her tender little egotisms. The moonlight touched the white forehead and coronet of brown hair with a soft halo, and then fell on the large ringless hands, so quietly folded in her lap; once they stirred slightly as Dym waxed bolder and spoke of Mr. Latimer and the Great Unknown. She caught her breath and sighed when Dym, in her young enthusiasm, blundered on to the story of the dying navvy, and once bade her go on almost abruptly.

"I did not tell this to Mrs. Chichester this morning," finished Dym, with an excited little laugh; I thought it better not. And nowhow cold your hands are, Miss Nethecote !"

"Oh, it is nothing; we have been sitting so long by the open window. Your voice was rather pathetic in the darkness. Yes, you were right not to tell. Guy-Mr. Chichester, I mean— would not like any one to know this. You must keep it sacred between yourself and Will;" then, as she drew the girl towards her with a kiss, "There, God bless you! I mean thank Heaven for it! You see, he died repentant."

But the strangest part was that, as Honor kissed her, something wet touched Dym's cheek at the same moment. And the next minute Honor arose without a word, and passed through the open window into the lily-scented darkness.

BOOK III. CHAPTER III. A FATAL TEST. (CONTINUED) Grace seized the letter and read it eagerly. "I cannot understand it," she said, after running through it a second time. "What does it mean? He says that it is impossible for him to fulfil his engagement; that you have reminded him that he is not free, and that he leaves any further explanation to you."

Anne bowed her head in silence.

"What does that mean?" cried Grace, fiercely: "how did you know that George Heath was not free to marry anyone he chose? how did you know anything about him? and what do you know ?"

Her eyes were filled with tears of rage and disappointment, her voice shook, and her lips, tightly as she endeavored to compress them, quivered, her tone and action were alike aggressive and defiant.

Anne, with a dead weight at her heart, but with her sense clear and her outward aspect calm, marked all this; she saw in an instant that what she had long dreaded had come to pass, that the long existent friendship between her and Grace had melted like wax in the blaze of Grace's wrath at the loss of her lover, that she had applied the one test to her friend's feelings which they would not bear, and that further concealment beyond a

certain point was useless. She was silent while she was revolving this in her mind, and was recalled to herself by Grace's angry voice repeating, "What is it you know about him?''

"Much," said Anne, sorrowfully; "more than I ever dared trust myself to think about, more than I should have ever dared to think of repeating, had not the force of circumstances brought out this explanation. You have never said anything; for you were too kind and tender-hearted to do so; but you cannot fail to have noticed, after we met again in Paris, that I was wholly reticent about all that had occurred during the interval of our separation."

"I did notice it," said Grace, "and thought it strange; but I forebore to ask you about it, as you say, because I imagined the subject was disagreeable to you, but if what happened then had nothing to do with your recent act, it is your duty, as it should be your wish, to make a complete disclosure."

"It is my duty, and it shall be done," said Anne, gravely. "You must know then, that during that interval I was thrown into constant communication with Mr. Heath; he and my father were old acquaintances, they were mixed up together in a thousand schemes of what they called business. I had already had to confess to you

It has been said that Grace's perceptive faculties had greatly increased of late. As she listened to the hesitating manner in which this answer was given-so different from Anne's usual frank, outspoken way-she saw at once the attempt at evasion, but did not trace it to its proper source. She remembered that Anne, though admitting her father's general wickedness, had invariably refused to be betrayed into any special revelations, and had done her best to screen him by always turning the subject; and Grace Middleham's instant suspicion was that the motive for Heath's conduct, in regard to Anne, was to be looked for in the character and the actions of Captain Studley. There was an evident mystery, and that was the only clue to it, which presented itself to Grace's mind. The answer which Anne had given to Grace's strongly urged demand, that she should prove Heath's unworthiness, was wholly vague and unsatisfactory, and was evidently not the reply which Anne would have made, had she been free from the pressure of circumstances. That pressure was to be looked for in the intimate relations at one time existing between Heath and Captain Studley, in regard to which Anne's mouth was sealed. Anne must have some reason, Grace thought. Changed as she might be, warped by those fatal connections, she could not be base enough to bring misery upon her best friend, by causing a rupture with her lover, merely for the sake of revenge for wounded vanity. The explanation lay in the intimacy of Mr. Heath and Anne's father-Grace felt certain of that. But what was she to do? She could not declare her belief to Anne-there was a coolness between them which would have entirely prevented such an ad mission; and guarded as she was now, Anne was not likely to corroborate her friend's idea. Nor could Grace act practically upon this conviction, though she was firm in it, by making any advance to Mr. Heath. That letter which Anne had handed to her placed such an idea out of the question; she was not, of course, aware of the cir

tress.

