him she had to trust, for the rescue that
was to come in time. In how much time?
In how little? Ah, there was the ever-
present, ever-pressing question, and Marian
brought to its perpetual repetition all the
importance, all the unreasonable measurement
of time, all the ignorance of its
exceeDING brevity and insignificance,
inseparable from her youth.

She had nearly completed the preparations
for departure from the old home;
the few possessions left her and her mother
were ready for removal; a lodging in the
village had been engaged, and the last few
days were dragging themselves heavily over
the heads of Mrs. Ashurst and Marian,
where Mr. Creswell, having returned to
Woolgreaves after a short absence, came to
see them.

Mrs. Ashurst was walking in the
neglected garden, and had reached the far
end of the little extent, when Mr. Creswell
arrived at the open door of the house. A
woman servant, stolid and sturdy, was
passing through the red-tiled square hall.

"Is Miss Ashurst in?" asked the visitor.
"Mrs. Ashurst is in the garden I see—
don't disturb her."

Marian, who had heard the voice,
answered Mr. Creswell's question by appearing
on the threshold of the room which had
been her father's study, and which since
his death her mother and she had made
their sitting-room. She looked weary;
the too bright colour which fatigue brings
to some faces was on hers, and her eyelids
were red and heavy; her black dress, which
had the limp ungraceful lustreless look of
mourning attire too long unrenewed, hung
on her fine upright figure, after a fashion
which told how little the girl cared how
she looked, and the hand she first held
out to Mr. Creswell, and then drew back
with a faint smile, was covered with dust.

"I can't shake hands," she said, "I
been tying up the last bundles of
books and papers, and my hands are
disgraceful. Come in here, Mr. Creswell; I
believe there is one unoccupied chair."

He followed her into the study, and took
the seat she pointed out, while she placed
herseIf on a pile of folios which lay on the
floor in front of the low wide window.
Marian laid her arm upon the window sill,
and leaned her head back against one of
the scanty frayed curtains. Her eyes closed
for a moment, and a slight shudder passed
over her.

"You are very tired, Miss Ashurst, quite
worn out," said Mr. Creswell; "you have
been doing too much packing all those
books I suppose."

"Yes," said Marian, "I looked to that
myself, and, indeed, there was nobody else
to do it. But it is tiring work, and dirty,"
—she struck her hands together, and shook
her dress, so that a shower of dust fell
from it—"and sad work besides. You
know, Mr. Creswell," here her face softened
suddenly, and her voice fell "how much
my father loved his books. It is not easy
to say good-bye to them; it is like a faint
echo, strong enough to pain one though, of
the good-bye to himself."

"But why are you obliged to say good-
bye to them?" asked Mr. Creswell, with
genuine anxiety and compassion.

"What could we do with them?" said
Marian; "there's no place to keep them.
We must have taken another room
specially for them, if we took them to our
lodgings, and there's no one to buy them
here. So we are going to send them to
London to be sold; I suppose they will
bring a very small sum indeed—nothing,
perhaps, when the expenses are paid. But
it is our only means of disposing of them.
So I have been dusting and sorting and
arranging them all day, and I am tired and
dusty and sick sick at heart."

Marian leaned her head on the arm
which lay on the window sill, and looked
very forlorn. She also looked very pretty,
and Mr. Creswell thought so. This softened
mood, so unusual to her, became her, and
the little touch of confidence in her manner,
equally unusual, flattered him. He felt an
odd sort of difficulty in speaking to her.
To this young girl, his old friend's orphan
child, one to whom he intended so kindly,
towards whom his position was so entirely
one of patronage; not in any offensive
sense, of course, but still of patronage.

"I—I never thought of this," he said,
hesitatingly; "I ought to have remembered
it, of course; no doubt the books
must be a difficulty to you, a difficulty to
keep, and a harder one to part with. But,
bless me, my dear Miss Ashurst, you say
there is no one here to buy them. You
did not remember me? Why did you not
remember me? Of course I will buy them.
I shall be only too delighted to buy them,
to have the books my good friend loved so
much—of course I shall."

"I had seen your library at
Woolgreaves," said Marian, replying to Mr.
Creswell's first impetuous question, "and
I could not suppose you wanted more books,
or such shabby ones as these."