to wish he had never saved the life of the man who could act so unworthily, and despise a love that was so true and deep.

Essie grieved for her sister's sake, and was rather relieved to find how quietly Margie took the news. The blow which had shattered her hopes, and broken the idol in which she had placed all her trust, had come by degrees, and whatever tears she wept were shed in secret. Even to her Aunt Rachel she never uttered a word of complaint, and Mrs. Connor only showed, by the tenderness of her affection and the thoughtful consideration of her words and actions, how deeply she felt for Margie.

Perhaps she rejoiced a little in her own mind to think that now there might be hopes for another faithful heart which had never changed; and, to say the truth, she felt some disappointment to see how seldom the schoolmaster came to Luke's house now, and how completely he seemed to have renounced all attempts to win Margie's love.

But Andrew Norman was a patient man. He had waited many years, and had proved by experience that the smallest crumb of hope is sufficient to satisfy the soul which has known what it is to do without hope.

And he had learnt how to wait in silence.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"It might have been once-once only."

R. BROWNING.

ORE than a year had already passed by since Cornelius Maynard had brought his wife home to the Manor-house

M

of the Danvers family, and once more the corn stood high on the hillside, and the mowers were busy among the barley.

Twelve or fifteen months;—it is a short time in the eyes of most of us, and flies quickly past, but it is long enough for much to happen and for many things to alter around us.

In the present instance there had been fewer changes in the outward order of things than might have been expected. The old shepherd had died a few months after he had helped bear his mistress to the grave, but with this exception none of the familiar faces were missing, and the labourers

on the farm and the servants in the house were the same as in Miss Fairbairn's time.

At first, when the young people had arrived, great changes were expected; and Cornelius had at once set to work to build stabling, and had bought two hunters and a dog-cart, in which the young mistress was to drive about the country. But she, poor thing, had not been married many weeks before she fell ill, and ever since then she had been a helpless invalid, who could rarely leave her couch, and only venture abroad for a short time on fine days.

The trial was a hard one to her, but in some respects an even harder one to Cornelius, who had little of the patience and consideration which constant attendance on a delicate person demands, and was sorely tried at finding his wife "such a poor creature," as the village folk had it.

At first he was compassionate and kind; but when he found that doctors' visits and change of air produced no lasting good, and were the cause of endless expense, he became irritable and impatient, and lost much of his affection for his wife. She, poor thing, resented his neglect in her weak fretful way; and, without being actually unkind, Cornelius sought less and less of his wife's society, while his interests and occupations were entirely divided from hers.

Thus, although a prosperous man in the eyes of

his neighbours, the first year of his married life had not been a happy one, and he was inclined to murmur at his hard fate, and to think, remorsefully, that after all it might have been better if he had married the girl he loved. It was impossible for him to live in the same village as Margie without occasionally meeting her, and although others might forget the terms upon which they had once stood, her presence was a perpetual reminder of his old passion, while the recollection of his want of faith had left a sting in his breast from which he could not altogether escape.

Margie, on her part, was free from these bitter memories, and had, at least, nothing with which to reproach herself. The force of her love and the `violence of her grief had, in a great measure, spent themselves during those first days when the news of Cornelius's intended marriage had reached her, and if the struggle had been a hard one, she had passed through it well.

Since his marriage, she had learned to meet Cornelius calmly and naturally, and never showed by look or word that she had ever regarded him with more than friendly feelings. Fortunately, her life during the past year had been more fully occupied than ever before, and new interests and joys in the lives of those dearest to her had filled her thoughts and engaged all her attention.

Luke had completely recovered from his illness, and was as busy as he had ever been before. Contrary to all expectation, Stannard had managed to retrieve his affairs, and in the course of this last summer had actually repaid the sum of money into the hands of the carpenter, who lost no time in discharging the debt which he owed to Norman.

Andrew received the payment in silence, scarcely knowing what use to make of the money, and not without a feeling of regret that there were no other service he could render to Margie's father; while Luke went home satisfied that he was no longer under obligation to any one.

He had learnt wisdom by experience, and there was no fear of his repeating the mistake he had once made, and advancing loans to help on clever young doctors in their career.

At the same time, under the softening effects of his sister's companionship and the sweet freshness of the memories which her presence revived, Luke had become more open to other influences, and began to feel that the human beings around him might prove almost as interesting, or, at least, have as many claims on his attention, as the chairs and tables upon which he had hitherto, according to Mrs. Plaskitt, expended his whole energies.

Perhaps this humanizing process was further assisted by the interest which he took in his little