given them. She stood leaning against the conservatory door, her white dress and her pearls glistening in the subdued light. Her right hand had grasped the door-handle under the folds of her gown, and remained holding it tightly for support. Her face was very pale. She was trying to smooth the pain out of mouth and brows, and kept her eyes down on the flowers, lest they should tell tales. Mr. Aungier stood gravely watching her. The consciousness of this gave her a difficulty of breathing. He made some trifling remark to her about the flowers, and in replying, Ellen felt her eyes forced to raise themselves for a second to meet his, full of the same stern, hard-judging shadows which made her rebel before.

One voice within her clamoured loudly for leave to speak, to make bitter accusations and indignant self-defence; but this was only an impotent impulse, which pride, right-minded maidenly pride, soon mastered.

Felicia was in good spirits to-night; only on one point she was dissatisfied. Miss Rothwell, for a rich and good-looking young lady, did not make many friends. When she did invest any one with the dignity and title of her friendship, she was disposed to be exacting towards them, expecting them often to be pliant to her will. She had wished to hear these two people talking and sounding one another; to afterwards learn Ellen's opinion of Mr. Ellis, and perhaps Mr. Ellis's opinion of Ellen. But here they were, each stiff and unbending towards the other, as if restrained by some passive antipathy from making mutual acquaintance.

"Mr. Ellis," she said, in her abrupt way; "why have you not told Miss Waldron how much you liked her translation of your story into the artist tongue ?"

"You forget, Miss Rothwell," Mr. Aungier said, quietly, "that I have not had the opportunity. Your friend has been deep in the gaieties of the evening, unapproachable by any mere looker-on."

"Here is your opportunity, then. She deserves your thanks. If she had not got a headache, I believe she could pay you back in kind, too. I have seen her look inspired at the mention of your book."

Mr. Aungier's eyes lit just for one moment. He answered quietly as ever,—

Then I am twice indebted to her. Will you present my hearty acknowledgments to your friend, Miss Rothwell, and say from me that her sympathetic pencil has unspeakably enriched my pages. The book has of late, very late, become so precious to me, that I shall for the future keep it safely locked away out of sight."

"Do you know that that is a very doubtful compliment, Mr. Ellis; your words might imply that you never wished to look into it again, We do not hide away the thing whose presence gives us joy. We like to keep the page perpetually open under our eyes."

Mr. Ellis bowed his head in reply.

"I do not understand you!" Felicia cried. "I am beginning to agree with mamma, that Mr. Ellis is an apostle. He begins to talk in riddles !"

"A novelist apostle?" said Mr. Aungier, smiling.

"Yes; you should hear mamma. She vows you will do more good than if you occupied a pulpit. She says, 'We are children who like to get our medicine baked in a sweetmeat. Mr. Ellis shuns cant, and yet his pages reflect the true light.' She gets quite eloquent; she is very pious, the dear old mother, She thinks men like you seldom have such earnest views on religion. Where did you get them, Mr. Ellis ?"

"Do you mean me to answer that question, Miss Rothwell ?" "Certainly, if you please."

"I once stumbled on in the dark. It was a very slender, but strong little hand that dragged me into the light. I owe that little hand, wherever it may be, eternal gratitude. The same, however, very nearly thrust me back again, so that I have not to thank it alone for the light which I now enjoy, in common with all Christian men."

Felicia looked puzzled again.

"Shall I tell you a fable, Miss Rothwell, and your friend, if she is not too ill to listen? A ship lost its rudder in a dark sea. It ploughed on blindly, but struggled in vain to reach a haven. It saw the red lights of safe happy ships going past; it stumbled against desperate rocks. Then it happened that a brave little vessel came up alongside of it, and offered fearlessly to tug it into port. The big, lumbering ship smiled you see I speak in fable phrase),-the ship smiled, looking

down at the little thing, because it was so very small and bold. Nevertheless, for want of better help, it gave itself in keeping to the little tug, who, working might and main, brought it stoutly landward in time. It happened, however, that in a sudden storm some rich silken sails, all the wealth of the big ship, were flung on board the little tug, whereupon the little thing immediately cut her fastenings, and sailed off with the prize, leaving the blind ship to stumble on as before. Fortunately, land was so near that he did not get utterly adrift again. The storm, strange to say, blew him straight to land. He afterwards made a successful voyage, and hailed the little tug sailing past, resplendent in her silken sails, He acknowledged that she became them better than he ever could have done. But he vowed never to trust an honest-looking little tug again. Now, Miss Rothwell, there is a fable for you, in the true spelling-book style. Can you find me a moral ? "

Ellen's face was turned away to the dark glass beside her; only the outline of her crimson cheek met the light. Felicia turned her puzzled eyes from one to the other of her friends. What strange nonsense had Mr. Ellis been talking? and had Ellen's headache suddenly become intolerable? It could not have been the noise which had hurt it; this room was quiet, and Mr. Ellis's voice had been low. A pause followed his question to Felicia, which was fated not to be answered. Into the pause then stepped a brisk light-footed servant, who bent towards Miss Rothwell, whispering deferentially. Felicia relinquished her puzzle at once, and hastily followed the man from the room.

