girl's spirit did not bear this burden very
meekly; first her pride rose, then
mortification did battle with pride, and lastly, the
spirit of sullenness descended, and utterly
paralysed Miss Vereker's vocal powers. A
decided pause ensued. Margaret, smiling
to herself as the altered intonation fell on
her ear, turned round, and met such a blaze
of indignation on the pretty face as (we are
sorry to record it) made her smile a great
deal more. Then she commenced the song
herself. The refrain was,

       Better trust all, and be deceived,
              And weep that trust and that deceiving,
       Than doubt one word which, if believed,
              Had blessed thy life with true believing.

She sang it deliciously, and in so doing
forgot, or seemed to forget, her pupil, her
home, and her father's people. The
inexorable spirit of music spoke to her of other
things; and, as her fingers wandered over
the keys, her face grew very wistful, almost
sad, and she no longer remembered even to
tease Miss Vereker, who was affected like
Saul, in so far that the mutinous demon was
in some sort charmed out of her; and she
was pondering how she might best descend
from her pedestal of pride, and make
submission to Margaret, without losing her
dignity. The song was finished, and both came
back to realities. Margaret did not care
about conquering herself, but was wondrously
fond of conquering other people; so she
devoted an instant to Miss Vereker, and having
ascertained by an almost imperceptible glance
that young lady's state of mind, she
proceeded to apply the actual cautery. She took
the song, and gave it to her, saying very
sadly, "Until to-day, I always sang that song
with pleasure, Cecile, but you have joined to
it a less pleasant memory; I hope you will
like it better from this time than I shall;"
and she bent over it, and with her pencil
wrote on the margin, Revolte. Cecile Vereker
gave a convulsive gulp; but, before she could
utter the words of contrition which hung on
her lips, a youth of seventeen years, the
facsimile of his sister, entered hastily. "May
I see you home, Miss Meriton? I have
stayed in on purpose," he added, in a boyish
pleading manner.

Margaret was arranging her shawl round
her shoulders, and she did this very
deliberately, bending down her head, while
an amused smile played about her lips.
Meanwhile the boy eyed her as if he longed
to assist her, but refrained, lest he should
meet with a repulse. Possibly some memory
of former rejections aided his apparent
moderation. Then she looked up, and gave him
her hand. "No, I thank you, young George;
a poor music-mistress hardly needs an escort.
Good-night, Cecile."

The lad followed her to the door with a
provoked look on his handsome young face.
I dare say that young George grated on his
ears. He returned to his sister, and regarded
the fire. "She is too handsome to walk
alone. I wish I were a man, Cis, and then
I would marry her."

This new view made Cis deliberate a little.
The result was favourable. "That would be
very nice, George, and then I need not take
any more singing lessons of her at least,
unless I liked the songs particularly," she
added, as her eye fell on the word Revolte.

Margaret gave two more lessons on her
road, and then walked quickly home, and
safely too, in spite of young George's fears.

Her father, a poor gentleman in the first
instance, became poorer still: an amateur
musician, he was reduced to make his pleasure
minister to his necessity. His health, as we
know, failed him more than his fortune; for
as Margaret had said, so she had done, and
in the matter of a daughter he was decidedly
a much to be envied man. When she
returned, he was sitting in his chair by the fire,
thinking long of her, as the Scotch say; in
her eyes he looked, each time she came back,
more gentle, feeble, and shadowy than before.
She busied herself about him buoyantly and
pleasantly, as was her wont.

                                 v.

IN quickly told tales like this there is no
room, as there is no need, to detail the course
of each day which went to make up her life.
Margaret Meriton was fast growing rich.
I don't mean that she had amassed landed
property, but she had for many years been
liable to the income tax (all English hearts
will feel for her and with her in this respect).
Work was a law and necessity, but she did
her work easily; it suited her, and her
gains were sufficient to support her father in
great comfort. She was, moreover, much
liked by the families around; her unflagging
gaiety of spirit, her quick talents, and splendid
voice, made her a welcome addition to every
society. No tidings from Sellon had ever
reached her—yet, in spite of it, she grew
happier, handsomer, and stouter; she was
not a-weary because he came not; and,
indeed, presented no resemblance to the Marian
of the Moated Grange.

Ten years from the time we last pourtrayed
her she entered her fortieth year. It was a
winter evening; there had been a driving
shower of sleet and snow, with a keen,
bitter, north wind; the foot passengers
in the street were whipped, blinded,
and at last cowed by it, and retreated into
their houses; the houseless poor betook
themselves to alleys and doorways for shelter.
The skies were sullen and lowering, and a
dense mass of pale grey to the north-west
afforded every prospect of more rough
weather. I do not think any one could look
more comfortable or handsome than Margaret
Meriton, as she sat making the hot coffee in the
snug study, clad in rich garments of sober hue,
as befitted her age and purse. Her father