dress makes my heart ache. Why were you so sad to-day? And your grandfather. The poor old man's face was a picture of woe. What can it mean? Sorrow for the dead does not wear so deep a shade of misery. There was no resignation in the old man's look; it expressed something of a present grief, a pressing wretchedness that does not belong to mourning for those who are gone. And Clytie, you looked unhappy too, and there were tears in your dear eyes when you rose from your knees. But sometimes sorrow brings love in its train. Surely there was something akin to love in your eye when you looked at me, something that indicated a closer familiarity than I have hitherto been blessed with, a sort of exchange of confidence. Oh, Clytie, Clytie, you will ruin me body and soul if you cannot love me!"

The student strode up and down his apartment as he spoke. Mrs. Wilding knocked at the door to see if he were ready for his cheese.

"Why, I declare thou hasn't eaten anything," she exclaimed. "Whatever is the matter with the lad?”

Mrs. Wilding was a Yorkshire woman; an elderly fair old woman, with white hair; a plump old lady, whose life had been spent in and about the colleges. She was one of those north-country women who impress you with their commanding appearance, their fine open faces, their heads cleanly put on their shoulders, like the heads of thoroughbred racehorses. If Mrs. Wilding had been well educated, and had not spoken with a dialect, she would have been a lady and the wife of a rector or a landowner; as it was, she was the wife of the Dean's coachman. Nevertheless, she was a woman of note in Dunelm.

"I beg your pardon," said Tom; "I was reading. Sit down while I do justice to your excellent cuisine, and we will have a chat."

“Eh, you're a funny fellow, Mr. Mayfield."

"Why?" said Tom, pouring out a glass of wine. "Now, you must drink that."

"I shall do nothing of the sort, Mr. Tom. I'll sit here a minute if thou likes, but I've had my dinner, and I never drink wine" "Never!" exclaimed Tom.

"Not before night," said Mrs. Wilding.

"Very well," said Tom; "of course you will do as you please. How is the good man?"

"All right, thank you."

"And what is the latest news?"

"They say Mester Waller is goin to leave Dunelm."

"Who says so?" exclaimed Tom, laying down his knife and fork. "Nay, if you're goin to fly up like that I'll not stop."

"Go on, Mrs. Wilding; you know how much the Wallers interest me."

"Yes, you don't disguise your fancy-everybody in the place knows that you're in love with Mary Waller-Clytie as you call her." "Well," said Tom, gulping down his wine.

"But t'other is favourite lover; that Ransford fellow, and th' old man is bothered to death about it, and means to take lass go abroad."

away and

"Who tells you this?” asked Tom, trying to appear cool. "Well, thou sees, my washerwoman's wench is servant there, and there's not so much goin' on in Dunelm as one can afford to shut the mouth of even your washerwoman."

"No, Dunelm is very quiet; there would be no news at all if we did not scandalise," said Tom, with a little asperity.

"Don't say that, sir, as if you meant me, I don't scandalise, and you know I don't, but one can't help hearing what folk says; however, as I don't seem to make myself agreeable, I'll go and fill Wilding's pipe and let him have a smoke after his bit dinner."

I am sorry if I have annoyed you, Mrs. Wilding," said Tom.

"O, lor bless you, no annoyance," she replied.

toud you something else, but never mind, it'll keep."

"By all means," said Tom, smiling.

"You'll take some cheese and a bit of salad?"

"I could have

Mrs. Wilding had evidently made up her mind that their conversation was at an end.

"Thank you, yes."

The landlady bowed herself out, and the cheese and salad came in. Tom paid no attention to either, but lighted his pipe and sat musing in front of the Parian bust.

"Averroes thought that the souls of all mankind are only one spirit which animates different people," said Tom; "it is a curious idea and suggestive. If one wishes to become thoroughly acquainted with our fellow mortals, the best way is to study oneself. Pope put the idea, but only as a distinction between probing nature and inquiring into one's own heart. But one's own nature does, to a certain extent, seem a reflection of other people's. If I study my own heart thoroughly it teaches me a great deal about my fellows. I suppose that thought prompted Averroes to his philosophy. Well now, how is it that when my heart is so true and pure and faithful, in regard to you, my Clytie, that looking into it, I seem to read there the impurity

of Phil Ransford's? Beware of him! My whole nature joins in pronouncing him a villain. And why? Is jealousy the cause of it?

I cannot say.

Oh! jealousy, thou bane of pleasing friendship,
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms,
How does thy rancour poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness!

True, true! But I shall never be jealous of you, my sweet Clytie; and if there be any truth in this idle rumour that old Waller intends to shut out the light here in Dunelm, why I will at once sue thee at thy feet to be my wife, and ask thy grandfather to let thee stay."

The sunlight which had been obscured by a passing cloud fell full and golden upon Clytie's head.

