deferred had sickened the heart. At length
one morning the post brought him the
Winborough Guardian. We happened to be
alone. After a few minutes' perusal he
silently handed me the paper, directing me
with his finger to one short paragraph. It
told with all the transparent mystery of
provincial gossip that "unless rumour were more
than ordinarily faithless, an eloquent divine
well known at Winborough might shortly be
expected to lead to the hymeneal altar the
only daughter of Mr. L——, the eminent
banker."

I could only utter "Cyril," and cling to his
erect steady form, as if I had most needed
comfort.

"God bless her!" he said after a pause;
his voice was scarcely above a whisper, but
clear and firm.

I could not restrain myself. "She has
dealt falsely with you!" I cried.

"I think not," he answered; "but were it
so, I should still say God bless her—she
would then need it more."

Mr. Latham's changed conduct to Cyril
seemed now accounted for. We had before
learned that Lady Naseby—by this time
advanced in life, and lately recovered from
severe illness—had passed into a state of
hypochondria which she was pleased to term
religious conviction. To expiate the sin of a
life whose pleasures and graces had been
superficial, she had become an ascetic and a
bigot. Her contrition, even though sincere,
was as merely external as the enjoyments
and the charms which she had abjured. On
the death of the old vicar she had been
influential in the appointment of his successor—
a teacher who confounded penance with
repentance to her heart's content. What I
then surmised was afterwards proved. Lady
Naseby, whose will was law to Mr. Latham,
had endeavoured to promote a union between
the new vicar and her god-daughter Amelia.
Cyril had himself found this gentleman a
favoured and even an intimate guest at Mr.
Latham's table.

My brother went out that day; how he
passed it I never knew, but when he returned
there was a placidity, almost a cheerfulness,
in his manner that told of a struggle under-
gone and ended. My father and myself
abstained from all reference to it. It was
only by a certain gentleness, so to speak, in
the footfalls of our thoughts that one could
have guessed there was a grief to be tended;
it was only by the softness of Cyril's look
that you could have told that tendance was
understood.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

AT that time there was no railway to
Winborough, and we were consequently
almost entirely cut off from its interests and
its news. Cyril's younger friends there either
removed or became absorbed in the pursuits
of life, and all communications from the old
town gradually ceased.

The morning after the events just related
found Cyril early in his studio. From that
time his labours, interrupted for months,
were steadily resumed. It was a deep
interest for us, as years went by, to watch the
young artist's advance. The first book that
he illustrated, his first picture in the exhibition,
the first generous criticism that pointed
out his ripening genius, were all epochs in
our family history. The world now knows
his pictures well—those stories of fireside
happiness and domestic heroism which have
touched and cheered many a spectator.

Not even in his art did Cyril make any
conscious allusion to the one memory which
I knew had never left him. If in child or
maiden I caught glimpses of it, the expression,
not the features, revealed them. They
were the records of an influence unknown,
even to himself.

Time rolled by; I was a wife and a
mother. In his own circle, whether sharing
in my children's games, or surrounded by
that true brotherhood of genius who own a
new tie in deserved success, Cyril was still
the same, equable and genial, though never
hilarious.

One May evening—a balmy evening, that
almost redeemed the character of the month
—he entered our little parlour at Kensington.
My husband was at the time reading
aloud a notice of Cyril's new picture just
exhibited, and then considered his masterpiece.
We welcomed him, therefore, with
more than usual happiness. He looked
happy himself. There was in his face the
restful joy of one who had achieved honour
bravely to use it nobly—a feeling this so
distinct from vanity or pride, that it consists
with the very humblest moments of man's
experience.

"My visit might hardly have been so
welcome," said Cyril to my husband, "had you
foreseen its object. That is nothing less than
to rob you of your wife for a week."

He then told us that there had sprung up
within him a sudden and peremptory yearning
—a thirst, he called it—to see
Winborough and the haunts of his childhood
once again, and in company with his sister.
My kind husband's consent was readily
gained. Our preparations were hastily
made, and on the afternoon of the following
day we were whirling at the rate of thirty
miles an hour towards our first home.

It seemed strange to me to desert the old
coach-road by which, many years before, I
had travelled to London; strange, instead of
nooky village inns with buxom, apron-
smoothing landladies, to find slate-roofed,
naked-looking stations—innovations from
which at that time the old territorial
families of trees and flowers stood disdainfully
aloof. When we approached towns, I
sighed in vain for the winding horn and the
clatter over the stones, and felt hurt at the
usurpation of the railway-bell and whistle.