and feeling, and needed daily training, there came to the father's house on business, the son of a distant relative; a youth so like Ethelreda in tone and power; so one with her in tastes; with aspirations and sympathies so echoing her own; that for a brief, strangely bright period, a new source of delight seemed to be added to the happiness of an already happy life. And all unsuspicious at first, she simply enjoyed what was before her, with the girlish joy of her age. But some accidental word of little Emily's, some small forgetfulness of an accustomed daily habit, which came upon her as a dereliction of duty, awoke Ethelreda the mother from the dream into which Ethelreda the maiden was fast drifting-awoke, startled, and shocked her at once. But the path lay very plain before her and was easily retrod. Henceforth for ever she held the reins tightly enough, and when at the end of a long protracted visit, the friend-and now for long friend onlylaid open before her a heart overflowing with devotion, and a mind which to know was to respect and admire, astonishment even did not tempt her to betray herself, and let him discover the dangerous truth that she also knew how well they were suited, and how welcome would have been such companionship in the journey of life, had she been free. For answer, she could but point to the child. Her vow was upon her as her holiest, highest duty. She would never forsake her task till it was accomplished. She could not leave the little one, nor, almost worse, take the little one from its father; and the duties of the new claimant to her affections forced him for many years to the exile of a foreign land. Impossible, therefore, impossible !—the very parleying with the suggestion seemed almost a sin.

And thus they had parted with the veil between their hearts. He, led by her manner to believe that the queenly and grand prevailed over the tender in Ethelreda's heart: she, telling herself that he would soon marry another, and smile at the episode of the fancy for the oldfashioned girl in the English country house. This did not happen, however; but whether it did or not Ethelreda never knew for fifteen years, for the only communication between the families consisted of occasional business letters from the young man Ernest to Ethelreda's father. But at the end of the fifteen years the father told with pleasure one morning that he had had a letter from an old friend they might possibly remember, that "good fellow, Ernest," and that he would come to them for a time on his way to his family home. It was evident without asking, therefore, that he was alone.

And he came older, graver, and more reserved, but the same good Ernest as ever; betraying, however, neither by word or sign any recollection of the past. And Ethelreda smiled at last when she reflected that she too was older, graver, and more reserved, and what a boy and girl episode of nonsense their nine days' fancy had been!

So she was at ease, and could enjoy the present as it stood; one of the pleasantest parts of which, to her eyes, was the undisguised admiration with which Ernest looked upon her child, her pupil. On this subject, at any rate, he could speak warmly. The blessing had been upon her labours indeed; how happy she must feel! Ethelreda murmured "thankful," with her eyes overflowing, and a smile which proved that gratitude was linked with happiness in that particular case.

And then Ernest would ask particulars, and Ethelreda, oh how gladly give them. How gladly enlarge upon the youth she had watched over; the virtues she had fostered; the powers she had helped to develop; and could Ernest please her better than when he left her to seek out this child of love, and draw her into friendly intercourse, that he might test description with fact? Ah, as she watched them from her window (for she would often go in and leave them together), as they strolled under the big elm trees, how full and proud grew the heart of Ethelreda the mother! Thus, thus, some day, with some one her equal in age, with character adapted to her own, possibly she might see her so strolling again,-and then affianced, and then a happy bride. Ethelreda! Ethelreda! while you are dreaming into the future, what is happening under your feet? Have you forgotten that contrast has its charm as well as unison? That the light-hearted and serious, the gay and the grave make some times beautiful music together. Not your idea of the perfection of music, perhaps, but music of very seductive power nevertheless. Do you not observe that this free association, even though with an older manly mind, is opening a new life to your little Emily? Does it not strike you above all, that from her very tendency to lean upon others rather than stand upright alone, as you have ever done, the age obstacle which has so set you at ease about their friendship, may in fact be no obstacle at all, but rather a mysterious charm?

Poor Ethelreda! these objects are too near you; you do not see them as they are. You are looking beyond them, over their heads. You are looking in spirit at the future hero of her young life; but she, meanwhile, is looking at the hero of your old one; and with such light love as happy girls throw into their first fancy-she loves him! At last the awakening comes; faint surmises steal over her mind, an accidental blush, some odd, almost imperceptible alteration in Emily's manner, rouses Ethelreda's attention and forces her to look in a direction she had never glanced before. It is uncertain still; it may be the wildest imagination; is she growing weak in her old age? She is absolutely startled both at Emily, at Ernest, and at herself. At him least, however; his manner is so much as it was when first he returned; calmly cheerful, serious, kind; every now and then dashed with a tone of anxiety for which business and age would account. No!

