frankness and innocence in telling the servant where she was going that seemed to commend itself to Clytie's fancy; it was part of the romance of an admirer climbing into their rich neighbour's garden and looking up at her as she leaned over the terrace (quite unconsciously, of course) to see who had sacrificed so much for her sake. She did not contemplate the possibility of the gentleman scaling the terrace wall and presenting himself before her in the summer-house itself. But this was exactly what Phil Ransford had done.

It was for a moment a terrible shock to her when, quietly tripping up the terrace steps, she saw a man half-concealed in the summerhouse. She had nearly screamed and run away; but Phil was too expert to run the risk of such a contretemps. Before she had time to make up her mind one way or another she was clasped in his strong

arms.

"Hush! my dear Mary, pray forgive me."

"Oh, Mr. Ransford, how could you be so rash?" gasped Clytie, her pretty head in a whirl of amazement.

"Say you forgive me. I could not, indeed, resist your reply to my daring signal," said Phil, his arm still clasping her waist, as it he feared that she might run away.

"Don't hold me so tightly, sir," said Clytie.

"You will not go, then? you will stay a little while?" said Phil. "You are too bold; supposing we are observed."

My dear Mary, I will risk anything for your sake. My love is overpowering."

"You ought not to have come here."

"Your grandfather is out."

"How did you know?"

"From a friend of the Dean."

"Hush! some one is coming; get behind the ivy."

It was a false alarm; but in a moment Phil was enveloped in the bushy growth of leaves that hung in luxuriant clusters about the summer-house, and trailed down into the garden below.

"There, don't be alarmed," said Phil, speedily coming out of his hiding-place, "no one will come."

"I am not sure of that," said Clytie. "Let me go, Mr. Ransford; indeed, it is best that I should."

"You do not care for me," said Phil, half reproachfully; “you would stay if Tom Mayfield were in my place."

"Tom Mayfield!" said Clytie, with affected surprise.

your

"Yes; perhaps you thought I was Tom Mayfield when hard to me just now."

you waved

“When I waved my hand?" said Clytie; "I do not understand you." “Did you not, in response to my signal, before I crossed the river ? "

Phil did not press the question further, but he pressed the girl's hand to his lips.

"Say you love me," he burst out, "and give me something to do to prove my love for you; ask me to fling myself into the river; there is nothing I would not do for you!"

Clytie returned the pressure of his hand.

"O that we had lived in the days of chivalry and romance! Then I should have come some moonlight night with a boat down yonder; you would have met me here, we should have glided together down a silken ladder; slipped down that river to the Mill; there would have been waiting for us a carriage and four horses, and love would have given them wings like the steeds of Pegasus."

"Let me go, Mr. Ransford."

"Not until you say you do or do not love me—I am desperategive me some token."

"There, then, will that content you?" said Clytie, giving him the ribbon from her neck.

Phil kissed it passionately.

"Now, if you will sit quietly and talk for ten minutes I will stay; if not, you must really let me go."

"My darling," exclaimed Phil, "your smallest wish is a command; what a practical little woman it is!"

He placed a chair for her, and sat beside her; and Tom Mayfield was still talking to the statuette in his little room over the College gateway.

"Keep your eye upon the house, and if any one comes slip behind the ivy, and I will leave you; if I do not return quickly, go away, and be careful that you do not tear the ivy down when you fall into the garden below."

Phil was astonished at the sudden coolness of the unsophisticated beauty.

"Cannot I go away through the house?"

"Not for the world."

"There is only the servant in."

"Some one might see you leave; besides, cook would tell grandpa."

"As you desire, my love; but could we not win cook's con•fidence?"

66

No, no; you are to do just as I say without a word of question." "I obey."

66

Very well."

"Then stay here until I come back."

Clytie went into the house, said a few words to the servant, looked at herself once more in her faithful mirror, and returned to the summer-house.

"I was afraid you were not coming back," said Phil. "How lovely it is here. I had no idea the Banks looked so beautiful from this view of them."

"Pretty enough, yes; but one gets tired of trees and rivers."

"Ah, you would like London, as I told you when first we met; there you would be among people who would appreciate you. This old humdrum city is no better than a tomb for you. London is the city for beauty and genius. Theatres, balls, operas, assemblies, crowds of lovely women and fine men. Oh, if you could only see it!"

"You like theatres ?" said Clytie.

"I go to them all when I am in London."

"Did you ever act—I mean in fun, you know?”

"Oh, yes, at school, and afterwards at college; we once had private theatricals up at the Hill yonder."

