of the usual motives which prompt concealment, but because each would rather suffer silently than bring upon the other a shadow of pain;—yes, I call that unselfish love. Perhaps you will say a grain or two of selfishness would have served their purpose a great deal better.

Edward had watched her, with his soul in his eyes, while she read the letter, and as that spasm appeared to pass through her, a sympathetic thrill-was it wholly pain, or tinged with joy?-shot through his heart; but she spoke and looked so calmly, and her thoughts were evidently so full of her father, that he controlled the strong yearning which prompted him to speak, and speak the truth. Why should I startle her with a confession

of

my love just now," thought he, "when she needs all her strength, and when I must leave her ?"

And Grace said: "I must not let him see

how bitterly I feel this parting. It would grieve his kind heart."

So after a while, she went down stairs and made tea for him, and they talked of his prospects in India-of everything excepting that which filled both their hearts to overflowing.

It was a sleepless night with both, and Grace shrank from the task which was before her, of breaking the news to her father, whose extreme debility made it but too probable that any agitation might be fatal. She found him as he had been the night before, very low-the tears streaming down his face. When she came in, he tried to smile-but it was such a faint, heart-broken smile, more sad to see than tears. She sat down in her place at his feet, and began to read the Bible to him, as had been her daily custom for years. She read the breathings of the afflicted yet believing soul in the sublime

strains of the Psalmist; the compassionate call of the blessed Saviour to the weary and heavy laden. The divine words fell like balm on that bruised heart. They strengthened her own too, and after a few minutes passed in silent prayer, she began:

“Dear father, you must come out on the terrace to-day. Edward Armytage would like to see you there again once more before and you know the fresh air always

he goes,
does you good."

"Before Edward Armytage goes? He is not thinking of leaving us yet, I hope."

"You know, dear father, he has been a long time with us; I am sure he would stay longer if he could; but he must go soon, it seems.'

"He told me he had leave till October, and I thought by that time:-but when must he go?-how soon?"

"He got a letter yesterday requiring

him to go up to town immediately; he has the offer of some staff appointment, which you will be glad to hear; but he will tell you about it himself. Will you see him now or by-and-bye?"

"I will see him now;-stay, my darling; he looked very earnestly in his child's face, for he thought it was changed since yesterday? "Are you grieved at his going?"

"I am very sorry he must go, but that is selfishness, you know; and I was afraid it might distress you, dear father, to hear of it so suddenly, just at this time; but I knew you would be glad at his getting a good appointment; it makes amends for his having to go a little sooner. You know

he must have gone before long."

Her voice and eye were so steady, even cheerful, that her father was quite deceived."

"I will go and send him to you now,'

she said; but before she ventured to meet Edward, she spent some minutes alone.

Meanwhile Lord Glenruth pondered what he had just heard, and his daughter's manner of communicating it; it gave rise to mingled feelings; and he was still in deep thought when Edward entered his room. "This is sudden news for me, my dear boy: so you must leave us."

"I must, Lord Glenruth-I need hardly say how unwillingly; you know of the offer I have accepted."

"A staff appointment, Grace said; but gave me no particulars."

"It is to accompany Lord

to India,

as aide-de-camp. I could not feel justified in refusing such an offer. You know I have nothing to look to but my profession."

"India!" exclaimed Lord Glenruth. "I was not prepared for this: this is parting