thanks she could not speak. She kept it a good while, stili as death. Julia stood motionless, looking on.

Then you

"Don't think me wicked," said Eleanor, getting up at last. "I am not glad of anything but my own deliverance. Oh, Julia! "Poor Eleanor," said her little sister wonderingly. don't want to be married and go to Rythdale?" "Not Monday," said Eleanor. "And now I shall not. It is not possible that a wedding and a funeral should be in one house on the same day. I know which they would put off if they could, but they have got to put off the other. Oh, Julia, it is the saving of me!"

She caught the little one in her arms and sat with her so, their two heads nestling together, Eleanor's bowed upon her sister's neck. "But Eleanor, will you not marry Mr. Carlisle after all ?" "I cannot for a good while, child.”

"But then?"

"I shall never be married in a hurry. I have got breathing-time -time to think. And I'll use it."

"And, oh, Eleanor, won't you do something else?" "What?"

"Won't you be a servant of the Lord ?"

"I will if I can find out how," Eleanor answered low.

It poured with rain. Eleanor liked it that day, though generally she was no lover of weather that kept her within. A spell of soothing had descended upon her. Life was no longer the rough thing it had seemed to her yesterday. A constant drop of thankfulness at her heart kept all her words and manner sweet with its secret per- . fume. Eleanor's temper was always as sound as a nut; but there was now a peculiar grace of gentleness and softness in all she did. She was able to go faultlessly through all the scenes of that day and the following days; through her mother's open discomfiture and half-expressed disappointment, and Mr. Carlisle's suppressed impatience. His manner was perfect, too; his impatience was by no word or look made known; grave, quiet, self-contained, he only allowed his affectionateness towards Eleanor to have full play, and the expression of that was changed. He did not appeal to her for sympathy, which, perhaps, he had a secret knowledge she could not give; but with lofty good-breeding and his invariable tact he took it for granted. Eleanor's part was an easy one through those days which passed before Mr. Carlisle's going up to London. He went immediately after the funeral.

It was understood, however, between him and Mrs. Powle, that the marriage should be delayed no longer than till some time in the spring. Then, Mr. Carlisle declared, he should carry into effect his original plan of going abroad, and take Eleanor with him. Eleanor heard them talk, and kept silence; letting them arrange it their own

way.

"For a little while, Eleanor," were the parting words which Mr. Carlisle's lips left upon hers. And Eleanor turned then to look at what was before her.

S

CHAPTER XIV.

AT THE RECTORY.

The earth has lost its power to drag me downward;
Its spell is gone;

My course is now right upward, and right onward,
To yonder throne.

HE had three months of quiet time. Not more; and they would quickly speed away. What she had to do, she could not do too soon. Eleanor knew it. The soothed feeling of the first few days gave place to a restless mood almost as soon as Mr. Carlisle was gone. Three years seemed more like what she wanted than three months. She felt ignorant, dark, and unhappy; how was she to clear up this moral mist and see how the plan of life lay, without any hand to lead her or help her? There was only one she knew in the world that could; and from any application to him, or even any chance contact with him, Eleanor consciously shrank. That would never do; that must never be heard of her. With all this, she began to dread the disturbing and confusing effects of Mr. Carlisle's visits to the country. He would come; he had said so; and Mrs. Powle kept reminding her of it upon every occasion.

Eleanor had been forbidden to ride alone. She did not dare; she took to long lonely walks. It was only out-of-doors that she felt quite free; in her own room at home, though never so private, her mother would at any time come with distracting subjects of conversation. Eleanor fled to the moor and to the wilds; walked, and rested on the stones, and thought; till she found thinking degenerate into musing; then she started up and went on. She tired herself. She did not find rest.

