"It is not strange at all, Lionel. She remembered what it is to be young; and no doubt guessed that for this one evening we might have something to talk about which would not be very interesting to her."

"It is very good and sensible of her to think so. Will you sing now? What is it to be? Thou didst blow with thy wind,' or

another?"

"That, if you please."

Bertha Knighton had a good voice, and delighted to use it; but she was never so well pleased as when her sole listener was Lionel Winterset. Singing in itself was exceedingly good; but singing for him was great joy.

One air after another was sung, and the singer's eyes grew more bright and dark, and the colour in her face more deep with every

one.

"I believe I could sing all night," she said presently; "but perhaps you do not care for more?"

"As much as you please, Bertie; I am not likely soon to tire of listening to you."

"Then I will try this new song which has been sent to me. I think it suits my voice, though I suppose that is the wrong way to put it."

"What would be the right way, then?"

"I hope my voice suits it."

When it was finished, her companion thanked her, and added, "I think I know the secret of your musical power, Bertie; it is your heart even more than your voice that sings."

Perhaps. But I do not know who should sing to-day if not I."

"Why?"

"Because I am so happy now, and so certain of being happy in the future."

"You will, if wishes are of any use."

"And I am sure they are. The old expression, Many happy returns of the day,' is often more than a wish-it is a prayer." "I hope the prayers will all be answered, my Bertie." 66 Thank you. Will you read to me,

"Yes. Who shall be the author?"

Lion?

"Read to me from Milton. I think he is the favourite."

Lionel Winterset went to the library to look for the book. He found that the shutters of the room had not been closed, nor had the lamp been lighted. He stood for a moment in the centre of the apartment, and a change passed over his face. It was a splendid night. A brisk wind urged the sailing clouds over the blue skies; and then the moon shone out in all her soft beauty. From

the window several objects were distinctly visible. The elms in the distance, now bereft of their leaves, looked almost like tall ghosts, vainly searching for the robes they used to wear. The village church looked more beautiful than it ever did by day, for the soft light lay upon it, and clung to it, and lent it a glory that made the beholder's thoughts travel beyond the upward-pointing spire to the temple of God-the house not made with hands.

It was not of such things, however, that Lionel Winterset thought. The moonlight stole over him, so that he was bathed in it; and as he saw the soft light all about him, the expression of his face changed to one of fierce eagerness, and he commenced walking restlessly to and fro. Fresently he halted, and spoke his thoughts aloud.

"Yes, I will, I will-once more, at least. Why should I not? It is as much for her as for myself. But, stay! Shall I have time? Yes, just time, but none to lose."

He returned hastily to the room where he had left Miss Knighton.

Could you not find the book, Lionel? It has taken you long to look for it. But I do not believe you have brought it now!" "Bertha, excuse me, I am very sorry; but I must leave you." "Leave me, Lionel ?"

"Yes, but only for an hour or two. I hope to call again this evening. It is very tiresome, but I must go."

"It is my birthday, Lionel, and you know I had promised myself a very pleasant evening with you."

He was vexed at the tone of regret which he detected in her voice, and at the shadow which rested upon her face.

"I have asked you to excuse me," he said. "I am sorry to go, but I must."

"May I not know why ?" she shyly asked.

"Because business calls me."

"It is urgent and important business, I suppose? But you seem to have thought of it suddenly."

"Yes, it is business which I may not put off. I had forgotten it until I went into the library. I must go at once, or I shall be too late."

"Very well," she said, with a sigh. Her disappointment was great; although she was of a most equable temperament, she could not help feeling a slight degree of vexation.

Mr. Winterset put on his overcoat with a grave and disturbed face.

"Good-bye for the present," he said, and hastily left.

In less than a minute, however, he returned again.

"Bertie," he said, more gently, "I cannot bear to leave you, only

You would not have me neglect my duty,

I feel that I ought.
would you ?"
"Certainly not, Lionel."

"You are content for me to go, seeing that I must, are you not?' "I would not hinder your going, if it be a necessity; but I can. not say that I am content, because I am so disappointed."

“And so am I, Bertha."

She looked at him, and saw that what he said was true.

"Do not make yourself uncomfortable about it, Lion. Go, and get back as soon as possible."

"Good-bye, then." "Good-bye."

He held her in his arms, and looked into her beautiful face until his lips quivered.

"You do really care for me, do you not?" he whispered.

She lifted her eyes in astonishment.

"Why do you ask me, when you know so well? "

"Because I want to feel quite sure of it, my darling." Are you not sure, Lionel ?"

"But supposing you should discover something in me-in my disposition, say-of which you did not know-something which, if not really wrong, should be unlovely and ungenerous-what would you do then? Would you give me up ?

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Exactly what I say. Answer me quickly, Bertha, for I must leave, and I want to take your reply with me."

