vaguely her light chatter. Five minutes after, he made some idle excuse, and left the house. "What a pity, when he had promised to stay until dinner-time!" said Mrs. Pennythorne, regretfully.

He had gone, then, to escape her! Eleanor saw it-knew it. Colder and colder her heart grew, until it felt like stone. She neither trembled nor wept; she only wished that she could lie down and die. Thus, silent as she came-but oh! with what a different silenceshe departed from the house.

To those who suffer, there is no life more bitter, more full of continual outward mockery, than that of an author immersed in the literary life of London. In a duller sphere a man may hide his misery in his chamber-may fly with it to some blessed country solitude-even wrap it round him like a mantle of pride or stupidity, and pass unnoticed in the common crowd. But here it is impossible. He must fill his place in his circle-perhaps a brilliant one; and if so he must shine too, as much as ever. He must keep in the society which is so necessary to his worldly prospects-he must be seen in those haunts which are to others amusement, to him business-in theater, exhibition, or social meeting; so at last he learns to do as others do-to act. It is merely creating a new self, as he does a new character; and perhaps in time this fictitious self becomes so habitual, that never, save in those works which the world calls fiction, but which are indeed his only true life, does the real man shine out.

Philip Wychnor had not gone so far as this on the track of simulation; day and night he prayed that it never might be so with him. The world had not cast upon him her many-colored fool's vesture, but she had taught him so to wear his own robe that no eye could penetrate the workings of the heart within. He had his outward life to lead, and he led it-without deceit, but without betrayal of aught that was within.

So it chanced that the self-same night, when Eleanor, yielding to Katharine's restless eagerness for any thing that might smooth time's passing and deaden thought, went with her to some place of amusement-a" Shakspeare reading," the first face she saw was Philip Wychnor's. She saw it-not pale, worn, dejected, as a few hours since, but wearing the look of courteous, almost pleased attention, as he listened, nay talked among a group whose very names brought thoughts of wit, and talent, and gayety. She looked at him-she, with her anguished, half-broken heart-he the center of that brilliant circle; and then the change burst upon her. The Philip Wychnor of the world was not hers. What was she to him now? She turned away her head, and strove to endure patiently, without sorrow. That he should be great and honored-rich in fame-ought not that to be happiness? If he loved not her, she might still worship him. So she pressed her anguish down in the lowest depths of her faithful heart, and tried to make it rejoice in his glory; content to be even trodden down under his footsteps, so that those footsteps led him unto the lofty path whither he desired to go. She watched him from afar-his kindling eye, his beautiful countenance, on which sat genius and truth;

and it seemed to her nothing that her own poor unknown life, with its hopes and joys, should be sacrificed, to give unto the world and unto fame such an one as he.

He passed from the circle where he stood, and moving listlessly, without looking around him, came and sat down beside Katharine. At her greeting he started: again—as if that perpetual doom must ever haunt them-the once betrothed lovers met.

The play was Romeo and Juliet. They had, read it when almost children, sitting in the palace-garden; they had acted it once-the balcony scene-leaning over the terrace-wall. She wondered, Did he think of this? But she dared not look at him; she dared not trust herself to speak. So she remained silent, and he too. Katharine sat between them-sometimes listening to the play, sometimes turning a restless, eager gaze around.

If any human eye could have looked into those three hearts, he would have seen there as mournful depths as ever the world's great Poet sounded. Ay, and it will be so to the end of time! Cold age may preach them down, worldliness may make a mock at them, but still the two great truths of life are Romance and Love.

The play ended. "He will not come," said Katharine, laughing; "I mean-not Hugh, but Mr. Lynedon, whom he said he would ask to meet us here. What shall we do, Eleanor? How shall we punish the false knight?" she continued, showing forth mockingly the real anger which she felt. It was a good disguise.

Eleanor answered in a few gentle words. Philip only understood that they were a pleading-and for Lynedon!

"Will you take the place of our faithless cavalier, and succor us, Mr. Wychnor?" was Katharine's winning request. He could not but accede. He felt impelled by a blind destiny which drove him on against his will. At last he ceased even to strive against it.

He accompanied the two ladies home. Then, when Mrs. Ogilvie, in her own irresistible way, besought him not to leave the rescued damsels in solitude, but to spend a quiet hour with herself and Eleanor, he complied passively-mechanically-and entered.

"The

There were flowers on the table. very flowers, Eleanor, that I-or rather you— admired in the gardens to-day!" cried Katharine. "Well, that atones for the falsehood of this evening. Mr. Lynedon is a preux chevalier, after all. A bouquet for each! How kind! is it not ?"

"Yes, very!" answered Eleanor.

