Rector felt himself soothed, and yet, when he thought of Paul Whitmore, not at all satisfied; it was so very tiresome to be compelled to go through an explanation with Nuna.

Mr. Beaufort would have been less perplexed if he could have lifted the roof from his daughter's bedroom that morning, but he would have been more angry. Nuna was kneeling beside her dressing-table; Paul's letter lay there, and she had kissed almost every word of it.

For every word was precious. Paul's love was no longer a doubtful imagination; he confessed it briefly and simply. He did not ask for hers in return, but he said he could not leave Ashton without explaining the full meaning of some words he had spoken at their last meeting. He told her he hoped to win her love, and to soften her father's opposition, and meantime he asked Nuna not to judge him too severely for anything she might hear alleged against him. "There is truth in that which will be told you," he wrote: "I only ask you to let me tell my own story, if you are willing to hear it, before you pronounce me quite undeserving of your love."

Nuna feasted on these words, read them over and over again, and then closed her eyes, so as to enjoy the fresh delight when she opened them of seeing that it was not all a dream.

"He loves me!" she murmured softly, and the rich bloom of love rose on her cheek and ripened in her eyes; "he loves me!" and the tide of passion, all stronger from the repression she had maintained with such failing strength, throbbed in her pulses. There never can be any human sensation to equal this-a timid heart assured of the love it craves. Nuna stayed there, all unconscious of time or of present life.

A tap at the door startled her out of her dream of joy.

"May I come in?" in Elizabeth's voice, and Nuna congratulated herself that the door was fastened. She folded up her precious letter with reverent care and hid it away in her pocket-hid it with some

thing else she carried there, a little pencil sketch of a head made on that first day after meeting Paul in Carving's Wood Lane.

"Mr. Beaufort wants you in the study, dear." Elizabeth spoke affectionately. She had tried to be kind to Nuna in this visit, but dislike to Miss Matthews was too strongly planted in the girl's nature to allow the trial fair play.

"She is only trying to make me civil, and then she will be as pragmatical as ever. I don't like her, and I can't be a hypocrite," Nuna thought.

Her lips quivered a moment at the message, and then she went down stairs.

"I suppose I must tell everything. Well, it will be a good thing over," she said to herself; "but I only hope papa won't make me angry."

Her father was bending over his desk; he did not raise his head as she came in.

"Sit down," he said; and then, after a little, "you had a letter this morning, Nuna?"

He waited, but Nuna did not answer. He longed to ask for the letter, and yet he could not make up his mind to do this.

"I believe I know the contents of your letter, and I am very sorry that it was written. I—I have sent for you now to tell you that you need not answer it."

Nuna had shrunk from the idea of writing to Paul, but contradiction rose in protest against her father's prohibition.

"And," Mr. Beaufort went on, for he scarcely expected she would speak, "in the event of your receiving another letter of this kind-scarcely probable, perhaps, but still a thing which may happen-it will be better to give it to me unopened, and I will send it back to the writer."

He looked up at Nuna, and he was very much surprised indeed.

Fathers go on living with daughters, mothers sometimes do the same, thoroughly unconscious of the inner life, the real drama of existence which is being played out in the hearts of the seemingly gentle unobservant creatures and it often happens, where parents are

devoid of keen insight, that this goes on to the end. In Nuna's case the sudden prohibition, like the touch of the angel's spear, brought passion into visible action, and the father shrank into himself with a feeling of helpless trouble at the girl's flashing eyes and panting, ardent words.

"No! I can't do that. I will not answer this letter, I am not sure he wishes it; but if he writes again I must read his letter. I will not do anything without your knowledge, father, but I cannot wrong him."

Mr. Beaufort passed his hand over his forehead-once, twice-and then shook his head feebly. He was utterly bewildered; he saw the fact that Nuna loved Mr. Whitmore, but he refused to accept it. Instead, his brain went off into a bewildering puzzle of how this had come to pass, and as to the causes which ought to have prevented it from happening.

"Him! he!" catching fretfully at the superficies of Nuna's indiscretion; "really, Nuna, you are talking in a most extraordinary way of a person who is almost a stranger. What can this Mr. Whitmore or his letter be to you? What ought they to be?"

