And then Hilda, with one glance at the lovely, dim landscape, quietly shut down her window, and finished her night-toilet.

The next day was Saturday, and the young people spent some hours before luncheon in the woods nearest the house. In the afternoon they all sat together reading, working, and singing, and then came dressing time, and dinner, and then a long pleasant evening chiefly passed in the gardens and shrubberies, which Theodore had not praised at all too much. But just as it was growing a little dusk, Sir Paul came out, and asked Hilda if she had seen the lily-pool. She had not, though Christina had spoken of taking her there, and Sir Paul said, "Let us go there now; there is plenty of light, and will be for the next half-hour. Come, Chrissie!

"I am wanted in the house," replied Miss Braden; "you must be contented with Hilda for a companion. Agnes and Emily are still on the croquet-ground, knocking about their balls-shall I call them ?"

"By no means," was her father's answer. "Miss Capel and I can very well amuse each other, but if you fall in with the girls, tell them I shall expect that 'Lucia' duet presently, when the lamps are lighted. Now, Miss Capel, this way, through the kitchen gardens."

It was not a long walk; ten minutes brought them to the lily-pool, which lay like a large pure sapphire in a little green dell within the park. The lilies, however, were all closed, and the swans had gone to their sleepingplace among the reeds. On one side the trees grew down close to the water's edge; on the other, they receded in the shape of an amphitheatre, leaving a broad margin of soft, emerald-like turf between them and the placid lake. The very spirit of repose seemed brooding over earth and sky.

Hilda felt as if she had reached some calm restingplace, where she might linger awhile in perfect confidence and peace, gathering strength and wisdom for all the troubles and changes that might befall her in the time to Sir Paul led her to a bench in the middle of the "You need not amphitheatre, and sat down by her side. fear the damp,” he said; "there is a plank, you per

come.

ceive, under your feet, and there is not the slightest mist or chill rising from the water. I do not know when we have had such a summer-so hot, and dry, and clear; scarcely like an English summer. And, generally speaking, our northern autumns outshine our summers, which are too often late, and given to over-much weeping. It has not rained for more than a fortnight, I think? ""

66

It is full three weeks since that slight thunderstorm that we so much feared might unsettle the weather for Alice's wedding-day. However, it cleared the air, that was rather too sultry for comfort, and it has been lovely ever since."

"That is just as it is often, in other things than disturbances of the atmosphere. The very occurrences that we fear will blight our happiness, and cloud our skies, turn out to be beneficial in a way we never expected, only it is so hard to rejoice in the storm and in the darkness. Oh, for more faith!"

"I suppose one's faith increases and strengthens as one grows older that is, if one is striving to live one's life right Christianly?"

"It ought to increase, my dear. It ought to strengthen, to deepen, and widen with every year's experience of our Father's love and kindness; but, alas! we are froward children at best, and our lessons are difficult to learn. Or, rather, it is that we are such inapt pupils, that we fail continually to catch the meaning of our tasks, which are all written in cipher. Ah! we are blind alike in joy and in sorrow-wilfully blind, too often; and yet God bears with us, and blesses us all the time. And-and, the heart knoweth its own bitterness! and for some griefs there is no earthly remedy; it only remains to wait till the end, when all will be made clear and plain."

"Till the end of life?"

"Till the end of this life, which more and more I feel to be but a little span-a mere interval between the two eternities, if I may so speak."

"The two eternities?" asked Hilda, puzzled.

"The two which are but one. That which lies behind, and which is to the full as vast, as illimitable, and as

mysterious as that which lies before us. Time is but a fragment of eternity."

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There is something awful, though, in the thought of eternity!-that 'for ever and ever' without beginning and without end!"

"There is always something awful in the mysterious and unknown, the utterly incomprehensible, which no mortal mind can ever hope to fathom. And yet it is only in the hope of eternity that the soul of man can actually rejoice; for eternity and God are one and the same thing. The bare idea of an eternity which does not comprehend God is too horrible to sustain, even for a moment.

