'You say, you think; I say, I am sure she would be glad to see you'

'Bless you, Felix,' cried Martha, in a grateful tone, 'for that assurance!'

'I hadn't quite finished, Martha. I say I am sure she would be glad to see you at first. But have you thought how you could account for your presence here, Martha? Would not the gentleman who brought her from London be likely to remember that he saw you at the ticket-office? If he did see you, and you presented yourself to Lizzie in this manner, he would be sure to recognise you by your dress and bonnet, if by nothing else. He might tell He might tell Lizzie-might say that you had been watching and following them. Would not Lizzie be hurt at that?'

'Yes, yes,' exclaimed Martha, looking up to him for support. 'You are right in everything you say; you can see things in a clearer light than I can. I am confused and tired out. It would hurt Lizzie's feelings; and rather than that—'

'Rather than that, if I judge you rightly, you would suffer much without murmuring.'

'You judge me rightly, Felix. I would suffer much to save her from the smallest pain.'

He gave her a bright look in approval, and pressed her hand.

'You are sure of one thing, Martha-sure that Lizzie will write to you soon?'

'O, yes.'

'Well, she has come out to enjoy the day I don't suppose she has too many holidays. Look at her-you can see that she is happy. It would be a pity to spoil her enjoyment. You agree with me-I see it in your eyes. So presently, if it is necessary, you will go home

and leave them to themselves.'

'If you advise me to do so, I will,' she said humbly, and then with more animation, although it

will make me very unhappy to be sent away. For one reason, Felix. You must not think that in what I am going to say I am prejudiced or prompted by my fears. I don't like that man's face.'

'Which of the two do you refer to, Martha?'

The one who brought Lizzie from London.'

'Neither do I.'

'You know him then-you have seen him ?'

'Let me think a little, Martha.'

He moved away from her, and walked slowly up and down in deep thought. Should he tell Martha his secret, or so much of it as he deemed necessary? Her instinctive aversion to David Sheldrake's face found sympathy with him. Felix was a shrewd observer, and during his brief sojourn in London had formed a pretty fair estimate of the life of the great city. His judgment was not biassed by prejudices of any kind, and it did not detract from the correctness of his conclusions that he judged by a high standard. He knew the class of men of which Mr. Sheldrake was a member; knew that they lived only for the pleasures of the day, and that such moral obligations as conscientiousness and right-doing were not to be found in their vocabulary of ethics. These things did not enter into their lives-they were dead to them. That Mr. Sheldrake entertained an affection or a passion for Lily he did not doubt; but he knew, from the very character of the man, that his feeling was not an honest one. That Lily entertained an affection for Mr. Sheldrake, he could not believe; no, not even the bright look she gave to Mr. Sheldrake, and of which he had been an involuntary witness -not even the confidential relations which seemed to subsist between them-could make him believe that. He had too high an

opinion of Lily, too just an appreciation of her admiration for the nobler qualities of human nature, to believe that she could have seen in Mr. Sheldrake that which would cause her to love him. Although love comes

how?' thought Felix. Who can analyse the subtle influences which compose it? who can set down rules for it?' But the strongest argument he found to strengthen his belief that Lily did not love Mr. Sheldrake was this: her grandfather knew nothing of it-did not even suspect it. And, on the other hand, from what had passed between himself and old Wheels, the hope had been born within him that the old man suspected and approved of his feelings for Lily. He would not encourage me by the shadow of a word,' thought Felix, if he thought that Lily loved another. She may not love me, although I have sometimes thought that I might win her love; but I may have been misled by my hopes.' He would know some day, perhaps; in the mean time a clear duty was before him, prompted no less by his love for her than by his sense of right, and by his promise to the old man. Again the old man's words recurred to him: I pray that she may give her heart to a man who will be worthy of her to one who holds not lightly, as is unhappily too much the fashion now, the sacred duties of life.' To such a class of men as the old man feared David Sheldrake belonged-Felix was certain of it. Following the remembrance of these words came from the old man the expression of vague fears that some hidden danger was approaching Lily; and then, when Felix had suggested that the old man should confide in Alfred, came the words, 'Least of all in him, Felix-least of all in him!' This was a proof that there was a want of confidence between Alfred and his grandfather.

Felix was convinced that the old man knew nothing of the present meeting of Lily and Mr. Sheldrake, and was convinced that Lily herself did not know of it beforehand; for she had asked her grandfather to accompany them, and he had refused. Why did he refuse? Lily wished him to come, and that wish was sufficiently strong for compliance. Immediately Felix arrived at this point of his reflections, he decided that Alfred must be the cause of the old man's absence, and also that Alfred knew that Mr. Sheldrake would be at Hampton Court, and had kept the knowledge from Lily. The meeting was planned, then, beforehand— planned by Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake.

Thus logically following out his train of thought, things became clearer to him; but the chain was not complete. What was the link that connected Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake? Felix knew nothing of Alfred's racing speculations; neither did he suspect Alfred of deliberate treachery against his sister. All that was ill in the matter he set down to the credit of Mr. Sheldrake. And this was the more strange because he would admit of no compromise, and because, as at general rule, he was singularly lenient and tender in his estimate of acts and persons, finding and making excuses often which could only be created by one possessing a kindly nature.