"I don't know what they ought to be" Here she stopped; she had been brave up to the point of confession, but the burning glow that seemed to scorch her eyes with its heat confused speech, and made it impossible; she stood mute, but her twining fingers and quivering face spoke eloquently.

A harder, firmer man would have been more cruel, would have forced her to speak out, but her father's fretfulness helped Nuna. He went on pettishly.

"Then am I to understand that you care about this person, or fancy you do, for you cannot really know what you think about the matter? Oh, Nuna, I'm ashamed of you. I can't tell you how I feel, that a daughter of mine should behave so like a silly schoolgirl, and about such a person too; oh dear, dear me !"

This last exclamation was caused by the fresh dilemma in which he found himself. He had not intended to say

one word to Nuna about Paul's love for Patty, but then he had expected to find Nuna passive; there was such a thorough attitude of revolt about her, that however painful it might be to his sense of refinement, it was necessary at once to explain Mr. Whitmore's real character to her. In his heart the Rector believed that Paul's offer to make Patty his wife had been elicited by the girl's virtuous behaviour, rather than from scruples on the part of the artist for a more unlawful course; the idea of Nuna's love for such a person became more and more repugnant.

"Father,"-Nuna spoke as she felt, in a highly wrought intense way, which to her father was only confirmation of her unreal state," don't speak against Mr. Whitmore, please; I could not bear it, I know I could not. I have told you that I will not write or do anything against your wishes, but I cannot leave off loving him."

It had been very hard to say out in those naked words, with no one by to turn to for refuge, no one in whose bosom she could hide her eyes from the shame she felt. It was a wrenching of Nuna's whole nature to speak out her love openly, for one too who, as her heart whispered all the while, had not spoken out his love to her; who was, as her father said, a stranger so far as outward seeming counted.

Both Mr. Beaufort's hands fastened on the arms of his chair. Nuna had risen up and stood before him with all the strange wild beauty agitation creates in a face to which it is a new-comer, for till now Nuna's emotion had always been restrained in the presence of others. Her bosom heaved, her whole form seemed to dilate; the delicate expressive nostrils, those tell-tales of passion, quivered, and the large lustrous eyes swam with changeful feelings. She kept her slender fingers locked together as if they helped her to restrain her words.

"You do not know what you are talking about; you do not indeed, Nuna. You say I must not find fault with Mr. Whitmore; don't talk nonsense, child, I tell you I must."

The frankness of this last sentence was startling from Mr. Beaufort, but he was fairly off his balance, and all the niceties and small proprieties of life had kicked the beam along with him. "You

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fancy yourself in love with this person because you think him quite different to that which he really is; he's a wild, goodfor-nothing fellow." He raised one hand at Nuna's indignant attempt to stop him. Hush, Nuna, you must listen; if you had been reasonable and well-behaved, as I hoped you would be, you would have spared me and yourself too a great deal of annoyance. What can a girl like you know about a man's conduct? I desire you to stay and listen to this,"— Nuna was moving away,-"Mr. Whitmore paid far more court to Patty Westropp than he has paid to you when he was here in August."

"He is an artist, he admired her beauty; how could he help it?" The girl spoke proudly, but a spasm of jealousy tortured her.

"Nuna, I did not think you so vain, so self-willed; you will not let me spare you. Mr. Whitmore did much more than admire Patty, he loved her so madly-I quote his own words—that he asked her to be his wife."

All the glow faded out of her face, all the light left her eyes, yet she clung desperately to her faith in the man she loved, and strove to force her trembling lips into a smile of unbelief.

"Is that all you have to tell me?" Her voice had a defiant tone in it.

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All, Nuna!"-he spoke more earnestly surely I have said enough to show you, if you will only calm yourself, that this Mr. Whitmore is not really serious in seeking your affection. He is a man, Nuna, who loves, or fancies that he loves, every fresh face that falls in his way, and the wife of such a man must be miserable. This is a habit seldom cured by marriage. You do not love Mr. Whitmore, Nuna, you are in love with your own fancy, and a very short acquaintance would convince you of your mistake. You are convinced already— I hope so, at least."

