against the early autumnal frosts and east winds, and to make him feel to the innermost core of his heart, that, "be it ever so homely, there's no place like home."

"I have seen nothing so pretty since I went away," said Robert; "nothing half so bright or delightful," taking her glad little face between his two long hands, and returning her warm kisses with interest.

"Where is Dorothea? she was here a minute since!" Lilian cried, when the first greetings were over. แ "How strange of her to run away-she must have stolen out when you came in-that is so like Dorothea!"

She was gone, however, out of the room, and out of the house, sure in her own mind that they would never miss her. "Oh, Robert, you look very tired!" Lilian said, pathetically, when they were by-and-by sitting at tea.

"It was a terrible time of anxiety-terrible, Lilian." "And poor Cyrus-you saw him to say good-by?"

"Yes. He shows less sign of having taken his trouble to heart than any of us. Sir Philip Nugent went home really ill." "But how will he get through the time, so restless and unquiet as he is?"

"Fall back by-and-by on his old occupations, perhaps. Poor Cyr! poor Cyr!"

"Lola has been at Lady Leigh's: did he ever mention her to you?-the little thing was in dreadful distress."

"Lola! never a word; what of her?"

"She has known him so long, that she has learnt to love him." Cyrus never named her; his situation was so critical as to exclude every other thought."

Lilian made no answer; she was thinking of those sad, tearful eyes that used to look up at her so wistfully for hope and consolation while Cyrus was in danger, and of the faithful little heart in whose depth every pain he suffered thrilled with double force. She felt more indignant against Cyrus for this selfish forgetfulness than for every one of his other follies, extravagances, and errors.

"He will make many a heart ache," said she, after a pause. Robert had not a word of blame for his brother.

"And he will have many a one to bear," was his response. "You would pass through Millburn to-day-is it all quiet again?"

"Yes; and black and smoky as usual; everything in the usual train, and the poor martyrs forgotten already."

Simon Hawthorne died at Chinelyn the week after the issue of Cyrus's trial was known, leaving all his money to his second wife, with the exception of a trifle to Robert and his brother, for the purchase of mourning rings. As this disposition of his property had been all along anticipated, it gave no disappointment and produced no ill-feeling.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

THE COMMON LOT.

"L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux : Toujours! jamais!-Jamais! toujours!""-JACQUES BRIDAINE.

I.

ST. WILFRED'S FAIR that year fell on a magnificent day, and old Nanny Brigget showed herself at her station as usual in the midst of her beautiful baskets of fruit; as usual, too, Dorothea Sancton came to make her early purchases, but this time in very limited quantities. The trade at the little teashop failed more and more, the annual dinner was now restricted to three guests, and Dorothea, with all her exact economy, had some difficulty to pay her rent and make both ends meet. Nanny had now abandoned her matrimonial hints, and asked Dorothea after her brother and sister, her nephew and niece, and friends instead of herself.

"An' I've had young Mrs. Robert Hawthorne already buying a few jargonelles that the old gentleman, her father, is fond of," said the ancient market-woman, who had a bit of gossiping time on hand, and was willing to employ it; "a very nice and kind-spoken lady she is,-I don't know of another in the town I'm better pleased to see. But she don't look as well as she should, or maybe it is the crape bonnet that misbecomes her pretty face."

"I don't think she is strong, Nanny, but she has been a good deal tried lately-the death of the old grandfather at Chinelyn, and the anxiety about her brother-in-law, and the loss of her little baby, altogether have been too much for her. But I hope to see her rally soon."

Nanny shook her head: "I tell you what, Miss Dorothy, she seems to me to be dwining away just as her mother did her; and, what's more, I think Mr. Robert sees it, for along while she was here an' would carry her bit of

a basket that a bairn o' five year old might ha' holden wi' one hand, as if he was afeard of her being tired wi' it. They went together to the hill corner, and there she took t' basket herself and went away laughing and nodding at him, and he stood a minute watching her like a man that's forgotten everything else. Anything happen to her people'll be real sorry for him, for he's fairly bound up in her-an' well he may, for she's as good as she's bonnie.”

Dorothea stood grave and reflective, without speaking a word, while Nanny went on-" She's so kind to poor folk; I remember her last June when new potatoes was at eightpence an' all the old ones gone, she was buying her week's things o' me when one o' them widows from the almshouses came up wi' her basket an' asked how potatoes was, an' when I telled her, she shook her head, as they was over-dear, and was going away, when Mrs. Robert puts her hand on her old basket an' says, 'Nanny,' give her a measure,' an' pays me herself. I've seen her do that kind o' thing oft. You ask Mrs. Brown, and she'll tell you many's the time Mrs. Robert's come into her shop, an' taken away a couple o' pounds o' good meat for some sick woman in the lane; an' I've met her myself, as I've been going home at night, coming back from seeing that poor lass at Kilham, who got into such sore trouble a while sin', and who, it's my belief, would ha' ended herself afore this but for what Mrs. Robert's done an' said for her. She's quiet over what she's about; but bless you, we know; an' I've thought often she's over-good to live long, though it's o' the like of her we have need when we're poor an' ill."