One day she took her course purposely to the ruined priory. It was a long walk; but Eleanor courted long walks. And when she got there, musing, it must be confessed, had a good time. She stepped slowly down the grass-grown nave of the old church, recalling with much bitterness the day of her betrothal there; blaming herself, and blaming her mother more. Yet at any rate that day she had set seal to her own fate; would she be able, and had she a right -that was the question-to break it now? She wandered on, out of the church, away from the beautiful old ivied tower, which seemed to look down on her with grave reproach from the staidness of years and wisdom; wound about over and among the piles of shapeless ruin and the bits of lichened and moss-grown walls, yet standing here and there; not saying to herself exactly where she was going, but trying if she could find out the way; till she saw a thicket of thorn and holly bushes that she remembered. Yes, the larches, too, and the young growth of beech-trees. Eleanor plunged through

this thicket as well as she could; it was not easy; and there before her was the clear spot of grass, the angle of the thick old wall, and the deep window that she wanted to see again. All still, and lonely, and wild. Eleanor went across and took a seat in the window as she had done once before, to rest and think.

And then what she thought of, was not the old monks, nor the exquisite fair view out of the window that had belonged to them; though it was a soft December day, and the light was as winning fair on house and hill and tree-top as if it had been a different season of the year. No cloud in the sky, and no dark shadows upon the earth. But Eleanor's thoughts went back to the thunderstorm, and her need then first felt of an inward sunshine that would last in cloudy times. She recalled the talk about the Christian's helmet; with a weary, sorrowful, keen renewal of regret at her own want of it. The words Mr. Rhys had spoken about it at that time she could not very well remember; but well she remembered the impression of them, and the noble, clear calmness of his face and manner. Very unlike all other calmness and nobleness that she had seen. The nobleness of one whose head was covered by that royal basnet; the fearlessness of one whose brows were consciously shaded by it. The simplicity that had nothing to feign or conceal; the poise of manner that came from an established heart and conscience. Eleanor presently caught herself up. What was she thinking about Mr. Rhys for? True, the thought of him was very near the thought of his teaching; nevertheless the one thing concerned her, the other did not. Did it not? Eleanor sighed, and wished she could have a little of his wise guidance; for, notwithstanding all she had heard him say, she felt in the dark.

In the midst of all this, Eleanor heard somebody humming a scrap of a tune on the other side of the holly-bushes. Another instant told her it was a tune she had heard never but once before, and that once in Mr. Brooks's barn. There was besides a little rustling of the thorn-bushes. Eleanor could think of but one person coming to that spot of the ruins; and in sudden terror she sprang from the window and rushed round the other corner of the wall. The tune ceased; Eleanor heard no more; but she dared not falter or look back. She was in a thicket on this side, too, and in a mass of decayed ruins and rubbish which almost stopped her way. By determination and perseverance, with some knocks and scratches, she at last got free and stopped to breathe and think. Why was she so frightened? Mr. Carlisle. But what should she do now? Suppose she set off to walk home; she might be joined by the person she wished to shun; it was impossible to foresee that he would sit for an hour meditating in the old window. Over against Eleanor, a little distance off, only plantations of shrubbery and soft turf between, was the Rector's house. Best go there and take refuge, and then be guided by circumstances. She went accordingly, feeling sorrowful that she should have to run away from the very person whose counsel of all others she most needed.

The door was opened to Eleanor by the Rector himself.

"Ha, my dear Miss Powle," said the good doctor, "this is an honour to me. I don't know what you will do now, for my sister is away at Brompton-will you come in and see an old bachelor like myself?

"If you will let me, sir."

"I shall be delighted, my dear Miss Eleanor. You were alway welcome, ever since you were so high; and now that you are going to occupy so important a position here, I do not know a lady in the neighbourhood that deserves so much consideration as yourself. Come in-come in! How did you get here?"

"Taking a long walk, sir. Perhaps you will give me some refreshments."

"I shall be delighted. Come in here, and we will have luncheon together in my study-which was never so honoured before; but I think it is the pleasantest place in the house. The other rooms my sister fills with gimcracks, till I cannot turn round there without fear of breaking something. Now my old folios and octavos have tried a fall many a time-and many a one has tried a fall with them-ah ! ah!—and no harm to anybody. Sit down there now, Miss Eleanor, and rest. That's what I call a pretty window. You see I am in no danger of forgetting my friend Mr. Carlisle here."

