"It is not an easy matter to convince me
that my child has committed a theft," said
John Rashleigh, gravely, and turning away his
head.

"I did not think of it as a fault at the time
dear papa," she cried, flinging herself into his
arms.  "I wanted it for poor Anne Rogers,
chiefly; I did not want it for myself.  Forgive
me, dear, dearest papa, for having been so
disobedient and wilful, and do not blame or accuse
Grantley any more!  I am the only one to
blame, and he has been far nobler than I
deserved."  Here she burst into tears, and buried
her face in her father's breast.  "Won't you
forgive me, dear papa?" she sobbed again after
a short pause, kissing his cheek which her tears
made almost as wet as her own.

John Rashleigh could not resist this.  Hope
had never yet been unforgiven even when she
had not shown contrition, and the unusual
softness of her mood to-day could meet with nothing
but the most fervent response.

"Do not cry, Hope!  Dry your eyes, child!"
he said, tenderly.  "There, there!  Let us have
no more about it.  I quite believe you, and I
quite believe that you did not know you were
doing anything wrong, and that you were only
thoughtless and impulsive, as usual. And as
for you, boy" (to Grantley), "I am sorry that I
accused you so hastily; so, shake hands, and
think no more about it.  You cannot expect me
to say more than that I am sorry," he added
pleasantly, as Grantley still hesitated.  The blow
on his cheek yet stung, and it was rather early
days to take the hand which had struck him.  "No
gentleman can want more than an apology, and
a father can only express his regret to a son;
so shake hands, boy, and let us all forget
what has been a very painful
misunderstanding."

That word did what the feeling had failed
to do.  Grantley grasped his cousin's hand
warmly; he had conquered all his boyish pride
and manly indignation by the simple name of
father.

"I have made you suffer, Grantley," said
Hope, as her father left them; and again she
laid her hand in his.

"I would have borne more than this for your
sake, Miss Hope," he answered, pressing her
hand between both of his, and looking at her
lovingly —she not haughty and disdainful as
usual, but downcast, bashful, and repentant.

"I do not know what we shall do without you,
Grantley," she then said very gently; and as
she spoke she turned pale, and he felt her hand
trembling in his.

"Oh! you will soon forget me.  I have so
often displeased you, you will be glad to get rid
of me," Grantley answered.

"I do not think we shall," said Hope, in a
low voice.  And then there was a moment's
silence.

All this time they were standing with their
hands clasped in each other's in the hall which
had just been so noisy and heated with the late
storm passing through.

"You have not displeased me; it is I who
have been ill tempered," Hope continued, in a
still lower voice, still softer and richer in its
tones. "I ought to ask you for forgiveness,
Grantley, before you go, for I have often
behaved so badly to you."

"You must not do that," he exclaimed
hastily, and his eyes filled up with tears. "I
could not bear that, Miss Hope.  I cannot bear
to hear you even blame yourself for anything."

"Grantley!" she said; and then she stopped
and said no more.

Still with her hand in his, still looking down
on her as she stood with bent head and lowered
eyelids before him, he drew just a shade nearer
to her.

"You spoke?" he asked.

She laid her other hand on his arm.

"I am much obliged to you for all that you
have done for me these many years," she said,
almost in a whisper.

The words were formal but the voice and
tone were not; the downcast eyes, the parted
lips, the cheeks now crimsoning and now paleing,
the heaving breast, the pride swept away
beneath the swell of this unusual tenderness and
girlish gratitude, all told of something deeper
and warmer stirring in that impetuous heart
than what those quaint, formal words
expressed.

"Do not say that you are obliged to me
for anything, dear Miss Hope," said
Grantley, himself scarcely able to speak; "it has
been honour enough to me to be allowed to serve
you."

"No one has ever done so much for me,"
she said.

"Because no one ever . . . ."  He stopped
in his turn, and said no more; then, after a
pause, he went on: "I have done nothing for
you unwillingly, Miss Hope.  If you had asked
me at any time to give you my life I would
have done it as freely as I would have given
you a flower.  I have had but one object —that
of serving and obeying you; and I have had
but one desire —that of pleasing you.  I have
done the first the best way I could if I have
failed in the last sadly.  But I want you to
remember me when I am in India," he went on to
say "and to remember me with as little dislike
as you can; and I am so glad of to-day, for the
last thing you will have to remember of me will
be my faith to you."

The tears were swelling in her eyes, as in his.

"I shall never forget to-day," she said gently,
"nor how good you have always been to me,
dear Grantley."

"I am glad you can say that, dear Miss Hope.
I am glad I am going to India too, though I
shall never see you again; for if I stayed in
England I should only fall out of favour again,
and then I should have the pain of seeing you
hate me more than ever, perhaps."

By this time the tears were running down her
face.

"I have never disliked you, Grantley," she
said; "I have pretended to do so, but it was