to quote my own confession against me, and so
keep me in order.

"If you do not write me back a line, at once,
to say you have forgiven me, I shall lie awake
and be miserable all to-night, which I am sure
you would not wish—though you may like to
punish me a little.

"Yours ever sincerely—and repentantly--
"LUCY DACRES."

We should have seen the change in Mr.
Gilbert West's face as he read; he almost smiled
—such a happy look!

"I am not to be deceived," he said. Neither
was lie, though he knew that "lying awake all
night" was one of those eager exaggerations
which was characteristic of Lucy. She would
have dropped asleep after, say, " an hour's
misery. " Enters now his sister, with a light step.

"I have been speaking to them below," she
said. " It came on them with a great shock,
but they say they will let us off with a month's
rent."

"My dear Margaret," he said, eagerly, " we
have changed all that, as these French would
say. This has come in since. Will you trust my
better judgment? Now will you call it folly?"

She looked at the writing, and threw it on
the table impatiently. " Indeed, I do call it
the worst of folly—madness and infatuation.
Do you mean to tell me—you—Gilbert, a
sensible man of middle age, that you have been
changed by a screed of nonsense like this?"

He was in good humour, and could be superior
to her now. " Well, since you ask me,
Margaret, I am a little changed; at least, we
shall not leave this on Monday. There is no
violent hurry. The good people here would give
out all sorts of things—come in for a fortune,
or going home to avoid being arrested."

"I see it is no use arguing with you now,"
said she, angrily. " But remember, I tell you
this will all end badly; and you will be sorry,
one day, you did not listen to my advice. And
when you are in your next fit of " lows " and
depression—when things have turned with you
again, and you see it is all folly and infatuation,
don't expect any sympathy from me."

"Indeed I will, dear Margaret," he said,
smiling; " and I know I shall get it, too."

She turned impatiently and left the room.
Mr. West was a wise man, and " a deuced long-
headed fellow;" could see through an oak panel.
But once in a Mahomet's paradise, all men are
pretty much on a level.

The truth was, he had led a very dismal
prison sort of life, his mind promenading in
flagged whitewashed corridors and yards.
Within the last few months he had come upon
the open commons, the green lawns, and found
the air sweet and fragrant.

At that moment a light step made him look
up, and the third member of this household
entered—a pretty reflective face, with black
hair, with eyes that she fixed on those she
loved with the innocent watchfulness of a dog's,
but small in height, and slightly made. This
was Constance Hardy, a clergyman's daughter
and third cousin. She had six sisters, and was,
of course, intending to be a governess one day.
The only drawback to this step was that he did
not approve of it—it was the poorest and most
miserable profession in the world; and what
Gilbert West said was, for her, inspired wisdom.

He, however, had comforted her by saving
that if any one was likely to succeed at such a
profession she was, and insisted she should come
over and stop with them at least a year, and
learn French at the convent close by. The year
was nearly run out—the most delightful year of
her whole life. The intelligent reader will guess
the reason;—at home, in the baby-house of a
parsonage, the six sisters had married her again
and again to splendid Cousin Gilbert, and had
settled to come and stay with her whenever
he should open old Westtown. This sort
of compliment she had accepted with great
pleasure, but sighed over it in private; for
the happiness was Utopian, and about as
far off as a coronet. Gilbert West was to
her worshipping eyes as full of perfection as
any angel. She knew, too, of that early
trouble, now so long, long ago, which had
coloured all Cousin Gilbert's life, and she felt
every pang that he had felt. Therefore, when she
had flown over with delight to Dieppe, she felt a
pleasure that he had begun to take interest in the
world again; for she had learned to think him a
sort of ascetic, who was never to smile again.
But, before a few hours had gone by, she found
out the reason of this recovery. It gave her
a pang; but as he was her chief thought,
her first idea, she soon found a satisfaction in
the idea that he was wakening up to life and
happiness, and, after a little struggle, reconciled
herself to welcoming and forwarding what was
fatal to any little dreams she may have entertained
herself. It was no wonder that Gilbert
himself became to have an affection for her.
He knew thoroughly her devotion and interest
in him; admired her cleverness; but had not the
faintest idea that her regard for him went
beyond mere respect, gratitude, and intellectual
admiration.

Margaret West, stiff, cold, unsympathising,
save in one object and one direction, could
look gently on Constance's affection, which she
was shrewd enough to discover from the first.
Indeed, it soon came to be her heartiest
prayer that he could transfer all that interest to
the gentle, trustful creature who so loved him.
She had no jealousy, and tried to be as soft as
she could to her. She even, in an awkward
fashion, strove to make opportunities, and,
exercising a kindly self-denial, let Constance
perform the household offices—breakfast, tea-
making, and the like—which were hers properly.
Mr. West lived in his own day-dream, which
hung as a cloud before his eyes, though he
could not be unconscious of his cousin's ceaseless
and gentle devotion, and often said to her
suddenly, on discovering some fresh instance:

"You, poor good Coz Constance! Why do
you think of such things, and take all this