Eleanor looked out of window very steadily; yet she was not refreshing her remembrance of Mr. Carlisle neither. There were glimpses of a tall, alert figure, passing leisurely in and out among the trees and the ruins; finally coming out into full view and walking with brisk step over the greensward till he was out of sight. Eleanor knew it very well, the figure and the quick step; the energy and life in every movement. She heard no more of Dr. Cairnes for some time; though, doubtless, he was talking, for he had ordered luncheon, and now it was served, and he was pressing her to partake of it. Dr. Cairnes's cheese was excellent; his hung beef was of prime quality; and the ale was of a superior brand, and the wine which he poured out for Eleanor was, he assured her, as its sparkling drops fell into the glass, of a purity and flavour "that even his friend Mr. Carlisle would not refuse to close his lips upon." Eleanor felt faint and weary, and she knew Mr. Carlisle's critical accuracy; but she recollected at the same time Mr. Rhys's cool abstinence, and she put the glass of wine away.

"Not?" said the doctor. "You would prefer a cup of chocolate. Bad taste, Miss Eleanor, wine is better for you, too. Ladies will sup chocolate, I believe; I wonder what they find in it. The thing is, my sister being away to-day, I don't know

Eleanor begged he would not mind that, nor her; however the chocolate was ordered and in due time brought.

"Now that will make you dull," said the dostor,-"sleepy. It does not have, even on you, the reviving, brilliant effect of this beverage." And he put the bright glass of wine to his lips. It was not the first filled.

"Before I get dull, dear doctor, I want to talk to you."

66

"Ay?" said the doctor, looking at her over the wine.

"You

do? What about? Say on, Miss Eleanor. I am yours doubly now, by the past and the future. You may command me. "It is about the present I wish to talk," said Eleanor. "What is it?"

66

My mind is not at rest," said Eleanor, laying her hands in her lap and looking off again towards the ruins with their green and grey silent reminders, "about religious subjects."

"Ah?" said Dr. Cairnes. "How is that, Miss Eleanor? Be a little more explicit with me, will you not?"

"I will. Dr. Cairnes, I am young now, but by-and-by decay must come to me, as it has come to that old pile yonder-as it comes to everything. I want security for my head and heart when earthly security fails."

66

Eleanor spoke slowly, looking out as she spoke all the while. Security!" said the doctor. But, my dear Miss Eleanor, you know the articles of our holy religion?"

"Yes," she said without stirring her position.

Security is given by them, most amply and abundantly, to every sincere applicant. Your life has been a sheltered one, Miss Eleanor, and a kind one; you can have no very grievous sins to charge yourself with."

"I would like to get rid of such as I have," answered Eleanor without moving.

"You were baptised in infancy?".

"Yes, sir."

"You have never been confirmed ? "

"No, sir."

"Every baptised child of the Church, Miss Eleanor, owes it to God, to herself, and the Church, upon arriving at a proper age, to come forward and openly take upon herself, or himself-but I am talking of you the vows made for her in her infancy, at her baptism, by her sponsors. Upon doing this, she is received into full membership with the Church and entitled to all its privileges; and undoubtedly security is one of them. That is what you want to do, Miss Eleanor; and I am truly rejoiced that your mind is setting itself to the contemplation of its duties and responsibilities. In the station you are preparing to occupy, the head of all this neighbourhood-Wiglands and Rythdale both-it is most important-most important that your example should be altogether blameless and your influence thrown altogether on the right side. That influence, my dear Miss Eleanor, is very great."

"Dr. Cairnes, my one single present desire is to do right and feel safe myself."

66

Precisely. And to do right is the way to feel safe. I will give you a little work, preparatory to the ordinance of confirmation, Miss Eleanor, which I entreat you to study and prayerfully follow, Miss Eleanor."

"Will this rite, will this ordinance," said Eleanor, closing her fingers on the book and for the first time looking the doctor straight in the face, "will it give me that helmet of salvation of which I have heard?"