afterwards. Campbell was, as I had taken him to be, a rogue and a villain. Poor Rachel had had a hard time of it, and was in a bad way when this man saw her, and the doctors didn't give her many weeks to live. Then I wrote letter after letter, but no answer came, and one day my own letters were returned to me with an intimation that no such person was known there. After that I

had no doubt she was dead."

Oh, father, dear father," said Margie, with tears streaming down her cheeks, "how dreadfully sad! Poor Aunt Rachel! how much I should have liked to have known her! But perhaps she may yet be alive, and you will see her again some day.”

"Not in this world," said Luke, brushing away a tear with the back of his hand. "You must recollect that all this happened some thirty years ago. But you see, Margie, I would not have you think me hard upon you, whatever I may have been to her."

Margie's only reply was to throw both her arms round her father's neck, and at that hour father and child were drawn more closely together than they had ever been before.

D

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Do you think because you fail me,
And draw back your hand to-day,
That from out the heart I gave you,
My strong love can fail to-day?"

A. PROCTER.

OWN in the Lady-ground hay-making had begun, and all hands were at work from the early morning till late at evening.

When the night dews still lay thick on the grass, the sound of the mowers sharpening their scythes was heard mingling with the cry of the cuckoo and corn-crake, and all day long the meadow was alive with busy groups of men and women moving in rows as they turned the hay on their forks, or resting in the shade of the ash trees where the waggons stood, and boys came and went from the Manor-house with beer-cans in their hands.

Strange to say, Margie Chaplin was not there,

and the old shepherd looked in vain for the straw hat and bright ribbons which were so familiar to his eyes. For haymaking had always been a favourite pastime of Margie's, and the Ladyground was one of the nearest meadows to her father's house. Two years ago she had spent whole days there, and now more than one of the haymakers asked where she was and wondered at her absence.

From the window of her little bedroom she could see the men at work, and catch the delicious scent of the new-mown hay, which made her long to be out there with them all. Cornelius was there, of course; she could see his horse tied up to the gate, and fancied she distinguished his tall figure moving in the shadow of the spreading ash boughs.

But that was the very reason which kept her away. For the lovers had quarrelled more seriously than ever before, and Margie had parted from him, vowing she would have nothing more to do with him.

The day after her father's interview with Miss Fairbairn, she had seen Cornelius and had spoken her mind to him pretty freely.

Cornelius was naturally vexed at her reproaches, and being already inclined to think himself a very much ill-used person, had replied with a coolness which irritated Margie in the highest degree.

Sharp words had passed between them. Cornelius had reproached her with her want of trust in him, and unkindness in believing false reports, upon which she had retorted that if he had behaved in a more open, straightforward way, instead of insisting on their engagement being concealed, all this trouble would have been spared them.

This taunt only aggravated Cornelius, who bitterly exclaimed that he had sacrificed everything to his love for her; and at last Margie had left him, saying that since he was ashamed of her, they had better give each other up.

Since that scene, more than ten days ago, they had not met again, and Margie told Essie, and tried to persuade herself, that she had parted with Cornelius for good and would never speak to him again.

But in her heart of hearts she felt how deeply her love had grown into her nature, and how powerless she was to root it up now. Her pale face and troubled look showed how hard the struggle was, and how much more it cost her than she would allow.

Cornelius took the matter much more easily, and did not let his grief interfere with either his sleep or appetite. He was really fond of Margie, and had no intention to give up the prospect of making her his wife some day, and of course this

quarrel was disagreeable, but he felt sure that before long he should find some means of bringing her round to his view of the subject.

In the mean time, since the tiresome King's Marden people would set mischievous reports about, it might be just as well for him and Margie to keep apart for a while, and in this manner silence impertinent tongues.

He might have taken things more seriously to heart had he known how cruelly Margie resented his conduct to her, and what bitter tears she wept when there was no one by to see them. And more than all what troubled her was the sense of her own weakness and the longing to see Cornelius again, which would wake in her breast with such overpowering force.

As she sat at the window looking towards the Lady-ground, on this summer afternoon, giving herself up to these anxious questionings, Jenny came up to tell her that there were visitors in the parlour.

Margie went downstairs, not sorry for anything which could help to distract her thoughts, and found Andrew Norman and Mrs. Plaskitt sitting with Essie.

In her present anxieties, Margie had almost forgotten the existence of her rejected lover, and greeted the schoolmaster with more friendliness than she had ever done since the memorable day