"You are going into a new world, Isabel; I well know how new, how exciting to you. You are going to begin a new life; you must not go bound by a tie which you have contracted in comparative solitude."

"Still I don't understand," said Isabel, simply. "Are we not bound in word as well as in affection ?"

"We can release ourselves," he said, smiling sadly, that rare and peculiar smile which, when it passed over his face, had so deep a meaning. "I have suffered"- he paused, and closed his eyes as if over the anguish within; "but no matter I saw at once how it must be. It is a duty, and, if a hard one, still not the less a duty."

"You are deceiving yourself, Herbert. How can it ever be a duty to break the vows that have been exchanged? I see how it is," she continued, after a moment's pause; and a flush of wounded feeling passed over her face; 'you doubt me?"

66

"No, Isabel, I trust you as I trust myself; but will your listen to me for a moment?

You are going into a life so new that you cannot even conceive what it will be. You are no longer at the disposal of your aunt. Of me your father might not approve, as the husband of his child-at any rate, not as the choice of her youth and inexperience; and rightly, Isabel, for circumstances change us more than you, in your quiet life, can tell. Could I then let you begin your new life with anything that might give your father pain? Does not this seem right in your eyes? I have thought much about it, and it appears, so to me. And besides this, dear Isabel, I must think of you. It is with no doubt of your truth or your love that I speak, but you cannot yourself have an idea of what may be the temptations of your future life. I must think of this for you. You shall go into that new world free -free to choose again, if you should meet with one more worthy of your love-I cannot say who would love you more -that could not be." He paused, but Isabel still waited. "If at the end of a year you feel as you do now; if, in all the bright world

.

in which you will move, you find none to love more than I feel you now love me; then, Isabel, dearest Isabel, with what joy would I come to you, and we would together ask your father's blessing on our love!"

A momentary smile of gladness passed over his face, but it faded again.

"Perhaps you are right, Herbert," after a long pause Isabel replied; "I am scarcely myself to-day, scarcely understand your words, but I think that perhaps you are right; I will

go free to my father; but oh, Herbert !" and she looked

up in his face with an expression that sunk into

the depths of his soul-"do you suppose it

possible that I can forget you?"

"No, Isabel," he said, in a low voice; and they walked on again in silence.

The short day began to close.

Charles

Denison was to arrive at the inn late in the evening, and very early the next morning Isabel was to go with him to London. Herbert had determined to part from her now; the evening, he felt, was Miss Shepherd's right; and to sit and gaze upon her, and not

have her all to himself, would be but increase He stopped her as they drew near

of agony.

the house.

"I will not come in, Isabel; it is better so, indeed," he said, as he saw she would have remonstrated. "Your aunt has a first right to you to-night, and I-" he paused; then, with his sad smile, added, "I must go and accustom myself to Ellerton without you."

She stood still, without speaking. Large tears had gathered in her eyes, but they did not fall. Herbert drew a deep breath, to command himself to the last.

"I will go now," he said, and took her hand. "I thank you, Isabel, for your love, even if.... Whatever comes, you know not what it has been to me. And now, Isabel, dearest Isabel, God bless you, and keep you pure and bright, as you are, amid the temptations of the world to which you are going!" He wrung the hand he held, waited not for the words which he saw she tried, but tried in vain, to speak-and they parted.

CHAPTER IX.

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child?
Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart.

BYRON.

The last evening is always too sad for words. The change, whatever the change may be, is too near to be spoken of. It cannot be talked over lightly, sadly it must not be, for the inward grief is too near the surface to be restrained if once the fountain is unsealed; and so, almost in silence, Isabel passed her last evening at Ellerton.

The morning came. She had kissed her aunt and Mrs. Shepherd; to please the latter she had attempted to swallow some breakfast. She had looked her farewell to the house, the garden, and all the familiar scenes of her childhood and her youth, and stood ready,