CHAPTER V.

"Better trust all and be deceived,

And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that if believed

Had blessed one's life with true believing."

F. KEMBLE's Poems.

THE sun seemed to shine with unusual brilliancy on that Sabbath morning, on which, for the first and second times, the banns were to have been published for Mary Aldham and Robert Mason, and Millicent Ray and Philip Hartley.

But how little can we tell what a day may bring forth? The lifeless form of Robert Mason lay on a bed in his mother's cottage, and kneeling beside it, her face buried in the pillow, was poor Mary. In his own lodgings, looking pale and haggard, as though no sleep had refreshed him during the long hours of night, was Philip Hartley. He was seated by a table, his hands supporting his head, reading a letter, which lay open before him, and Millicent was kneeling in her accustomed place in the old church, earnestly

praying that in all her troubles and adversities she might place her whole trust and confidence in God's

mercy.

What was the letter which kept Philip away from his accustomed place in church-which was filling his heart with anger and disappointment - which seemed at one blow to have crushed every bright hope in this world? It ran thus:

"Dearest Philip,-What will you say to me when you hear that I have given up, in favour of another, the situation which I thought would have enabled us to marry? I have done this, dear Philip; but don't be angry with me. I am sure you will believe I feel the disappointment as bitter as you can; but the poor Aldhams were in such trouble. Forgive me, dear Philip, and let us still go on loving and hoping for better days. Come to me as soon as you can after work, and I will explain all to you. Your ever loving till death

"MILLICENT."

For five years, for a reason she had never told him, Millicent had refused to marry him. And nownow that that reason was removed-that no obstacle interfered to prevent their happiness, and life was opening before them with bright prospects, she herself

had wantonly cast away the means by which that happiness was to be secured-that bright prospect enjoyed.

There was more of anger in his heart than any other feeling. Wounded pride, too, tortured him. How little could she care for him if she was so ready to give him up! True, he had said that he was willing to work for them all, and so he would have done still, if through any misfortune she had lost the school; but it was her own act and deed, proving-so his anger made him think-that she cared nothing for him, nor wished to be his wife. So let it be, then; he had done with her. She should see he was not to be trifled with. And tearing her letter in a thousand pieces, he scattered it to the winds, and never left his room all day, refusing anything to eat, but drinking heavily for the first time in his life-so passed his Sabbath-day.

Millicent attended both services, and in the afternoon read to the old folks, and went about all her duties with a calmness, which was more touching than any show of grief. In the evening she asked her father if he would kindly walk as far as Philip's lodgings, for she feared he was angry, for he had neither come nor answered her letter. She had told her parents what she had done; and they, although sorry for Philip, could not help being glad that

Millicent was not to leave them; but there was poor little Susan to know it yet, and Millicent dreaded writing to her, knowing how disappointed she would be. The first excitement over, now that she had time to reflect, she felt that she had acted too hastily. She had forgotten, in the excitement of the moment, that others beside herself were concerned that she was sacrificing Philip, who had loved her so long and truly, and that it would be no worse for the Aldhams to go to the workhouse than her little cousin, and that must be her inevitable fate if some aid was not speedily extended to her and her family. Moreover, on reflection, she feared Anne was scarcely fitted for the undertaking, and how grieved she should be if she did not after all suit. Mrs. Ponsonby would be vexed and disappointed; and, in short, Millicent thoroughly repented what she had done, as all must do when they act from impulse, not principle.

To relieve Anne from her bitter distress was all she thought of. She knew that she was sacrificing herself, but forgot that she should make others suffer also.

When her father returned, he said he had not seen Philip, but the woman of the house said he had gone to bed ill.

Almost for the first time in her life, Millicent passed an entirely sleepless night. What should she

do? Poor Philip was ill, and she feared angry, but

there was no remedy that she could see. Nothing but to bear it patiently, and endeavour to profit by the lesson she had learnt-that principle, and not impulse, should be the guide of our lives.

All the next day she received no tidings of Philip; and in the evening a message came from the Vicarage, asking her to go up there. With a heavy heart she prepared to obey the summons. In all the trials of her life none had weighed on her like this, and the more, because she felt she had brought it on herself.

Mrs. Ponsonby saw at a glance that something was wrong. She missed the bright smile, which was a peculiar characteristic of Millicent's face, and felt sure that it must be something of moment which could thus have saddened that joyous expression.

"I wanted to see you, Millicent," said Mrs. Ponsonby, "again, about this school. My husband went on Saturday to see the young woman you have recommended, and he fears she will not do."

"Indeed, ma'am!" said Millicent; "I am sorry to hear that. She appeared to me to be quite the person you wanted."

"Oh, no! she seems a quiet, good, respectable person; but with so little information herself, that she could not teach others."

"But I understood you, ma'am, that it was a