That he was very much in earnest Bertha could plainly see; and she therefore answered him seriously-"I cannot understand why you ask me, Lionel, and I do not think I shall make the unpleasant discovery which you suggest; but if I should I would try to love you all the more, because you would need it; and I would also endeavour to help you to overcome the fault, if you would let me." "Oh! my Bertie, how good you are! Thank you! God bless you!' He stooped to press his lips to her forehead, and then hastily left her.

As soon as he was out of sight he pulled his hat down over his face, and ran rapidly along the road in the direction of the village railway station. He was just in time for the tra in, and hurried at once to the ticket box.

A stranger was taking the fares that evening.

"What is it?" he said.

"Third return to Bolstone," said Mr. Winterset, rather inarticulately.

There was a whispered conference in the ticket-box, and the station-master's face appeared.

"I beg your pardon, sir. Is it not a first return you want?" The colour came into Mr. Winterset's face. "Certainly, first

return to Bolstone."

The ticket and money exchanged hands, and the purchaser of the former took his seat in the carriage, and the train moved on.

"I am sure he asked for a third-class," said the young man who had been in the ticket-box.

"Yes, he made a mistake. There is nothing easier to make than that. I heard his voice, and I was sure he could not mean what he said. He is the richest man for miles round."

"Is he? Then I wish he would change lots with me."

The journey to Bolstone was only a short one, and in less than half an hour from the time when he had left Bertha, Mr. Winterset alighted from the railway carriage. Bolstone was a large and rapidly-increasing town, and had a general well-to-do air about it. The shops were all open as Lionel walked up the street, for the time of the early closing movement was not yet, and bakers, grocers, drapers, and publicans were doing a brisk trade. Lionel did not stop at any of the shops, but went across the market square, and entered a street in which the houses were mostly private ones. He walked up and down the street twice, and then stopped opposite an open space. This was a small field almost in the centre of the town, and it was advertised to be sold for building purposes. It would have been bought and turned into a couple of streets long ago, but that many people wanted it, and the owner was an obstinate man, who knew the value of the property, and set so exorbitant a price upon it that at present no one had been willing to pay. Lionel Winterset passed and repassed this plot of ground until a convenient moment when no one but himself was near, and then he hastily sprang over the wall, and was in the field.

He remained there for more than an hour, although the ground was low and damp, and the wind strong and keen. He spent most of the time in walking about, but sometimes, when steps were heard on the pavements in either of the adjoining streets, he crept to the shelter of the nearest wall, and remained there until the neighbourhood was quiet again.

It would have puzzled any watcher to have discovered what Lionel Winterset, Esquire, was doing there on that moonlight night. What were the attractions of "Pratt's Field" that he stayed in it so persistently? There was nothing in his behaviour to answer the question satisfactorily. He appeared to be chiefly anxious about his own shadow on the grass, for he watched it intently, occasionally bending his body, or moving his arm, apparently for no other reason than that he might see it reproduced on

the ground. He did not, however, tire of the operation. He tried it again and again, with what would have appeared to a beholder absurd patience; until the time was exhausted, and the return train nearly due. Then he hurriedly left the spot with a sigh.

As soon as he had gained the road he once more stopped to look across Pratt's field, and then hastened to the railway station, and was soon home.

CHAPTER II.-THE PURSUIT OF KNOWledge.

December days were particularly short in Lyston. Perhaps they were so for one or all of these reasons-Lyston was a very small village, and completely surrounded by hills; it had a river running through it, from which mists seemed to be generally rising, and fogs were especially thick and continuous; and in the days of which I write, and indeed up to the present time, the villagers knew nothing of the delights of gas.

At five o'clock on a December afternoon, in one of the Lyston cottages, a girl was making tea. Tea was not as cheap twenty years ago as it is now, and it was necessary to make the most of it in families where every penny was of consequence. The teamaker, Maud Dalebury by name, remembered this, and it made her very uncomfortable, though not sufficiently so to deter her from carrying out her purpose. She was a conscientious girl; but she did a thing that was not quite fair, for when the tea had been brewing for about ten minutes, she poured every drop of the liquid from the pot into a breakfast cup, thus draining the essence of the tea, and leaving the leaves all the worse for the process. She was at the moment in the awkward position in which we all occasionally find ourselves, for she felt quite sure that she was right, and she also felt quite sure that she was wrong.

Having filled the breakfast cup she took it, glancing around fearfully lest she should be detected, and went upstairs into a little room, which was almost filled with lumber. She carefully hid the cup of tea under an old, wooden box, and then, with a sigh, went downstairs again.

Footsteps were immediately heard, and in a minute afterwards Maud was pouring out tea for her father and brother.

"It is a very cold day. I hope you have made us a good cup, Maud," said James Dalebury.

"I hope it will be pretty good, father," said the girl, colouring. "It is not good," said the man, when he had tasted it. "Something is decidedly wrong, Maud. Either the kettle did not boil, or you put in less than the proper quantity of tea."

"I will add a little more," said Maud. But she was the housekeeper, and had grave fears lest the weekly stock should not last