one would believe the story of Patty Westropp, even if Miss Patience told it; but there was the doubt, and also there was her father with his rough country manner to give weight to such an assertion. Yes, she must have a useful friend and ally, and Patience would do for the post.

"Then I will for the future consider you my companion," she said, in the petting, caressing manner she had used at first. "Your lodging bills, living, and all that of course I shall settle; and for the present and for your own personal expenses, I thought of 200 francs a month."

Victorine came in to answer the bell. Madame Mineur had sent the address for Miss Latimer, and Patience found herself driving away in the cab again before she could get resolution to refuse Patty's offer.

Why should she refuse it? at any rate for the present.

CHAPTER XXIX.

NUNA AND HER LOVERS.

Ir sounds very simple to repeat a wellknown fact, and yet in that part of the human drama called love, unless we keep to fact, it is much easier to be unreal than it is to be probable. The truth in question is, that however well. a man may love a woman, he is always aroused to a more precipitate course of action with regard to her by the existence of a rival, whether this rival be merely the creation of his own brain or a real cause of anxiety.

The dinner-party at the Rectory had so rekindled Will's longing to make Nuna his wife, that if he had been free from the necessity of entertaining Stephen Pritchard, he must have gone down to Ashton next day, and learnt his fate. And when his mother repeated Paul's words, he would have gone off to the Rectory and have left his cousin to amuse himself, only that the good lady informed him the Beauforts were by that time on their way to Beanlands, and would not return for two days or

more.

How Will fumed and raved at his

men during that interval, and contradicted his mother, and behaved himself altogether in a most refractory manner to all who came within the circle of his life, is not to be here chronicled; only towards Stephen Pritchard did he maintain an outward show of decorum. Will, as has been said, had been to Harrow, and there had imbibed rather than grasped a certain fragmentary and misty notion of classics and mathematics, and it may be that during this process the amount of reverence due to talent may have in some inexplicable manner grown into his brain; for although Stephen made no display of his cleverness, he could show the proof of it in type and cheques, and this last proof is, to such a mind as Will's, irrefutable: genius in rags to such a mind is a myth and a humbug, but genius, directly it gets its name before the public-in fact, has a name and produces gold-is genius, and is to be respected accordingly; and as most people are of Will Bright's way of thinking, there is no use in preaching against it, only that genius, being a Divine gift, must be the same everywhere-living in comfort or dying in debt-adaptability being the one plank that changes its position.

In Stephen Pritchard were united the rare accidents of power and adaptability; no wonder he imposed reverence on Mr. Bright.

"I tell you what, Stephen," Will said on the morning of the third day, "I'm going down to Ashton on business; shall you object to look up your friend at The Bladebone' for an hour or so?"

"Not at all. I rather think, Will, between ourselves, that we shall find Whitmore gone back to London; he can't amuse himself, you know, as I can. He must be amused. I can't conceive what he does in that place: why, there's not even a shop."

"All the shops he wants, I fancy," said Will, savagely. "Dennis Fagg gets capital cigars, and the ale at 'The Bladebone' has a reputation; come, Steeve, I'm not going to have our village run down."

The dog-cart was brought round, and after some "chaff" fully returned between Mr. Pritchard and Larry, the cousins betook themselves to Ashton. Mr. Bright put up at "The Bladebone," and then, leaving Stephen to find out his friend, he went off alone to the Rectory.

It was the morning after the Rector's return from Beanlands, and he had gone to visit the poor cripple who had been ill when he left home. Nuna too had gone out to see little Lottie, a fast friend of hers since her accident.

Mr. Bright therefore found Miss Matthews alone.

"I wonder why Nuna dislikes her," Will thought; "she looks so very ladylike, and her hands are so white. I should have fancied her quite a gentle, elegant creature." The word elegant, according to Mr. Bright, covered a miltitude of sins, only he was not choice in applying it.

"I hope dear Nuna will be in soon; it was so extremely kind in you to send her that curiously beautiful plant. I'm sure she values it extremely; she has it upstairs in her own room.'

