after all. Marriages between forty and twenty
were common enough, and, when made for love,
there was no reason why they should not be as
happy as any other, nay, happier, for the love of
a man of forty is no fickle fancy, no boy's
caprice. As for Sir William, he knew that he
could love Lily with an abounding affection,
that he could cherish her, and dote upon her to
the last; ay, that he could worship her as a
holy being, and bow to her as to a guardian
angel.

He waited anxiously for the letter. It came
the next day, and it ran thus:

"My dear, good, kind Friend,—I scarcely
know what to say to you now that I have
sat down to write the letter which I
promised. I feel, keenly and deeply, how
unworthy I am, how ungrateful I must have
appeared to you; but I fear I shall not have
words to tell you what my heart reveals to me,
now that I have awakened from that delusive
dream.

"What I wish to say is, that I have never
ceased to love you from that day at Greenwich,
which I so well remember. Yes, it was you I
loved. I know it now; but how—how can I
tell you? I carried your image away with me
to the school in Paris to which I was taken by
my mother. I carried away with me not only
a vision of your face, but the sound of your kind
voice, the pressure of your gentle hand upon my
hair, the soft touch of your lips upon my brow.
I was a solitary girl at school. I had no friends
or relations who came to see me. I never went
home for holidays like the other girls. Often
for days and nights together I was Quite Alone
—alone with your face, with your smile, with
your touch, with your kiss. When I wished to
bring your image before me, I closed my eyes
and saw you, like a light in the dark. You were
the embodiment to me of all that was handsome,
and beautiful, and good.

"I hung my arms about the neck of the
vision which I conjured up. I was a child,
a lonely child, without father or mother, or
any one to love. In you I loved father,
mother, sister, brother, and everything that
is good and lovable. I prayed that I might
see you again; but weary months and weary
years passed, and hope was becoming dead within
me. I had seen nothing but misery, misery,
misery; and it seemed as if I were doomed to
be miserable to the end. My spirit sank. I
began to forget myself—to forget you. I did
not forget your goodness, for that was always
about me, like an essence, filling my heart with
boundless love. But the outward sign was
fading. When I closed my eyes now the vision
seemed faint and undefined. It was so long,
long ago! I was forgetting your form and
features. And yet my heart was clinging to its
flrst love—to you. But I was a heathen, and
sought some visible sign in which to embody the
attributes of my deity. Edgar Greyfaunt
appeared, and he became my idol—the graven
image which represented all I loved and adored.
Out of the forlorn state of my vacant heart I
conceived this illusion, and set up in that yearning
empty place the vague thing I loved. I
know now that it was not Edgar.

"But I blush to think how long I remained
blind—how long I continued to give you pain,
when you were so good, so noble, so patient.
I feel to want to go down on my knees to you,
to ask you to forget my folly, and to treat me
as a poor, weak, silly child. Come what will, I
will ever bless you, and think of you with love
and gratitude.

"Yours ever,

"LILY."

Sir William read this letter with a choking
sensation, and the tears standing in his eyes.

"Dear Lily!" he exclaimed; "she is
reproaching herself for being little less than an
angel. I will fly to her at once; but stay," he
added, checking himself, "what have I done
that I should be blessed with such love as
hers?" He paused for a moment in thought,
then looked up reverently and exclaimed,
"Heaven is merciful to me indeed!"

Sir William hastened to the hotel, and, without
waiting to be announced, strode up the
stairs and entered the old Indian's reception-
room. Lily was there alone. Before she could
rise to receive him, the baronet ran to her, and
seated himself on the couch beside her.

"Lily, dearest Lily," he said, "do you, will
you love me? Will you take me by the hand, and
give me a chance of heaven? Will you be my
little wife; my good angel?"

Thinking of her, perhaps, as the child whom
he had nursed and petted at Greenwich, he drew
her towards him as he said this. Lily yielded to
his embrace, dropped her head upon his shoulder,
and whispered assurance of undying love.

THE END OF QUITE ALONE.

WATER.

ONCE, when out in an open boat in the strait
which separates Puffin Island from Anglesea,
with a short chopping sea threatening to swamp
us every minute, and cross waves like liquid
obelisks starting up in all directions, while the
boatmen had to keep a sharp look-out to save
our little bark from capsizing, my companion, a
person of no mean attainments, after careful
observation of the waves, and, as I supposed,
appreciation of our danger, suddenly exclaimed,
"What a singular form of matter Water is!"

Whether in consequence of the high-strung
feelings of the moment, or through the justice
of the remark itself, it fixed itself in my
memory: and frequently, whether beholding the
great sea or a full bucket fetched from the
pump; whether gazing at a mighty river, with its
wealthy burdens, ever flowing onward, or borne
on a lake in whose limpid depths you see water-
fowl diving and fishes glancing; or stretched
in a bath from a mineral spring, which is hot
when it issues from the earth; the idea ever