"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Clytie. "That is the secret ambition of my life—to act, to be an actress; but grandpa will never have a word said about theatres."

"That is cruel of grandfather Waller; I wish I could make a great friend of him; I would persuade him to let you go to the theatre at Newcastle now and then-to be sure that is nothing like London; but it is better than the barn we have here in Dunelm."

"Why cannot you make friends with grandpa?"

"We are good friends, for that matter; but he will not be confidential with me; he does not talk to me."

"He would if you humoured him; you should go to his church and take an interest in organ music, ask him to play you a voluntary, or something of that kind."

"I will, I will," said Ransford.

such a valuable hint."

"How good of you to give me

"I know what pleases him, and he is a dear good grandpa, I love him very much; but he should give me more freedom, don't you think so, Mr. Ransford ?"

"I do indeed; but why not call me Phil ?-will you call me Phil --if only because I love you so much?"

Phil put his arm round the girl's waist, and looked into her eyes. "Oh! you must not do that, and I would rather not call you Phil at present," said Clytie, withdrawing herself from his embrace.

A figure had glided into the garden unseen. The twilight and the garden wall flung a shadow over it. The sun had gone down on Dunelm, and left the city in a tender glimmer of deepening shade and silence. Bow-bell had told his drowsy story of the coming night. Clytie was just about to say she must now go into the house, when, creeping up the steps in a passion of disappointment and rage, old Luke Waller rushed into the summer-house, and with a cry of fury flung himself upon Phil Ransford.

"You scoundrel! you blackguard!" exclaimed the old man, struggling feebly at Phil's throat.

Clytie screamed, and clung to her grandfather.

Phil simply caught hold of Luke's trembling arms, and put him aside.

Mr. Waller, you are mistaken, sir; I am not a scoundrel. I will explain."

"if I had had a pistol in

"You cannot explain!" shouted Luke; the house I would have shot you. Go, sir, go! Sneak back the way you came, and may a blight rest upon you, and mildew your brain and life for ever!"

"You are too severe," said Phil, drawing himself up to his full height; "but I will not bandy words with you, and especially in that poor girl's presence. See, she has fainted!"

Phil extended his arms as if he were about to support her. "Never mind her, sir; go, before I call for assistance, and have you flung over the terrace."

With a parting glance at Clytie, who was lying motionless on the left arm of the old man, Phil slipped over the wall, clinging to the thick stems of the ivy, and made his way back to the river.

"And you!" exclaimed Luke, when Ransford had disappeared; "you, the hope and joy of my life! If you were not so much like her who is gone, and if I did not love you till my very heart aches with loving you, I would brain you."

Clytie suddenly came back to active life; came back with a shudder

and a start.

"Oh, grandfather! Where are we?" she exclaimed, rushing from his arms so suddenly that the old man staggered, and nearly

fell.

"Where are we ! You know where we are, faithless, wicked, cruel girl. Are you not ashamed to raise your voice in presence of your dead mother's father-' Dear grandfather, come home soon; don't take too much of the Dean's wine'-You cruel, deceitful creature-come into the house."

Luke seized her hand.

"Come into the house that you have disgraced, that you have dishonoured."

"Oh, no, no!" burst out Clytie, in a passion of tears; "you must not say those dreadful words."

"I will say what I please; come into the house."

"You must not, grandfather; I cannot bear it; you will break my heart."

"You have no heart; come into the house, I say."

The old man dragged her down the terrace steps, along the garden, and presently the Hermitage door banged, and the moon rose cold and blue over the summer-house, enveloping the scene in its calm, unsympathetic light.

CHAPTER VI.

MEETING CALUMNY HALF WAY.

SUNDAY came round again, five days after Phil Ransford had scaled the terrace of the Hermitage.

In the afternoon Tom Mayfield went to St. Bride's, and sat near the organ loft.

Clytie occupied her customary pew, and looked as pretty as ever. She was dressed in that light clinging silk which became her so well, and which many of the Dunelm ladies said was altogether above her position. Tom Mayfield did not agree with them. Nothing was above her position.

When service was over Tom went into the organ loft, and stood by the old man. Luke did not notice him, but went on playing in his dreamy way, looking back all the time to past days; looking back with sorrow in his heart for what had been, and fear of what might be.

Tom was about to speak, when he saw that there were tears in the old man's eyes. He went quietly out of the loft, and sat in an adjacent pew. The congregation had all gone, except Clytie, who was kneeling alone, when Tom looked down from the gallery. The music went on. It was full of plaintive modulations from major into minor keys; it wandered about the church in sorrowful