"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

cadences; it was like some sad story of love and death; it touched Tom's heart, and when Clytie rose from her knees, and came towards the organ loft, he saw that she wiped her eyes.

The rustle of her dress upon the stairs stirred the blood in his veins; sent a thrill through his whole nature.

Clytie moved to him with her accustomed grace when she found him near the organ loft, but there was a sadness in her smile which pained him.

Suddenly the organ stopped.

"Mary, where are you?" said the old man.

to me."

"Come here; come

Clytie laid her hand on his arm and looked into his face.

"God bless you, my child; God bless you," said the old man, in a vacant manner. "You will never leave your old grandfather?" Then seeing Mr. Mayfield for the first time, he said:

"You here! What do you want?”

"I came to listen to your playing, Mr. Waller; to ask how you are," said Tom, taken aback at the old man's unaccustomed manner. "Thank you; I am very well," said Luke; "and I have finished. Miles," (calling to the blower), "you may go."

"I hope I have not offended you," said Tom, looking from Clytie to her grandfather.

"No, no; you have not offended us," said Luke; "but we prefer to be alone."

Clytie glanced appealingly at Tom, begging him with her great liquid eyes not to mind her grandfather's apparent rudeness, but to go away. He treasured up in his heart for years that tender appealing look, and he interpreted it into a gracious reply to the loving yearning of his own heart.

"Good morning, then," said Tom. "I will have the pleasure of seeing you some other day."

"Yes," said Luke, "this is our own day, sir. Forgive me if I seem rude, this is the day on which I lost my daughter, Mary's mother, across the sea, a long way off; she died, sir, in these arms, poor darling, and we were just thinking about her; were we not, love?" "Yes grandfather," said the girl.

"A year ago! No, many years; but this is the day."

The old man's hands strayed to the keys of the organ as he spoke, but they were dumb.

"Good morning, Miss Waller," said Tom, in a whisper.

"Good bye," she said; and again Tom seemed to read in her glance a tender sympathy with his own emotion.

Only ourselves, my darling.

We don't want any one else

to-day."

"No, dear," said Clytie.

"Nor any other day," said the old man, stroking her gloved hand, and looking up into her beautiful face, all the more lovely for the touch of pathos in her eyes.

"No, dear; let us go now. A little walk in the Banks will do you good."

"No, not there; let us go home, or to the Cathedral, my darling. What do you say to a walk in the cloisters? Oh, my love, I am so happy to-day. You will bear with your old grandfather?,”

The old man looked so appealingly at the girl that she could only think how wicked and cruel she had been, and this made her weep.

"There, now, I am making you cry again. Forgive me, darling; forgive me! Come, we will walk in the Banks, not in those dull, sad cloisters: no no, we will not be sad. Come, dear, no more tears. Come, we will be gay!"

Then Luke took her into his arms and kissed her, and they left the church, arm in arm, and the sunshine fell lovingly upon them-the sunshine and the perfume of lilacs and early flowers.

Tom Mayfield, from his little room over the College gateway, saw them cross the Cathedral Green on their way home. From the darkness of the farthest corner he kissed his hand to the girl, and cried "God bless you!"

Love is the most persistent of all tyrannies; and it is strongest in quiet country places. It gains a double power in an atmosphere of repose. Dunelm in the summer time was made for love. In the summer time Dunelm is a city of romance and perfume. The very air is lazy. The river is still; it whispers and is still. are shady corners everywhere. It is not necessary when you stand under the summer sky in the northern city to be told that there are clover fields, and woods full of bluebells and wild anemones, outside the town; the gentle winds bring messages from them in perfumed breath. A heart and imagination such as Tom Mayfield possessed only required the object for worship in such an atmosphere to set up the tyranny which is full of sweets and bitters, of hopes and fears, of waking dreams, and continual solicitude for the future. Ever since the day when Tom saw the organist's granddaughter, he had known no rest. His every thought was dedicated to her.

