were repressed by a wholesome fear of her mother, and a due regard to self-interest. She might be pardoned for attaching some importance to such a brilliant alliance, both as holding out to her husband the certainty of advancement, and as materially improving her position with regard to that husband's family, who were reported to be very much mollified by the prospect. Yes, Laura highly appreciated the advantages of Eve's new position; and yet she gave a short sigh, as she turned away lest her scrutiny should annoy her.

'MY DEAR EVE,-We have so long been together in joy and grief-bound to each other, I would fain hope, by so many ties of habit, nature, and affection-that I had hoped. we should not part without one more interview of confidence and sympathy. I begin to

despair of this now; but cannot reflect that, long ere this hour to-morrow, your fate will be irrevocably decided, without once more asking you if that fate seems to you still the one you would, above all others, have chosen? This is a solemn question for you, Eve-it is equally so as regards him who will to-morrow

be your husband. I have few dearer wishes than your happiness and his. Dear Eve, have you anything more to speak to me about— any wish, any doubt? Now, for the last time, let there be full confidence between us.'

A few more words of love, of entreaty, of solemn import. Eve's eyes glanced over them, and seemed to see in all a repetition of Jane Desborough's prayers and warnings. A suspicion of their complicity struck her, and hardened her against them.

'Draw that table near me, Laura,' she said; and taking up her pen, wrote calmly :

:

'You are kind as ever, dear Mordaunt, but I have nothing to ask, or say. I am very tired, and afraid of a scene.

help me by avoiding one.'

You will best

She twisted it up, and gave it to Laura with a smile; and Laura went away, a little puzzled and deluded, and not guessing that Eve insisted on retaining that little burden in her arms, because it acted like a check upon her emotion -because it was an occupation, a something warm and living to hold to her beating heart, 1 remind her she was not alone. Mrs.

Cuthbert is with her soon; and there are intricate questions about luggage, and veils, and cloaks, and cards, and addresses, to be settled before they separate for the night.

Mordaunt goes early up to his room, but comes down again with a sudden fancy that even now Eve may repent and need him. But Mrs. Cuthbert is not guiltless of a similar fancy, and, tired as she is, does most tenderly sit by her youngest born till late, and then helps to undress, and guards her jealously, and even watches by her side till the sleep of exhaustion closes those burning eyelids.

So Mordaunt waits in vain by the cooling ashes of the burnt-out fire, with senses strained to catch the faintest footfall. Sometimes he looks again at that cold little note with a sad face-sometimes he tries to cheer himself, and believe that all is well. Oftener still his hand is passed across his brow, and he seeks guidance, and solace, and help for her and for himself. By-and-bye Mrs. Cuthbert's hushed tread goes into her own room, and all is still as death. An hour steals away, and then he, too, glides upstairs, and lying down sinks into a deep but troubled sleep.

The grey dawn strokes with icy fingers the dark brow of night. The air is full of those mysterious whispers those sudden pauses of chill expectancy which usher in the day—when Eve comes out of her room, wrapped in a loose dress, with a ghastly face, and eyes full of some wild purpose. She has awakened, and finds that the day has come-the crisis, the last turning point of her life. What does she think? what hope, what mean? 'Mordaunt, Mordaunt, help me!' The cry is only in her heart— the lips are silent-but she passes swiftly to his door-her hand is on the lock! Awake, Mordaunt, awake! But the firm grasp upon her arm, the stern eye which fixes hers, are not his. Mrs. Cuthbert quietly leads her back into her room, lays her down unresistingly, and asks, in a voice low and unnaturally gentle'My dear child, what ails you? what did you want there?'

'It was a dream, mother-a dream! all over now.'

It is

And the blanched face is

pressed down and hidden on the pillow.

CHAPTER X.

Remember, when God cuts off the shoots of our own interests, it is that we may graft upon our hearts the interests of others.

THE

The Experience of Life.

HE bells of the town nearest to Mrs. Philipson's Welsh home clash and clamour their utmost when the day, which broke so drearily, has warmed into life and radiance. There is a violent bustle in the principal inn, where a dinner is to be held in honour of Sir Mark's marriage; and the school children go without their noonday bread and butter, in eager expectation of buns and cake and tea in the afternoon-for the town is proud of Sir Mark, and only too glad to have an excuse for being gay and jovial.

But Mrs. Philipson is too far away to hear the bells and see the bustle, and her heart and thoughts are busy with other occupation than feasting. She rejoices very solemnly, and has