folded my arms and gave way to a sombre,
doubting, almost despairing, train of thought.

I loved the old tree I leaned against,
though it grew in an enemy's soil. My
heart had throbbed against it, many a time
—not with joy, but with grief, scorn, or impotent
rage. And many a time my bitter,
burning tears had fallen upon the turf above
its roots. No one else ever stood there, leaning
so, and I had grown to fancy the tree
endowed with some power of sympathy, and
that it bent down regardfully to me, and
swept its branches lovingly over my face, and
whispered consolingly in my ear. But my
friend was mute and still that night, with
neither touch nor tone for me. The evening
was sullenly quiet, and there was no windhorn
murmur among the bare boughs.

As I stood leaning there—hidden from the
path—I heard a step, a firm, crushing step,
coming down the gravel-path. I knew who
came—at least my heart knew—for it beat
high against the tree's rough bark, stirred for
once by somewhat else than pride or pain.
But it did not beat there long ... I was soon
found, though I stood quite still in my hiding-place.
Harold reproved me tenderly, and
yet authoritatively, for staying out in that
raw, cheerless air. I answered, not proudly,
as I should have done had any other spoken
so—but meekly and sadly. Then we both
forgot the weather as that beaming, handsome,
honest, face was bent down close to mine.

He loved plain-spoken truthfulness; and, if
I blushed and pressed my cold hands beneath
my shawl tight down over my swelling heart,
yet I frankly accepted the love he frankly
offered, and I did not scruple to let him
know that I took it very thankfully.

Then I was drawn close to him. It was
cold no longer—my heart was warm and
full. I suppose we walked up and down
a long time—I remember it grew dark—but
the sky cleared, and some few stars looked
down upon us.

Harold simply told Mrs. Stone of our engagement,
that we should be married as soon
as I could make it convenient, and he had
made proper preparations for receiving his
wife, and added that he trusted I should
meet with kindness and consideration for the
little while it might be necessary for me to
remain under her roof.

He spoke very courteously, but plainly and
decidedly.

Mrs. Stone was surprised and mortified,
and she could not quite well conceal it. She
had not thought Mr. Warden's infatuation
had been so great. She had had vague
schemes, too, for sending me away, and then
securing him for one of her own daughters.

She was silent a moment, and then said in
a hard, unmoved voice,

"Of course you are aware, Mr. Warden,
that Miss Aston must fulfil her engagement
with me—a prior engagement to that so
hastily, and, to speak plainly, it seems to me,
so unbecomingly, formed with you. She is
here as a governess, and must continue here
in the capacity for which she was hired for
three months from this time."

A flush and a frown came upon Harold's
face, but I interposed,

"I shall be quite ready, Mrs. Stone," I
answered, " to perform all my duties as usual
till the time for which I was engaged has
expired. I do not think you can accuse me
of having ever wilfully neglected duty; I do
not know why I should do so now."

"Very well! This is, I believe, the last
day of February "—

"The first of March, I think, ma'am; is it
not? " I asked, turning to Harold.

"I think so," he answered discontentedly.

"On the first of June, then, you leave my
service?" Mrs. Stone said. " Till that time,"
she added, " I shall of course expect that
my daughter's education will be carried on
without interruption."

I bowed assent. Harold took his leave,
chafing sorely at Mrs. Stone's manner, and at
having to leave me for so long a time to her
tender mercies. I was not sorry to remain
where I was, my present happiness was quite
enough, and I should be glad to grow quietly
acquaint with that ere there came any further
change. I crept out of the room soon
after Harold went away, and was alone with
my joy till morning.

It was well for me that I was love-strong
and proof against annoyance, for that house
was no home or rest for me.

They even tried to come between me and
Harold's love, filling his ears with tales—
some of them, alas! too true—of my violent
temper, my singularities, my excessive pride,
and my utter unsuitableuess for making any
man's home happy. But they soon gave up
this attempt. Harold looked through their
assumed to their real motives with the clear
vision of a simple, sincere nature, and treated
me only the more tenderly and pityingly
when we met. This was not very often, or
for long at a time: we had no opportunity
of gaining any real knowledge of each other.
During those three months I had time for
thinking over the impending change: I
might have weighed and tried my love had
I had scale, or table of weights to guide me--
I had not. I knew that I sickened at the
bare thought of anything intervening between
me and Harold, and shutting out the glimpse
of a glorious, free life beyond my prison-walls
that he opened to me, and I did not question
of what nature and kind should be the love
between husband and wife, or doubt whether
we could make one another happy. I had
one relative, a maiden aunt, in but poor
circumstances, of whom I knew but very little;
to her I went when that long three months
had expired; from her house I was to be
married in a fortnight's time.

In spite of my happiness I had grown paler