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Papa, George and I have parted. He was not all that we thought him; and now I belong only to you. Don't trouble about this-don't fancy that it makes me unhappy! I believeyes, I am certain-that I shall be all the happier for this sorrow of mine."

She said no more; but her words carried conviction to the doctor's heart. He did not know until later how sharp that sorrow had really been ; and it was a relief to feel that his child was free.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN THE AVENUE.

"LEAVES!-leaves!—leaves!" said Ada Fen

way, as they came fluttering about her face and "Nothing but leaves!"

dress.

She was walking in the avenue that led to Glancett vicarage-that avenue which Miriam Lynne had seen a thousand times in her dreams and longings five years ago. Now all the dreams and longings are realised; and that little fairy girl, at play with the leaves, is Miriam's child. It is the loveliest of October afternoons; the light comes in slanting rays through the boughs, and shines upon the fallen leaves that lie glistening on the ground. Pale yellow, burning crimson, rich brown, and vivid orange-they might be gorgeous fringes torn from the vesture of some sylvan god. The avenue is carpeted with splendid colours

from end to end; and the fairy skips in ecstasy over this wonderful Tom Tiddler's ground, picking up the scattered gold.

The flat, green Norfolk fields stretch far away behind the ivy-grown church and its graveyard. On the right is the old park, and betwixt its trees are seen glimpses of a vast grey mansion, whose mullioned windows twinkle and glitter in the low sunlight. Very gray and sombre are those walls against the reds and browns of the October woods that close behind them; and over the whole scene hangs that thin golden haze which often veils the fair face of a dying autumn day. The stillness is intense; the little patter of a falling leaf, the timid rustle of some shy squirrel or wild-mouse in the bracken, are the only sounds that can be heard.

The fairy proves to be a light charge, who demands little attention. She is too busy with her frail playthings to ask questions and teaze for stories. She piles up the leaves in small heaps of amber and red, and makes believe that they are treasures of countless price. When one more brilliant than its fellows comes into her

hands, she smoothes it out on her tiny palm, and exults over it in her eager child-fashion. Being let alone, she contrives to amuse herself in a better way than her elders could have invented for her; and, like a sensible and natural child, she enjoys nothing so well as to be turned loose with Nature and her own imagination.

Ada, too, has Imagination for a companion; but Memory walks at her right hand on this golden afternoon.

She thinks of a certain text which used to hang on the wall of Willie's room, and has been transferred to her own chamber at her request.

"Nothing but leaves!"-the words have been before her eyes night and morning, and she has prayed with all her heart that this may not be the epitaph on her life.

The tree had been stripped of its vain show, and the Lord had spared it that it might bring forth fruit for Him. He did not say, "Let no fruit grow on thee henceforward for ever"; He did not wither the boughs that had produced nothing but leaves. But in the severity of loveand Love can be a thousand times more severe

than Anger-He had lopped off every superfluous branch, and torn away the foliage that hid its

barrenness.

Now there was fruit-such fruit as was very pleasant to Him. Not only was it seen and owned by the world, but those who dwelt under the shadow of the tree had tasted its sweetness.

Dr. Fenway, Aunt Emily, and the boys—all had been comforted and gladdened by the new life that Ada was leading. The past five years had been very happy years, although the first two were marked with the traces of her sorrow. Twelve months after George Clariston's flight from Alderport, there had come news of his death in a foreign land.

No particulars of his end ever reached Ada's ears; and she talked about him very little, even to her nearest friends. His death had closed the saddest chapter of her life; there might be other dark pages in her history, but none like those on which his shadow had fallen. In her own home his name was seldom mentioned; as far as possible the Fenways put him out of their thoughts with the sorrow he had caused.