constant energy; she did not sit and lament; she had her sorrows; but they were closed within the proudest heart that ever beat, and no man knew of them. But all the more dangerous is the stern sorrow that feeds upon itself, the aching, ever-present grief, so stoically disregarded. Mistress Dinnage indulged in neither tears nor regrets; bravely she did her duty day by day, and never would sit down to court a sweet and fancied dream. But when evening came, what had she to do? Father was not home; the tall clock in the corner went tick, tick, tick! Lady Deb was busied with her kinsman Kingston Fleming; old Marjory was no companion to Mistress Dinnage. Lives are so different. In some more genial lives, in some gay changeful or adventurous life, sorrow and despair are kept at bay. In contrast to this life of Margaret's, there was May Warriston far away, dreaming through courtly galleries, gazing on splendid pictures, listening to ravishing music, kneeling before gorgeous shrines. Amid such scenes as these, the heart-strings may be tuned to never a discordant note. But in eternal calm, in depressing sickness, in dreary hours of solitude, then the grim spectre looks on us face to face. We may work; ay, but when we pause to rest? Work, everlasting work, gives a stern sense of satisfaction and the comfort of 'something done;' but unlightened by sweeter moments, neither softens the heart nor strengthens the mind. Under that stern government, imagination sleeps, thought grows torpid, the poor wounded soul is grasped within the iron hand it defies, Nature herself lies bruised and bleeding.

In the hours of hard work and daylight, sorrow was to Margaret Dinnage unheeded, unheard, uncared for; but when forced inaction came, when the little room darkened slowly, and the lightest whisper of the breeze began to be heard above the hushed tumult of the world, then the tall clock told a monotonous tale moment by moment to the proud still heart—a tale of solitude and hopeless calm. She would go to the porch not to hear it; but to go out and roam about the happy fields she could not, for there she had played when a child. No; better stand at the door and watch; father would be coming soon.

One evening as Mistress Dinnage thus watched, the gate swung to; not the stooping form of old Jordan Dinnage, but a tall and tower-like figure loomed through the gloaming and darkened the doorway. Loud and full beat the heart of Mistress Dinnage; she could not speak. For the first time for years, she and Charles Fleming were alone.

'Who is at Enderby?' he asked, in a short stern voice.

'Mistress Deborah,' she answered, with hurried breathless utterance, 'an' Master Kingston Fleming.'

'Not my father?'

'No.'

'Has Master Sinclair been here lately?'

'Yes; he was over yesterday morning.'

Then the gloaming parted as it were to admit of a blink of sunshine, and the dark eyes that were gazing up sought the haggard eyes that were gazing down upon them, and all in a flash. Twilight and the wild sweet solitude around them drew those proud hearts together with a power that yearning nature could not resist. The spell of Love was woven around them. Not one word was uttered: stern silence, weary endless longing, pride, grief, trouble, despair, all were now hushed in one long embrace. Long and wordless as had been estrangement, so swift and wordless the wooing; no syllable was needed to tell what the soul had known.

What mattered it in that supreme moment that he was a hunted ruined fugitive—that she was a poor and penniless girl—that they met but to part again? The sweet summer breeze was blowing round them; the trees trembled with gladness overhead; they were young; the world was wide and free. The solemn warning voice of the old clock, for them spoke in vain.

When Mistress Dinnage could speak, she whispered on his breast: 'Thou'rt in trouble.'

'In trouble? Yes.' Then, with a reckless laugh, he took her face between his hands, and answered by wild and passionate kisses.

'Nay; thou must speak,' she went on earnestly, and holding back his head with her little hands. 'Kisses will not aid thee, or I would kiss thee till I died. Speak, Master Fleming! Art thou ruined?'

'Ay; stick and stone.'

'I saw it in thy face, only now the love-light covers it. Oh, how canst thou look so glad for my poor love, when thou'rt ruined and disgraced? Bethink thee, Master Fleming. Thine old home will go to strangers. Thy sister will share in thy disgrace. Thy father will go in sorrow to the grave. Thou'rt ruined, disgraced, dishonoured!'

He caught her to his heart, and then held her wildly from him, regarding her with infinite pathos. 'And wilt thou throw me over, Meg?'

Then spoke she anxiously: 'What is it thou mean'st? Speak out to me. Let there be no secrets and no riddling. Dost thou love me truly?'

Then answered the proud liquid glance of those dark eyes; and whispered the youth low in her ear: 'I would like to kill thee for this questioning! Truly, love? Dost thou know Charles Fleming so little, that thou'rt in doubt? that thou canst believe he could wrong the only girl he ever loved? Ruffian, gamester, roysterer though I be, I would keep thee pure as snow—snowdrift. Thou shalt make me a better man, who knows? For thy love I thirst, Meg, and have thirsted long. Now—ruined, an outcast, a fugitive, is the moment I choose to seek thee! Wilt have me, Meg, for better, for worse? Wilt share the fortunes of a sinner? Perilous, comfortless, will be thy lot, love. Wilt thou be my wife?'

She could not speak; she answered by a low cry of love and joy. What recked Mistress Dinnage of the proud grand home and the heir of the Flemings, all passed away! She loved—with all the pure abandonment of a woman's love—this houseless wanderer.

So came Charlie Fleming, and went, and haunted in the twilight round Enderby, and no one knew of it save Mistress Dinnage. She was put about, dismayed, torn by anxiety by all she heard; and the two loves of her life, the loves of father and lover, were wrestling wildly in her soul. Though fearing for her lover, yet, strange inconsistency, her step was light as air, her heart was filled with a new joy, and her eyes with happy tears.

'I must go,' thought Kingston Fleming desperately to himself, the morning after the above scene. 'The old fellow won't turn up, neither does Charlie. I mustn't compromise her. But she must not be alone. I doubt—I doubt sorely about the future. Poor sweet child! I will speak to old Marjory; she must hold that flighty Mistress Dinnage in the house. And I will get Deb to send for May Warriston.' So thinking, Kingston went into the garden, where he saw Deborah at her flowers, and abruptly he began: 'I am come to say farewell, Deb. Don't look scared, little coz; you shall not be left alone.'

'Then whom shall I have, King?' she asked, clinging suddenly to his arm. 'Father is away; Charlie is away; and I am in hourly fear of evil tidings. You say, not alone! O King, I shall be alone indeed!'

'Little one, I am going to write to May Warriston, to beg her to come and bear you company. Meantime, I am going to see your father. I know his whereabouts, love; I will send him home to-night. And have ye not Marjory, Jordan, and your beloved Mistress Dinnage?'

'Ay, I have them all. But what are weak women and a poor old man compared to your size and strength? With you, King, I am safe. In your presence I can be thoughtless and glad again. In your presence—I am happy.'

'O Deb, Deb! Don't persuade me. I mustn't stay with you. Ill tongues will be talking of you and me.'

'What! of brother and sister? Of kinsfolk? It cannot, cannot be. But let the world talk! What matters it? Will you, for paltry slander, forsake me at this strait?'

'Not forsake you, but consider you. Let go my hand, Deb! I am easily unmanned nowadays. I must go.'

'Well, go,