"If you do, I will never speak to you again. We must wait."

"Wait-wait! That has been the burden of your song this twelvemonth, Margaret. But I am growing tired of waiting. I assure you I have been, this last week, in a desperate humour. Other men, who are established, can marry when they please, and I must not even ask for you! You know Eddison?"

"A little."

"Well, he met with a young lady, down at his brother's place, only last Easter, and arrangements are already made for their marriage." "Papa will not part with me."

"That fixed idea of yours, Margaret, is nothing more than an illusion. Your father, of all men, is not one to fly in the face of scriptural commands. It would be-what's that word clergymen so dread? Simony?” "How very ridiculous you are this morning!" interrupted Miss Channing. "Simony!"

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Sacrilege, then. And he knows it is written that a man and wife are to leave father and mother, and cleave to each other. Does he want you to stop with him until you are forty?"

"And besides

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"Besides what?" he inquired, when Miss Channing stopped.

"I cannot talk about it now. You had better say farewell, Adam. They will soon be out of church, so few are stopping."

He shook hands, as a preliminary to departure, but, lover-like, lingered on. Lingered till Dr. Channing appeared. A short, fair, gentlemanlylooking divine: in face very unlike his daughter.

And a

"Ah, Mr. Grainger, how d'ye do? I saw you in your place as usual. Hope Mrs. Grainger's quite well. It is too far for her to come. long way for you, every Sunday morning. I am truly happy to find a young man so earnest and regular in his attendance where his mind can receive the benefit of sound doctrine."

An ingenuous flush dyed Mr. Grainger's countenance. But he was unable to reject the compliment. He could not tell the self-satisfied doctor that the attraction lay neither in the church nor the orthodox sermons, but in the pretty face of the preacher's daughter.

It was only within a year that Dr. Channing had preached in London, drawing fashion to his fashionable chapel. Previous to that, his ministry had lain in the country, as rector of Ashton-cum-Creepham-a profitable living that, but nothing to what he was gaining now. His only child, Margaret, had formed a school friendship with Isabel Grainger, more deep and lasting than school friendships generally are. Highly respectable people were the Graingers, Mr. Grainger, the father, holding a valuable appointment in a wealthy insurance-office. They lived in the neighbourhood of London, in rather more style than the Channingsthan the Channings did, then, at Ashton Rectory--and the families, through the young ladies, became intimate. It was thus that Miss Channing met with Isabel's only brother, Adam. He was in the office with his father, sufficiently high-spirited and handsome for any girl to fall in love with-though, as Isabel used to say, he was remarkably fond of having his own way. Some two years after she had left school, a lingering illness attacked Isabel Grainger. The symptoms from trifling grew to serious, from serious to hopeless. During its progress, the Channings removed to London, Dr. Channing having given up his rectory for a

West-end chapel. Margaret, who had recently lost her mother, was allowed to spend a good portion of time with her friend, and it was round Isabel's death-bed that the predilection between Margaret and Adam grew into love. Since then, other changes had taken place. Mr. Grainger had died, Adam had succeeded to his post in the insuranceoffice, and to a salary of eight hundred a year. Mr. Grainger had enjoyed considerably more, and it was reasonable to expect that Adam also would, in time. But he thought he could marry very well upon that. But Dr. and Miss Channing had not become denizens of town, and of Eaton-place, for nothing. They were grand people now, living amongst the grand; and they had, perhaps insensibly, acquired grand ideas. Margaret's ambition and Margaret's heart were at variance. Love prompted her to marry Adam Grainger: ambition said, Psha! he is nobody; I may aspire to a higher sphere. And it is possible these ideas may, in a degree, have weakened her love.

Miss Channing went out the following morning, and did not reach home till luncheon time. It was waiting in the dining-room. She threw her bonnet on a side table, sat down before the tray, and began. Her father was frequently not in at that meal: at any rate, it was his desire that he should never be waited for. Something that she wanted was not on the table, and she rang for it.

"Papa is out,' I suppose?" she carelessly observed to the man, as he was leaving the room.

"No, miss, he is in his study."

"Then tell him I have begun. Why did you not tell him before ?" "A gentleman is with him, miss. Mr. Grainger."

Mr. Grainger! All Margaret's appetite left her on the instant. She laid down her knife and fork, and rose in agitation. "To bring matters to an issue so very soon!" was her resentful thought.

