"Do you want to say good-bye? Why should we forget we have ever met? Tell me to forget that I am born!"

“Oh, no, no; it is not like that. Mr. Meredith, we have only known each other four or five-a few weeks."

66

Six-I have kept closer count than you."

"And what does that matter in a life?" said Agnes, looking up at him with a courageous smile. "Nothing! no more than a moment. We have not done any harm," she added, collecting all her strength. "We have not neglected our work nor wasted our time. And we never meant anything. It was all an accident. Mr. Meredith, good-bye. I shall pray that you may be happy."

"Ah! that is like what the world says of saints," he said, sharply. "You make me wretched and then pray that I may be happy."

"Oh, no, no," she cried, the tears coming to her eyes. "How can I have made you wretched? It was only an accident. It has been only a moment. You will not refuse to say good-bye."

Foolish Agnes! she had nothing to do but to leave him, having said her say. But, instead of this she argued, bent upon making a logical conclusion to which he should consent, convinced, though against his will. On the whole she preferred that it should be against his will-but convinced she had determined that he must be. They walked away softly through the little street into the sunset, which sank lower every moment, shedding a glory of slant light upon the two young figures so sombre in garb, so radiant in life. Where they were going they did not know, nor how the charmed moments were passing. Every shade of the coming evening lay behind them, but all the glory of the rose tints and glowing purple, the daffodil skies and gates of pearl, before.

THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

MAY, 1877.

Carità.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE WIDOW.

HE full particulars of Mr. Meredith's death and Mr. Meredith's will came by the next mail; and this information acted as a kind of funeral ceremony and conclusion to the melancholy period. All his affairs were in order; his will unassailable, the provisions sufficiently just. There was more money than anyone expected, and it was divided into three unequal shares the largest for his eldest son, the second for Edward, the least of all for their mother. This arrangement took them all by surprise, and it VOL. XXXV.-NO. 209. 25.

was with some little difficulty that Mrs. Meredith was brought to see how it affected herself. That there would be any difference to her had not occurred to her. She had thought only of her children. "They certainly will not be worse off than they have been," she said five minutes before the contents of the will were communicated to her; but any question as to how she herself would be affected had not entered her mind. Even after she had heard it, she did not realize it.

"I am afraid you will scarcely be able to keep up this house unless the boys stay with you, which is not to be expected," said old Mr. Sommerville. She looked at him, taking her handkerchief from her eyes. "My house?" she said, faltering. Mr. Beresford was present and one or two other old friends.

Oswald was playing with a paper knife, balancing it on his finger, and paying no attention. He was thinking of something else with a vague smile on his face. He was as rich almost as he had hoped-made an “eldest son" of, in so far at least that his portion was the biggest ; and he was thinking of a house of his own, taking no thought for his mother, and a wife of his own soon to be beguiled out of poke bonnets and convent cloaks, yet all the more piquant from the comparison. Naturally this was more interesting to him than his mother, and the house that he had been used to for years. But Edward, who, whatever he was himself doing, managed somehow to see what Oswald was about, and who thought he knew what that preoccupation and absorption meant, interposed hastily. "Of course my mother will keep her house. It is quite unnecessary to enter into such questions. The economy of the household is unchanged," he said.

"But, my lad, I don't agree with you," said old Sommerville. "You may both take to chambers, your brother and you. Most young men do now-a-days, so far as I can see. I will not say whether it's better for them, or worse for them. Anyhow, your mother must be on her own footing. You must not be dependent on the whimsies of a boy. I would advise you, my dear madam, to look out for a smaller house."

"A smaller house?" she repeated again, in dismay. "Why a smaller house?" Then her eyes fell upon Oswald. "Yes, I understand. Oswald will perhaps-marry. It is quite true; but I have lived in this house so long-I am used to it. I do not wish to change."

"You will not be able to afford it-on your income, madam," said old Sommerville, watching her keenly. He was fond of studying mankind, and to see how a fellow-creature encountered a change of fortune was keenly interesting to the old man.

She looked at him, opening her eyes wider with a curious gaze of surprise; then paused a moment, looking round her as if for some explanation. "Ah," she said, "I begin to understand." Nobody spoke to her; the other two old friends who were present turned aside and talked to each other. Mr. Beresford looked over a photograph book as earnestly as if he hoped to find a fortune between the pages; only the old spy watched the new-made widow, the admired and beloved woman to