the tomb of poor Grace fell over Winifred
as well; and the fatal truth that no wrong
is finite, but that the influence of evil spreads
and multiplies for ever, rested like a blight
on the young foster-mother and her child.

It was striking the change which this
adoption worked in Winifred. No, not
change, so much as development. Always
a girl of deep feelings and an earnest nature,
the terrible story of one who had been like
her own sister, her mournful death, and now
this adoption of her child, brought out all
that was most serious in her character, and
subdued whatever girlishness she might have
had. But this change in her, only made her
character more beautiful. Always good, she
was now admirable; always conscientious,
she was now heroic. And how she loved that
little one!

It was a dear little baby too, loveable for
itself, if for nothing else more touching. It
was one of those round, fat, curly things, that
laugh, and cry, and kick up and crow, all day
long—a thing of unrest and appetite, for ever
fighting with its fat, foolish arms, and senseless
hands doubled into rosy balls, striking
wide, and hitting its own eyes or nose in the
spasmodic way of babyhood; when it wanted to
suck that doubled fist, making insane attempts
before it could reach its rosy, wet, wide-open
mouth, and generally obliged to take both
hands before it could accomplish that first
feat of infancy; a restless, passionate, insatiable
baby, that had strong notions of its own
importance, and required at least one slave in
perpetual attendance; an unreasonable baby;
a wilful baby; but a baby after a woman's
own heart. So, to this little life Winifred
devoted herself, never heeding the cold looks
and slighting words of the world without,
and never thinking that a day might come
when any other love could step in between
her child and herself.

Louis Blake was Winifred's great friend.
They were like brother and sister, and
inseparable. Louis was exactly Winifred's own
age—five-and-twenty; the little Mary
about three years' old now. It was
circumstance and opportunity that made them
such fast allies; for by nature they had not
many points of sympathy together. Louis
was a brave, energetic, honorable man, but
essentially a man of the world—ambitious,
clever, and eminently unromantic. That in
him which pleased Winifred was his manliness.
Tall, handsome, powerful, and practical,
he was the ideal of masculine strength;
while the materialism and worldly pride
which marred his character were not brought
out in the circumstances of a quiet country life.
The only side now seen was his undeniable
common sense and personal dignity; and
these were graces, not defects, in their present
proportion.

They were together a great deal, walking,
riding, sitting by the same dark sea
which had borne away poor Grace's tears;
reading together, thinking, talking, studying;
until at last the conditions of their
daily lives grew so closely interlaced, that
neither thought it possible to separate them.
Winifred had thought so little at any time
about love, that it never occurred to her to
ask herself whether this were love or friendship;
and Louis knew too well how large his
own ambition was, and how it filled his heart,
to dream it possible he could give place
to any other passion. So they went on in the
old sweet way of descent, and believed they
were standing on the high plain above.

But Louis began to think more of Winifred
than he liked to acknowledge to himself; and
he began to think, too, how he could arrange
his life if he married her. If this should ever
be, he thought the first thing he would do
would be to send little Mary to the Foundling
Hospital, or put her out to nurse, and afterwards
to school. At any rate he would have
her taken from Winifred. Louis thought
this the best thing for the girl herself; and
as for Mary's happiness, she must take the
consequences of her painful position. Her
birth was an accident, certainly, and it seemed
hard to punish her for it; but the birth of a
royal duke was an accident too, and yet he
got the benefit of it. So Louis reasoned,
smoking his cigar in the evening, and believing
that he reasoned judiciously and well.

Things went on in the same way for many
months, until at last a letter came, demanding
the immediate presence of the young student
in London, on matters of great
consequence, connected with his future career.
Louis was pleased at the prospect of immediate
employment; it was the first round of the
great ladder won, and was the best practical
news he could hear. But he was more than
grieved to leave Winifred and South Shore.
He had solved the problem, and found that
love and ambition could exist together. His
next lesson would be on their proportions.

"Winifred," he said, "I have bad news for
us—though good for me too."

"What is it, Louis?" said the girl, looking
up from the ground where she was sitting,
playing with little Mary.

"Leave that child to herself for a moment,
if you can," he said, almost pettishly, "and
come with me into the garden."

Winifred gathered up her black hair,
which had fallen below her waist, and, sending
Mary to her nurse, went out with her
friend. They walked some time in silence;
Louis pale and agitated, his arms crossed,
and biting his forefinger.

"What is the matter, dear Louis?" said
Winifred at last, laying her hand on his
shoulder, as a sister might have done. "You
are so pale—and—why, Louis, you are
trembling! Oh! what has happened to you?"

"I am grieved, Winny," he said, affectionately,
taking her hand from his shoulder, to
hold it between his own. "I did not think I
should have felt it so much."