A warm glow of pleasure rose in his face; his fear had been that Nuna might reject the gift; he could not help building on this foundation, but he waited for Miss Matthews to speak again.

"Why don't you come and see us often?" she said. "If I weren ot afraid of vexing you, I would tell you what I used to think last autumn.'

She laughed in such a conscious way, that Will began to hate her: she had made him nervous and uncomfortable.

"What did you think?"

"Oh, nothing to vex you; only I fancy, had I been a certain young lady, I might have felt myself a little neglected, especially when I gave no discouragement."

Will's heart beat with the wild tumult in which we are plunged by an unlooked-for discovery.

"Please to speak plain, Miss Matthews; you saw a good deal of Nuna then. Do you mean, that she said she took any pleasure or interest in seeing me?"

He got up and stood before her. Miss Matthews laughed, but she looked admiringly at his handsome, honest, troubled face.

"What noble creatures you men are in your humility," she said; "so blind to your own merits, setting aside all other advantages." Much as she wanted to hasten on a marriage between her listener and Nuna, she could not resist the side hint that these other advantages might have weight in her young cousin's

eyes.

"You have not answered my question." Will spoke in a downright, determined way; he was not going to let Miss Matthews make a fool of him, though he was excited.

"Well"-Miss Matthews smiled placidly down on her hands; she had not the smallest sympathy with Will's passion, she only wanted to be sure of it"I have, of course, nothing definite to tell you; you do not expect me to repeat Nuna's secrets, do you?" Here she looked up in what she meant to be an arch, playful manner, and met such a fierce frown in the blue eyes gazing down on her, that her words came considerably faster. "I can only tell you that she always looked pleased when you came, and more than once I heard her say, 'What a time it is since Will has been here!""

Both Will's large, shapely hands had got entangled in his tawny beard. "Are you sure of this ?" he said, damaging the beard in his agitation.

"Yes, quite sure ;" and then Miss Matthews' proprieties were really quite disturbed; this simple Cymon pulled his hands out of the tangle he had been making, and nearly smashed her delicate fingers in his firm clasp.

"Thank you, thank you," he said; "I can't tell you how happy you have made me."

Miss Matthews was so startled that she thought he had better be left to cool, there was no knowing how far his gratitude might carry him.

"I will go and see if Nuna has come in; she only went down the village," she said, and she got up from her chair.

Will snatched up his hat.

"I'll go and meet her, don't you trouble ;" and then he thanked Miss Matthews again, and went away.

"Dear me, what a very vehement person," said the spinster; "my wrist. is red still, and my knuckles quite ache. But he is quite the sort of person for Nuna."

Fate, or rather the Fates, all three sisters, must have been hard at work that morning, trying to complicate the tangle of Nuna and her lovers. The Fates thus arranged that, as Mr. Bright came in sight of the cross roads beyond Lottie's cottage, he saw Nuna coming out of the cottage, and he also saw, walking leisurely along one of the cross roads, with his eyes bent on the ground, Mr. Paul Whitmore.

Will came to a sudden halt. Nuna did not see him yet, but she was coming towards him with graceful, springing steps, each one of which took her farther from the artist, and it was possible that Mr. Whitmore might pursue his way along the cross road, unconscious of her presence. Will fancied Nuna must have seen his rival, and it cheered him that she was hurrying away from Paul.

She saw Will, and her pace slackened. He was beside her in a moment, and then turned and walked with her towards the village.

"I hope you enjoyed your visit to Beanlands," he said.

Nuna did not know how she answered. She had seen Paul, and she had also seen that he was unconscious of her presence. Following her impulse of sudden shyness, she hastened away from all appearance of seeking him, and then, too late to turn again, saw that she had hurried forward to meet Will.

"Why am I such a weak coward ?" she thought. "Why don't I leave Will and go back and meet Mr. Whitmore? How can I avoid him when my heart is dragging me back every step I take?"