So they were left alone, each bearing a strange name, each in an unfamiliar guise, yet identical with the two people who had three years ago wrestled with darkness together upon the rocks at Dunmara. Ellen's flush had faded, her face was pale again when she turned it round to the light. The fingers of her left hand unclosed stiffly, and the flowers which he had given her fell, striking Mr. Aungier's foot. She made a few steps forward, tripped on her dress and gathered up the offending skirts. Then Mr. Ellis found himself alone in the room.

On the landing Ellen met Felicia; some people were standing in a group beyond, whispering. They were not smiling. Some dismay had got amongst them.

Had any of, the guests

fallen suddenly ill? Ellen was just in the mood to push past them all and never ask a word about it. Her one want was to get upstairs, and to be left at peace in the dark. But it was not to be so. Felicia stopped her.

"Ellen, dear, you had better go back to London at once; your father is not well, and he has sent for you."

"Oh, Felicia! he is not dead ?”

"No, indeed; but he has got another attack. I will go with you, dear."

"You shall not leave your guests. I will not have it. Come to see us soon, though; he will get over it, please God!"

"

Oh, my kind, generous father! Ellen murmured as she huddled her mantle round her shoulders; "why did I ever leave you to come to this cruel place?"

The long, dark, anxious drive came to an end at last. It wanted two hours of the winter dawn when Ellen reached London. The yellow glare of the street lamps looked ghastly as she whirled past them. She heard a dismal scream from somewhere in the dreary wilderness of streets around her, and shuddered. She reached her father's house at last. Why were all the faces so dolorous? why would no one meet her eyes? why did they all lurk about so idle and helpless? The doctor, too, was standing inactive by the window in the passage beside the sick-room door.

The physician turned quickly to meet her as she came like a ghost, with the white drapery of her mantle wound about her pale face. He gently removed her fingers from the handle of the chamber-door.

"Let me speak with you first, my dear young lady," he said, and looked at her kindly, with sad eyes. Then Ellen knew that she was too late, and that her father was dead.

CHAPTER XLIV

GOING BACK.

MR. WALDRON'S will bequeathed generously to his servants, also to many charities, and his daughter was rich after these had been paid. She sat in the dingy, grand house after the

blinds had been rolled up, and the light of day again found its way shyly into the dusky rooms. She sat and looked back upon a season of entire desolation, such as had never passed over her head before.

The servants stood aloof and wondering amongst themselves whether their young mistress would keep the house just as it had been with its gallery and studio and all its other eccentricities, or if she would change everything totally and refurnish, or if she would give up the whole place and go away to live with friends. If any of these questions had been put to Ellen she could scarcely have shaped an answer. She had not yet been able to think much of what she ought to do. Of going back to Ireland she had conceived a dread.

Every rood of ground she might walk, every face she might meet, would keep telling her a story which she did not need to have repeated, which had been to her hard in the learning, and which was now about to be completed by the addition of an unthought-of sequel. That sequel seemed somehow so much more difficult to con and get by heart than even the story had been.

Then to live on here, her present lonely life would be like lying down with folded hands in an open coffin, waiting for time to come and close it. She could not even go for a short visit to the Rothwells; had there been no other barrier to that, her last interview with Herbert placed such a step out of the range of possibility. One only thing she had done. She had written to Dr. McDawdle to bring or send Maud to her at once.

Felicia came to see her friend, but somehow it did not comfort Ellen to see the fair face looking at her across her lonely hearth. She had a sick longing to fold her hands and turn her face to the wall. Against this feeling her stronger nature already made war, but as yet without victory.

One snowy evening they occupied the dining-room together, Ellen and Felicia. It was nearly night. Outside, the snowflakes were descending pitiably into the dark wetness of the winter street. Inside they had rung for no light, and the shine from the fire touched the dark furniture and the frames of the pictures, making a red dusk through the room. Ellen was

s tting in her father's deserted arm-chair, wearing her black dress, that dress which she had worn so often during the past