I turned away; I would hear no more of the smiling lie. Thank God, it was not breathed by Hester's lips! No; she only wept, and kissed me once or twice softly.

"In a week he must go!" I heard the physician whisper. Then I knew there was no hope. They went away, and left me alone.

I tried to think of peace, of religion; I tried to say, "Thy will be done;" but the strong writhings of human passion shut out from me even the face of God. To die, to leave all my dear ones, to part from Lilias Hay!-I uttered her name almost with a groan-the thought was horrible. In this fearful moment I knew how madly, how despairingly, I loved her. She knew it, too, though I had never told her so. There was no need. The deep tenderness between us had grown from year to year, until it became a part of our life. I say our life; for we seemed to have but one. Neither said, "I love;" but the daily tide of our existence as it flowed harmoniously on, cried out with its thousand voices, "See, how these two love one another!"

I had hitherto been content that it should be so, knowing well that Lilias would wed no man save me, and that one day the loving friendship between us would be changed for a closer bond. But now I must die-die without having called her wife, without even having taken her once to my heart. O misery! that blessed, long-dreamed-of moment would never come; I must go down into the dark grave; I must lay my head in the dust there, and not on the pure, faithful bosom of my Lilias Hay!

I groaned aloud; I writhed in my anguish. Life and youth were yet strong within me. I could not die. Sometimes I resolved at all hazards to tell Lilias of my love. Perhaps I might draw life from the lips of my betrothed; perhaps a wife's prayers might yet stand between me and the Destroyer. I would risk it! I would ask her to wed me now-at once. What-wed youth with sickness, peace with misery, life with death? God forgive the sinful thought! No; rather let me die alone, with dumb lips that carried

their eternal secret mournfully to the grave. Best so-best

even for her sake.

My frozen despair melted into a dew of

I grew calmer. tears. I began to pray the dead mother had prayers that my taught me when I was a child. They made me feel like a child now, peaceful and humble. When Hester came in

again, I was able to look in her face and smile. She did not weep, but talked with me calmly and affectionately about my journey. I said I would rather remain at home; but she prayed-nay, they all prayed-that I would embrace any chance that might spare me longer to their dear love. I promised. Then my sister left the room, and brought in Lilias Hay.

Lilias was very pale, but composed and tearless. She came and sat down beside me, in her usual place. I laid my hand on her lap; she took it, and held it for a long time without a word.

"You know all, Lilias; that I am going to Madeira?" "Yes."

I marvelled, nay, I was almost pained, that she said no more. My Lilias! I did not know thy heart even then!

They were all in the room: my father, Charles, Hester, and one who was to be Hester's bridegroom that very month. As they began to consult as to who should accompany me on this voyage of doom, young Fortescue drew her nearer to him with an anxious look. Hester cast her eyes down; but I saw the struggle in her heart. I would not put the claim even of a dying brother before that of an affianced husband. I said I would rather have Charles with me; and, after some resistance, Hester assented. They soon went away, and left me, as they often did, alone with my friend Lilias.

My friend! Was it friendship, when her every tone, her every movement, caused my heart to thrill, even through the cold sluggish pulses of disease. How keenly I suffered! How I yearned to lay my cheek on the dear hand I held, and pray her to take my poor dying head to her bosom, and let my last breath utter the life-long love which on earth might

never be fulfilled. But I uttered it not. Even when, speaking of my going away so soon, her words came brokenly, and she leaned her brow against my chair in a long tearful silence; I only laid my hand softly on her hair, and bade "God bless her." Better, I thought, that she should mourn as a friend than as a widow.-Lilias, my faithful one, was I right?

Then we talked in a quiet, ordinary way, about my journey and its arrangements.

"Hester will go with you, surely; of course, Hester must go," said Lilias.

"No. Hester must not, ought not," I answered, earnestly. "Nothing should divide two who love one another." And then I trembled at my words, and I saw Lilias tremble too. But soon after she spoke of some indifferent subject, and continued to do so until the time came for her to go home. We bade each other "good-night" (we dared not say "goodbye"), parting as usual with the long, lingering hand-clasp only. She walked slowly to the door, her step seeming to me like the rending of soul and body. Whether by gesture or groan I betrayed the agony I know not; but Lilias turned round. The next moment she had flung herself on her knees beside me.