"I accept the omen," said Tom, "happy is the bride that the sun shines on. I shall propose for thee at once. They think Ransford is the favourite, do they! He is a scoundrel and a coward. He is certainly not a gentleman; he neither kept his appointment, nor explained his absence. Why did he not come, I wonder? Let me see, it was last Sunday night when he said we must have a serious conversation. I fixed Monday for it; he never came. What else could Mrs. Wilding have told me if she had liked? Pooh, I do not care; I will not listen to tales, my Clytie. But you shall listen to me, my darling-you must; life is nothing without you; take me for thy love, and thou shalt never have cause to doubt me.

They say, base men being in love, have then

A nobility in their natures more

Than is native to them.

But he is not in love; he only desires to add another to what he calls his conquests. Love is full of self-denial; it takes no count of wealth, nor time, nor place; it is lowly and gentle, meek and confiding; yet brave as lions are, and will not be restrained."

Tom Mayfield smoked and mused-smoked and talked to the Parian bust ; while Clytie herself was sitting at her grandfather's knee, listening to the sad story of her mother's life and being warned against Phil Ransford. She had had a miserable time since that unhappy meeting on the terrace. Her grandfather had watched her every movement. The servant was also a spy upon her. She had not been outside the house alone. On this anniversary of her mother's death, Luke Waller had coloured the well-known story with the deepest shadows, and talked to his trembling grandchild as if she were indeed on the brink of ruin, if she had not already fallen.

This not only hurt the girl, but offended her; it bruised her heart and wounded her pride; it made her tears hot and scalding, it seared her better nature, it degraded and humiliated her; she felt that her grandfather would no longer believe in her. And he, poor old man, in his remembrance of the past, exaggerated the incident which had brought such misery upon the house, and felt all the wretchedness of a calamity which only existed in his imagination. Phil Ransford was in London. The season was in full swing, and it was therefore necessary that he should air himself in the Row. He had written a letter of explanation to Mr. Waller; and had contrived to get a letter into the hands of Clytie, in spite of all her grandfather's vigilance.

CHAPTER VII.

BEHIND THE SUNSHINE AND BENEATH THE FLOWERS.

It was not until some weeks after the unfortunate meeting between Luke Waller and Phil Ransford in the summer-house that Clytie regained anything like the accustomed confidence of her grandfather. She had led a miserable life with the old man during this interval. He had watched her with a jealous care that had become almost unbearable.

One bright June morning, however, Clytie resolved to sue for freedom, and at the same time, in her own weak way, she made up her mind to be worthy of it.

"I wish to go out this morning, grandfather," she said, "to take a walk alone as I used to do."

"Yes," said the old man, looking at her inquiringly.

"You must trust me, dear; my life will be a burden to me if you do not," said the girl, with a firmness of manner that seemed strange and foreign to her nature.

"Trust you, my dear? Would to God I could!" exclaimed Luke, raising his eyes, and shaking his head with a solemn doubtfulness.

"Do trust me! It is

"You may, dear-you may,” said the girl. such a lovely morning. I should like to go and gather some flowers, and have a long walk. It will do me good."

"I will go with you," said Luke.

"No, not now. It is the common talk of the city that I am not allowed to go out alone; that either you or cook must always be with me."

"Who says so ?"

"I believe it is common gossip."

How do you know?"

"I only surmise; but, of course, if you trust cook in preference to your own grandchild, she is sure to talk."

"You have heard nothing positively, then?"

“No; but you know what Dunelm is. We are like gold fish in a bowl; everybody can see each other."

"You wish to go for a walk alone to show that I trust you?”

Yes, dear; and because it is such a lovely morning."

"You may go."

“Oh, thank you, dear!" exclaimed the girl, flinging her arms round her grandfather's neck and kissing him.

"But if you deceive me again, Mary, I will believe you no more. Oh, my darling, if you only knew how it wrings my heart to speak to you in this cold, suspicious way! Be true to your poor old grandfather."

“I will, I will,” said the girl, kissing him again, and leaving the room to put her bonnet on her head, and the diamond necklace into her pocket.

The moment she had left the house, Mr. Waller's servant entered the room quickly and without ceremony.

"My young lady's took something out of her drawer and put it in her pocket."

"Go away-go away," said the old man, raising his hands to prevent her from saying any more.

"Well, you forced me to promise as I'd tell you everything, so you can do as you likes, that's all. If I was you I should follow my young lady."

"Curse you, go! and I give you warning to leave in a month. I'm tired of you. Half the mischief that is done comes through

you."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" burst out the young woman, commencing to cry; "and now you blames me for coming to tell you as Mr. Ransford was in the summer-house-oh, dear!”

"There, that will do. Go away, I tell you."

When he was once more alone, Luke shuffled irresolutely about the room, and finally put on his hat and sauntered into the Bailey.

Clytie had gone out with the full intention of being in every way worthy of her freedom, and her first thought towards it was to get