fess, so great was my fear of being parted from
him.

Some time before that evening when I first
met you in London, I went to see some friends
of Arthur's. During that time, several months,
I had not seen Mr. or Mrs. Hill; but in the
meanwhile Mrs. Hill had written to me of their
intention of coming here to Hillsbro', saying
that Mr. Hill's new agent had written such
cheerful accounts of the estate, that he felt a
longing to be on the spot, giving encouragement
to the improvements which were going
forward. She did not mention the name of the
new agent, and it was only on that evening when
I first met you, when with shame and bitter
self-reproach I heard you defend my poor
mother so valiantly, it was only then I knew
that the agent was my brother, and that I was
actually coming to live within a few miles of my
deserted home.

My first thought was that now, indeed, the
time for making all the crooked things straight
had come; but, oh Margery, you cannot
imagine—one like you never could imagine
anything so wickedly weak as I am. The old
bugbear of our family disgrace, the old terror of
Arthur's throwing me off in disgust, rose up
again with all their former strength, and I came
here torn by conflicting feelings. You saw my
meeting with John. The next day when he
came here to dine, I found an opportunity of
telling him my story. He was very severe with
me at first, though not so much so as I
deserved; but he forgave me at last, on condition
that I would make up my mind to be honest
with every one, let the consequences be what
they might. I promised this; but again and
again my courage has failed. He has been so
good, so kind, so patient with me. He told me
of my mother, of the children, of you, and, oh,
how he chafed at the thought of what you would
feel about the affair. Every time we met he
reproached me with rny cowardice and delay,
and I made fresh promises; but Arthur's
letters invariably broke down my courage and
destroyed my resolutions. Again and again
John has asked me to allow him to tell you who
I was, but I would not suffer it. I could see
no reason for humbling myself sooner to you
than to any one else, until one day it flashed on
me that you were jealous of me. Then, after a
hard struggle, I came to you to tell my story.
You repulsed me, you even assured me that the
Tyrrells were your best friends. I was glad of
the excuse to spare myself and my secret. And
so it has gone on. Latterly John has scarcely
spoken, or hardly looked at me. I think he has
given me up. I know not what he means to
do, but I think he means to let me have my own
way. I think I should have been silent to the
last, but that I saw my mother to-day. I saw
her. I saw her!

"And now you will tell her all—everything,"
I said, squeezing her hands, while the tears
were raining down my face.

"Margery, Margery!" cried Rachel, "how
can I give up Arthur? Here he has come to
me after these years of waiting, and presses me
to name a day for our marriage, and I am to
meet him with a story like this! He would
despise me."

"I think," said I, " that if he be a generous
man he will forgive you. After loving you so
long, he will not give you up so easily. And
your mother," I added. " Think of all she has
suffered. Is she worth no sacrifice?"

"She never knew me," said Rachel, gloomily;
"and she will be happier never to know me.
She could not have smiled as she did to-day if
she had not forgotten that I ever existed."

"That is a selfish delusion," I said. "If
your mother never knew you, it is plain, at
least, that you have never known her. Such a
woman could not forget her child. You cannot
think that she has not sought for you, and
mourned for you, all these years?"

"Oh no," said Rachel, with another burst
of sorrow, " John has told me. They searched,
they advertised, they suffered agony, and feared
every terrible thing,"till at last they were obliged
to soothe one another by trying to think rne,
by speaking of me as, dead. Little Mopsie
thinks I am dead. So it has been, and so it
must be."

"So it must not be," I persisted, and so I
fought with her all night. The dawn was in
the room before she got up to leave me, pale,
and worn, and weary, but promising that she
would make yet one more great struggle with
herself to break the chain of deceit with which
one rash falsehood had so strongly bound her.

CHAPTER XIV.

I HAD the happiness of seeing my friends the
Tyrrells depart for London without me. I think
they were both, brother and sister, somewhat
tired of my inconsistencies and vagaries, and
I dare say they felt as little sorrow at parting
as I did.

The long hot days of summer followed one
another in a slow wandering fashion. No news
reached us from the farm. I had vaguely hoped
that John would come and speak to me again;
but we neither saw him nor heard from him.
Mr. Hill was from home during these days, and
there was no necessity for John to present
himself amongst us, though there might have been
many an opportunity if he had cared to seek
one. All the light short nights I lay awake,
wondering what was going to become of my life.

And Rachel? Was she mindful of the
promise she had given me on that night? Alas!
no, my dears. She was absorbed in her Arthur.
They went here and there together; they were
ever side by side, dreaming away the time;
seeming lost to every one else in their happiness.
I should have thought that Rachel had
forgotten all her confession to me, all that had
passed between us on the subject, but for a
piteous look which she gave me now and again
when no one was by.

At last an early day was fixed for the marriage,