warm feelings and cool-bloodedness; consequently he grew a shade less attached to him. He had not the clue to the situation; he did not know that it was the warm blood which kept Richard quiet; that he could not face the idea of giving up the thrills of delight which the mere sound of Merry's voice could give him; and he knew that he might only have her society, while he held himself still, and used all his power of schooling himself.

He never faced, even in fancy, the fact that all this must come to an end, that Merry would be Arthur's wife some day not very far distant. He lived from moment to moment, intoxicating himself by incessantly inhaling the odour of her sweet life, and revelling in the glow of her sunny soul. Perpetually on the brink of yielding to passion, and giving way to the tide of natural feeling, he lived with his hand upon the rein, holding himself in with the distinct consciousness that he hourly ran desperate risks for the sake of intense enjoyment. He hid his eyes that he might live in the

sun.

When the little drawing-room was first finished, Merry had almost lived in it, amid the wonderful world of leaf and flower growth which made the walls glorious. She would curl herself up amid the great green silk cushions for hours together, studying the beauty which surrounded her. But Richard observed that, after some time, he more frequently found her in her old corner in the Egyptian room, whence she could see the sad, majestic face of the king-priest, the great Pharoah. The beauty of that stern Egyptian type had so grown into her young soul that it delighted her more than the exquisiteness of flowergrowth, or the most dainty perfect

ness of simple forms of beauty. The great meaning which the artist had put by his passionate desire into this kingly countenance had penetrated deeply into Merry's mind and made her dissatisfied with less expressive art. This face upheld and encouraged her. It filled her with the sense of the grandeur and reality of life; it seemed by its mere existence to contradict and do away with all Clotilda's doubts and questionings-all her shadowy sense of sorrow and dim desire for nothingness. Merry knew, when she met the gaze of those deep stern eyes, that she was right in her intuitive conviction that what she had to do was to live, to develop, to lay hold upon the glorious realities of existenceits love, its truth, its virtue-and make them more by her consciousness of them and her own growth in them. And she knew, too, though doubtless she would have found it hard to express it, that this could only be done through a vigorous individuality.

She held her creed, so far as she understood it, in silence, but in strength within her heart. And she lived so quietly in this inner temple of her thoughts that those about her scarcely guessed how vivid her life was, except Richard. He felt it through his love for her; he knew that he might as well try to turn the sun in the heavens as change Merry's constant heart.

The singular part of Merry's life just now was that she had begun to live alone. Her devotion to her lover was something in itself which placed her a little outside the sympathies which had until now been her support. This fact was concealed by the others as far as possible, but it is not easy to hide from a woman such a thing as this. She is more jealous of the estimation in which her lover is held by those about her than it is pos

sible for anyone else to understand. She never openly acknowledged to herself that her father and mother did not particularly care for Arthur Wansy; but she knew it well enough, notwithstanding her mother's tenderness and her father's geniality. Mrs. Hamerton was troubled, to a degree she did not dare to confess to anyone, by this early and unwelcome engagement of Merry's, but she repressed all sign of it. She felt towards Merry as one does when the moment comes for some frail growing thing to open itself, afraid to touch it, afraid to breathe upon it lest it should shrink back. She understood this much of the mystery of growth-that it is sometimes well to stand aside and give air.

The days passed by in a kind of solemn stateliness with Merry just now. She was no less her merry, laughing self to all appearance; but within she had a certain awe at the depth of her own passion, and at the marvellous upliftings which she felt in her own heart. She was glad to shrink away from everyone even from Arthur sometimes and to pause, drawing her breath slowly, with an effort to realise herself. It was delicious to know she was alive!-to feel her heart beat, her pulses throbwith all this rush of new emotions making her tremble, body and soul alike!

"Why, little Merry, how warm your hands are!" said Arthur, coming in one afternoon and finding her curled up among the cushions in her favourite corner. At first he had thought her asleep, and had hesitated whether to wake her; but he recognised the next instant that the dreams hid behind those long-drooping eyelids were waking ones. He could see it by the flashes of expression which crossed her face-the evanescent

smile which gleamed for an instant on her lips. He took one of her hands in his, and was positively surprised to feel how warm it was, how full of life-blood, and vigour. And looking at her face as she opened her dreaming eyes upon him, he saw her cheeks were vividly aglow with this interior warmth, which seemed altogether independent of outward cold or silence.

"How is it you are so warm, little Merry?" he asked her. "One would suppose you had a fire within you."

She raised her eyes, dewy, impassioned-gleaming as wet violets gleam in the shadowy woodland when the wandering sunrays fall upon them.

"I have-," she said, "I am warm from my heart."

"How serious you are, Merry," was his answer: and he let fall the little warm hand. "Be amusing, as you used to be. You have been so serious to me lately, and I'm bored to-day; it's awfully slow at home, and so confoundedly cold and raw outside. What an infernal climate this is to live in!" he said, as he sat down beside her.

"It is not cold and raw here, is it, Arthur?" she asked, in some anxiety, for he looked wretched enough to be freezing at that very

moment.