A few minutes, and Margaret heard his footsteps. They were leaving the house. Her father came into the dining-room. Dr. Channing was a passionless man, rarely giving way to emotion of any kind, save in the pulpit. He was apt to grow excited then, but in ordinary life his exterior was becomingly calm. He sat down, took some fowl on his plate, and requested his daughter to cut him a slice of ham.

She proceeded to do so, her heart beating violently. Scarcely conscious what she was about.

"Margaret!" exclaimed the doctor, after an interval.

She looked up at him.

"Are you expecting visitors ?"

"No, papa. Why?"

"You are cutting enough ham for half a dozen people. Do you wish me to eat all that ?"

She blushed violently at the mistake she had made, and pushed the superfluous slices out of sight, underneath the joint. She then rose and stood at the window, looking out, but seeing nothing. There she stood till lunch was over.

:

The suspense was choking her. If Adam Grainger had been asking for her, she must either refuse or accept him if the latter, why all her glowing dreams of ambition would fly away; if the former, life would become a blank she scarcely dared contemplate. It seemed that her father was not going to speak. The tray was gone down, and he had

taken up a book. Margaret was a straightforward girl: she liked to know the worst of things: it was better to bear than uncertainty. If her father did not speak presently, she would.

"Papa-was not that Mr. Grainger who went out ?"

"It was.

Mr. Grainger is not the only visitor I have had this morning," added Dr. Channing, looking at Margaret's back, for her face was turned away. "Colonel Hoare has been here."

More perplexity for Margaret. Colonel the Honourable Gregory Hoare was the father of Captain Hoare; and Captain Hoare was the most inveterate admirer she had, next to Mr. Grainger. A suspicion had more than once crossed Margaret's mind that he was the one for whom she should sometime discard Adam Grainger.

"Come, Margaret, it is of no use beating about the bush," said Dr. Channing. "Did you know of these visits? Let us begin with Mr. Grainger. Were you aware of the purport?"

"Not exactly."

"That is no answer. Did you send Adam Grainger to me with a demand that I should allow you to become his wife ?"

"No," said Margaret.

"I thought so. I informed him that he must be labouring under a mistake. He said there was an attachment between you, and that it had existed some time."

“Oh, papa !" stammered the confused girl, "gentlemen do assert such strange things!"

"The very remark I made to him-that it was the strangest piece of rigmarole I ever heard. He persisted in it."

"How did it end? what was the result?" she inquired, still staring from the window and seeing nothing. "I suppose you refused him, papa?" "There was nothing else to do. You don't want to marry a tradesman, I conclude-and really those insurance-office people are little better than tradesmen," added the reverend divine.

Margaret's cheek burnt, and Margaret's heart rebelled; and she winced, for his sake, at those slighting words, as she would have winced at an insult to herself.

"Did you quarrel?" she inquired, drawing a deep breath.

"What did you say? Quarrel? I never quarrel with any one. I was especially civil to the young man. He harped upon the former intimacy of the families-as if that gave him the right to ask for you. I cut that argument short by reminding him that the intimacy, as he persisted in terming it, arose from nothing but a school-girl acquaintanceship. I also took pains to point out to him that Miss Channing, as the daughter of a country rector, and Miss Channing in her present sphere, were two people entirely distinct and different. And I suggested to him that his visits might cease, as they would not be pleasant here, after so singular a misapprehension."

A spasm of pain flitted over Margaret's features. Dr. Channing saw it.

Margaret!" he hastily said, in a sharper accent than was common for the equable Dr. Channing, "are not these your own sentiments? Do you regret my dismissal of this young man ?"

"No, no, papa," she replied, rousing herself. would not have married him."

"It is best as it is. I

"Captain Hoare would be more agreeable to you, perhaps?" "Captain Hoare ?"

"I observed to you that Colonel Hoare had called. The first time he has done me the honour, although they attend my chapel. If ever there was a proud family, it is those Hoares. However I have nothing to say against becoming pride. Colonel Hoare believes that his son and Miss Channing look on each other with a favourable eye. Is it so, Margaret?”

"Did he-for Captain Hoare-make me an offer of marriage ?" rejoined Margaret, in a low tone, evading the question and asking another.