"And yet in this life how content people are to live without God; how willing to enjoy all rich gifts, never thinking of the Giver. Only a year ago I cared nothing for God. I believed in His existence because I had been brought up to profess, at least, outwardly, the Christian faith; but except that so I was nearer the light, I might as well have believed in Mahomet."

"And yet God was there, in your life, all around you, and about you, speaking to you, and you knew it not!"

"I have felt that since, and wondered at God's great patience the patience that bears, and waits and waits year after year-ay, century after century. And we!we are such poor, weak creatures, so full of ourselves and of our folly."

As

"And yet God made us. We are His creatures, and we are dear to Him. Let that comfort us when we despond, and inspire us when we are at our feeblest. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ is our God, our Father, and in Him and by Him we are blessed for evermore. for the great shadowy beyond, we can only leave it where it is safe enough-in His hands. There our present is secure, and there must our future rest; for it is His good pleasure to draw to Himself the souls that He has created."

"And it is written-'I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Me.'"

" Even so.

But how slow are men to come! How unwilling to be drawn into the embrace of infinite and perfect Love!"

Then they walked on, for in spite of the dry, warm air, there was certainly a cool breeze from the water, and Sir Paul was no longer a young man, full of health and vigour. When they reached home, the pale stars were shining in the clear nightfall sky, and the crimson and purple lights had faded from the mountain-tops. And so those peaceful days glided on, calm, gravely happy, uneventful, and yet not monotonous. Never had Hilda been more completely happy than now; and she half-wondered when there would be a change. She resolved, however, to dismiss every anxiety from her mind, and take thankfully the sweet rest that Bradenshope offered; she was glad that Sir Paul was reminded by her of that fair young sister whom he had loved so well, She was glad that Christina had wished for her as a friend. She was glad when she found that she could sometimes cheer the settled sadness of gentle Lady Braden; and, lastly, she was very, very glad that there were no other visitors in the house! And Sunday came and went, and on Monday they lunched on a lonely mountain-side that looked about a mile distant from Bradenshope, but was really more than twelve miles from the lodge gates, and the weather was still dry and warm and clear— the perfection of an English midsummer. On Tuesday morning Christina received a letter from her brother-he would be at home that evening in time for dinner, and he was bringing Philip Harwood with him.

"And now," thought Hilda, regretfully, "this quiet, delightful, restful time is over! I do wish it could have lasted a little longer."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE ZINGARA.

"Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate." "WALTER comes home to-day!" seemed to be the universal cry at Bradenshope on that Tuesday morning. Sir Paul could not read his newspaper, but fidgeted about giving directions to the gardeners, who were told that the lawns and beds must be in perfect order, because Mr. Braden was expected back that evening; Lady Braden held private consultations with Mrs. Maxwell; Christina was busy arranging her brother's books, and Agnes and Emily were energetically practising his favourite duets on the old schoolroom piano. Hilda, though she had a charming new book, fresh from Mudie's, felt herself just a little ruffled at the general disturbance of the quiet household, which hitherto had seemed to be secretly worked by some wonderful, unseen machinery. "I do believe," she had written to Aunt Dorothy," that somebody-Mrs. Maxwell, of course-winds the household up, like a kitchen-clock, every morning between five and six, and it goes steadily, with scarce a second's variation, till the same hour next day, when the same process is repeated, and so on, and so on, as surely as the sun gets up, so faultless is the régime, so sure and silent the invisible works, which produce, as a matter of course, the most desirable results. If, by some extraordinary freak of fortune, I should ever become mistress of such a place as Bradenshope-which supposition, by the way, is about equal to that of the cat in the fable, who said, 'If ever I become a lioness,' &c.-I will bribe Mrs. Maxwell to disclose to me her marvellous method of noiseless, viewless, most efficient housekeeping! Though I am not at all sure but that Lady Braden has something to do with it; I sometimes fancy she is more "behind the scenes' than, on first appearances, one would give her credit for being. Anyhow, with all her gentle sadness, with all her air of repose and dignified dolce far