the rector on his return; he accompanied
him as far as the village, and told him
quite in a careless manner, of the family's
return.

"I have done it," he said, when he got
home again, late at night. "I know them
both. The father is a delightful old man.
He kept me and the clergyman to dinner—
and Ellen! there never was so charming a
creature before; and, Arthur, she's fond of
butterflies, and catches them in a green gauze
net, and has a very good collection—particularly
of night-hawks. That's the reason she
was out so late the night we saw her at the
window. They were very kind; they knew
all about our being here, and Ellen thanked
me so for being good to her poor people. I
felt quite ashamed."

The young man's eyes were flashing with
delight; his voice trembled; he caught the
cold gaze of his friend fixed upon him, and
blushed.

"You look very much ashamed of yourself,"
said Arthur, "and I am sorry you have
made their acquaintance. It will interfere
with our object in coming here."

"Ah! and I told her you were a perfect
German; and she understands the language,
and I said you would lend her any of your
books she chose."

"What!" exclaimed Arthur, starting up
excited to sudden anger; "what right had
you, sir, to make any offer of the kind? I
wouldn't lend her a volume to save her life, or
yours, or any one's in the world. She shan't
have one,—I'll burn them first."

"Arthur! " said Wilmington, astonished.
"What is it that puts you in such a
passion? I'm sure I didn't mean to offend
you. I will tell her you don't like to lend
your books; I'm sorry I mentioned it to
her,—but I will apologise, and never ask you
again."

"I was foolish to be so hot about a trifle,"
said Arthur, resuming his self-command.
"I'm very sorry to disappoint your friend;
but I really can't spare a single volume,—
besides," he said, with a faint laugh, "they
are all about metallurgy and mining."

"I told her so," said Winnington, "and she
has a great curiosity to see them."

"You did! " again exclaimed Arthur,
flushing with wrath. "You have behaved
like a fool or a villain,—one or both, I care
not which. You should have known, without
my telling, that these books are sacred. If
the girl knows German let her read old
Gotsched's plays. She shall not see a page
of any book of mine."

Winnington continued silent under this
outbreak; he was partly overcome with
surprise; but grief was uppermost.

"I've known you for two years, I think,
Hayning," he said; "from the first time we
met I admired and liked you. I acknowledge
your superiority in everything; your energy,
your talent, your acquirements. I felt a
pleasure in measuring your height, and was
proud to be your friend. I know you despise
me, for I am a weak, impulsive, womanly-
natured fellow;—but I did not know you
disliked me. I shall leave you to-morrow, and
we shall never meet again." He was going
out of the room.

"I did not mean what I said," said Arthur,
in a subdued voice. "I don't despise you. I
don't dislike you. I beg your pardon,—will
you forgive me, Wilmington?"

"Ay, if you killed me! " sobbed
Winnington, taking hold of Arthur's scarcely
extended hand. "I know I am very foolish;
but I love Ellen Warleigh, and would give
her all I have in the world."

"That's not much," said Arthur, still
moodily brooding over the incident; "and
never will be, if you wear your heart so
perpetually on your sleeve."

"You forget that I don't need to have
any riches of my own," said Wilmington,
gaily. "I am to be physician to the Prince
and Princess in Aladdin's palace, and shall sit
always on your right hand when you entertain
the nobility. So, shake hands, and good
night."

"But Ellen is not to have my books," said
Arthur, sitting down to the table, and spreading
a volume before him. "I wouldn't lend
you for an hour," he said, when he was all alone,
cherishing the book, "no, not to Lucy
Mainfield herself."

                CHAPTER II.

August and September passed away, and
October had now begun. Arthur avoided
the Warleighs as much as he could;
Winnington was constantly at their house. The
friends grew estranged. But, with the
younger, the estrangement made no difference
in the feeling of affection he always had
entertained for Arthur. He was hurt, however, by
the change he perceived in his manner. He
was hurt at his manifest avoidance of the
society of the squire and his daughter. He was
hurt, also, at the total silence Arthur now
maintained on the subject of his cousin Lucy.
He saw her letters left unopened, sometimes
for a whole day, upon the table instead of being
greedily torn open the moment the straggling
and uncertain post had achieved their
delivery at the door. He was hurt at some
other things besides, too minute to be
recorded; too minute perhaps to be put into
language even by himself, but all perceptible
to the sensitive heart of friendship such as
his. With no visible improvement in Arthur's
fortune or prospects, it was evident that his
ideas were constantly on the rise. A strange
sort of contempt of poverty mingled with his
aspirations after wealth. An amount of
income which, at one time, would have satisfied
his desires, was looked on with disdain, and
the possessors of it almost with hatred. The
last words Winnington had heard him speak
about Lucy were, that marriage was impossible