was your Lord when He was here on earth. There is nothing so sweet, so holy as love!"

"But how can I love, for no one except my nurse loves me? My uncle cannot love me, else he would not have allowed her to tyrannise over me as she has done, as she will do again if she once has the opportunity. Ah, sir, she would make a very wicked girl of me if I went back to her. Please, please do not try to make me return to worse than Egyptian bondage. If you only knew!"

"Poor child, I do know much of what has passed; people have talked, and Mrs. Willabye's unkindness has been commented on pretty severely. She has had to bear the penalty of her misdeeds, for her husband can hardly bear her in his sight, and she is, I am told, extremely unhappy and greatly humbled. But if you will trust yourself to me I will take care that conditions are made. She shall be bound over, as it were, to keep the peace, in every sense of the word. I had some conversation with your uncle last night, and I think I see how matters might be arranged. I think I could persuade him to send you to a good school, where you would be happy, and receive a suitable education. If he passed his word he would keep it, I know. I would even exact from him a written promise, signed and sealed, if you thought it best."

Again the colour burned on Hilda's cheeks, and her eyes shone with earnestness, as she answered: "If that could, indeed, beif you could so arrange it-certainly, and without fail, I should feel, Sir, that I owed you more gratitude than I could ever express! If I could only learn a few things I could soon manage to teach others, and be dependent on no one; I will work hard, very hard, if I may go to school."

"I promise you that I will not give you up till I have made conditions. In the mean time, are you comfortable here? Are these Fosters kind to you?"

"I am not very comfortable-I was feeling a little awhile ago that I should lose my senses if I did not get away from this dreadful, lonely house, that seems full of ghosts; I never believed in ghosts till I came here, but I do now. This morning I felt that I was the most desolate creature in the world, and I asked God to do something for me! to appear on my behalf!- -as I once heard the Methodist minister at Down-Foot Chapel say; though I don't quite know what was meant, and I did not know what to ask for ; I only knew that I was helpless and hopeless, and that if God did not come to my relief no one else would, or could."

"And God sent me to your relief. He honoured me-poor Walter Burrows-by making me His instrument to bring you aid and comfort. Never doubt God in the future, my dear; in your extremity He will always ' appear' for you, if you ask Him. Does

He not bid His children call upon Him in the day of trouble? and does He not promise to deliver them, so that they may glorify Him? Ah, my dear! you have but to trust your heavenly Father and all will go well with you; your darkness shall be light, and your sorrows shall melt away in the brightness of His countenance. And now I must leave you for the present; may I not tell your nurse that I have found you, and put an end to her cruel anxiety? -I am sure she may be trusted."

"That she may! She has known all along that I am safe-not drowned, or starving, or murdered by tramps, as at first she feared. I believe she guesses where I am, though she has never been told. I did not want her compromised; nor the Fosters, who have in their own fashion been very good to me. I was thinking only last night that I would try to see my old nurse, and ask her to give me some advice."

"I think as soon as it is dark you had better go to her, and remain with her till things are settled; I will prepare her for your coming. Since she knows you are alive and well the shock will not be great. You had better not make your appearance in the village by daylight-there may be an outcry, the sudden consequences of which might be inconvenient. I will meet you at the church-lodge gates at seven o'clock-will that do ? "

"I will be there, Mr. Burrows, and thank you a thousand times. Ah! how nice it will be to be at Ivy Cottage once again." "Mrs. Foster will not object to your leaving her so suddenly?" "I am sure she will not. And yet, I am not sure that I shall tell her I am leaving her; she might be contrary, and lock the door, you know; she takes stubborn fits sometimes, and then no one can move her, not even Peter, though she is afraid of him, as a rule. He has a most violent temper. Oh! I shall be glad to get away! I hope I am not very unthankful, for the old house has been a refuge to me-I don't know what would have become of me if the Fosters had refused to take me in."

"I shall look for you at the lodge gates precisely as the church clock strikes seven."

"I shall be there; I shall not pack up my valise—I could not manage it, indeed, without letting the dame know what I was about. I shall just bring two or three things in a parcel."

And so it was that a few minutes before seven Hilda stole out of the kitchen, as she sometimes did, when it was not quite dark, taking her hat and cloak from the peg where she had placed them in readiness, while Mrs. Foster was stewing a fowl and onions for supper. The curate kept his tryst punctually, and in a very little time she was sobbing in her nurse's arms, while Mrs. Moggs, whom it had been necessary to take into confidence, could scarcely

speak for utter astonishment. She could only sit in her rockingchair, with up-lifted hands, crying from time to time: "Well, I never! Well-a-day-well-a-day! But thank the Lord for all His mercies!"

CHAPTER XXII.-THE CONDITIONS.

In spite of his fatigue, the curate did not sleep very soundly that night, nor did he relish, as much as might have been desired, the appetising "high tea," that was served up to him almost as soon as he made his appearance at the Rectory. As a matter of prudence, he withheld his confidence for the present from Mrs. Crake, although, as he reflected, the secret could not long be preserved, Mrs. Moggs being privy to the whole affair. Still, there could not well be any reports before morning, and certainly it was only right and proper that Mrs. Willabye should know the exact truth before it was circulated in the village, with all sorts of marvellous additions and variations, as it would certainly be before much time had elapsed.