"No, it is warm here, certainly; and those stained glass windows are an admirable arrangement to hide the ugliness of the winter outside. I wonder is it never to be spring. Are you going to give up laughing, Merry?" he said abruptly, turning to look at her.

"Why, I believe I am too contented to laugh," said she; and she sank back with a sigh and a smile which expressed the height and the depth of her happiness.

"Contented!" exclaimed Arthur, "What a detestable word. It is

not a word for you, Merry. Only dull people are contented and resigned, and all that sort of thing. Why are you so subdued? Let me hear you laugh again!"

As he spoke, somewhat peevishly, for he missed her gaiety, he looked at her and met the full gaze of her eyes, burning like two lamps with the light of deep passion, and all dimmed with emotion. He only obscurely perceived this magical glow which at the moment made Merry's very physical frame seem an embodiment of the love-spirit; but what did occur to him, as he met those deep eyes turned to him in silence, was, that Merry might grow sober as she grew older. The thing had never struck him before; but in this silence, which to Merry appeared alive with words of the soul, the thought came suddenly upon him-that Merry, married, might no longer be the light-hearted creature who had so charmed him. A certain poet is said to have bitterly quarrelled with his wife because she was unable to remain always as young as when he married her. A feeling of this sort rose in Arthur's mind now-Merry grown grave might be a very different person from the Merry he was fond of. It passed quickly and in hardly formed shape through his mind, and left him just with a sense of being bored. He forgot Merry's presence now that she did not arrest his attention by her gay lightheartedness; and sitting there quietly he began to think again about that paper the Vernon set were talking of. It would be amusing to be connected with it: the novelty tickled his fancy. And then he liked mixing with these queer journalists, who were so full of wit and so devoid of respectability. Respectability had been a kind of bane all through Arthur's early years. He liked the Hamertons partly because they were free

from it; they rose above it. These Vernons and their friends were free from it also, though not for the same reason; but the freedom had an equal charm for Arthur. He resolved to go down and see what Vernon was doing about the paper; and was just about to move when Merry's little warm hand stole itself into his. All these moments, while Arthur's thoughts had left her quite behind, she had been wondering when she would find power to speak-whether she could so still her heart as to be gay and amuse him. The effort was almost too great; for the poor child was longing for someone to understand her feelings without her telling them-someone to uphold her amid the whirl of her emotions by an unspoken sympathy with them. Who should this be but her loverwho but the inspirer of these feelings could understand them? She craved for the touch which had actual sympathy in it; but she told herself—Arthur was tired—he wanted to be amused. She made the effort to speak brightly; but the words would not come, and so she just put her hand into his. He took it, and raised it to his lips very prettily.

Good bye, little girl," he said; and then, seeing the wonder in her eyes, he added, with ready untruthfulness, "I only looked in for a moment; I have an appointment in town. I shall try to come in this evening if I can, to see if you are looking brighter. Good bye," he said again, with a melodious tenderness called into his voice, and yet with a certain manner as of absence of mind, which chilled her all over. She drew back into her nook, with just a whispered

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good bye," and Arthur, now intent on fresh enterprise in search of amusement, left her.

"What was it Clotilda quoted?

she said, half-aloud, when his footsteps had quite died away: 'Man's love is of his life a thing apart; 'tis woman's whole existence.' If this is so- -O God, teach me how to bear it!"

She fancied herself at the instant heroic, brave, able to face the inevitable facts of life. Yet, it was but a few moments afterwards that Richard Hamerton came into the room with his gentle step, which failed to startle her, and found her leaning back upon the cushions, the tears running rapidly down her face, as though the flood-gates of her soul had been flung open. Her bosom heaved and panted as if

some wrestling thing were within it.

"Merry! Merry! What is it? What is the matter?" cried Richard, in his amazement. Never before, since her baby sorrows, had he seen tears in Merry's eyes. This abandonment to grief appalledstunned him, made him forget himself. His love for her thrilled in his voice, as he rushed to her side, and bent over her.

"Don't sob so, Merry! You will tear my heart! Oh, tell me what is the matter-tell me! Cannot I do anything?"

Merry started up, and cried out, "No!" with a violence which surprised herself. "Don't speak to me"-she went on, hurriedly"Don't ask me! There is nothing the matter-nothing whatever!"

"Oh, Merry!" said Richard, with heart-stung reproach in his voice. "How can you put me off like this? You know you are in trouble. Surely I, who love you so, might help you!"

"Richard!" cried Merry, turning on him, with dilating eyes, and a sudden indignation in her face which drove back the tears. She looked a woman now; she appeared to grow larger and more dignified in her anger and amazement. Without another word, after that one word and look which expressed so much, she turned away, and went quietly out of the room. Richard followed her to the door, though he did not venture to arrest her; and he watched her go away through the house, without one backward glance. There was a certain majesty and steadiness in her air which he had never seen before.

"What have I done now?" he said to himself. "What have I done now ?"