"It was coming to it-as I believe-when that young Grainger interrupted us, and Spilson was such a marplot as to usher him into the same room. The next time Spilson does such a stupid thing he may take his wages. Up jumped the colonel, and said he would call in later. I should like Captain Hoare to be my son-in-law, Margaret. There's not a better family in England than the Hoares, and the mother, Lady Sophia, looks a charming woman. That will be a desirable connexion if you like!" So Margaret thought. Vain ambition rose up in her heart, overshadowing, for the moment, all unpleasant regrets.

"We appointed half-past three this afternoon, therefore Colonel Hoare will be here then. The conference is to relate to money and settlements. It would be proper, he said, for us to agree upon that score before matters went on further."

"Papa," asked Margaret, "had Mr. Grainger been in the position of Captain Hoare, possessing wealth and family, would you have objected to him ?"

"No. I like the young man exceedingly. But your interests must be paramount. Where was the use of your asking that?"

"Indeed where! It was only a sudden thought."

A friend called to take Miss Channing for a drive. It was late when she returned, and then her father, as she expected, had gone out to dine with a brother clergyman. She was anxious to know what arrangements had been concluded with Colonel Hoare. She pictured herself the future bride of his distinguished son, she held her head an inch higher as she dwelt on it, and kept repeating to herself that she would like him, she would forget Adam Grainger.

Easier said than done, Miss Channing.

She dined alone, and then went up to dress, for she was engaged to an evening party, where she would be joined by her father. Captain Hoare was to be there too-oh! let her look her best. And she did so. Entering the dining-room for a moment, as she descended, who should be in it but Mr. Grainger. She quite started back. Though her heart, true to itself, beat with pleasure, her conscience dreaded the interview; and could he or she have vanished into air, after the fashion of an apparition, it had been welcome to Margaret.

"Margaret," he exclaimed, seizing her hand, "I have waited here a whole half hour; it has seemed to me like a day."

"I did not expect you," she faltered.

"You must have expected me," was the impatient rejoinder.

"Mar

garet the answer your father gave me this morning was not your answer!"

"How can I go against my father ?"

"The question was not mooted of whether I should call you wife," he continued, more and more impetuously, "we did not get so far; that-if will-must come later; but he said there was no attachment between us-said it, as I understood, from you. What does that mean?"

you

"Not from me," she replied, in a timid tone; "I had not then spoken with him. But-Adam-my father says that what has been between us must be so no longer."

"Do you dare to tell me to my face that our long love is wasted? A thing to be forgotten from henceforth-thrown away as worthless?"

"You terrify me," she said, bursting into tears, for indeed she was in a confused state of perplexity. And serve her right!

"Margaret, my love," he whispered, changing his angry tone for one of sweet tenderness, "terrify' is a strange word for you to use to me. Perhaps we are mistaking each other: will you give me leave to ask for you of your father ?"

Her heart hesitated then, her deep love shone out prominently before her, her spirit told her that her life's happiness was bound up in him : should she wilfully throw it away for ever? It was a heavy responsibility to be decided in that hurried moment. A belief, bearing its own conviction, was within her, that if she wished to marry Adam Grainger, her father would not hold out against it, for she was very dear to him. But, in their turn, arose other visions: of the pomps and pride of the world, and the lust and luxury of high life: all very attractive vanities, and in which she would revel to the full, should she become the envied daughterin-law of the Honourable Colonel and Lady Sophia Hoare. Her resolve was taken, and she steeled her heart to him who stood there.

"Margaret," he panted, "what is it that has come between us? To you I will not repeat what Dr. Channing said—and I have thought, since, that I may have mistaken him when he seemed to insinuate that I was not your equal. Surely you cannot doubt my ability to afford you a suitable home ?"

"Adam-I fear-there is no help for it. We must part."

He folded his arms and looked at her, breathing heavily. "It appears that I must be also mistaking you. Say that again."

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"I am very sorry, Adam. I shall always think of you with regret. I hope" hope

"Stop!" he thundered, "do not let us bandy compliments in a moment like this. Give me an unvarnished answer. Is it your wish that we part, and become as strangers?"

"The wish is urged by necessity," she murmured, "not choice." "What necessity?"

"My father's will. He says he does say, Adam-that I must marry in a higher sphere."

"We will not speak now of your father's will," he hoarsely repeated; "I demand whether it is your will that I ask for you?"

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No," she was obliged to reply; "it is too late.

It must not be."

"Too

He snapped at the words "too late," chafing with passion. late! what folly are you talking? In what way is it too late? Are you promised to another?"

A desperate resolution came over her-that she would tell him the