"Wilfred, Wilfred! in life or death I cannot part with you. Hush!"—and her voice grew solemn with unutterable. tenderness" do not speak. Let me say the truth, long known to us both-that-" But she could not say it. Only she caught my hands-wildly, fondly, fast-" Oh, Wilfred ! do not-nay, you shall not go alone. Friend! lover! husband! take me with you!"

I fell forward-my head on her shoulder. My lips asked feebly and blindly for the holy seal of troth-plight. I felt it-the first pure kiss of Lilias Hay; and then I felt no more, but sank into a swoon of joy.

It lasted not long; for with returning consciousness came that iron will of self-martyrdom, which would have made me die with my love unspoken: I lifted myself from her enclasping arms.

"Lilias," I cried, "this must not be. You would give me life, and I you-death. I dare not take the boon."

She arose; quick blushes diffused her face and neck, and then faded away. O love! my faithful love! I could dream I saw thee now, leaning over me with that white marble brow, and low, solemn voice.

"Wilfred, you think of yourself alone-you have not remembered me. Your love is my life-you have no right to take that from me. If I must suffer, better-better a thousand times, that I should suffer with you than apart." And she sank once more on her knees beside me. "Oh, Wilfred my only comfort-my only hope in this worldcast me not from you. Let me be your wife, to watch, tend, and cherish you, until-until you go away, and then to follow -soon, oh, soon!"

I opened my arms, crying, "Lilias, come." And thus, in one long embrace, silent as death, or love, we plighted our troth to each other.

A week after I and my wife were in the midst of the wide ocean, on our way to Madeira.

Reader, you do not wonder now that it was almost heaven to me to lie silent on the twilight-shadowed deck, doing nothing, save look into the eyes of my Lilias.

They were eyes, now bright with hope as well as love: for it seemed as though the shadows of doom were passing away from mine. I drank in the soft breezes of the southern sea; they gave me new life, as all said. But I knew, O my wife! that this new life was brought by that precious love of thine.

CHAPTER II.

Ir was a pleasant voyage-by day under the sunny heaven, by night beneath the stars. Many a time Lilias and I sat for hours together on the deck, hand in hand like little children, pleased with the veriest trifles-a cloud on the sky, a flying

fish on the water-talking sweet idleness, half sense, half nonsense, as loving and happy ones ever will; and then my wife would shake her head with a mock reproof, and say, we ought to be ashamed of ourselves-we, burthened between us with the conjoined weight of nearly fifty years. She was so happy, that she even used to sport with me, sometimes jesting about my having compelled herself to become the wooer at last. She kept buzzing about me like a merry little bee, her blithe voice lulling me either by song or speech, until, still feeble, I often sank to sleep on the deck, with my head in her lap. And then, many and many a time did I wake, feeling my hair wet with the dew of passionate tenderness which had rained on me from those dear eyes. "Thank God, thank God, for the blessedness of love!" was all my heart could cry. But this it did cry, day and night, in a loud pæan of joy that even angels might hear.

Friend reader, I dare say thou thinkest we were a couple of simpletons! We smile on thee calmly. Poor fool! thou hast never loved.

One night we watched the twilight into starlight, and could not tear ourselves from the quiet, lonely deck. It was a strange and awful thing to be sweeping in the darkness over that vast, desolate sea, with not a sound near us, save the flapping of a sail and the wind in the cordage singing almost like a human voice, or one which, though all spiritual now, yet comes laden with the echo of its remembered mortal wail. Our converse partook of the character of the scene, and glided from the sweet trifling of contented earthly love, into the solemn communion of two spirits, wedded not only for life but for immortality. We spoke of the deep mysteries of our being, of the unseen and immaterial world. All these things were ever to me full of a strange fascination, in which Lilias shared. Why should she not? All our lives we had thought alike, she following whither I led. But she ever walked meekly, knowing that the man is the head of the woman. Her wisdom was born and taught of love, as a