"Yes, very!" mimicked Katharine, striving to hide her excitement under a flippant tongue. "Upon my word, were I Mr. Lynedon, I should be in a state of high indignation! And a note, too-to me, of course. Come, will you answer it?—No? Then I must. Talk to Mr. Wychnor the while."

She went away, humming a gay tune, tearing the envelope to pieces: the note, itself she crushed in her hand for the moment, to be afterward- But no eye followed her to that inner chamber. Alas! every human being has some inner chamber, of heart or home!

They were together at last, Philip and Eleanor, quite alone. He felt the loneliness with

erring will had ever taken away the clasp of a daughter's loving arms. And while, strong through the dividing shadow of death-of intervening years-of other bonds and other griefsshone the memory of this first, holiest love, she lifted her heart with thankful joy that her blessed work had been fulfilled. From the eternal shore, the mother now, perchance, stretched forth, to the struggling and suffering one, her spirit-arms, murmuring, "My child-my true and duteous child-I wait for thee! Be patient, and endure !"

out to others.

At times, when in the night-time her pent-up sorrow expended itself in bitterest tears, or when in the twilight, she sat by Lady Ogilvie, whose complainings were then hushed in the heavy slumber of weakness and old age, Eleanor's brain wearied itself in conjectures as to what this terrible mystery could be; this "gulf" of which Philip had spoken, which neither he nor she must dare to cross. Ever and anon there flashed upon her memory his wild tones and gestures-his half-maddened looks. They effaced the thoughts which had once brought comfort to her. Could it be with him as with other men of whom she had heard-that his face and his writings alike gave the lie to his heart-without, all fair; within, all foulness and sin? Could it be that her own pure Philip was no more e; and in his stead was an erring, world-stained man, to whom her sight had brought back, remorsefully, the innocent days of old?

"Oh, no!-not that. Let me believe any thing but that!" moaned Eleanor, as one evening, when she sat all alone by Lady Ogilvie's couch, these thoughts came, wringing her very soul. "Oh, my Philip! I could bear that you should love me no more-that another should stand in my place, and be to you all I was, and all I hoped to be-but let me not think you unworthy. It would kill me; I feel it would !" And she leant her head against the cushion of the sofa, and gave way to a burst of agonizing sobs. They half aroused Lady Ogilvie, who moved, and said, dreamily

"Katharine, my child! What! are you crying! You shall not be married unless Ah! Eleanor, it is you! I might have remembered that it was not Katharine-she never comes to sit by her mother now," murmured the feeble voice, in a touching complaint.

It went to Eleanor's heart, even amidst her own sorrow. Struggling, she repressed all utterance of the grief which her aunt had not yet seen; and leaned over her tenderly.

Lady Ogilvie felt her hand taken silently. What word of consolation could have broken in upon the deserted parent's tears? But the touch seemed to yield comfort. "You are a kind, dear girl, Eleanor; I am very glad to have you here. I think you do me good. Thank you!"

Eleanor kissed her aunt's cheek, and was then about to sit down by the couch on a little ottoman, when Lady Ogilvie prevented her.

"Not there-not there. Katharine always liked to sit beside me thus. She does not care for it now; but no one shall have Katharine's place—no, nb!” And the poor mother again began to weep.

Eleanor took her seat at the foot of the sofa in compassionate silence.

Dear aunt," she whispered at length, "your Katharine loves you as much as ever. You must. not think her lost to you because she is married."

"Ah, that is what people say. I once said the same myself to a mother at her child's wedding. Let me see who was it?" and her wandering thoughts seemed eagerly to catch at the subject. "Yes, I remember now, it was on Bella's wedding-day, and I was talking to her husband's mother. Poor Mrs. Pennythorne! She made me feel for her, for she, too, had one child-a son, I think. She said he must bring his wife home, because she could not bear to part with him. I wonder if she ever did!” "Yes!" said Eleanor, softly.

"Then her son is as unkind as my Katharine. He forgets his mother. Poor thing! poor thing! She is left all alone, like me!"

"Not so; far lonelier," said Eleanor's low voice. "Her son is dead."

"Dead! dead!" cried Lady Ogilvie; "and I have still my Katharine well and happy. God forgive me! I will never murmur any more." And, deeply moved, she lay back in silence for many minutes. Then she said

Eleanor, I should like to hear more about that poor mother. Where did you learn these news of her ?"

"I saw her when I was in London, three weeks since," answered Eleanor, in a tremulous voice, remembering what years of sorrow she had lived in those three weeks.

Eleanor, as she stood by Lady Ogilvie's couch,

Ogilvie, yearning after this new sympathy; which brought back somewhat of her own thoughtful, kindly nature, long suppressed by the acquired selfishness of sickness and old age.

Eleanor gladly seconded the plan; and surely she might be forgiven, if there flashed across

her mind the thought that through this channel might come tidings of Philip Wychnor.