But almost with the thought came the sound of footsteps behind her, and Paul passed rapidly on the farther side of the road. He raised his hat and nodded smilingly both to Bright and to

Nuna. She saw he did not look vexed. Either Paul did not love her and was indifferent to her conduct, or else he trusted her fully; but neither of these solutions gave Nuna peace. She knew that if she had met Mr. Whitmore walking with another woman she could not have given the smile she had just seen in his eyes. She was utterly miserable.

"Nuna"-Will felt encouraged by her silence-"I want you to listen to me; will you listen patiently?"

"Yes." But Nuna's thoughts were following Paul to Ashton.

"Years ago "-Will cleared his throat as if he were going to tell a story"when you were still a little girl, do you remember climbing a tree? You had sent me up first to look at a bird's nest. You always ruled in those days, Nuna, and then you tried to come up by yourself and see the young birds, and you fell and twisted your foot. Do you remember?"

Will spoke as if it were a matter of deep interest, and Nuna smiled. That past which in his memory formed a mosaic picture, each event clearly marked out, yet uniting to form a harmonious whole, was to her a half-forgotten dream. Nuna lived in the future; the past held no golden days for her, and till lately the present had been barren also. She did not try to call up this special recollection; she only thought Will very tiresome.

"I dare say you picked me up and brought me home," she smiled. "I know you used to be very kind and good to me. You have always been like a brother to me, Will."

At the words a warm flow of gratitude welled up in Nuna's heart; in that moment she was nearer doing justice to her old playfellow than she had ever been in her life. How he had loved her, and how little love or kindness she had shown in return! The sudden revulsion from the dislike with which she had seen him approach, and the weariness which had succeeded, threw her into that dangerous state for a woman with warm deep feelings, and a quick impulsive nature a state of remorse which

prompted reparation in looks and words. So that her eyes were full of tenderness as she raised them to his, and her lips trembled.

"I, who so prize, who pine for want of love," she thought, "how often I have inflicted sufferings on poor Will."

Will's heart throbbed violently, but the word brother jarred him. "Ah, but I want you to remember this special day, Nuna. I think you could remember if you tried." Will was keeping his voice calm and steady; spite of the encouragement in her eyes, he was resolved not to be over-hasty this time. "Don't you remember your foot was painful, and so I waited a little before I took you home, and you said-Nuna, do you recollect what you said?"

A blush flitted across Nuna's face; a vague memory was stirring, but the blush increased Will's hope; he went on eagerly: "You said, 'You take care of me like a husband, Will. I will be

your wife some day.' Don't laugh, Nuna; I can't bear it. Despise me if you choose, but leave those days bright and true. Ah, Nuna, in those days I was all you wanted, I was everything Can't I be the same now?"

to you.

He spoke passionately. His handsome face glowed with the love he was burning to offer, and then he almost stamped on the hard road to think how completely he had let himself be carried out of the calm deliberate part he had resolved on.

They had reached the village, but Will did not care who heard him; he forgot all his customary reticence. He did not care for the blacksmith who stood at the door of his smithy, with bright eyes and brawny arms, gazing on the young pair; nor yet for Mrs. Tomkins, the laundress, peeping through the gaps in her garden hedge as she hung the clothes up to dry. Will did not care if the whole world knew that he loved Nuna. He was not ashamed of it. But Nuna shrank from these busy eyes. It seemed as if the careful, decorous man and the dreamy, unobservant girl had changed places. Nuna's nature was thoroughly roused; this must

be ended once and for ever. It was sheer cruelty to give Will the slightest hope that she could return his love.

"I want you to listen to me," she said, so earnestly that he was taken by surprise. "Don't talk any more here. Come down Carving's Wood Lane; we shall be quieter."

His heart sank in his breast like a stone. He knew her so well that this told him all was over. But still he clung to hope. There was silence till they were under the leafless far-stretching oak branches, out of sight of the high road.

Then Nuna spoke fast and earnestly. "Will, you are making a mistake. You have cared about me as a sister till you think you love me. But indeed I could never make you happy." Will stopped and took both her hands to make her stop too. "Hush, Will, dear Will: I listened to you so long, won't you listen? do let me tell you all I want. I can never love you more than I do now, and next to papa I do love you, Will. Why don't you be content, and let us be dear friends always?"