"Ah, Clytie," he said, sitting down before the favourite bust, "sometimes I wish I had never seen you. The very rustle of your

dress makes my heart ache. Why were you so sad to-day? And your grandfather. The poor old man's face was a picture of woe. What can it mean? Sorrow for the dead does not wear so deep a shade of misery. There was no resignation in the old man's look; it expressed something of a present grief, a pressing wretchedness that does not belong to mourning for those who are gone. And Clytie, you looked unhappy too, and there were tears in your dear eyes when you rose from your knees. But sometimes sorrow brings love in its train. Surely there was something akin to love in your eye when you looked at me, something that indicated a closer familiarity than I have hitherto been blessed with, a sort of exchange of confidence. Oh, Clytie,. Clytie, you will ruin me body and soul if you cannot love me!"

The student strode up and down his apartment as he spoke. Mrs. Wilding knocked at the door to see if he were ready for his cheese.

"Why, I declare thou hasn't eaten anything," she exclaimed. "Whatever is the matter with the lad?"

Mrs. Wilding was a Yorkshire woman; an elderly fair old womar, with white hair; a plump old lady, whose life had been spent in and about the colleges. She was one of those north-country women who impress you with their commanding appearance, their fine open faces, their heads cleanly put on their shoulders, like the heads of thoroughbred racehorses. If Mrs. Wilding had been well educated, and had not spoken with a dialect, she would have been a lady and the wife of a rector or a landowner; as it was, she was the wife of the Dean's coachman. Nevertheless, she was a woman of note in Dunelm.

"I beg your pardon," said Tom; "I was reading. Sit down while I do justice to your excellent cuisine, and we will have a chat."

"Eh, you're a funny fellow, Mr. Mayfield."

"Why?" said Tom, pouring out a glass of wine. "Now, you must drink that."

"I shall do nothing of the sort, Mr. Tom. I'll sit here a minute if thou likes, but I've had my dinner, and I never drink wine" "Never!" exclaimed Tom.

"Not before night," said Mrs. Wilding.

"Very well," said Tom; "of course you will do as you please. How is the good man?"

"All right, thank you."

"And what is the latest news?"

"They say Mester Waller is goin to leave Dunelm."

"Who says so?" exclaimed Tom, laying down his knife and fork. "Nay, if you're goin to fly up like that I'll not stop."

"Go on, Mrs. Wilding; you know how much the Wallers interest me."

"Yes, you don't disguise your fancy-everybody in the place knows that you're in love with Mary Waller-Clytie as you call her." "Well," said Tom, gulping down his wine.

"But t'other is favourite lover; that Ransford fellow, and th' old man is bothered to death about it, and means to take lass away and go abroad."

"Who tells you this?" asked Tom, trying to appear cool.

"Well, thou sees, my washerwoman's wench is servant there, and there's not so much goin' on in Dunelm as one can afford to shut the mouth of even your washerwoman."

"No, Dunelm is very quiet; there would be no news at all if we did not scandalise," said Tom, with a little asperity.

"Don't say that, sir, as if you meant me, I don't scandalise, and you know I don't, but one can't help hearing what folk says; however, as I don't seem to make myself agreeable, I'll go and fill Wilding's pipe and let him have a smoke after his bit dinner."

"I am sorry if I have annoyed you, Mrs. Wilding," said Tom. "O, lor bless you, no annoyance," she replied.

toud you something else, but never mind, it'll keep."
"By all means," said Tom, smiling.

66
"You'll take some cheese and a bit of salad ?"

"I could have

Mrs. Wilding had evidently made up her mind that their conversation was at an end.

"Thank you, yes.”

The landlady bowed herself out, and the cheese and salad came in. Tom paid no attention to either, but lighted his pipe and sat musing in front of the Parian bust.

"Averroes thought that the souls of all mankind are only one spirit which animates different people," said Tom; "it is a curious idea and suggestive. If one wishes to become thoroughly acquainted with our fellow mortals, the best way is to study oneself. Pope put the idea, but only as a distinction between probing nature and inquiring into one's own heart. But one's own nature does, to a certain extent, seem a reflection of other people's. If I study my own heart thoroughly it teaches me a great deal about my fellows. I suppose that thought prompted Averroes to his philosophy. Well now, how is it that when my heart is so true and pure and faithful, in regard to you, my Clytie, that looking into it, I seem to read there the impurity