but the place Langford hoped to give me is
filled, and there's no chance of another opening.
They don't want young, untried hands
there, and of brains there is plenty and over.
These are hard men, Margaret; they might
have given me a trial."

"But, Stephen," said the girl, and her voice
faltered a little, as she spoke, "you know
what you wish cannot be. I cannot leave my
father, he is aging sadly. I think his poor
eyes are growing dim, and now he would
rather hear all his beautiful music played to
him than do it himself; and my idea, Stephen,
my great hope is, that I may be able to take
his pupils for him."

"You would do it well, Margaret; you
have a wonderful knack of managing people."

Margaret smiled, and in her smile there
was a peculiar mocking expression, which
seemed like a ripple about her mouth. She
became grave again.

"You don't know how hard I practise at
nights, and how I treasure up his instructions.
If I can induce one or two families to
let me take his place, that will do much.
And then, when he is so old he can work no
longer, I can still support him as he has been
accustomed to live. He has worked for me,
it is fit that I should work for him."

"But if I could get work near, you need
not leave him, Margaret; we could marry, and
all live together."

"No, Stephen, we are too young to fetter
ourselves, with such uncertain prospects.
Alone we may struggle, and if we fall we
fall alone, and drag down no others; but
were we married, and your employment so
uncertain, cares would come on us more
quickly than we could meet them. Believe
me, we are best single."

There was no selfishness about the young
fellow, and yet man-like he could not forbear
the answer, "Margaret, you think more of
your father than you do of me. My young
life— " he stopped abruptly.

"I should be no good wife to you, Stephen,
if I failed as a daughter; so do not press me
more, dear Stephen. God knows I am sorely
tried already," and the pent-up tears came at
last.

Then Stephen inwardly called himself
many frightful names, of which unmanly
wretch and brute were the least severe; but
he only said audibly:

"I know it, Margaret forgive me," and
the words were hardly out of his mouth,
before he was forgiven, I suppose, for the hand
was again placed confidingly in his. He
continued, "The worst is yet to come, Margaret;
I have undertaken to work my way out to
India, and the captain has promised to get
me engineering work as soon as we arrive.
It is no degradation," he said, stoutly. "I
did hope to have begun higher up; but I've
never shirked work, and I'll show that a
gentleman can do as good a day's work as any
one. I've toiled with dust, and dirt, and oil,
and what not, and I'll do it again. I know
my trade thoroughly, the lowest as well as
the highest part of it; it's only to begin over
again, and I'm young and strong."

"Yes, it's all true," said poor Margaret,
and these few words were all she could say.

"I shall not forget you, Margaret; it may
be twenty years before we meet again, but
even then, I shall be yours only."

Margaret smiled, but this time it was a
poor, wan, struggling smile. "I shall be old
and faded then, Stephen."

"It does not matter," he returned, with a
steady, loving gaze. "You may be old and
faded, worn and shrivelled; but you will be
more to me than any other woman."

Here they turned their steps back to the
church.

"Well, Stephen, I bind you by no promise;
we will follow the promptings of our own
hearts. We have the world before us, and
God to aid us," she said.

They walked on silently for a little time.
— "We must part now, dear Stephen."

"I sail to-morrow, Margaret."

They stood and gazed sadly on the
grave-stones; there seemed nothing but an
atmosphere of dampness and decay around them,
only the warm love and young hopes in their
breasts; but these triumphed, even in the
sorrow of the hour. He held her in his
strong arms, for one last caress, and then
released her. In another minute he had gone.
And so they parted with wrung hearts, fear-
ing, as many young lovers have feared, that
the hour-glass of time, or the scythe of death,
would stand between them in this life.

                           III

STEPHEN SELLON pulled his hat over his
eyes, and bent his steps towards the little inn,
where his worldly goods were packed ready
for transit, in a depressed and remorseful,
state of mind. He was miserable enough,
and though he bit his lips and clenched his
teeth, it was hard work to keep the tears
from starting. It was in vain that he inwardly
exhorted himself not to feel this wringing
pain at his heart; that he repeated to
himself, at first mentally, and afterwards aloud
for greater effect, that hard wise saying of
Queen Elizabeth, "Time will comfort us,
and why not do for ourselves Time's office?"

Nature, not manhood, was uppermost. His
dinner was dispatched, and then he lighted
his pipe, crossed his legs, and gazed moodily
into the fire. He folded his arms tightly
across his chest, thinking of her. Then he
opened the window, and leant out with
some romantic idea that the wind would waft
her breath to him, or that the same moon
should look down on both. He had not
naturally a genius for self-torment, quite the
reverse; but in love a man will do such things.
In his mind's eye be beheld her as his wife; and,
again, he saw her fretted and worn, struggling
for her father with adverse circumstances, and