Grace felt that there was no one now to whom she could refer for advice or assistance in her disHer pride revolted at the thought of appealing to her uncle's old friends, who had been left as trustees of his affairs; and even had she done so, her experience of Mr. Bence and Mr. Palmer told her there was but little to be hoped for from them. Selfish, worldly men, engrossed in their own pursuits, they had been only too well pleased to rid themselves of their responsibility as soon as it was legally possible, and it was not likely that either of them would be willing or able to undertake the delicate functions of an adviser in such a matter as that under consideration. Nor was there anything to be hoped for from an appeal to the lawyers, Messrs. Hillman and Hicks; both they and the trustees had, as Grace knew, the highest opinion, not merely of Mr. Heath's commercial shrewdness, but of his honorable and straightforward character, and all would be alike persuaded that whatever he had done in the matter, had been actuated on his part by motives of the highest order.

What was to be done? There was not the slightest use in returning to London, Grace felt, as there her only acquaintances were members of Mrs. Crutchley's family, or persons who had been brought around her through Mrs. Crutchley's influence; and though nothing had ever been said by any one-least of all by herself-Grace could not help inwardly acknowledging that, to Mrs. Crutchley's skillful manipulation, she owed the fact of her engagement with Heath. That estimable lady had prepared the way for him, had sung his praises, decorously, indeed, and without any undue exultation, but with sufficient strength and perseverance to compel Grace's attention, had arranged those meetings on the quiet off-evenings, which had been so delightful, and had lost no opportunity of forwarding his suit. London, then, to Grace Middleham, meant Mrs. Crutchley. To attempt to enter into communication with her would be as lowering to Grace's dignity as if she were to write to Heath himself, and therefore her

She

return to London was at present impossible. must go home to Germany, leaving behind her all the gayety which she had so much enjoyed, the incense of adulation, which had been so freely offered to her, and must recommence the old, dreary life-listening to the fretful murmurs of Madame Sturm, with the professor's piano as her only source of relaxation. The æsthetic teas and the musical evenings, with the long-haired students and the solemn old doctors in attendance, must henceforth be the substitutes for the brilliant balls at which she, as the heiress of Loddonford, had been singled out for special admiration. In numerable other girls, without half her wealth or pretensions to beauty, had happier lives, for, at least, they were living in civilized society, and had the opportunity of winning husbands for themselves, a chance which Grace looked upon as wholly denied to her. Not among the Eckharts and the Fischers would she deign to look for the future partner of her life, indeed, as she had often said to Anne-there was another misery! What she had said to Anne she could say no more; all confidence between them was suspended; it seemed impossible that their former relations could ever be renewed. Grace scarcely knew which to be most angry with—Anne's past silence or present confession; both seemed equally inopportune. She could not help avowing to herself that the mystery about Mr. Heath must be something very dreadful or Anne, with her clear, calm sense, would never have taken so decided a step as to interfere between them. Her pride forbade her to acknowledge the existence of this feeling to her friend, her wounded vanity prevented her from appealing to Anne by recounting all the old memories of their passed companionship, to tell her unhesitatingly the truth, and to solve the horrible doubt which then possessed her. She could do nothing of this she could only give vent to her anger, her humiliation and disappointment in a flood of bitter tears. This resource she availed herself of, throwing herself upon her bed and sobbing as if her heart would break, while Anne, who longed to comfort her, felt that any offer of attention would be either unwelcome or misunderstood, and consequently wandered out into the Park, and strolled up and down there until she was tired out, an object of great admiration to the tight waisted little brave Belges, who, in ogling and flirtation, as well as in other matters, fashion themselves on the model of their Parisian brethren.

The next morning they continued their journey to Bonn, and though neither of them took the other into confidence, both were secretly compar ing the enormous difference between their prest! dreary silent pilgrimage, and the bright and happy trip they had made through almost the scre country on their way from Paris, but a few months previously. No resting now among the old Bel, an cities, picture seeing and memorial visiting: r. delightful talk of their experiences, no apg interchange of hopes and aspirations. Grace saw everything before her in bright colors, her coming of age was imminent, and that meant something pleasurable and novel. Now, that wa a thing of the past; the one man whom she ha learned to love was separated from her, and her future was hazy and indistinct. And Anne's reflections, too, were of a sufficiently disheartening character. The last time she had travelled that road she had begun to feel, in all her trouble ar misery, a blessed sense of repose, the first foreshadowings of that state of peace which characterized her sojourn at Bonn; but her present forebodings were of a very different kind. Then she knew— for she had just had direct experience of the factthat she was all in all to Grace Middleham, who. at her first appeal, had flown to her, succoured and nurtured her, with a more than sisterly affection. Now all that was changed; Grace, as was natura. enough, had formed other ideas and associations, and she who from childhood had been her chosen companion had now lost all place in her heart, because she had dared to interfere between her friend and certain destruction. It was quite true that Anne had the satisfaction of knowing that she had done her duty; but this, notwithstanding all that the moralists may say, is not always a sufficient consolation for a great deal of mental misery and bodily discomfort.

