It was very hard to bear that, but I bore it
too. He did all he could to prevail over me,
and not succeeding he left me, not in anger,
indeed, but in some bitterness. And from that
day forth to this he has never been the same to
me— never, and he never will be— never. She
has conquered him, and she will keep him.

Mrs. Sydney took a dislike to th'is part of the
country soon after my return, and made her
husband leave it. They live in town, and lead
a gay life I am told, for William makes a great
deal of money by civil engineering, and the
old house is once more shut up and deserted.
William comes down in the autumn, when his
wife goes to a fashionable watering-place. It
is then I see him. He says he is happy, but I
cannot believe it. He looks pale and careworn.
The bright happy boy I had once, the hopeful
young man who longed for his paternal home are
gone, and in their stead I have the pale, sullen,
and discontented husband of Ellen Gibson.

I had written thus far, thinking my tale ended
and my little dream of life over. Alas! life
never ends; great joy and great sorrow were
yet in store for me.

CHAPTER IV.

As I sat one evening reading, and wondering
at the might of the solace which lies in books,
and listening to the low moaning of the wind
which came from the shore up to my very
garden-gate, the parlour door opened, and Jane,
saying " Mr. Gibson, ma'am," showed William
Gibson in.

"I did not know you were in England," said
I, trying not to seem flurried, and to look simply
glad, as one should be, on seeing an old
acquaintance.

"I have not been in England more than a
few days," he replied. " I came from Spain."

From Spain! The word called up a wonderful
vision of Moorish palaces, beautiful women, and
gardens full of orange-trees. I questioned him
eagerly, seeming to show, perhaps, more interest
than I felt. He answered me shortly enough.
William Gibson did not seem to care much
about Spain, but even whilst he spoke took
down and looked at a little drawing.

"You remember it," I said. " You gave me
that thirteen years ago."

"Not thirteen," he said, quickly.

"Thirteen, wanting three months," I replied.

He put down the drawing, as if it turned
him, and looked rather gloomy.

"Which do you prefer," I asked, in order to
say something, " north or south?"

"I have not been in the north for many
years," he answered.

"Yes," said I, perversely, " it is fifteen years
since you went to Poland. I remember."

William Gibson looked at me very earnestly.

"It is on purpose," he said, " you say this to
remind me that time has been hard upon me
since you first came to live here, and yet I will
not go without saying what I meant to say.
Will you marry me?"

"Marry you?" I exclaimed, bewildered.
"Are you a widower, then?"

"Yes. I have been so for some time. " Did
you not know it?"

I did not answer him. I could not. Alas!
my dead love rising from its grave looked very
pale and ghostlike. William Gibson gazed at
me with evident sorrow.

"I ought to have known it," he said.
I did know it, and yet I would not lose my
second chance.

"You want to marry again," I said, at length.

"Marry again!" he replied, impatiently. "I
want to marry you!"

I shook my head.

"We are too old, both of us," I answered,
after a while. "What would have been well
years ago would not be well now. I could not
make you happy, Mr. Gibson."

"You mean that you could not be happy
with me," he replied, looking much mortified.

"Well, that may be— that may be."

I could not bear this. All prudence, all
wisdom forsook me.

"As I liked you fifteen years ago, so I like
you now," I exclaimed, from the fulness of
my heart; " and if you think—— "

"I don't think— I know," interrupted
William Gibson, with a decision very unlike his
former self; and thus, before I almost knew
how, I was engaged to be his wife.

No April smile lit earth and sky as on the
sad day of our parting. The night wind sighed
around the cottage eaves, and the fire burned
brightly on the hearth. And like the season
and the hour, so were we. The vexing fever of
passion was over with its delights and its
torments, but warm and bright was what yet
remained in our two hearts. The freshness of
youth, the glow of manhood, were gone; but
what matter! Enough love was left to give
sweetness to the last years of two vexed lives.

Poets and painters never weary of sunsets,
but late love is not a favoured theme. The
sunset of life is not so fair to the outward eye
as that of nature. What matter, I say again.
William Gibson and I felt very happy, and for
a week— a whole week— no cloud passed
between us and that happiness.

As I came home from a pleasant ramble with
him one afternoon, and entered Rosebower
alone, I found a pale, haggard man sitting in
my chair. I paused at the door, and looked in
doubt at that dreary face. I looked and could
not believe my eyes. Was this William— my
William!

"Well, sister Anne," he said, " why do you
look at me so? I have come back to you a
broken, ruined man. You did much for me;
you got me a noble inheritance, and I have lost
it all all and here I am a burden on you
once more; but not for long, Anne— not for
long."

I threw my arms around his neck.

"You are my boy, my dear boy still!" I said,
fondly.

I did not speak of his wife, nor did he