at once, these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes from your mind, and turn to your own duty, and the dull blank life that lies before you. You might have known such happiness was not for you."

But I saw him at last. He came suddenly upon me as I was crossing a field in returning from a visit to Nancy Brown, which I had taken the opportunity of paying while Matilda Murray was riding her matchless mare. He must have heard of the heavy loss I had sustained: he expressed no sympathy, offered no condolence; but almost the first words he uttered were, "How is your mother?" And this was no matter of course question, for I never told him that I had a mother: he must have learned the fact from others, if he knew it at all; and, besides, there was sincere goodwill, and even deep, touching, unobtrusive sympathy in the tone and manner of the inquiry. I thanked him with due civility, and told him she was as well as could be expected. "What will she do?" was the next question. Many would have deemed it an impertinent one, and given an evasive reply; but such an idea never entered my head, and I gave a brief but plain statement of mother's plans and prospects.

"Then you will leave this place shortly?" said he.

"Yes, in a month."

He paused a minute, as if in thought. When he spoke again, I hoped it would be to express his concern at my departure; but it was only to say "I should think you will be willing enough to go?"

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"Yes - for some things," I replied.

"For some things only I wonder what should make you regret it!"

I was annoyed at this in some degree; because it embarrassed me: I had only one reason for regretting it; and that

was a profound secret, which he had no business to trouble me about. "Why," said I the place?"

"why should you suppose that I dislike

"You told me so yourself," was the decisive reply. "You said, at least, that you could not live contentedly without a friend; and that you had no friend here, and no possibility of making one- and besides, I know you must dislike it."

I

"But, if remember rightly, I said, or meant to say, you could not live contentedly without a friend in the world: I was not so unreasonable as to require one always near me. I think I could be happy in a house full of enemies, if " but no; that sentence must not be continued I paused, and hastily added 66 - And besides, we cannot well leave a place where we have lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret."

"Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your sole remaining pupil and companion?"

"I dare say I shall in some degree: it was not without sorrow I parted with her sister.”

"I can imagine that."

"Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good - better in one respect."

"I should not call her dishonest; but it must be confessed, she's a little artful."

"Artful is she? I saw she was giddy and vain — and now,” he added, after a pause, “I can well believe she was artful too; but so excessively so as "to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and unguarded openness. Yes," continued he,

musingly, "that accounts for some little things that puzzled me a trifle before."

After that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects. He did not leave me till we had nearly reached the park gates: he had certainly stepped a little out of his way to accompany me so far, for he now went back and disappeared down Moss-lane, the entrance of which we had passed some time before. Assuredly I did not regret this circumstance: if sorrow had any place in my heart, it was that he was gone at last—that he was no longer walking by my side, and that that short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end. He had not breathed a word of love, or dropped one hint of tenderness or affection, and yet I had been supremely happy. To be near him, to hear him talk as he did talk; and to feel that he thought me worthy to be so spoken to understanding and duly appreciating such discourse enough.

capable of

was

"Yes, Edward Weston, I could, indeed, be happy in a house full of enemies, if I had but one friend, who truly, deeply, and faithfully loved me; and if that friend were you though we might be far apart

seldom to hear from each

though toil, and trouble,

other, still more seldom to meet and vexation might surround me, still — it would be too much happiness for me to dream of! Yet, who can tell," said I within myself, as I proceeded up the park, "who can tell what this one month may bring forth? I have lived nearly three-and-twenty years, and I have suffered much, and tasted little pleasure yet: is it likely my life all through will be so clouded? Is it not possible that God may hear my prayers, disperse these gloomy shadows, and grant me some beams of heaven's sunshine yet? Will he entirely deny to me those blessings which are so freely given to others, who neither ask them nor acknowledge them when received? May I not still

hope and trust? I did hope and trust for a while: but, alas, alas! the time ebbed away: one week followed another, and, excepting one distant glimpse and two transient meetings – during which scarcely anything was said while I was walking with Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him: except, of course, at church.

And now, the last Sunday was come, and the last service. I was often on the point of melting into tears during the sermon the last I was to hear from him: the best I should hear from any one, I was well assured. It was over - the congre gation were departing; and I must follow. I had then seen him, and heard his voice too, probably for the last time. In the churchyard, Matilda was pounced upon by the two Misses Green. They had many inquiries to make about her sister, and I know not what besides. I only wished they would have done, that we might hasten back to Horton Lodge: I longed to seek the retirement of my own room, or some sequestered nook in the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to my feelings to weep my last farewell, and lament my false hopes and vain delusions. Only this once and then adieu to fruitless dreaming thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy my mind. But while I thus resolved, a low voice close beside me, said "I suppose you are going this week, Miss Grey?" Yes," I replied. I was very much startled; and had I been at all hysterically inclined, I certainly should have committed myself in some way then. Thank God, I was not.

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"Well," said Mr. Weston, "I want to bid you good-bye - it is not likely I shall see you again before you go.'

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'Good-bye, Mr. Weston," I said. Oh, how I struggled to say it calmly! I gave him my hand. He retained it a few seconds in his.

"It is possible we may meet again," said he; "will it be of any consequence to you whether we do or not?"

"Yes, I should be very glad to see you again."

I could say no less. He kindly pressed my hand, and went. Now, I was happy again— though more inclined to burst into tears than ever. If I had been forced to speak at that moment, a succession of sobs would have inevitably ensued; and as it was, I could not keep the water out of my eyes. I walked along with Miss Murray, turning aside my face, and neglecting to notice several successive remarks, till she bawled out that I was either deaf or stupid; and then (having recovered my self-possession), as one awakened from a fit of abstraction, I suddenly looked up and asked what she had been saying.

CHAPTER XXI.

The school.

I LEFT Horton Lodge, and went to join my mother in our new abode at A-. I found her well in health, resigned in spirit, and even cheerful, though subdued and sober, in her general demeanour. We had only three boarders and half a dozen day-pupils to commence with; but by due care and diligence we hoped ere long to increase the number of both.

I set myself with befitting energy to discharge the duties of this new mode of life. I call it new, for there was, indeed, a considerable difference between working with my mother in a school of our own, and working as a hireling among strangers, despised and trampled upon by old and young: and for the first few weeks I was by no means unhappy. "It is possible we may meet again," and "will it be of any consequence to you whether we do or not?". Those words still rang in my ear and rested on my heart: they vere my secret solace and support. "I shall see him again. — He will come; or he will