The curate was so silent at breakfast-time and looked so very grave as he led the usual family devotions, that the housekeeper opined he had something more than ordinary on his mind, for he answered quite at cross-purposes when she asked him whether he would prefer a sausage or a rasher fried in the pan. And he had made his prayer not at all out of the book; he had asked that wisdom and judgment might be granted to him, and that he might succeed perfectly in that which he was pledged to undertake! Which said petition exercised the mind of Mrs. Crake considerably, and that of her subordinate, who was convinced that his reverence was making up his mind to holy matrimony. Neither of the women were much surprised when, instead of shutting himself up in the study according to custom in the forenoon, he continued to perambulate the garden, as if unable to settle down to study.

"Either it's a lady that's in the question," said the housekeeper to Mary Jane, the stolid, rosy-cheeked general servant, whose scrubbing and scouring capacities were almost unprecedented, "or else it's them Methodises! Mr. Mumble never said more than a word or two, but I know they worried him overmuch at times, and Mrs. Willabye-plague her!-would have it that they were the thorn in the flesh' that was allotted to him to keep him from being highminded."

Mary Jane, whose only idea of "thorns" was the prickles on rose-trees and gooseberry-bushes, could not understand the allusion; she herself favoured the "Methodiges," only she objected to

their prayers as "being that long, you never knew when they was a-coming to an end," and to their habit of saying “Amen” at divers times and seasons, “just when the sperrit moved 'em," and when, in her opinion, "they'd no call to." But she agreed with Mrs. Crake that the curate was "exercised in his mind," and that they should hear something out of the common way before many days were over their heads.

In the meantime Mr. Barrows had come to the conclusion that he would at once see Mr. Willabye, and see him alone, in order to impart to him the news he had to communicate. He was hesitating whether he should immediately pay a visit to River House and request a private interview, or whether he should write a note to Mr. Willabye, and ask him to come to the Rectory, as he had important and private affairs to discuss with him-business which could not be deferred! While he thus debated, he strayed from the Rectory-grounds by a little wicket-gate ordinarily used by the servants as the directest road into the village, and was proceeding, almost without knowing whither he bent his steps, in the direction of River House. He lifted up his eyes as he approached the shore of the estuary, and lo! there was Frank Willabye himself, jast steering a little boat into the harbour afforded by a tiny creek. Even as the carate approached Willabye saw him, and ran the boat ashore, and fastened it securely in its accustomed place.

As he did so, Walter Burrows scanned him narrowly. He looked wearied and worn, as by a great grief; lines of care were forming in his handsome face, he had aged wonderfully even during the last three weeks; he had the air of one who suffers the rewards of his own folly, who knows too well that he has sown the seeds of his own desperate misfortune and despairs accordingly.

"Good-morning," said Burrows, cheerily, as the two men met face to face; "I was looking out for you, Mr. Willabye."

"Indeed! what is it you want? If it is those bell-ringers, I don't think I can go into the matter just now. There are some abuses that really cannot be reformed. Southcombe is a heathenish and stiff-necked place. Poor Mumble found that out when he persisted in stirring into messes."

"No, it is not the bell-ringers, though I am going to tackle them at the first opportunity; but I have something to tell you. I have made a―a discovery. I have the strongest reasons for being persuaded that your ward, Miss Warleigh, is safe in the land of the living!"

"Prove that to me-convince me of it, and I will bless you to the day of my death!” cried Frank, turning' deadly pale, and grasp

convulsively. "Have you heard of her? know where she is?"

ing the minister's hand -seen her?

Do you

"I do, Mr. Willabye. I could give you her present address at this very moment."

"Then, for God's sake, give it to me, and relieve me from a heavy burden that is almost insupportable."

"I will give it to you-on conditions! I owe something to the poor young lady herself. She refuses to return to River House as a captured truant that deserves punishment. I have promised not to betray her secret till you-and Mrs. Willabye also-pledge yourselves to receive her in all kindness and love, to let bygones by bygones, and to consent to certain most expedient and desirable changes for the time to come."

"I pledge myself that all shall be forgiven!-that is, if there is anything to forgive. I rather think it is not Hilda who is the culprit. She has made mistakes, doubtless-she took a most desperate step; but I, for my part, excuse her with all my heart. Tell her to come back and she can make her own terms."

"As her friend, who was appointed by God to restore her to her lawful guardians, I must, if you please, require those terms to be fully settled before she returns. She and Mrs. Willabye were at feud, as you know; the circumstances of the past cannot, must not, be renewed."

66

They shall not be renewed. I swear it! cried Frank, excitedly. "Mr. Burrows, I have been greatly to blame; I have not exercised my proper authority as head of my own family. I have sinned chiefly through indolence, love of ease, and weakness! I he not had strength of mind to hold my own; have allowed otrs to sway me, others to usurp powers committed to myself alone; but it shall be so no more. I have taken the reins into my own hands, and shall not let them go. I declare to you that I

shall not."

"But how shall I be certified of that, Mr. Willabye? There is nothing more unreliable than weakness. The man who once yields, may yield again and again; the stronger mind naturally sways the weaker, and if not by open opposition, by artifice, by quiet persistency. How can I be assured that Hilda Warleigh, whose fate lies now in my hands, shall suffer no evil consequences from my rendering her up into your charge? How shall I answer to God if doing that which seems justice to you should prove to be injustice to her? I cannot disclose to you the young lady's retreat unless you solemnly, as in God's sight, consent to the conditions proposed."

"What conditions? I shall not reject any reasonable, or, for the matter of that, unreasonable conditions. Hilda shall be her