Lily was in danger; of that he was satisfied. Her love for Alfred magnified the danger; and the account the old man had given him of the state of her nervous system, as exemplified by the strange slumbers into which she had lately fallen, rendered the danger more imminent. When he arrived at these conclusions he drew a deep breath, and looked steadily at the persons of whom he had been thinking;

they were together now, and were making preparations for quitting the spot. Martha Day, whose eyes had never left them, rose, and drew his attention to them.

'I see,' he said. 'They are going away.'

She looked at him appealingly, asking with her eyes what it was best to do.

'You said just now, Martha,' he said, answering her look, that you could trust me with your life.'

'I meant it,' she replied.

'Trust me, then,' he exclaimed, in an incisive tone; his words seemed to cut the air, they were so clear and sharp. Do exactly as I tell you. Your cause is mine. Lizzie is as dear to you as your life is; I know that. Let me relieve your mind upon one point. I am acquainted with the young man who looks like Lizzie's sweetheart-it is strange how things are linked together, is it not? The young lady you see with them is his sister-as pure and good a girl as breathes in this villanous world. No, no; why should I say villanous? There are spots even upon the sun. But the girl whose arm is round Lizzie's waist, the girl whose cheek is so close to Lizzie's now, has a soul as clear as an undefiled mountain stream.'

'Felix' cried Martha in wonder; for a tremulous tenderness had stolen into his voice as he spoke these last words.

'You and I are something alike in one thing, Martha; we don't waste words when there is a purpose before us. What we say has meaning in it. What I say to you now, I know; for I have come in contact with that pure soul and simple nature, and it has done me good. It should do you good, too, to know that your girl is in such companionship.'

'It does, Felix; my mind is inexpressibly relieved.'

'Stay here, Martha; they are moving off. I intend to see where they are going to.'

Martha resumed her seat, without a word of protest, having confidence in him; and he, waiting until the party were ahead of him, followed them slowly. He was not gone more than ten minutes.

'It is as I thought,' he said to Martha when he returned; they are at the inn now, and dinner is being prepared for them.'

He sat down beside her, and she took his hand, and looked at him affectionately.

"I have been thinking, Felix, of what you said just now concerning that young lady.'

'And thinking of me, I suppose,' he said, 'in connection with her.' 'Yes, Felix.'

'Well, Martha, you have the key to my secret. Let it be sacred between us, and do not let any reference to it pass your lips unless with my consent.'

I will not, Felix.'

Suspecting then, as you do, that I have almost as great a stake as yourself in the meeting that has just taken place, it should be an additional assurance to you that you may trust to me implicitly in this matter.'

'I did not need such an assurance.'

'I know. The young lady is all that I have said, Martha.'

'I am glad that Lizzie has made such a friend.'

'This is not the first time you have seen her, Martha.'

'Not the first time? I don't remember.'

He smiled, and asked her to recall the time when he and she last met.

'I do,' she answered. 'It was in the porch of your father's house, on the day you left.'

'But I have seen you since then, Martha.'

'Not there she exclaimed, in surprise. Not at Stapleton !'

'No; in London. I will explain presently. You remember the incident that occurred on that last day?'

'Surely. Your father refused to say prayers over the body of a woman who was brought there to be buried. Ah, I remember now. These were the two who came with the old man to your father's study.'

Felix nodded in assent.

'And you drove them home afterwards in a wagonette. The news was all over the village, and your father knew of it the same evening.' 'And was not pleased.' 'He said nothing.'

I am

'Well, well, let it pass. about to give you a surprise, Martha; the day seems full of surprises, indeed. I am going to tell you where I live.'

He told her the street, and the number of the house. In amazement, she cried,

"Why, that's where Lizzie lived! I was at the house this morning.'

'I never saw Lizzie's face; all I knew was that a young girl and an old man lived at the top of the house. I keep myself very quiet, Martha, and have not been desirous of making acquaintances. The first night I moved into the house I saw you coming out of it. I was so astonished, that you were out of sight before I could come up to you. So now you know a good many things that you didn't know before. You know also where to come and see me in London, should you wish; for of course I cannot come to Stapleton. Things go on as usual there, I suppose.'

'Yes; there is no change.'

He made no farther reference to his former home, and came back to his theme.

'I shall stay here, Martha. You had best go home; I will write to you to-morrow. When you hear

LIZZIE IN HER NEW HOME.

THERE is no telling nowadays where London ends and the country commences. It is difficult to realise that quite recently in our history, within the last three hundred years indeed, the Strand was bush and garden, and that Westminster and Islington were made pleasant by green woods and fields. Then, houses were few and far between; now, they are so thickly clustered that (animated perhaps by the spirit of their inhabitants) they seem to be poking their elbows into each other's ribs, and to be jealous of one another. So, for rest and quiet, we must away from these busy thoroughfares.

The course of our story, however, does not carry us very far from London's centre; and although the house at which we stop is in a pretty and quiet neighbourhood, and is old-fashioned and delightfully irregular in its outlines, the shriek of the iron horse, which represents the chief feature of civilisation, is heard within its walls a dozen times an hour. It is a small house in one of the suburbs, with