CHAPTER XVIII.

AFTERNOON SUNSHINE.

GEORGE CLARISTON was gradually slipping

back into his old habits; but he was still careful to wear his good character in Alderport.

When he had been losing heavily in a London gaming-house, he would come back to Mr. Brett's office in an irritable and impatient frame of mind. True, he was succeeding very well with Ada; but it would be nearly two years before she became mistress of her property; and although she received his attentions with evident pleasure, he was not certain that the doctor would accept him as her suitor.

Meanwhile Ada suffered her heart to be won, without asking herself any serious questions about him who was winning it.

"It becomes us to get rid of the idea that love

cannot be directed," says a modern writer; and it is in the early stages of a love-affair that self-control may step in. But Ada never attempted to turn the current of feeling into another channel. George pleased her, and it did not occur to her that it was possible she could be mistaken in the opinion she had formed of him.

He did not profess to be decidedly religious, yet he might always be seen in church on Sunday mornings; and on Sunday evenings he often, although not regularly, accompanied her. He seemed to regard her as a superior being, whose influence must surely lead him in the right way; and Ada, not displeased at the idea, imagined herself destined to be his spiritual guide. She did not realise how sorely she was herself in need of guidance; nature had not fitted her to lead others, nor was she endowed with that strength of character which enables some women to sway the wills of men.

Yet, as is often the case, she prided herself upon the very quality that she did not possess. She believed herself strong enough to make

George a religious man; and she failed to see her own presumption in thinking that she could do that which only the Holy Ghost can accomplish. She was committing that common error -fatal to the happiness of so many women-of trusting to earthly love instead of in Divine grace.

So she dreamed on in her youth and inexperience; and Mrs. Grange's flattery helped to weave the web that held her. Mrs. Grange predicted that George would be changed through Ada's nay, she even went so far as to declare her conviction that he was already getting weary of a mere worldly life, and was turning his steps towards the path of peace.

means

It is probable that she believed what she said. It must be borne in mind that George's worst sins were entirely unknown to her. She had married while he was a schoolboy, and she knew but little of his wild manhood. The sequel proved that she thought herself safe in trusting him, and in persuading her husband to trust him to the uttermost. And she really felt for him a strong affection, which induced her to promote his interests in every possible way.

"A blind leader of the blind," she drew Ada farther and farther away from home influence. Indeed, in these days of illusion, home seemed to the girl a cold and unlovely place, and the members of the family were indifferent to her merits. Even Aunt Emily's gentle words and looks appeared frigid after Mrs. Grange's rapturous expressions of love and admiration; and even Willie's quiet talks lost their charm. As to Jack, Ada's manner to him was haughty to the last degree. She intended to make him sensible that he was a younger brother, who had no right to dictate to his elders; but she forgot that a sister's duty is to brighten a boy's home.

This was a duty which Ada had never performed. Her brothers had found out long ago that she desired to walk in a way of her own. It was useless to expect that she would step out of her path for their sakes. Lawrence, lying bruised upon his bed, had discovered that his sister was scarcely fitted to play the part of companion to a sick lad. Yet they all loved her well, were proud of her beauty, and would have defended her against a host of enemies.

In Ada this neglect of right-doing arose not from want of heart, but from want of consideration. Being completely self-absorbed, she was quite unconscious of her own defects. She believed that she was producing fruit while she was bearing "nothing but leaves."

One Sunday morning, when March was well advanced, the young teacher took her way as usual to the Ragged School. It was a dull, grey day, and a keen east wind came sweeping through the streets. Few people were abroad: tradesmen were taking advantage of the Day of Rest to breakfast later than usual, and many a weary worker thanked God for this break in the toils of the week. Ada, wrapped up in rich furs, suffered little from the cold, and walked on at a brisk pace, thinking over the day's lessons.

As usual, the scholars filled up their placesall save one. Martha Ryan was missing. Ada hoped that she might make her appearance after the opening prayers; but she did not come. It was the first time that Martha's seat had been vacant, and her teacher began to make inquiries. "Do you know how it is that Martha Ryan