay, smile-and an icy fear crept over her. It seemed the shadow of that terrible". no more," which sometimes yawns between the present and past. Let us pray rather that our throbbing hearts may grow cold in the tomb than that we should live to feel them freezing slowly in our bosoms, and be taught by their altered beatings to say calmly, "The time has been."

It so chanced that Paul Lynedon led Eleanor down to dinner. He did it merely because she happened to stand near Mrs. Ogilvie. The latter had turned from him and taken the arm of David Drysdale, with whom she was already on the friendliest of terms. Katharine was always so especially charming in her manner to old people.

These formed the group at the head of the table; Philip sat far apart, having placed himself where he could not see the face of either Paul or Eleanor. But their tones came to him amid the dazzling, bewildering mist of light and sound; every word, especially the rare utterances of Eleanor's low voice, piercing distinct and clear through all.

Philip's neighbour was Mrs. Lancaster, who, now feeling herself sinking from that meridian altitude which, as the central sun of a petty literary sphere, she had long maintained, caught at every chance of ingratiating herself with any rising author. She mounted her high horse of sentiment and feeling, and cantered it gently on through a long criticism of Wychnor's last work. Then, finding the chase was vain, for that he only answered in polite monosyllables, she tried another and less lofty style of conversation-remarks and tittle-tattle concerning her friends, absent and present. She was especially led to this by the mortification of seeing her former protégé, Paul Lynedon, so entirely escaped from under her wing.

"How quiet Lynedon has grown!" she said, sharply. "I never saw such a change. Why, he used to be quite a lion in society. How silent he sits between Mrs. Ogilvie and her sister! By-the-bye, perhaps that may account for his dulness to-night." 'Do you think so?" answered Philip, absently.

66

Ah, the affair was before your time, Mr. Wychnor," said the lady mysteriously; "but some years ago, at Summerwood, I really imagined it would have been a match between Miss Eleanor Ogilvie and Paul Lynedon there. How he admired her singing, and herself too! Not that I ever could see much in either; but love is blind, you know."

"Mrs. Lancaster, allow me to take wine with you," interrupted Paul, who from the other end of the table had caught

the sound of his own name united with Elcanor's, and was in mortal fear lest Mrs. Lancaster's tenacious memory should be recalling her former badinage on the subject.

Philip sat silent. His cup of agony seemed overflowing. But ere his lips approached the brim, an angel came by and touched it, changing the gall into a healing draught. On the young man's agonised ear came the mention of one name-the name of the dead. What matter though it was uttered by the frivolous tongue of Mrs. Lancaster, to whom Leigh Pennythorne and his sufferings were merely a vehicle for sentimental pity! Even while she pronounced the name, surely some heavenly ministrant caught up the sound and caused it to fall like balm on Philip Wychnor's heart. The casual words carried his thoughts away from all life's tortures to the holy peace of death. They brought back to him the dark still room, where, holding the boy's damp hand, he had talked with him, solemnly, joyfully, of the glorious after-world. Then came floating across his memory the calm river sunset-the last look at the moon-illumined peaceful face, on whose dead lips yet lingered the smile of the parted soul. Even now, amidst this torturing scene, the remembrance lifted Philip's heart from its earthly pains towards the blessed eternity where all these should be counted but as a drop in the balance.

If the thorns of life pierce keenest into the poet's soul, Heaven and Heaven's angels are nearer to him than to the worldly man. Philip Wychnor grew calmer, and his thoughts rose upward, where, far above both grief and joy, amidst the glories of the Ideal and the blessedness of the Divine, a great and pure mind sits serene. Thither, when they have endured awhile, does the Allcompassionate, even in life, lift the souls of these His children, and give them to stand, Moses-like, on the lonely height of this calm Pisgah. Far below lies the wilderness through which their weary feet have journeyed. But God turns their faces from the past, and they behold no more the desert, but the Canaan.

There was a fluttering of silken dresses as the hostess and her fair companions glided away. Philip did not look up; or he might have caught fixed on his face à gaze so full of mournful, anxious tenderness, that it would have pierced through the thickest clouds of jealous doubt and suspicion. He felt that Eleanor passed him by, though his eyes were lifted no higher than the kirt of her robe. But on her left hand, which lay like a snowflake among the black folds, he saw a ring, his own gift-his only one, for love like theirs needed no outward token. She had promised on her betrothal-eve that it should never be taken off, save for the holier symbol of marriage. How could she-how dared she-wear it now! One gleam of light shot almost blindingly through Philip's darkness, as he beheld; the deep calm fled from his heart, and it was again racked with suspense. He sat motion

Jess; the loud talk and laughter of Hugh Ogilvie, and the vapid murmurings of Mr. Lancaster, floating over him confusedly.

Paul Lynedon had already disappeared from the dining-room. He could not drive from his mind the vague fear lest his foolish affair with Eleanor Ogilvie should be bruited about in some way or other. He longed to stop Mrs. Lancaster's ever active tongue. And, judging feminine nature by the blurred and blotted side on which he had viewed it for the last few years, he felt considerable doubt even of Eleanor herself. If she had betrayed, or should now betray, especially to Katharine Ogilvie, the secret of his folly. He would not have such a thing happen for the world! Wherefore, he stayed not to consider; for Paul's impetuous feelings were rarely subjected to much self-examination. Acting on their impulse now, he bent his pride to that stronger passion which was insensibly stealing over him; and first assuring himself that his fellow-adventurer in the drawing-room, David Drysdale, was safely engrossing the conversation of their beautiful hostess, Lynedon carelessly strolled towards an inner apartment divided from the rest by a glass-door, through which he saw Eleanor, sitting thoughtful and alone.