Will's heart leapt up again.

"I never said I wanted much love; if you love me next your father, I am willing and thankful to begin on that. Oh, Nuna, if you could see how I love you, how I long for the least love from you!-darling, you must take pity on me; you must be my wife."

The last word changed her feelings. As he said it, she drew her hands away.

No,

"You are unreasonable, Will: you have known me so long that you ought to believe me. Do you think that if there was the least hope of my changing, I would not give it you? Do you think I am ungrateful for your love? indeed, Will; but it would be so false to give you any hope. I never, never can love you in the way you want to be loved." She tried so much to speak convincingly that her words sounded cold.

The eager light faded from Will's blue eyes. He stood there, pale, and yet with a hunger in his face that made Nuna shrink away from him.

He saw that she so shrank.

"O God, it is too hard!" he said

hoarsely. "What have I done to deserve this from you, Nuna, of all women? I am despicable then; there is something in me you loathe-impossible for you to love?" He shook with the violence of his passion.

Nuna stood looking at him with a scared white face, struck dumb by his agitation. The poor child had never seen a man so deeply moved-she was utterly terrified. She despise Will! how could he think it? Surely he might hope to win the love of some one very superior to herself; she must show him this. And then the girl's pure, generous heart came to help her; she would trust Will-it would wound him less to know that she had no love left to give, than to feel himself unworthy of being loved at all. The effort was painful, but just then pain was a relief to Nuna; it brought her into sympathy with poor Will.

"Will," she spoke very humbly,— "you wrong us both by saying this; how could I despise you? I said just now that next to my father I loved you. In all these years have I ever deceived you? I will give you a proof of love. I will tell you what even my father does not know-that I have no better love left to give."

Will had stood quite still; he knew every word that was coming; he seemed to have heard all this before in some far-off time: even after Nuna ceased speaking he stood silent, his eyes fixed sternly on her as if he were waiting to hear a yet fuller revelation.

He had no gratitude in that moment for her frankness; his only defined sensation was a longing to meet Paul Whitmore, and try, man to man, which had the best claim to win Nuna's love.

And Nuna was too much moved out of herself to soothe him as a wilier, colder woman would have known how to soothe.

"Let us part friends, Will," she put out her hand, and looked imploringly at him," you have been such a good friend to me."

But Will would not take her hand in his. "Friends! I hate friendship. Do you remember what is said about asking

I

for bread, and giving a man a stone?— that's what you have done, Nuna. asked you for your love, and you won't give it, but I'll not have your friendship; you'll offer me next the pity of that confounded artist who has stolen your love away from me. You needn't look frightened, Nuna, I'm not going to tell your secret: though, if you take my advice, you'll not keep it secret, you'll have it all out as soon as you can." Such a look of distress came in her face, that he softened-"Good - bye, Nuna; I know I am not good enough for you, but no more is he: no one ever could be worth your love." He stopped and looked tenderly at the blushing face, blushing with the bitter humiliation of her confession: "Nuna," he said gently, "you may live to wish you had married the man who loved you, instead of the man you love yourself."

CHAPTER XXX.

PAUL'S CONFESSION.

MRS. FAGG rarely stirred abroad unless it was to go to church. The most cogent reason for a habit being seldom that which is acknowledged, it is possible that Mrs. Fagg's pretext of only having one bonnet at a time was not the true cause of her stay-at-home habits. A Sunday bonnet, in the opinion of the mistress of "The Bladebone," was an article to be kept specially for going to church in, not to be in any way used on week-days. Perhaps she thought that secular sights and sounds had some mysterious power of lingering in the bows and quillings, and of whispering distractions amid her devotions. The bonnet was duly replaced in its tissuepaper wrappings on her second return from church, and stayed there till the next Sunday.

Still Mrs. Fagg loved air, and therefore when she was not wanted in the kitchen or to superintend the servant's housework, she was fond of standing at the entrance of "The Bladebone," usually with a duster to hem, as she took her accustomed airing. When