but black, in fact, as any other), to reconcile his new locality with the pretence of that which he imagined she believed it still to be.

The man who so readily faced a roomful of drunken brawlers-who would have shrunk from no material danger that could have visited him-was a coward with the woman he loved; as gentle and loving a one as ever man took to wife. That terrible false pride which can acknowledge no error-that morbid repugnance to admit even the advice or warning of another; never so wise, never so good or humble-are they not at the root of all moral cowardice ?

"Seems so queer to me," as honest Crump said to himself, going home that night. "Now I can't abide to have any mortal thing on my mind: out it comes! and if she blows up, why she do; and its done with and over. She knows the worst, and so do I. Well, there is a difference in people for sure!"

Aye, there is, wonderful difference in the aspect of things as we view them through those mental spectacles, of each his own. And that difference, is it not chief among the wranglings and jarrings, misapprehensions and repinings, which afflict this mortal state?

Pretty, pettish, childish Cary Deering, now, would have made herself happy enough with George's endearments, and have sought no further; when he returned at night, and put his arm about her, or fondled the children, or worked in the garden, and evaded any remark of his son's about the work he supposed his father still occupied upon; and if she had known the falsehood, she would have, in all probability, taxed him with it, and there have ended; satisfied in his next caress that he loved her.

THE ROOT OF SORROW.

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But here was another, vexed in spirit and ill at ease, because she could not blind herself to an imperfection in the man she loved, to whom, even to let him know she was aware of his unworthiness, was so painful as to be impossible.

The woman's soul sickened at the mutual deceit, for she felt it to be so; but she did so long for him to tell her of it: she hoped and desired so earnestly that he would yet change his mind, until she found it was too late, and from another source heard the news; and still she could not bear to convey to him the reproach of his want of confidence in her. In old times she had learned to dread this coward habit, and the evils it so generally portended.

Then she would try to reconcile herself to believe he was right—that she was foolishly anxious-that he must have a good reason-anything, in short, to make him all worthy of her confidence and love; to raise him to a standard to which she might look up, as is the nature of women to do.

The old, old story.

Alas! that by the power of love-as stirring most deeply the loftier nature-the upright has bent, the true and bright faltered, and faded, and grown dim ; stooped all, to become as and of that which it loves and pities, and weeps for; but can never raise, nor teach to see, to walk, to live by its own clear light.

Oh vexed and unsuccessful trial! oh irreconcileable differences of poor human nature! who can hope to reconcile them?

THE bosky shades of Birdiethorn were fast deepening into darker tints; the scentless beauties of the sleepy-eyed Autumn were taking the place of the less gay, but sweeter, sisterhood of Summer; heavier fell the night-dews upon the mossy paths, and on the harvest-fields hung the gossamer webs of fairy looms.

Night after night the hunter's moon queened it, in a cloudless unfathomable space; while beneath, hardly less calm, slept the solemn sea, where each day's glory sought an earlier rest, yet lingered even longer in a last farewell.

The white cottage was closed, dust was gathering upon its windows, and over the threshold the damp green mould crept stealthily. The small garden was fast choking with rank weeds that spring and spread so quickly in the richest soil. The thistle and the

dock elbowed the tulip; the wild nettle towered over the geranium. The roses, that the young mistress had once been proud of, now hung fading, and, with the first breeze that blew, would scatter the waste and the trodden highway.

A padlock and chain were upon the gate, where so often she had stood awaiting her husband; all the comfortable furniture had been consigned to a broker for what it would fetch. It was a home no longer.

Tom Hinton lodged in the village, and worked at the new public-house, under George Steyne, whom he hated. Nothing had since been heard of his unhappy wife. Her disappearance had been a nine days' wonder, hardly that, followed so closely as it was by that of poor Will Darby. The boy's absence for a day or two at a time was such a common occurrence that it created no surprise, till, on the third day, Philip Steyne made known his fears, and furnished the only clue obtainable to his flight.

This the poor father hastened to follow, slight as it was. The result he made known to none; but returned after some days, more reserved and quiet than ever; not sorry, perhaps, that the lad had escaped a lot than which scarce any could be more unhappy. Meanwhile Mrs. Darby shared her trouble and its consolation among her intimates, as she expatiated on all she had done, and "gone through," for that ungrateful lad.

With such speed and determination had the new builder and his men worked, that "The Crichton" began to assume definite form and shape, and out of its goodly proportions to give promise of being indeed,

as its owner had said, the pride of the town; so far as taste in design, and skill in execution, could make it.

George's secret had ceased to be one: as such things generally do, it had come to light in the most simple, yet unexpected manner; and his wife's quiet expression of wonder that he had not told her before, with her earnest, yet affectionate, regret that he should have changed his employer, would have gone to the heart of a harder man than Steyne.

"I thought you knew it," was all he could say, when, by the merest accident of Crichton calling in the evening to speak to him, she had apparently learned the truth.

"I did know it, dear, a long time I've known it; but I thought you would tell me."

። "Well, it makes no difference now, Harriette." "I am very sorry, George dear, very sorry; I would rather you worked for anybody at anything else."

"Oh! I am all right, Harriette; you need not to be afraid; I am not such a fool."

"We must hope for the best! It cannot be helped now; so we will say no more about it, dear."

That was all. No scolding; no bringing up of old grievances; no reminder of old resolutions broken and cast away. He felt small; he might as well have told her at first; he knew how she hated anything like deceit. Why the deuce couldn't he have told her ?" He was angry with himself, and angry with her, that he felt lessened in his own opinion.

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Surely he might choose his own master! He was not a boy, to go seeking advice, and so forth; he was all right, and what need she trouble; he might have been