for London. My brother, he said, was
somewhat reserved upon the subject of
Amelia, and had certainly made no formal
disclosure of his feelings; but they were
tolerably evident, nevertheless. My father
had no doubt, too, that the state of affairs
was understood by the Lathams, whose
cordiality might be regarded as a sanction.

It is by no means my purpose to write a
history of myself, but I may touch for a
minute upon an interest which—though the
main one in my own life—is merely incidental
to this narrative. During a Swiss tour with
my uncle, I met with my fate—which, let me
once for all say, is a most happy one—in Mr.
F——, an English barrister, now my
husband. The sentiment which woke to life
amid the romance of lake and mountains,
had in a few months grown hardy enough
to brave the dull skies of England and
to knock pertinaciously at the door of a
prosaic London house. To dismiss figure,
Mr. F——became a guest at our fireside. On
the night of Cyril's expected return, he had
spoken to me such words as—when the hearer
can echo them—make the epoch of life. Mr.
F——had taken his leave, and I was sitting
alone, lost in delicious musing, my feet on the
fender, when the door opened abruptly and
Cyril entered.

His look was so haggard, the voice in which
he uttered his brief greeting was so husky,
the lips that kised me formed so mechanically
into a channel for the smile that would not
flow, that for a moment I doubted his
identity. "What has happened, Cyril?" I asked,
approaching the chair on which, still in his
travelling dress, he sank motionless and silent.
He roused himself, and answered evasively,
in a tone that vainly affected indifference.
Suddenly his manner changed. He inquired
earnestly for my father; then spoke at
random of household affairs, and became quite
voluble on matters of trivial import. He
plunged the poker into the fire, remarked
that the night was bitter, and again fell into
silence.

The springs of my love—replenished it
might be by my own great joy—welled
towards him. I knelt by his side, wound my
arm around him, and reminded him of all the
bonds of our childhood. I urged him, for
our mother's sake, not to shut up his heart
from me. I spoke of the old times when I
had trembled for his life, and vowed to make
it happy if God would preserve it.

He turned to me with a softened aspect,
kissed my forehead, and murmured, "Ah!
Lucy, you should have let me go!"

The words were not meant for a complaint.
They had escaped him almost unconsciously;
but they gave me a new right to plead with
him. By the time of my father's return I
had won Cyril to tell us all.

The cherished dream of his life—the dream
so sacred that he could never shape it into
words—had been cruelly dispelled. On his
visit to Winborough he had been received by
Amelia with an air of sadness and constraint,
and by Mr. Latham with a cold formality at
first unaccountable. Tortured by suspense,
my brother sought an explanation, when the
banker replied that, although wishing always,
to regard Cyril as a friend, it had become
necessary to warn him that no closer relationship
could be sanctioned. Mr. Latham added,
that he made this statement with pain, but
that circumstances rendered it a duty.

"Heartless! heartless!" cried my father,
wringing Cyril's hand.

I had never seen Dr. Woodford so roused.
His sense of justice was outraged. He knew
well that Cyril's love for Amelia, though not
directly avowed, had been long known to the
Lathams and tacitly encouraged.

"And Amelia herself?" I asked.

Mr. Latham, it appeared, had withstood
Cyril's demand to take leave of her. My
brother remonstrated, and angry words
ensued. Mr. Latham, by some taunt on the
young artist's profession, stung his high spirit
to retort, and Amelia had by accident entered
the room as my brother, with flushed cheek
and indignant tones, repelled the affront.

In a hard sarcastic tone the banker thanked
Cyril for alleviating the pain of parting by
a demeanour which showed that further
intercourse would have been undesirable.
Amelia, who had witnessed my brother's
incensed manner, but not the provocation which
caused it, addressed him in language which,
though gentle and mournful, conveyed a deep
reproach. Reproach from her at such a
moment overcame the poor lad altogether,
and in order to conceal his feelings he took
an abrupt farewell and left the house.

I suffered too much on Cyril's account to
be very tolerant to Amelia. "She did not
deserve such love!" I exclaimed impetuously.

He rose, took my hand, and said in that
low, governed voice that belongs to deepest
emotion, "You meant this kindly, Lucy; but
do not say it again—do not even think it, as
you love me. I have known Amelia too
long, too well, to doubt her goodness. The
knowledge of it is all that consoles me. I
may have been no more to her than a friend—
a dear friend; I never may be more; but I
can be grateful to her for the past. While
trusting in herself, I can even bear to know
that she was not destined for me. I can hope
and strive. Without that trust I do not think I
could."

He then told us that he had written,
asking her forgiveness for the angry words
which he had uttered to her father, and
begging a reply, however brief, to soften the
anguish of such a separation. He said no
more upon the subject, but for days after
when the postman's knock was heard I
marked a quick tremor shoot over the fixed
calm of his face. It was still more sad to
note the listless quiet with which he took up
his letters in that further season when hope