not hide her eyes from their joy, or look on with sullen silence because her own path in life had been early darkened by a shadow which had left its traces upon her whole being. She would meet Mr. Norman to-morrow with a cheerful face, and would wish him joy warmly, even while she owned frankly how much they would all miss him.

If ever there was a man who deserved good fortune and happiness, surely it was Andrew Norman, and she would be the last to grudge it him, now it had come to one who had so well earned it, and who would turn it to so excellent

a use.

As she stood there alone in the little parlour, with her eyes fixed on the streak of pale light in the western skies, thinking over the news which her aunt had brought, did the memory of another autumn evening long ago come into her mind, when Andrew Norman had stood in that very room before her, and had pleaded his cause with the strong eloquence of love?

Did a passing pang of regret thrill her heart as she recalled the words with which she had answered him, and the manner in which she had requited that faithful, true-hearted love which he had laid at her feet all those years ago, and which she, in the pride of her youth, had scorned to take up as her own?

Perhaps some thoughts of this kind were in Margie's mind that evening, and gave her eyes a sadder expression than usual as she stood at the open window, watching the sunset fading slowly off the topmost roofs. But she did not allow them to linger long in her breast, and soon rose to attend to her duties, saying to herself that the past could not be recalled, and that she must accept the consequences of her own act, whether or not it had been a wise and good one. After all, it might be best for him in the end. As she had said to Mr. Norman himself that day, and as she still believed, he might find another woman more worthy of his life's devotion, and who would be a better helpmeet to him in the years that were to come.

Only she knew this. Wherever he went, her warmest wishes for his welfare would follow him, and the thankful prayers of one who had learnt by long experience all the beauty and the worth of the heart which it had once despised, would come down in blessings on his head.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"After-loves of birds and men
Are but dainties drest again.
Love me now, you'll love me then,
Love can come but once a life."

TENNYSON.

RS. PLASKITT'S news proved correct this time. The schoolmaster was

M

really going away, much to the dismay

of the vicar and all the inhabitants in the parish, who were keenly alive to the loss which they were about to sustain, in the departure of one who had spent so many years among them, and had been so universally respected and even beloved.

The lamentations and expressions of regret in King's Marden were general when the news became known. Farmer Trudgeon delivered himself of the parochial feelings in a set speech which cost him no little trouble to frame; and Cornelius Maynard, who rarely went out of his way to be civil to any

one, and who had never been on particularly cordial terms with the schoolmaster, felt it due to his official position as parish overseer to tell Norman that he was sorry to hear he was going.

That morning Mrs. Connor walked across to see Margie, and finding her engaged in the important task of cutting out a frock for her youthful nephew, remained to assist her till late in the afternoon.

She had only just left her, and Margie was standing at the garden gate watering some mignonette, when Andrew Norman himself walked up the path which led to the carpenter's house.

"He is coming to tell us all about his new place," thought Margie, and she tried to think how best she could express her sincere regret at losing him without seeming unkind, or wanting in sympathy at the pleasure which he must naturally feel in his success.

She walked towards him and held out her hand, saying in her most friendly manner

We

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Norman. were hoping you would come, and let us tell you how glad we are for your sake; only you must not expect us to like the thought of losing you."

"Thank you. I don't like leaving Marden. myself at all, but perhaps it is best on the whole. Even the vicar did not see how I could refuse the place. But tearing up roots which have sunk deep

must cost one something, and I have been here at long while," said the schoolmaster, looking back at the village street as he spoke.

He was thinking what a haven of rest King's Marden had seemed to him when he first came all those years ago, and how, in his thankfulness at finding a home after his stormy youth, he had said to himself that he would settle here for life. And yet he was leaving it to go out into a new, untried world.

"We shall miss you very much," said Margie simply. She was bending down to pick up her watering-pot and did not see the eager anxiety with which he scanned her face as she spoke.

"Come indoors," she said presently. "Father will be in directly, and he would be sorry to miss you.' Without a word, the schoolmaster followed her into the little parlour where they had so often been together.

The afternoon sun was shining on the wall, and through the open casement came the hum of the bees outside and the scent of the late roses. A white pigeon or two were pecking for worms on the gravel walk outside, and another was cooing in the elm branches overhead.

As Margie turned to shut the door her eyes met those of Norman, and the same thought flashed across both their minds. Just so had they stood