anan, his head bent, and his whole attitude one of devout Aunt Dorothy, too, was there, and dear thankfulness. little Linda watching all with reverent gaze. The church was full, and everyone felt deep interest in the service. By this time Bournemouth had learned to know the inhabitants of Fir Cottage, and to be proud of Rachel, and her heroic efforts to save little Teddie Latham's life were not forgotten. If ever prayers were earnest and true, those of the congregation were earnest as they knelt, and with one accord asked that Winifred might lead the rest of her life according to this beginning. "Her life will not be a long one," some one said, as the service over the people separated. "How lovely she is, and how that young man's heart is wrapt up in her." "Yes, poor fellow; but he has less reason to hope than to fear," was the rejoinder. Mr. Buchanan had arrived at Fir Cottage the evening before with Chrystie, and as yet he had not had any word with Rachel alone. There was a hungry pleading in his eyes which she could not misunderstand, and after the early dinner she lingered a little, and putting her hand in his, said, 66 Will you take me for a little walk? I want a stick, you know," she added, with a smile which seemed to make her face shine with light. "Thanks," he said, earnestly. "It is what I wished, but I did not dare to ask for it." So they went out together, slowly, and Rachel leaned heavily on his arm, for her powers of walking had not yet returned. They said very little at first. A great deal had passed between them in their letters, which, since the ice had been broken, had been full and fre quent. It seemed enough for Mr. Buchanan to have her near him, leaning on him, trusting in him, as he felt she did. They had got quite into the shadow of the fir trees before either said more than a few passing words about the loveliness of the afternoon and the calm beauty of the sea, lying under the December sky, blue and still, and clear as in summer days. At last Mr. Buchanan paused, and looking down into Rachel's eyes, read there what it was his pride and joy to see. There were no intruders in that by-path, where the western sunshine scarcely penetrated, and the low sighing of the wind above, and the chime of the waves below, were the only sounds. "How long am I to wait for you?" he asked. will you come to me ?" "I will come next year ?" she said. "When "Next year! Remember, the time is short with me. It is not with me as with Chrystie, who can afford to wait." "I should like to stay with Winifred till she is strong enough to be married, and then-" 66 They talk of May; let it be the same for us. Oh, Rachel! I long to have you, that I may take infinite care of you, and let you know what you are to me." "I know," she said, her eyes growing dim, "I must seem to you apathetical and reserved, and almost cold. Oh! it is not really so; but I don't think a woman who has had a past like mine can ever be joyous. Be patient with me, dear," she said, tenderly. "Your bright cheerfulness will surely infect me at last; and do let me think I am a help to you, and not a hindrance in all your work and all your interests. It is what I wish to be." "It is what you are already," he said. "A new spring has come into all I do since that night in the rain and wind. Why," he said, laughing, "I am almost proud of a paper I have written this month for Blackwood on my favourite theme-astronomy. I have it here for you to read, if you will; but you are getting tired now. Let us turn homewards. But give me what I will never take till you grant it freely, my love !" She raised her face to his, and they exchanged their kiss of betrothal which to him was an earnest of his future, and to her a solemn pledge that for all future time she was entirely and absolutely his ! CHAPTER XVII. MAY AND SEPTEMBER. "Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, SHAKSPEARE. MAY time once more; and the old apple-tree in the Birkdal garden is full of blossom, while below the Birk is singing the song of new-born life and freedom. Everything is in its early prime and beauty, and the day is one of those when all creation seems instinct with life and vigour, and winter frosts and autumn gales sound to us like an idle tale. Under the old apple-tree on this bright afternoon, a fair young mother sits with her child, a little athlete of a year old, who seems to resist the tender hands which try to hold him in check, and brings many a loving adjuration to keep still and not make poor mother's arms ache quite so much. Worn out at last with play, the boy lays his curly head upon Winifred's breast, and shows signs of giving in to the sleep against which he has struggled so long. Then Winifred sings in a low, sweet voice, which seems to be in harmony with the Birk, and the gentle sighing of the wind which sends ever and anon a pure white or a delicate pink petal upon her head and dress, as a message from the days of her childhood. "Papa will soon be here now, baby; then he will never say he is tired, but toss you about and carry you everywhere. It is a fortnight to-day since we saw papa, baby. How have we lived so long without him ?" "Winifred, hast thou enough wraps ?" Sarah Day asks, coming over the grass with swift, alert steps. "And shall I not carry the dear boy into the house, and give him to nurse?" "Oh! no, Daisy, thank thee. I do so want him to be here when his papa comes, under the old appletree." "Ah, dearie! he has tender remembrances of the tree, I dare say, where he first saw his bird, six or seven years ago." "Six years, Daisy," Winifred said decidedly, as if that date could never fade out. "Does not he look like his father now he is asleep ?" "Asleep or awake, he is his very image—the darling!" Sarah Day said. "It is so sweet to see thee sitting there, with thy child in thy arms. I wish our poor little Dulcie could get some nursing and petting." "Why, Daisy, I think she gets a great deal. I am sure thou art doing everything to spoil her, as thou didst me." "Ah! but it is the mother's love and fondling children want. I always think it is like sunshine to plantsthey can't thrive without it." As Sarah Day spoke, Anna Pennington came into the garden, holding by the hand her little granddaughter, now a child of two years and a half old, dressed in a |