"Very much; and you?"

"Not so much; something has happened to annoy me; you see I tell you the plain truth."

"I hope you always will."

"I always shall. To you, at least, I may say what is in my mind, without a fear of misconstruction. How little friendship has to do with time! One month ago we met as strangers, now I can open all my heart to you; and yet taciturnity has been my stumbling-block from childhood. And yet,—if you knew all my weaknesses

"I should, perhaps, find them fewer than my own." "Oh, no. Miss Craven-Agnes-I am half inclined to speak to you."

"Nay," she said, laughingly; "half-inclinations go for nothing. I must run back; they are waiting for the book."

"Let them wait. You once accused me of being moody and melancholy without a cause."

"That was when I knew you first; but still, I will not help you to be melancholy now."

"I wish you would help me to be courageous.' "Is there any need for that? you a man, and I a woman?"

"So much need, that I despise myself. Did you ever read a poem called 'Silent Love'?"

"Yes. I found it but the other day."

"What is your opinion of it,-rather, of the hero?" "I think he was a foolish man. Instead of droning about, crying, 'No man e'er loved like me,' he should have spoken out; he could but have been rejected for his pains; it is better to know one's fate, even though it be a stern one, than to live in dreams, and be a coward."

"It is; and I will live in dreams no longer. I am acting treacherously by staying here. To-morrow I will speak to Sir John Ashburner. I have been a coward and a visionary far too long."

"Speak to Sir John Ashburner?" said Agnes, wonderingly. She thought it was a curious way of

putting the case, though of course Sir John must be consulted; but it was taking so much for granted: he had not spoken a word, save of friendship, to herself.

"Yes. I almost betrayed myself to-night; I cannot trust myself any longer. I must tell Sir John the truth, and if he banish me, he must; but I cannot be dishonourable: he thinks, and Lady Ashburner thinks, I regard Elizabeth as a sister."

"Elizabeth?" was upon Miss Craven's lips; but she did not speak. She stood quite still in the moonlight, feeling as if some horrid nightmare had benumbed

her senses.

"Now I have told you all!" said Cyril, presently. He had been talking in the interim, but she had not heard a word; "and I need not ask you to be still my friend; you will plead my cause, for all, I know, will be against me. I know I am mad-presumptuous; but I cannot help it now; my love has grown upon me as a bud turns into flowers. I have always loved Elizabeth, ever as a child; and now-but I will not tease you with my rhapsodies. I am quite prepared for a dismissal!"

"Lady Ashburner loves you as a son: I have heard her say so."

I know how it will will at once set about A settled purpose has since you strengthened

"Yes, but not as a son-in-law. be, but I will not despair. I carving out a way to fortune. gradually dawned upon me, me by your words the evening that I saw you first. Oh, how much good you have done me! If I must go away, I must, I shall go to toil, and toil gives hope I shall work and wait till I may exultingly come back, and claim my Elizabeth from her father's hands. And you will be a sister to her, as you have been to me?"

I will. I promise to serve you in this matter to the best of my ability, faithfully and entirely; that is, so far as is consistent with my duty to Lady Ashburner and Sir John. I could not assist in anything clandestine."

"Do you think I should ask you? No! Be my open friend, and take care of my darling when I am away." "She knows, then?"

"She cannot help but know; though I have never spoken clearly; how could I, when her parents repose in me such perfect confidence? But to-morrow all shall be made plain. I am prepared for the worst ; but one thing I am resolved: I will not quit Forest Range without a word with Elizabeth herself. Yes, go! I have kept you shamefully; how cold your hands are! like ice! Á thousand thanks for all your goodness." And pressing her trembling fingers to his lips, he turned back to the window.

In the doorway stood Elizabeth, intently regarding the scene before her. As Agnes came towards her, she passed quickly on; in five minutes she was playing a noisy duet with Katie Gower; and when, ten minutes later, Cyril approached the piano, and proffered his services in finding some lost music, he was received with a freezing haughtiness that astonished him, and drove him nearly wild. Miss Ashburner went in to supper leaning on the arm of Vivian Gower: Cyril took in Agnes and Sally Hawkes; but Sally slipped behind as they entered the supper-room, and Elizabeth saw only, sitting down together, the pair she had seen in such close converse in the library.

94

CHAPTER XI.

AGNES's DIARY.

APRIL 9TH.-Let me try to remember all that has been happening for the last few days. I sometimes wonder whether I have not been dreaming ever since the evening I and some others with me crossed the ferry at Southam-water! Shall I ever cross that salt-sea estuary again, I wonder? Never again, perhaps, in the same companionship: not till I can say with Uhland—

"Many a year is in its grave

Since I crossed this restless wave."

And then, will this wild, beating heart of mine be calm and still? shall I think quietly of the past, as one thinks of a dear dead friend, long ago gathered to his rest? shall I feel that I have fought worthily in the great battle-field of life? How does one feel at forty, I wonder? I suppose all the restless desires, and impetuous longings, and wild regrets that haunt one at twenty, have ceased by that time, and one feels self-possessed, and self-contained, and resigned, or apathetie; which? I wish I was forty years old: it must be so good to have looked life fairly in the face, and to know that the best-by which I mean the largest half-must certainly be over.

Now, my diary, let me keep my promise, and "tell you all about it." At first I could not tell even you; but I think without telling some one I shall never clearly know the exact state of things, and as for telling any one but you, why I would sooner go and cry fish in Billingsgate; ay, ten times sooner!

I was very happy when I came home that evening from Southam: if any one had asked me why, I am not sure that I could have answered. I only know that I was very quietly, serenely happy, that life seemed to me very fair, and the world most beautiful. The next morning was our grand party-a most brilliant affair, as everybody said. Accidentally Cyril and I met in the library; and he told me what I had never suspected, that he cared for Elizabeth, not in the brotherly fashion generally imputed to him. I am not going to write down all he said, or all I said: I am not sure that I remember it exactly. I only know that I went back to the drawing-room, feeling like one who has dreamt himself in bowers of Paradise, and suddenly awakes to find around him solitude, sordid misery, and gloom. For I did think Cyril Denham was my friend-my own peculiar friend; and my friend I suppose he was, and is, but nothing more. It is I, for whom he cherishes fraternal feelings, I on whom he will rely as on a faithful friend. Let me be content with that title. I think I shall be soon: I am not a child to cry for the moon! I am too proud, too philosophical, I hope, to wear myself away for unrequited love.

But oh the pain is very keen; for without ever actually considering our mutual position, I had taught myself to think that there was a link between Cyril and myself, which never could be sundered. And so there is, only not the link that I foolishly, presumptuously thought it was-the link set with life's most precious gems!

I went back to the laughing, singing throng in the drawing-rooms; and then I saw that Elizabeth resented what she had seen in the library. I felt stunned, and cold, and weary, longing only for silence and darkness: her cheeks were glowing like the roses in her hair; her eyes were shining with a strange, proud, defiant light; and she talked, and laughed, and played incessantly. I know how she interpreted the scene she had witnessed; and I know now that