April day, and whose tears sprang as easily
as a child's, and were dried like a child's.
The one, the man of action, born to battle
with and to control real life as it passed by;
—to lead in the thick of the fight: the
other, the poet, resting apart and above
the daily things of earth, thinking great
thoughts, uttering beautiful words, but doing
no deeds; the dreamer, the singer, the poet,
but not the man.

By their side, to make up the group,
Magdalen—paler than she used to be, and
thinner and graver, with her dark-brown
hair and grey-blue eyes, with her cold,
dreamy face, in which only resolute will and
the first traces of sorrow could be seen, and
her manners half queenly, half girlish—stood
before the one as a goddess to be worshipped,
before the other, as a woman to be protected.
Paul reverenced the strength he could not
imitate, and Horace loved the innocence he
could so well defend.

Horace soon saw that something was amiss
between the betrothed lovers. Indeed, Paul
told him as much not many hours after his
arrival at Oakfield; and, having made that
first confession, had ever since drawn largely
on his friend's sympathy and forbearance;
going to him to complain every time there
had been any little misunderstanding
between him and Magdalen; which was very
often. Horace was kind and sympathising,
and gave Paul good advice; telling him not
to be so sensitive; although he could not
but think Magdalen harsh. But what was
to be done? He saw plainly enough where
the fault lay-- yet who could mend it? If not
themselves, then no one! They were
unsuited—that was the one sad word that com-
prised all the rest.

"But Paul," said Horace one day when
Paul, had been complaining of Magdalen's
temper-- " but, Paul, you must forgive
a little petulance for the sake of the greatness
underneath. Remember— only steel cuts:
lead, dull and harmless, will not scratch a
fly."

'' Yes, Horace, but Magdalen is so changed!
She was never very demonstrative, but she
was never so cold as she is now," said Paul,
sorrowfully.

"Think of how much she has to occupy
her: think of the bitter pass of life she
is in. It is very well for unoccupied
people like you Paul, to do nothing and
think of nothing all day long, but of love:
but the thoughts of a mind torn and troubled,
are very different."

"So it may be," persisted Paul, naively,
"but I have had nothing to do with her trials,
and she should not visit them on me. Why
should she be cold to me because her brother
is a villain?"

"Well, my dear fellow, that is rather diffi-
cult to answer; yet you must be content
that it should be so. People are never just
when they are excited; and Miss Trevelyan
is excited, and may perhaps be unjust to
you; so are you to her in your very
sensitiveness. Women are delicate creatures to
manage, Paul, even the strongest of them.
As a man, who ought to be the superior in
moral power, don't you think you could
be less sensitive and more considerate ?"

"I am sure," said Paul, timidly, " I do all
in my power for her. If she demanded any
service such as hero or Paladin of old would
give, I would do it for her—O, how cheerfully,
how gratefully!"

"Yes," answered Horace, with a faint
smile; " but you are not required to give
these great services. You are only
required to be temperate in your judgment,
manly, and self-relying. Believe me, Paul,
there is often more real heroism in the
suppression of doubt, and of the sorrow which
springs from doubt, than in any George and
the Dragon conflict of olden times. We are
all so apt to demand too much. He is the real
social hero who unselfishly demands but little."

Paul looked distressed.

"Horace, I need not tell you how much I
love her," he said, fervently. " She is my
life; the life-blood of my whole being.
The world would be dark and cold without
her; she is all I love— all—all! And
when I see her coldness to me, and think
that she does not approve of me, it breaks
my heart. I cannot stand up against it.
Weak, passionate, boyish, mad—I may be
all— but it is love for her, and sorrow that
makes me so!"

"Have you no stronger heart than this?
Why, the real man would be able to
support more than his lover's ill-temper—not that
Miss Trevelyan is ill-tempered; but I see that
she is fretted and irritable-- and yet have
a 'heart strong enough for every fate.' You
talk of heroic deeds; yet you neglect your real
heroism, which is to bear a little waywardness
bravely. Paul, Paul! how often we
neglect the flowers at our feet, while stretching
out our hands vainly to those above our
heads! How often we neglect the virtues
we possess, in dreaming of those that are
impossible for us to attain!"

"You are right, Horace," said Paul--
"quite right; and I will show Magdalen
that I am worthy of her."

At that moment Magdalen came into the
room. Paul was full of the impulse created
by Horace's exhortations. He flew to meet
her, took her hand and pressed it between
both his own.

Magdalen coloured deeply, and withdrew
her hand, saying, in a low voice:

"Paul, I do not like this kind of thing
before other people."

"But Horace. He is my brother—like
my own flesh and blood. He might see and
know of anything between us."

"Mr. .Rutherford is not my brother,"
answered Magdalen, hurriedly; "and," she
added, more haughtily, perhaps, than she