BUT what could explain what looked like bewilderment in Cecilia, or her strange half-confession on her own character? She was as little given to speak, as to think of herself; always intelligible, I had thought, wise, and deliberate; and so free from guile and artifice, even the most innocent, that I did not believe she could have reserved a trifle from me, far less feelings such as these. What was the voice half hinted at ?— this haste and apparent abdication of liberty, so perplexing in one who thought far too highly of all that affection implied, ever to give it (and this for life) by mere impulse. There was leisure for these questions, for Cecilia's parents were naturally, after her, Robert's first interest for the time, and my presence was by no means urgently required. I saw him walking between them on the lawn; yet the conversation not so engrossing that my mother (and Robert when he saw where her eyes were directed, but timidly) could not cast occasional upward glances towards Cecilia's jessamine window. Nothing that I could remember, since her early days of childish passion, resembled or seemed to account for my sister's words; I could finally ascribe them only to the novelty of the moment, the force of many feelings, the imperial excitement of Love, bringing out this dear child's whole character,-what had appeared past and forgotten, with the dawning sense of responsibility to come,

together. As when earth is trenched more deeply than usual, strange plants and flowers unknown in the neighbourhood are said to spring up side by side with the accustomed growths, so the new stirring of the heart, I thought, acted on Cecilia. Perhaps this was mainly correct; only I did not then recognise how little any portion of character is ever absolutely effaced; how, after seemingly laid aside in the nursery drawer with our broken toys, the child's heart must reappear when the house is searched in preparation for some new tenant. There was something in it that vaguely vexed me; yet something of delightful interest also from the conviction thus brought that all my sister's character was not yet known to me. Often the sketches of great artists charm more than the finished work; the first seem still part of themselves; the complete creation, it has been truly remarked, has separated itself from the artist. Thus Cecilia too might not yet have concluded her mind's growth; and ah! how much indeed remained, hard for those who most loved her to decipher, but when deciphered, that made them love her with an even more tender touch of tenderness.

I need go no further into the details of the period of betrothal. One or two of the conversations however, amongst the thousand, grave and serious, that arose from this event, I shall try to write out. They will be no doubt poor, flat, and unconversational; in many ways dissimilar from what was really said. All written conversations are such; the straggling ends are cut off, the gestures omitted, the happy half sentences completed. A unity of texture and of aim is given, which in actual life can be discovered only in the best talk of the best talkers. Did not Dr. Johnson say more and less than the photographer of that day has told us? I wish others bestowed the care and love on their conversation which he gave; there could hardly be a more refined compliment to their hearers: his most random words appear perfect, fit for type, and as good to-day as sixty years since: and yet I am convinced if we had his whole conversation that evening when his voice seemed to echo and rebound from Temple Bar to Cheapside-Well, well; Mr. Johnson did roar, no doubt; but it must have been in a leonine and truly noble style of roaring.

"I am sure you wondered" Robert said two days after the declaration, as he put his arm in mine to lead me towards Fountainhall, "why I said nothing to you of-of all this at College."

"There have been so many things altogether to wonder at, that I had nearly forgotten it, although at first certainly such a thought passed through my mind."

"It is indeed so wonderful; so strange and sweet to me," he went on as if in reverie and looking on the ground, "so very strange and sweet that it may seem as strange to you to say so-I feel as if nothing equal can recur in life."

"Not at all" I said with some improper inclination to laugh: "most people, I fancy, in such circumstances feel much as you do."

"Often one thinks a thing original, only because one is conscious of it for the first time" Robert answered gently; excuse my common

place: I know the genius will not be on my side!

What I meant,

or thought I meant, was-This to me is the great entrance on the realities of life, even more than even ordination, for example, in my own case, will be. It is a change such as in boyhood one thought must be accompanied with some great outward signs, and accomplished in a solemn manner; with a kind of Roman dignity."

"And now Robert is a little disappointed that proposing is not such an affair of "crossing bayonets as some one calls it, as you had fancied :—that it all came to pass without flourish of trumpets, or fiery swords in the sky :—that you saw, and asked, and were accepted."

"Oh your unfair ironical ways " he cried " now you are like your mother when she frightens me! only Eleanor would not let me say so." "She would think it the highest compliment you could pay, and probably undeserved. Women have a peculiar power, I think, in reconciling seriousness with gaiety; a light, healthy, cheerful wisdom beyond us; a kind of flower of common sense. But indeed, Robert, you must forgive me; no one can more heartily congratulate you than I; as no one knows better the depth of your happy fortune: only I did not quite feel certain what just now you were aiming at."

"It is that I know the immensity of the blessing given me, and that I can neither understand how I have deserved or how with such facility I have won it-Now I hope I am clear! I am astonished that the greatest event of life should overtake me "like a summer's cloud"; just now, when you are all so gay and affectionate, and so you will be always,—do not interrupt me-instead of the greatest responsibility of life, I appear to have taken on me one of the least; to be welcomed to

a child's feast, and put at the top of the table, and crowned with flowers, and a primrose path open before her and me

And in the midst of all I think-I am henceforth to be everything to her-to supply all that parents and brother have been for so many years. I am to create and to sustain the new life into which I lead her."

"No one can blame you for thoughts so serious; certainly not her brother; and yet if you will bear the suggestion, perhaps you are inclined to what shall I say?-to alarm yourself too much about all this. Of course it will be a new life to both; newest to Cecilia: still not so far separated from the old, I hope, either in character or place,” I said: "Look, there is Fountainhall! and that peculiarly unclassical Grecian Lodge of yours-not so new, in a word, as you think it. Our dear Cecilia at least, as I know her well, will carry the same sweet completeness of character, "the reason firm, the temperate will" to that house, as she would to the deserts of Arabia."

"It is a great blessing" I continued, for Robert was silent-I noticed often at this time that the sight of his own home silenced him—“ a very great to a family like ours, that so little-no disruption, in fact, can arise from this. We have been indeed so much bound together, so individual I might say in our little world, that how Cecilia could part from her mother has always been a perplexity to me-I should rather say, would have been, Robert, if you had left me time for such considerations."

Robert said seriously, in place of smiling as he ought, "Well, I am very sorry if you can think her precipitate."

"Cecilia! no."

you

<< But did think her so "he answered "she told me as much." "Indeed, indeed I said nothing; how could you fancy I could have spoken implying that to her."

"I am sure she knows your thoughts often when quite unuttered," (smiling) "and mine too, perhaps, you may be adding - Well! it was sudden at last—and this brings me back to what I began with : of course I had cared for her long, but I said nothing to you, dear friend, from the simplest of all reasons-the weakest, you may think."

"I was afraid."

"Exactly, I was afraid; one dislikes the phrase; perhaps another cowardice! I thought she loved her mother so that no one else could —