Dorothea nodded silently and walked away, but Nanny, looking up at her, saw the great tears rolling down her face. "Ay," she said to herself, "an' Miss Dorothy sees it too." Dorothea went in home and arranged herself behind the counter for the day's customers in a very absent, pre-occupied mood. There was a bright sun shining broad over the Market-place, which was all astir with the stall-keepers hanging out their wares, and the great trees about the Cross waved in majestic shadow above old Nanny and her companions. As Dorothea dreamily watched the familiar scene a thousand times and events floated back over her memory, Lilian, her pretty pet Lilian, vivid in them all; and while she was thus thinking the black clad figure of the young wife passed the window, paused at the door, and came in.

"Just for a five minutes' rest, Dorothea; how are you to

day?" said she, dropping into a chair beside the counter and leaning her elbow on it, while her lips parted breathlessly and her delicate colour came and went like the wavering of sunshine through leaves. "So very little tires me now; I have but been up the Minster Hill to see my father,” added she, after a pause, smiling at her weakness.

"Yes, Lilian; you must take care of yourself,” replied Dorothea, helplessly. She would have liked to cry, only she dare not. "Have you seen George since last night?" Lilian asked. "If not, I have news for you."

"Mr. Reuben Otley has consented to his getting a share in the business?" guessed Dorothea, brightening. "I am glad of it; it is nothing but right that Robert's will should rule. Polly will be made happy. And how about Mr. Constant? "

"He has a very small share too; that was harder than George's business, but Mr. Reuben Otley yielded at last. And now I have something else to tell; at the end of next month Robert and I are going away again; we are going to where Robert was born, I hope, or, at all events, somewhere near it. Dr. Sandford says it is a warmer climate for the winter, and that it will be good for me."

Dorothea turned away, and found something the matter with one of the tea-chests for ever so long-she could not speak; well she knew what this journey meant; she had heard such sentences of death pronounced before.

"What ails you, Dorothea?" asked Lilian, who divined from her silence that she was crying, "you are out of spirits; is the shop failing you more and more?"

"Yes; that is it," replied Dorothea, eagerly grasping at this pretext for her tears. "I'm sure I dont't know where it will end; but let us go into the parlour, for I'm not fit to be seen if anybody comes in. Jem, mind the shop."

Lilian sat down by the open window in Miss Kibblewhite's great arm-chair, and Mistress Prim came and wagged her tail in sign of welcome. Dorothea moved about restlessly for several minutes, as if she did not know what she was doing, until Lilian, to quiet her, made a commonplace remark on the mignonette having done very well in the garden that year, when she sat down, sighing heavily.

"That is not like you, Dorothea; you used to cheer us all," said Lilian, kindly; "if the shop is failing, we shall not you go with it."

let

66

I know, Lilian: Lady Leigh has offered me the matron's

place amongst her orphans, but I don't like to take it. A year or two since it might have suited me, but now I feel as if I were getting out of children's ways."

"Oh, Dorothea! you can never get out of kind and loving ways as long as you live. I think you would be very happy there.'

"Ah! well, Lilian, we never know! The winter will be dull enough without you and Robert."

"But it will soon be over; you must not dwell on that; you have Polly to look after, and I must see her before we go.' They were both quiet for a minute or two, until the rustling of silk in the shop, and a beautiful voice, asking, "Is Miss Sancton within?" caused Dorothea to spring up and quit the parlour. Lilian recognized young Lady Nugent's manner of speaking, and the pretty lisp of her little daughter who accompanied her.

"We have come to buy fairings, have we not, Sylvie?" said Lady Nugent; "and to ask Dorothea to let us sit in her window this afternoon, when we have dined with grandma."

"Yeth, Doddotea, is 'our 'itte dod here? I want to see her." And in quest of Prim in toddled a small fairy in white muslin, blue sash, and golden curls. Lady Nugent followed to coax her back, and stopped a few minutes to speak to Lilian.

"I am sorry to hear your own health is delicate," she said, gently; "Lady Leigh tells me you are to seek change for the winter. I hope it will be of benefit to you." She moved away with a gracious bow, then came back, offered her hand, and finally her lips. "You are much changed Lilian," said she, and her soft blue eyes looked for a moment as if there were tears in them; "but you will get well soon, we hope."

When she was gone Dorothea remarked that Lady Nugent's manner was very uncertain. "She is quite the great lady one moment, and the next she kisses you like a sister." Lilian gave no reply: perhaps she understood Lady Nugent better than Dorothea did.

"Now I must go home,-Robert will think me an idle little gad-about;" said she, by-and-by; "but I like the fresh morning air; it gives me more strength for the day. What a useless creature I am becoming in the world!" They passed through into the shop, and just at the moment Robert came in sight. Jem was sent to call him in, that Dorothea might thank him for her brother, and Lilian would then have had him go on his business, whatever it was, but he said, no, not