history-book, though I work hard at it
every day, is as yet only in its commencement,
and I am told that when the family
goes to town next week I am to accompany
them, and to devote my time in London to
purely secretarial work, correcting my lord
in his speeches, writing his letters, &c.,
while the history of the Wests is to remain
in abeyance until the autumn. Everybody
is particularly kind to me, and had I never
' lifted my eyes to my master's daughter,'
like the 'prentice of old, I might have been
very happy here. But I have other hopes
in view, and a married private secretary
would be impossible. It's lucky, then, that
there is another opening—yes, Marian, a
new chance, which I think promises, splendidly
promises, to realise all we have hoped
—all I have hoped for, all you can have
justly anticipated—speedy union for us
both, under decent competence when united.
Listen.

"My old friend Byrne, of whom you heard
so much when I was in London, wrote to
me some time since telling me that my name
had been suggested, as the correspondent
then required for a London newspaper in
Berlin. I thought but little of it at the
moment, for though, thanks to old Dr. Heitmann,
in the dear old days at Helmingham,
I knew myself to be a tolerable German
scholar, I doubted whether I had sufficient
' nous' and experience of the world for the
post. I wrote this to Byrne, and , I think
he was rather of my opinion, but the man
with whom the recommendation rested, and
who knew me from having met me
constantly during those weeks I was living
with Byrne, and knew also some of my
qualifications, as it was through him I
obtained those odd jobs on the press, declared
that I would be the very man for their
purpose, and has so pressed the matter
that I have agreed to let them have
my decision in a week's time. For that
decision I come to you. They offer me
a year's engagement to start with, with
the certainty of renewal if I fulfil their
expectations, and four hundred a year, with
the prospect of a rise. Four hundred a year,
Marian, and in a country where money
goes much further than in England! Four
hundred a year, and we united for ever, and
dear Mrs. Ashurst—for, of course, she will
be with us—with a son as well as a daughter
to tend and care for her. Now, you see
why I made the commencement of my
letter rather sombre and gloomy, in order
to heighten the brilliancy of the finish!
Now you see why I talked about the lodgings
and the privations—because there is no
need to submit to any of them!

"Marian darling, you must answer this
instantly! I have no doubt as to the tone
of your reply, but I can do nothing until
I get it, and time presses. Don't be afraid
of any ill-feeling on the part of Lord
Hetherington or any one here. I have been
able to render them something of a service.
I will tell you about it when we meet—and
they will all be delighted at anything
which brings good fortune to me. And
now good-bye! Think how little time now
before I shall hold you in my arms! Write
at once! Grod bless you, now and ever.
"Your WALTER."

Sunday morning at Woolgreaves. Bright,
splendid sunshine, the frost all gone, and
nature renovated by her six months' sleep
asserting herself in green bud and lovely
almond blossom, and fresh sprouting
herbage on every side. Far away on the
horizon lay Brocksopp, the week- day
smoke cloud, which no wind dispelled, yet
hovering like a heavy pall over its
sabbath stillness; but the intervening
landscape was fresh, and fine, and calculated
to inspire peaceful thoughts and hopeful
aspirations in all who looked on it. Such
thoughts and such aspirations the
contemplation of the scene inspired in old
Mrs. Ashurst, who sat propped up by
pillows in a large easy-chair in her sitting-
room, gazing out of the window, looking
at nothing, but enjoying everything with
the tranquil serenity of old age. For
several years past there had not been much
life in the old lady, and there was very
little now; her vital powers, never very
strong, had been decaying slowly but
surely, and Dr. Osborne knew that the
time was not far distant, when the widow
of his old friend would be called away to
rejoin the husband she had so dearly loved,
in the Silent Land.

"A case of gradual decay, my dear sir,"
said the little doctor, who had been up all
night, bringing the heir of a neighbouring
squire into the world, and who had stopped
at Woolgreaves on his way home, and
asked for breakfast—a meal which he was
then taking in company with his host.
"What we call the vis vitae quietly giving
way."

"And by what I gather from you,
doctor, I fear our old friend will not be
much longer with us?"

"It is impossible to say, but I should
think not! Sad thing for the daughter;