very threshold of the church. But she died, and her small means died with her. She was an annuitant. Still Mr. Meredith's laments for his benefactress were unmingled with any fears on his own account. He was young, ardent, and hopeful. He had obtained a nomination to the curacy of W-He was confident in his own ability and integrity, and trusted to do well. And so he might, if temptation had not beset him in a form which he could not resist perhaps he did not try—there is no knowing. But Emily Dalton was handsome, and accomplished, and engaging, and kind. She had not a tinge of affectation in her manners, and a certain loftiness in her air, which might degenerate into hauteur, but certainly had not yet done so, was softened and subdued by a gentle and feminine grace which pervaded all her actions. Marks there were on her fine countenance, incipient marks of a high spirit, of excitable passions, but the warm, sunny Unfortu smile of happy girlhood, was as yet the most prevailing characteristic. Mr. Meredith's heart was gone at once. nately he did not stop to consider that he was a foundling, indebted to charity even for the name he bore; and that she was the daughter of one of the haughtiest of esquires. Unfortunately, she did not remember that either. Where the result is before us, it is needless to dwell on details. On the first soupcon of an attachment between Mr. Meredith and his daughter, Mr. Dalton had peremptorily closed his doors on the former, but unfortunately had forgotten the same restrictions with regard to the latter also. The lovers met only too frequently, and the result was their marriage at Gretna Green. The truant daughter's first letter of deprecation to her father was, as we have seen, totally inefficient to soften him. She awaited the answer, to her second appeal, at her husband's confined but neat lodgings in the village of W Duly it came. Alas! alas! For hours Emily wept in deep and bitter anguish, which not all her young husband's endearments could suffice to allay. Mr. Dalton totally and entirely disclaimed her. He had given orders that her clothes, her trinkets, her books, all her own personal "belongings" should be forwarded to her at Mr. Meredith's lodgings: he likewise enclosed in his letter a sum of money for present exigencies: she must expect nothing more from him: should she attempt any communication with him, her letters would be returned unopened. He did not by word or hint recognize Mr. Meredith's existence. Hardly was Emily's extreme grief on this occasion allayed by that hope, which even when unacknowledged, is still ever whispering comfort to the youthful heart, when they were destined to receive another shock, which alarmed Meredith much more than it did his inexperienced young wife. He came in pale and agitated. "Dear Henry, what is the matter-my father-" "No, my love, no; I know nothing of your father-but the Rector is dead." "Dead!" "Was thrown from his horse, and died a few hours after. Tidings have just reached here." 66 66 How dreadful !" Henry," said Mrs. Meredith rather timidly, after a long silence, during which her husband had remained gloomily buried in thought. Henry, how will the Rector's death affect you-as to your position here, I mean?" 66 "It is impossible to say there is a chance of my being retained, but it is also very probable that my services may not be required." "And then, my dear wife, the world is |