time went on, it was not merely silence, or seeming coolness that pained her: not merely the absence, in his letters or in his manner, of that to which she had been used, and which her soul craved. There was often worse: there was abruptnessharshness as it seemed to her:-She felt repelled!

Scarce a line when he wrote, scarce a volunteered word or act when they were together, encouraged her in the old outpourings of thought or feeling, in the old unbidden demonstrations of affection, which had been second nature to her: Scarce any such now flowed from him: but, rather, actions or expressions which made the blood creep coldly back to her heart; and inclined her, she could not

exactly have told why, to burst out weeping.

If these two had been on the customary footing, when such sentiments as theirs take possession of men and women's hearts; if they had loved in the ordinary acceptation of the word, like other people of equal age unconnected already by other ties; Agnes would have said to herself—" He loves me no longer; his wish is to withdraw from me; in the marks of affection, whatever they are, he gives, he is merely sparing my feelings out of kindness and recollection of the past; they are elicited only by the love he sees in me; they are not genuine, not spontaneous:"-and with such conviction, Pride—woman's pridewould have come to her aid: She would have sought his regard no longer. But, from Agnes to Walter, this could not be. How could she who had reared him-who looked on him, or thought she looked on

to

him, only as her charge, her ward, the work of her hands, the staff of her age come-She who never, for a moment, dreamt of "love," in the sense in which the word is commonly taken-how could she think of "Pride," of "Feminine Dignity" with him? The sentiment would have seemed preposterous, could it ever have occurred to her. All she could do, was to wonder and to sigh; to feel a chilling blankness at her heart, a wearing disquiet about her thoughts, which would not let her rest.

Indeed, indeed, Walter, it was not all well done of you! You meant it rightly; but it was not well done. So little would have sufficed her she was so pure, so good, as well as so loving-you need not have feared for her! To know and feel you loved her and confided in her wholly;

to be able to confide thus entirely in you;

was all she wanted: You might have let her feel it, and have done no wrong! You know she was so lone!

But perhaps you feared for your own sake too? Was there a little selfishness, after all, in the course you adopted? Was it regard for your own ease of mind, not for her peace, not fear of evil-doing-in her case impossible that actuated you? I cannot answer. What human being shall pretend to fathom all the secret recesses of another's mind; or scan and distinguish the various complex motives which may guide him?

CHAPTER III.

Ar length Walter was one-and-twenty. And, this time, when he sought once more the home of his infancy, it was to receive, at his guardian's hand, his small but carefully husbanded fortune;-henceforth to stand in the world his own master, and alone.

Alone indeed-but for her! No relative on earth had he: no early friends, save the one we have named. His father's life, nearly since boyhood, had been spent at sea or in the West Indies, till he returned