Now he wrote M.A. against his name, yet still he pleaded for another year.

"No doubt," thought Mabel, "it is because of his hard work he writes so seldom. I shall tell him that his letters get small by degrees and beautifully less." To her, the difficulty in writing to Maurice was to write a short letter; he, on the contrary, never wrote a long one. His finest thoughts were ofttimes condensed into the fewest words. But now the University-term has all but expired he writes a few lines to Mabel telling her of how much he shall have to speak to her when he sees her.

“I shall make a larger demand upon your sympathy than I have ever made," he added.

Mabel, standing beside the mantle-piece in her little room, and looking into the fire, for it was winter, wondered what he could mean. there did she stand looking reflectively into it, a dreamy look settling over her face. To-night a warm glow from within, not from the coals, tinged it from temple to chin. So musing, a passing angel might have paused in his flight to gaze upon the rare loveliness of this daughter of earth. "Well, he will soon be here," she thought, "and then he will tell me what he means."

Often when a fire was burning

Two evenings after, Maurice arrived. He was the centre of the family interest, as the new comer always

is. He seemed in high spirits. Indeed he showed more elation of manner than was at all usual with him of the quiet, calm exterior. His eyes had a nervous, changing light in them. Mabel saw the difference, and supposed it had to do with the new demand he was going to make upon her sympathy. It was the evening of the next day ere she found herself alone with him.

"Put your shawl on, Mabel, and come with me on the terrace."

The inevitable moment had arrived. She felt a thrill through her whole being. She stepped out with him. and took his arm. Back flashed her mind to the first evening she had stood there meekly asking to be the sharer of his thoughts; and again, of the evening when, with the silent stars as witnesses, they had joined hands, promising to each other that they would abjure self, and be noble and good, and wise. Now they were on the same spot again; she in her full beautiful womanhood, he in his excelsior manhood. What was the sweeter

sympathy he would ask of her?

Whatever it might be

he was slow, painfully hesitating and reluctant, in the asking of it.

Mabel," he said, "sweet sister of my heart, I want to tell you the sweetest secret of my life. Can I count upon your sympathy?"

“Has it ever failed you, Maurice ?"

"No; not even when, like the ungracious fellow I was, I spurned it. Still you can't beat heart to heart with me in this, till one day you are made as happy." "What do you mean?"

'Oh, you know what I mean. You must know, or have you set your mark so high that you dream not, like other girls, your dream of love, nor frame your beau idéal. Mabel, I'm engaged-engaged to the most exquisite little creature; and I'm more happy than I can tell you."

They paused in their walk. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They leaned over the balustrade; he, awaiting her answer; she, thinking what a long way below lay the road. How easy would the descent to it be! The idea had for her a fascination.

"Mabel, you might speak to me!”

"I beg your pardon. I am slow in my congratulations; but you have taken me so by surprise. What is the lady like?"

Oh, I can't tell you. Ask me to express a dancing sunbeam or a drop of dew. You must see her, Mabel, for yourself. You'll love her dearly, I know. Your only wonder will be that such a bright bird should be won to nest with such a dark-plumaged, melancholynoted one as I?"

"Is she intellectual?"

No, not in our sense of the term; not in the least. No one knowing her would think of asking that; would care to spoil her with books. She is a child, an unformed, innocent child. She lives her own life and enjoys it, just as the insects and humming-birds do; but her innocence exalts her, oh, in a world like this, so very, very high! Just as she is I would not wish to see her altered. But, fair coz, I must tell you all about her."

A few minutes more of purgatorial pain, and Mabel was released. Yet she was bright enough, strong enough to say, after the probation, "I hope, dear Cousin Maurice, you may both be very happy."

"Oh," thought Mabel, as she settled her head that night on what now appeared to be a pillow of thorns, "I little thought, when I vowed myself to self-abnegation, that the vow included giving up Maurice to another. Well, I suppose one is not expected to bear the fire without wincing, though one may choose, on principle, to remain in it. Oh, how hot, how distressed, and unutterably miserable I feel! Does God design to bring me to nothing?"

CHAPTER XII.

"She is not worthy of you, Douglas;
Not half worthy the like of you."

It is possible that the anguish of bereavement is light in comparison to that which our heroine was called on to endure. For when our beloved have departed from our side to enter the mysterious land of spirits, we still feel that they are, in an inexplicable manner, linked to Nothing human-nothing earthly-can forbid the banns of union between our soul and theirs. No fairer face can come between us and them, nor voice, vibrant with rightful ownership, drown ours in the exclamation, "Mine! mine! yea, truly mine! forsworn not to another!"

us.

But, ah! these partings that take place in life. Much has been said about them. Eloquent orators, gifted poets, have all touched on the same theme to linger over it; but the passion of it remains unexpressed, and must so remain though orators and poets are born among us such as have never been known since Isaiah 'glowed with imagery, and Jeremiah melted into tears." Still may weeping Phaltiels follow their beloved Michals,