lines while my eyes were closed, no sooner did
I seem to wake to consciousness again than the
sunshine and the archness beamed out. Once
or twice it smote me that she wondered at my
petulance and gloom—wondered, not knowing
that my time had already come, that the burden
of the sorrow she had brought me was already
upon my shoulders. " Are you in pain,
dear?" she would ask, perplexed. "I am
afraid you are worse than we think;" and I
would answer, coldly, "Thank you; I suffer
a little, but it will pass away. It is only weakness.
Pray do not trouble yourself so much
about me."

My only excuse was that my heart was breaking;
but this I could not explain. And still
she was faithful and winning, would not take
offence, and would not be repelled. It was hard
work trying to hate her, and I gave it up at
last. One time when her hand hovered by me
I caught it going past, kissed it, and burst into
tears, "Forgive me," I said; "you are an
angel, and I——" I felt that I had been
something very evil in the past few days.
"My poor little nervous darling!" she said,
down on her knees, with her arms about me,
"what shall we do to make you strong?"
"Little" she called me, though I was as tall
as she. I acknowledged her superior greatness
for compelling love, and letting the bitterness
roll out of my heart for the time, like a huge
load, I laid my head upon her shoulder for a
long miserable cry. Desperately I invented
excuses for my tears, but I shed them, and
they did me good. After that I no longer
struggled against the spell of her attraction. I
loved her even out of the depths of the misery
she had caused.

She saw that I was growing to love her, and
she was glad, and I winced at her delight. She
was thinking that by-and-by, when I should
have " got over it," she and I would be friends.
I smarted silently, and smiled. I would not be
a weeping, deserted damsel. I would try to be
strong and generous, and keep my sorrow to
myself.

During this illness of mine, which lasted
about a week, John came often to the hall to
inquire for me. Good little Mrs. Hill would
come into the room smiling, and say, " Rachel,
you must go down to Mr. Hollingford. He
wants to hear from your own lips about your
patient." And she would sit with me, talking
about her dogs and the county families, till
Rachel's return, who always brought me kind
messages, and seemed anxious to deliver them
faithfully. I thought she always came back
with signs of disturbance in her face, either
very pale, or with a heightened colour. Once
I thought she looked as if she had been crying;
she pulled down the blinds immediately on
entering the room, and sat with her back to
the light.

"Margery," said she, by-and-by, " Mrs.
Hollingford is coming to see you to-morrow."

"Is she?" said I, with a great pang at my
heart.

I could not say " I am glad," for the dear
old lady's true face rose up before me, a
treasure I had lost, and I lay back among my
cushions, and thought it would be well if I
could die.

The next morning Rachel was restless and
absent. Early in the day she left me suddenly,
and came back dressed in her riding-habit.

"I am going for a ride, dear," she said,
hurriedly. " I am not very well; I need fresh air.
You can do without me for a few hours, I dare
say."

Something in her manner made me wonder.
I heard the mustering of horses on the gravel,
and dragged myself to the window to see if
John Hollingford were of the party. But he
was not there. Lying on my sofa afterwards, I
remembered Mrs. Hollingford's expected visit,
and felt sure that Rachel had gone away to
avoid her. I remembered that they had
never yet met, and I easily saw a reason for
Rachel's fearing her eyes at present. In the
midst of these reflections came my dear second
mother.

Mrs. Hill brought her to me. The contrast
between the two was striking. Mrs. Hill was
short, fat, and plain, and had narrowly escaped
from Nature's hands without the stamp of a
vulgar little woman. Mrs. Hollingford was
tall and slender, with a worn noble face, and, in
spite of all circumstances, looked the ideal of
an ancient " high-born ladye."

When I looked at her, I felt that it would
be impossible for me to go back to the farm. I
thought that when we found ourselves alone I
would tell her what I had learned, and beg of
her to permit me to go straight from the hall
to London, whence I could write a letter of
release to John. But Mrs. Hill stayed with us
some time, and in the mean time my courage
oozed away. When I found myself face to face
with her, and no one else there, I could not say
a word of my confession. I realised what
would be her dismay, her indignation, and,
worst of all, I feared her incredulity. She would
assuredly speak to John when she went home,
and all my pride revolted at the thought. So I
let the opportunity go by.

I told her of Miss Leonard's kindness. She
had been a little hurt, I think, at the young
lady's absence, but she was never used to look
for slights, and my testimony cleared away all
shadow of offence. Afterwards I found that the
girls at home were indignant at Miss Leonard's
hauteur. They had expected something
different. She had disappointed them. Mrs. Hill
was courteous, Mr. Hill was kind, but Miss
Leonard ignored the dear old mother
altogether.

"'Tis always the way with upstarts," said
Jane; and the foolish little hearts were up in
arms.

"Tell me, my darling," said Mrs. Hollingford,
with her arm round my neck, " is there
anything amiss between you and John?"

"What could there be amiss?" I said, kissing
her hand, and avoiding her eyes. " I have