A few days more, and she had succeeded in accomplishing her aunt's desire. Mrs. Pennythorne, wondering and shrinking, crept silently into the room, scarcely believing that the aged and sickly form which at her entrance half arose from the couch, could be the tall and stately Lady Ogilvie. Still more surprised was she when Katharine's mother, glancing at her black garments, and then for an instant regarding her pale, meek face, grief-worn but calm, laid her head on Mrs. Pennythorne's shoulder and burst into tears.

Then, to the mother of the Dead, came that new strength and dignity born of her sorrow; and she who had given her one lamb from her bosom to be sheltered in the eternal fold, spoke comforting words unto her whose grief was for the living gone astray. They talked not long of Katharine; but passed on to the subject that was now rarely absent from Mrs. Pennythorne's lips, and never from her heart, though it dwelt on both with a holy calmness, and without pain. She spoke of Leigh-of all that was good and beautiful in himself, of all that was hopeful in his death. And amidst the simple and touching story of his illness and his passing away—she spoke of the last parting by no harsher wordshe continually uttered, and ever with deep tenderness and thankful blessings, one name-the name of Philip Wychnor.

Half-hidden in the window, Eleanor listened to the tale which the grateful mother told. She heard of Philip's struggles, of his noble patience, of those high qualities which had awakened in poor Leigh such an intense love-and afterward of the almost womanly tenderness which had smoothed the sick boy's pillow, filling his heart with joy and peace even to the last. And then Mrs. Pennythorne spoke of the gentle kindness which had since led Philip, prosperous and courted as he was, to visit her in her loneliness with comfort and cheer.

66

'My dear boy always said that Mr. Wychnor talked like an angel," continued Mrs. Pennythorne. "And so he does. Night and day I pray Heaven to reward him for the blessings he has brought to me and mine. And though he is sadly changed of late, and I can see there is more in his heart than even I know of, yet his words are like an angel's still. May God comfort him and bless him evermore !"

"Amen!" was the faint echo, no louder than a breath. And shrouded from sight, Eleanor, with streaming, uplifted eyes and clasped hands, poured forth her passionate thanksgiving for the worthiness of him she loved. "He is not mine -he never may be; but he is yet all I believed -good, pure, noble. My Philip, my true Philip, God bless thee! we shall yet stand side by side in His heaven, and look upon each other's face without a tear."

good, I am sure I am quite glad I came," answered Mrs. Pennythorne. "Though it was a struggle, as you say, for I hardly ever go out now," and a faint sigh passed the lips of Leigh's mother. "But my husband persuaded me, and -Mr. Wychnor too."

Here she hesitated, and glanced doubtfully at Eleanor; as though she had something more to say, but waited for a little encouragement. It came not, however; and Mrs. Pennythorne, conquering her shyness, went on: "Mr. Wychnor was very kind; he brought me here-almost to the park gates. When he said good-by, he told me he was going away for a long time."Eleanor started.- "You will forgive my talking about him thus, for I imagine Mr. Wychnor is a friend of your family, Miss Ogilvie. Indeed," and making a sudden effort, Mrs. Pennythorne fulfilled her mission, "he asked me to give you this letter when I found you alone. And now I will go and sit by your aunt until she awakes," hastily added she, with instinctive delicacy.

She had said all she knew, and she had guessed but little more; being a woman of small penetration, and less curiosity. But no woman, worthy the name, could have seen the violent agitation which Eleanor vainly strove to repress, without gliding away, so that, whatever unknown sorrow there was, it might have free leave to flow.

Philip's letter ran thus :

"I pray you to forgive all I said and did that night; I was almost mad! It is not for me to occasion you suffering, but you tried me so bitterly-wherefore, I can not tell. Knowing what we once were to one another, and the bar there is between us now, I pray-and you yourself must say amen to my prayer-that on this side heaven we may never meet again!

"I waited until these lines could reach you safely. I have written no name, lest any contrary chance might occasion you pain. You see I think of you even now. Farewell! farewell!"

And this was the end-the end of all! No more love-no more hope-not even the comfort of sorrow. His words seemed to imply that regret itself was sin. The unknown bar between them was eternal. He said so, and it must be true. Then, and not till then, came upon Eleanor the terrible darkness-through which Philip had once passed-the darkness of a world where love has been, is not, and will be no more forever! The man, with his strong, great soul, nearer perchance to Heaven, and so interpenetrated with the Divine that the earthly held but a secondary place therein the man struggled and conquered. The weaker, tenderer woman, whose very religion was Evelike, "for God-in him," sank beneath that mighty woe.

At

mechanically following the round of daily occupation. At last one night she entered her chamber-tried to collect her wandering thoughts, so that in some measure she might "set her house in order”—and then laid her weary head on the pillow, with a consciousness that she would lift it up no more.

All through the night it seemed as though a