AFFAIRS OF THE CHILD" DISCUSSED.

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there was no change in him. And Emily! was it that she was flattered-flattered by his liking her society? Well, well, that might possibly be it, and all. And herself!-she asked this on her knees

was she giving unasked now what she had refused, when asked, before? Was she expecting at the end of the fifteen best years of earthly existence to be thought of as if in her prime? She buried her glowing cheeks in her hands for a few seconds, then rose and throwing her arms over her head, clasped the hands again, and could answer, No! a thousand times no! with honest truth. Her life had been her choice, her own determined choice, and it had been greatly blessed. But in spite of everything she had been startled, and startled she remained; would call Emily in oftener than usual; fretted if they sat together too long over chess; fretted if they talked too much; fretted if they talked too little; was puzzled in fact and confused-then distrusted her own observation, and would fain have traced it to some weakness in herself; but that she could never do.

"How long a visit Ernest is paying this time!" she said once to her father, but she said it with a pleasant smile. "The longer the better," was his answer. "I am an old man now Ethelreda, and his right hand seems to hold me up. You are not tired of him surely ?" And Ethelreda met her father's earnest eyes with very steady quiet ones of her own as she answered, "No; and he loves the child as she deserves" (they always called her "the child" between them), "and the child loves him."

"It is well it should be so," answered the father; "I have left him her guardian-with you that is,-in case of my death."

So what could Ethelreda do more? Nothing; for she would no for worlds have suggested her misgivings to Emily herself.

"And after all," came the reactionary consideration, "supposing that by any strange freak of accident I am right; is it really a thing to be regretted? That age obstacle, how many such have been happily surmounted in much less promising cases? If she loved him he must certainly love her, and where could a safer or nobler mate, where a better or brighter companion, be found?

Ought she not, there

Nowhere! She had known that all along. fore, to be quite at ease, since if only her child's friend, he was one she might be proud to possess; if more, he was a lover with whom she could not fail to be happy. She would take her ease then, for she could rejoice, could she not, either way?

Ah woman's heart, yes! though she fell asleep that night with a sigh, and with a tear or two on her cheek, the traces of which remained till dawn. But she awoke happy the next morning, for good angels had guarded her slumber.

And the morning was happy throughout. Ethelreda felt so re

lieved and at peace, that it seemed as if a cloud had lifted up and dispersed from her mind, and all was sunshine. A sunshine that spread over the others also, till Ernest looked young again-young enough for Emily. And the three had a happy walk in the forest, listening to birds, and bringing home primrose-roots to scatter in their own plantations. And then Emily rode out with her father, and the two old friends were left to walk under the big elm trees and talk.

At last Ethelreda began to speak of Emily, but for once Ernest did not seem to be attending, for he stopt her by asking abruptly if she could find pleasure in looking backward as well as forward? To which, with her head prepossessed by one idea only, she answered, "No, no, no! Forward was her motto; in the future her hope; let the past be past."

Perhaps they were both wearied by this time, for the talk came soon to an end, and Ethelreda entered the house alone, rejoicing at the opportunity she had at last had, of relieving him for ever from the fear that there would be any painful reversions to the past on her part to prevent her rejoicing in the new-found joy of those so dear to her.

Ernest, meanwhile, after pacing up and down a remote terrace for another half-hour, also re-entered the house, passing hurriedly to a small room set aside for his study. And here he sat down at once, and taking pen, ink, and paper, wrote, as if not a moment must be lost; wrote as if his very life depended upon what he was saying. It was not a letter of business, however, but of love!

Yet if Ethelreda herself had been looking over his shoulder, she would not, for a long time, have seen the knot of her difficulties unloosed, for the letter addressed no one by name. Only spoke of the impossibility of living longer in miserable uncertainty; under a hopeless delusion, a vain hope perhaps; pictured a bitter struggle between the fear of losing all, and the longing to have more. Then laid at some one's feet all that one noble nature can offer to another, asking in return the only return worth having. And then, at last, a daylight dawned of individual allusion. For there came references to the past, long, close, and tender, which could only refer to one: allusions to a sacrifice made once, all need for which was now over, leaving the one who had had an all-absorbing duty before, now free to act for her own personal happiness. There was a reference also to Ethelreda's exclusion of the past from memory, as the startling declaration which had decided him to know his fate at once; then followed reiterations of a love which had known no change through the fifteen years' exile ; and finally there came the one loved name, and then the letter ended.

And when ended, Ernest sealed without re-reading it, and then slowly and with curious care, as if playing with his fate, transcribed the address. Only two words were necessary or correct, but he loved