The difference was most felt on their arrival at Bonn. They had not let the professor know at what time they might be expected, so that there was no one there to meet them. Both the girls thought-Grace carelessly, but Anne with a touch of tenderness-of their first meeting with the students at the station, of Fischer's boyish romance and Eckhart's blunt but hearty kindness. Eckhart would have been there then, Anne thought, had he known she was coming; but she learned afterwards that he had some time since quitted Bonn, had sold the paternal brewery, and was pursuing his artistic career in Rome. They drove in the

lumbering old drosky-for Bonn still remains inferior, even to the rest of Germany, as regards its public vehicles-to the Poppelsdorfer Allee, where they found persons and things pretty much in the same condition as when they had left them. The professor himself seemed very little surprised at their return, but received them both with equal cordiality, for his gentle nature had learned to appreciate the goodness of "Vallare," as he persisted in calling Anne, and was delighted with the opportunity of talking with Grace over the wonders of London, a subject which had wholly occupied his every leisure moment, according to his wife's account, since his return thence. Madame Sturm, a little weaker perhaps than when Grace had left Bonn, was unfeignedly pleased to see her niece. Most fortunately no hint of the intended marriage with Heath had ever been conveyed to the worthy lady, who was therefore unable to wound Grace's susceptibilities, as otherwise with the best intentions she undoubtedly would have done, but she prattled away, inveighing against the English climate and the frivolities of the London season, which, she said, had robbed her niece of her healthy color, and declaring that the plain fare, early hours, and bright atmosphere of Rheinland were necessary to set her up again.

"And as for you, Waller," continued the old lady, who had not been in such high spirits for months, "I declare it is like a gleam of sunshine to see you coming into the house again. Now I shall know what it is to be nursed and attended to properly. I cannot tell you what I have suffered at the hands of these clumsy creatures, not one of them could remember at what time my tonic should be brought to me; and, as for rubbing in a lotion, they were worse than nothing at all."

But it is doubtful whether Madame Sturm would have been so joyous, had she been aware of the resolution which had for some time been forming itself in Anne's mind, and which she determined to carry out immediately.

BOOK III. CHAPTER IV. ALONE IN THE WORLD. LIFE among the quiet household in the Poppelsdorfer Allee seemed, for the first few days after the return of the English girls, to go on in its usual uneventful round. The decisive step Anne Studley had determined upon taking, and which she had been brooding over during the journey from England, she felt herself compelled

to defer, at least for some few days. The delight which the Frau Professorin did not attempt to disguise, at having her patient and skilled nurse once more in attendance upon her, and the obvious assistance which Anne was enabled to render the old lady in her weak and helpless condition, induced her to postpone for a time any declaration of the necessity which existed of her quitting Bonn, and finally and abruptly breaking the bonds which had bound her for so long to Grace Middleham. That was the step which Anne found herself impelled to take; nothing short of so sweeping a measure could possibly have the effect of restoring to her any vestige of that peace of mind which she had partially recovered during her first sojourn at Bonn, but which had now once again entirely deserted her. Since the scene at Brussels, when she had declared to her friend the deceit she had practiced upon her, Grace's manner towards her had wholly changed. Her rage had probably spent itself during that stormy discussion, for there were no further signs of its existence; she was no longer insolent or sarcastic, asked no more questions, and made no further reference to the conversation which had taken place, or the occurrences which had led to it, but she persistently avoided being brought into communication of any kind with Anne, and more especially took care that she should never be left alone with her. All the sweet confidence, the pleasant colloquy, the talk which needed to be only half spoken-so completely did they divine each others thoughts-were at an end; and Anne felt that, instead of being, as she had been, Grace's other half, she was now merely a pensioner upon the bounty of one between whom and herself there had fallen the cold shadow of misunderstanding, and whose love for her had entirely passed away. In the trials and miseries which she had undergone, Anne had been sufficiently humbled; but her natural spirit of independence still remained, and she felt the impossibility of continuing in such a position. Moreover, she had an infinite longing-such a longing as is only known to those who have drunk deeply of the cup of worldly misconception and ingratitude, for the rest and peace which are only to be found, if not in solitude, at least in a complete severance from those with whom the recent years have been passed, and a complete oblivion of them, their words and deeds. Her fate was upon her she