always another voice I hear; but this is the one I should like to retain ; this is the one that shows what wonderful progress we have made."

Lottie smiled in a way which nearly won the Signor's steady heart. A golden dazzlement of light got into her eyes, as if the slanting afternoon sun was in them. She did not speak, but she gave him her hand —a thing which was very rare with Lottie. The Signor was flattered and touched; but he would not have been so flattered had he known that she was saying to herself, "It is the last time-it is the last!"

Mr. Ashford met the party coming out, and walked with them along the north side of the Abbey and through the cloisters. He could not make out why Lottie said nothing to him about her brother. To tell the truth, he wanted to have something for his money, and it did not seem that he was likely to get anything. He said to her at last, abruptly, "I hope you think Law is likely to do well, Miss Despard?"

"Law?" she said, looking up with wondering eyes.

He was so confounded by her look of bewilderment that he did not say anything more.

Next day dawned bright and fair, as it ought. A fair, clear, sunny winter's day-not a leaf, even of those few that hung upon the ends of the boughs, stirring-not a cloud. Earth in such a day seems hanging suspended in the bright sphere, not certain yet whether she will turn back again to the careless summer, or go through her winter spell of storm duty. Lottie had all her preparations made; her dress ready to put on in the morning; her little bonnet done up in a parcel incredibly small, a veil looped about it; and the great cloak, a homely waterproof, which was to cover her from head to foot, and conceal her finery, hung out all ready. Everything ready-nothing now to be done but to meet him on the Slopes, and to hear how all had been settled, and arrange for the final mecting on the wedding morning. Even her railway fare, so many shillings, was put ready. She would not let him pay even that for her until she belonged to him. She went out with the dreamy sweetness of the approaching climax in her eyes when the last rays of the sunset were catching all the Abbey pinnacles. She scarcely saw the path over which her light feet skimmed. The people who passed her glided like the people in a dream; the absorbing sweet agitation of happiness and fear, and hope and content, was in all her veins; her eyes were suffused with light as eyes get suffused with tears-an indescribable elation and alarm, sweet panic, yet calm, was in her breast. Mr. Ashford met her going along, swift and light, and with that air of abstraction from everything around her. She did not see him, nor anyone; but she remembered after, that she had seen him, and the very turn of the road where he made a half pause to speak to her, which she had not taken any notice of. In this soft rapture Lottie went to the corner of the bench under the elm tree. It was too early, but she placed herself there to wait till he should come to her. This was the place where he was certain to come. By-and-by she would hear his step, skimming too, almost as light and quick as her own—or

hear him vaulting over the low wall from the Deanery-or perhaps, to attract less notice, coming up the winding way from the Slopes. Where she sat was within reach of all the three. It was a little chill now that the sun had gone down, but Lottie did not feel it. She sat down with a smile of happy anticipation on her face, hearing the Abbey bells in the clear frosty air, and then the bursting forth of the organ and all the strains of the music. These filled up her thoughts for the time, and it was not till the larger volume of sound of the voluntary put Lottie in mind of the length of time she had waited, that she woke up to think of the possibility that something might have detained her lover. It was strange that he should be so late. The light was waning, and the sounds about were eerie; the wind that had lain so still all day woke up, and wandered chilly among the bare shrubberies, tossing off the late leaves. She shivered a little with the cold and the waiting. Why did not he come? the hour of stillness was passing fast, the organ pealing, the light fading moment by moment. Why was not Rollo here?

At last there was a step. It was not light and quick like his step; but something might have happened to make it sound differently-something in the air, or something in him, some gravity of movement befitting the importance of the occasion. So anxiety beguiles itself, trying to believe what it wishes. The step came nearer, and Lottie roused herself, a little alarmed, wondering if anything (she could not tell what) could have happened to him-and looked round. A figure—a man coming her way-her heart jumped into her throat, then sank down, down, with a flutter of fright and pain. It was not Rollo-but what then it might be only some chance passer-by, not having anything to do with her and him. Another moment, and she waited with an agonised hope that he was passing along without taking any notice, and that he had indeed nothing at all to do with her. But the steady step She raised her head, she opened her eyes that

came on-nearer, nearer.

had been veiled in such sweet dreams, with a wideness of fear and horror. What could he have to do with her? What had he come to tell her? The man came up to her straight, without any hesitation. He said, 66 Are you Miss Despard, ma'am? I was sent to give you this from my lord."

My lord who was my lord? She took it with a gasp of terror. It was not Rollo that was my lord. The man, a middle-aged, respectable servant, gave her a look of grave pity and went away. Lottie sat still for a moment with the letter in her hand, thinking with wild impatience that the sound of those heavy departing steps would prevent her from hearing Rollo's light ones when he came. My lord-who was my lord? Suddenly an idea seized upon her. The light was almost gone. She tore the letter open, and read it by the faint chill shining of the skies, though it was almost too dark to see.

THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

APRIL, 1879.

CONTENTS.

WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. (With an Illustration)

CHAPTER XLIII.-The End of the Dream.

IN MEMORIAM (MAJOR STEUART SMITH)

MADEMOISELLE DE MERSAC. (With an Illustration)

CHAPTER VIII.-Madame de Trémonville at Home.

...

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