Her face had drooped, but she raised

"You

it and looked fully at her father. are mistaken, father. I love Mr. Whitmore, and if I never see him again I shall never love anyone else; there is no use in trying to prejudice me against him: I shall not change. May I go now?"

Mr. Beaufort saw that the very result he had foreseen and dreaded had come to pass: opposition to her wishes had driven Nuna into obstinacy. He was wise enough to see too that any further remonstrances would be useless.

"Yes, you can go, certainly: I think you must feel Nuna that you have grieved and disappointed me."

But Nuna scarcely heard him; she only wanted to be alone.

Alone, as she was before she got that summons to her father's study; ah, no, that brief hour of pure unalloyed trust and joy might well be precious now, might well stand out white for ever in memory. She was alone again now, for what? Not to yield herself up to rosy dreams of Paul and his love, but to battle with a sombre torturing jealousy: it was so very hard to feel that she had given up all her heart, all her love, while he had only the dregs of his love to bestow on her. There was no use in struggling, no use in trying to cast out the demon of jealousy before it meant to go; she stood outwardly still, so pale and chill-looking that one might have thought her void of feeling, while within, the tender, loving soul was tossed on the waves of a fierce tempest. She had anchored herself, as she fondly thought, so surely for Paul's truth, Paul's nobleness, had been to Nuna impregnableand she had been cast adrift. But hope, that divine comforter, came at last to rescue her from drifting to despair.

"Is he to have loved no one but me, then I have been no more than a hypocrite when I said I was not worthy of his love; if I had been true, I could not have been so vain as to hope to have it all from the beginning. Was he to keep his heart shut to all others till he met with such an insignificant creature as I am." She hid her face in shame of her own vanity. Presently she lifted up her head; her forehead had cleared,

and there was a sweet trustful look in her eyes.

"He is true! He may have loved that girl-I can't bear to think so; but I have no right to be angry. He loves me now, I am sure he loves me, and I will not believe he means to deceive me. Does he not ask me not to judge him? Why should I? Why should I wrong him and my own love for him by the smallest doubt? Oh, Paul," she broke down in sudden tears, "I shall never see you again perhaps, but I will always love you!"

CHAPTER XXXII.

MISS LATIMER.

It is August again, golden August, with its flaming sunshine and rich ripe full ears of corn, so full and heavy this year that they are longing for the sickle, longing to lie down and rest, instead of standing up like never-changed sentinels burning each day into a redder gold; while the sun, not content with his work on the corn itself, blazes yet more fiercely in the faces of the scarlet poppies and goldenbosomed marguerites below, till they send up glowing reflections on the fainting ears. And in Belgium the poor ears get rarely a green glimpse overhead, they see only an intense blue, with scarce a hand's-breadth of fleecy white to soften its hard uniform tint; the only trees are poplars-poplars, those emblems of selfrighteousness which seem resolved to point heavenwards without holding out so much as one pendant bough to help their neighbours on the way thither.

It was a specially hot, dry autumn, and the rank and fashion of Brussels had betaken themselves to Ostend and Blankenbourg to bathe.

Miss Latimer had lately arrived at Brussels; she had quitted Madame Mineur's establishment some weeks ago, and had resolved on making a travelling tour with her companion before she settled herself down to study again.

"I'm not sure that I want any more teaching," she thought. "My French is

as good as most people's. I can practise music, and unless people are first-rate, De Mirancourt says, no one plays in society now-a-days. I can pay artists to do that kind of thing when I give receptions. I believe, if I read and get myself well up in all that goes on, I am quite educated enough for any one. There's no

use in asking Patience's opinion. She is so ignorant and so conceited of the little she knows."

Patty looked with a slight sneer at her companion. Patience had fallen asleep on the little red velvet sofa opposite to that on which Patty lay. The room was very still and quiet, overlooking the quaint courtyard of a small hotel in Brussels. Patience had begged hard to avoid the more frequented inns, quiet and mystery being, according to Miss Coppock, the fit setting to enhance the effect of Patty's beauty.