"Now is my time," said Paul to himself, "but I must accomplish the matter with finesse and diplomacy. What a fool I was, ever to have brought myself into such a scrape!"

He walked with as much indifference as he could assume through the half-open door, which silently closed after him. He was rather glad of this, for then there would be no eavesdroppers. Eleanor Looked up, and found herself alone with the lover she had once reiected. But there was no fear of his again imposing on her the same painful necessity; for a more careless, good-humoured smile never sat on the face of the most indifferent acquaintance, than that which Paul Lynedon's now wore.

"Do I intrude on your meditations, Miss Ogilvie? If so, send me away at once, which will be treating me with the candour of an old friend. But I had rather claim the privilege in a different way, and be allowed to stay and have a little pleasant chat with you."

Eleanor would fain have been left to solitude; but through life she had thought of others first-of herself last. It gave her true pleasure, that by meeting Lynedon's frankness with equal cordiality she could atone to the friend for the pain once given to the Lover. So she answered kindly, "Indeed, I shall be quite glad to renew our old sociable talks."

"Then we are friends-real, open-hearted, sincere friends," answered Paul, returning her smile with one of equal candour. And," he added, in a lower tone, "to make our friendship sure, I trust Miss Ogilvie has already forgotten that I ever had the presumption to aspire to more ?"

Eleanor replied, with mingled sweetness and dignity,

"I remember only what was pleasurable in our acquaintance. Be assured that the pain, which I am truly glad to see has passed from your memory, rests no longer on mine. We will not speak or think of it again, Mr. Lynedon." But Paul still hesitated. Except that I may venture to express one hope-indeed I should rather say a conviction. I feel sure that, with one so generous and delicate-minded, this—this circumstance has remained, and will ever remain, unrevealed ?"

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"Can you doubt it ?" And a look as nearly approaching pride as Eleanor's gentle countenance could assume, marked her wounded feeling. "I thought that you would have judged more worthily of me of any woman."

"Of you, indeed, I ought. I am ashamed of myself, Miss Ogilvie," cried Lynedon, giving way to a really sincere impulse of compunction, and gazing in her face with something of his old reverence. "I do believe you, as ever, the kindest, noblest creature-half woman, half saint; and, except that I am unworthy of the boon, it would be a blessing to me through life to call you friend."

"Indeed

justly minou shall call me so, and I will strive to make the title

said Eleanor, with a bright, warm-hearted smile, as she stretched out her hand to him.

He took it, and pressed it to his lips. Neither saw that on this instant a shadow darkened the transparent door, and a face, passing by chance, looked in. It was the face of Philip Wychnor

CHAPTER XLII.

THILIP'S ABRUPT DEPARTURE.

Better trust all, and be deceived;

And weep that trust and that deceiving;
Than doubt one heart, which if believed
Had blessed one's life with true believing.

Oh! in this mocking world, too fast
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last

Than lose the blessed hope of truth!

FRANCES ANNE BUTLER.

"WELL, I never in my life knew a fellow so altered as that Philip Wychror!" cried Hugh, as he entered his wife's dressingroom. His sister had fled there to gain a few minutes' quiet and strength, after her somewhat painful interview with Lynedon, and before the still greater trial of the formal evening that was to come. As she lay on the couch, wearied in heart and frame, there was ever in her thought the name which her brother now uttered

carelessly almost angrily. It made her start with added suffering. Hugh continued:

"I suppose he thinks it so fine to have grown an author and a man of genius, that he may do anything he likes, and play off all sorts of airs on his old friends."

"Nay, Hugh, what has he done ?" said Eleanor, her heart sink. ing colder and colder.

"Only that, after all the trouble we had to get him here tonight, he has gone off just now without having even the civility to say good-by."

"Gone! is he gone?" and she started up; but recollected herself in time to add, "You forget, he may be ill."

"Ill?-nonsense!" cried Hugh, as he stood lazily lolling against the window. "Look, there he goes, tearing across the Park as if he were having a walking-match, or racing with Brown Bess herself. There's a likely fellow to be ill! Phew, it's only a vagary for effect-I've learnt these games since I married. But I must go down to this confounded soirée." And he lounged off moodily.

The moment he was gone, Eleanor sprang to the window. It was, indeed, Philip-she saw him clearly: his slender figure and floating fair hair-looking shadowy, almost ghostlike, in the evening light. He walked rapidly; nay, flew! It might have been a fiend that was pursuing him, instead of the weeping eyes, the outstretched arms, the agonised murmur-"Philip, oh! my Philip!"

He saw not, he heard not, but sped onward-disappeared! Then Eleanor sank down, nigh broken-hearted. Was this the blessed meeting, the day so longed for, begun in joy to end in such cruel misery?

No, not all misery; for when the first bitterness passed, and she began to think calmly, there dawned the hope that Philip loved her still. His very avoidance of her, that heavy sigh, most of all his sudden departure, as though he had fled unable to endure her presence-all these showed that his heart had not grown utterly cold. He had loved her once-she believed that. She would have believed it though the whole world had borne testi mony against it, and against him. It was impossible but that some portion of this deep true love must linger still. Some unaccountable change had come over him-some great sorrow or imagined wrong had warped his mind.

Was this the reason that now for weeks, months, he had never answered her letters? Did he wish to consider their engagement broken? But no; for his last letter was full of love-full of the near hope of making her his own. Whatever had been the cause of estrangement, if the love were still there, in his heart as in her own, she would win him back yet!

"Yes," she cried, "I will have patience. I will put from me