She looked very beautiful just now. The large open sleeves of her muslin dress had fallen back, and showed the creamy white arm pillowing her head; one cheek rested on the rose dimpled wrist, and the dull red velvet of the couch seemed to be there on purpose to throw all into higher relief. There was a striking, an almost awful contrast between the occupants of the two sofas. They might have served as models for joy and disappointment. Patty with her softly rounded limbs reclined in graceful ease, her exquisite rose-tinted skin, her ripe and smiling scarlet lips and deep-coloured soft eyes, her youth crowned by rich wavy luxuriant tresses, and Patience stretched out stiffly, the long bony feet showing below the flounce of her over-juvenile muslin dress; Patience with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes-eyes veiled now by dark brown lids; Patience with the thin lips of her firm mouth tightly compressed, and her sallow deeply-lined forehead bordered by thin scant hair, broadly streaked with grey. Can there ever have been beauty in this faded rigid face, beauty that a man had desired to call his own? and if beauty has been there, will Patty's face ever fade to this likeness when the glow and freshness of

youth have gone. Time will show. A face is rarely a picture only to be injured and altered by outward influences or mischances. It is rather a sun-picture : the process is gradual instead of instantaneous, though the effect is the same; joy and sorrow, hope and fear, truth and falsehood, nobility and pettiness, earnestness and lukewarmness, selfdenial and self-indulgence, print themselves at last legibly, ineffaceably marring or enhancing the flesh-and-blood beauty which is to them a mere canvas on which to exhibit themselves. And the skilled eye would now, in travelling from grey Patience to rosy Patty, have recognized a kindred expression, full-blown and yet hiding itself in the one, developing more boldly in the other-an expression of falsehood.

Patience was tired out. Miss Latimer had visited the Musée and some other picture-galleries; had also inspected St. Gudule, and had finally enjoyed herself to her heart's content in one of the best jewellers' shops in the Rue Montagne de la Cour. Patty had not been extravagant-she was never lavish-but she had tried on about fifty bracelets, and had delighted in the effect produced on her lovely arms by their magnificence: finally she had contented herself with a set of coral ornaments.

Miss Patience entreated that she would buy something more showy, but Patty said it would be mere extravagance.

I

"I don't want anything to set me off in the way we live now, Patience. can see no use in buying ornaments just to let them lie by and get oldfashioned. The first thing a man will do when he falls in love with me will be to smother me with presents. How can you know anything about such things? De Mirancourt told me everything. She had lovers of her own. She was beautiful when she was young."

Patty spoke contemptuously. Poor tired Patience had offended her. She had forgotten her submission for once, and had given her opinion in a tone of equality at the jeweller's.

Miss Coppock's eyes flashed for a moment, and then her love of comfort prevailed; instead of answering she lay down on the velvet sofa, and soon fell asleep.

But before she slept she had asked herself how it was that Patty held such sway over her; how it had happened that the plan for governing the heiress so carefully matured at Guildford had proved so utterly a failure in Paris.

"I am nothing better than a paid companion, except that I call her Patty when we are alone, and I am not sure that she likes that; at any rate at Guildford, if I was worried about money, I was free."

It was all very well to make this reflection and to fall asleep on it, but if Patience had been quite herself instead of being, as she was, irritated by the little flying darts which Patty used so skilfully, she would have known she was talking nonsense. Miss Coppock had begun her millinery business in debt, and debt had, according to its usual custom, thickened on her path, till her life had grown into one long series of prevarication and excuse. Patty's offer of taking her as companion had been accepted gladly, not only for the life of ease and luxury it promised, but for escape from the daily harass and worry which were wearing her to a skeleton; it is possible that but for all these years of debt Patience might have been better able to cope with her patroness, but the fiery independence which had once flamed in those dark sunken eyes had been quenched by the daily wearing pressure of owing money she could not

pay.

"Poor creature, how tired she is!" Patty was smiling most bewitchingly; some pleasant thought was passing across her mind, though to do Patty justice she was rarely cross.

She liked to have her own way, and she usually got it; it was impossible to refuse anything to her smiles, and it was nearly as impossible to resist the occasional plain speeches made by Miss Latimer to those on whom she considered smiles wasted.