You ought "Bravely said, Millie mine; but listen. You think this pretty place yours-left you by your uncle-" and dark eyes. Those eyes did not flinch | kind of you to judge me so. or seek to veil themselves from the radi- not to be proud to me, Hildred, although I ance; rather they seemed to dilate, as if am rich!" endeavoring to receive all the glory. Against Hildred, a slighter figure leant; a fair head lay upon her shoulder, somewhat hidden by the black tresses that, though looped up behind, fell loosely and low down upon each side of a stately throat. It was some time since either had spoken, when Hildred said: "So you think he loves you, Millie ?" A smile that had a dash of disdain in it, grew wholly tender as she glanced down upon the delicate face, and saw how the drooping eyelids drooped yet more, and the faint color flushed rosier as she spoke. She threw herself into a great chair that stood near. Millie slipped down on to a cushion at her feet, having given no answer. Hildred repeated her question, passing her hand caressingly over the beautifully-shaped oval head resting against her, as she did so. No word yet; but bending forward, she caught the last flicker of a smile dying from off the rosy mouth, and took that for a sufficient reply. "Ah! child!" she said, "no need for further answer. God bless you!" Then she added, "I am very glad!" Millie's soft little hand stole up into Hildred's. She did not cry out, though her sister's fervent clasp pained her. "I should not have liked to speak of this yet," the elder went on, glancing at the mourning they both wore; "but it is needful I should know. I have to plan for the future. We stand alone nowyou have only me to take care of you at present." "But Hildred," Millie said, "we need not do any thing different, need we? We may live together now? You will stay with me always, wont you?" "That is impossible, Millie," was said very decidedly. Why impossible?" Millie asked, ear"Indeed, I can not do without nestly. you." "You shall soon learn to do without me, child. Never fear! I shall not leave you till there is a dearer some one else to care for you. You are one of those who ought always to have strong arms round you, Millie." "But why leave me? You say you love me very much. If you think I could be happy knowing you left alone, it is not "Our uncle. You are my sister, and must share his gift. If-if-I should ever go to live anywhere else, it might be all yours, if you wont come with me." "I say your uncle, Millie. He did not hold me as his niece; he had heard how like I am to my father!” "If he had only known you, sister, he would have loved you in spite-" "Would I be loved in spite of what I glory in ?" Hildred said, vehemently. "No, child. We must not stop to quarrel, for I have something to tell you: Millie, you are not rich. You know uncle died suddenly; he was always irresolute, procrastinating, weak - a good man, though, for loving you so well as he did. He had made no will when he died, and an heir-at-law has turned up." "Millie raised her head, and looked up at Hildred inquiringly. Hildred went on: "I should have enjoyed the excitement of disputing his claim; but it would be no use. I should not like to be beaten; so you must give up to him quietly." "Then the dear old place is not mine? I can not give it to you?" Millie said, in pained surprise. "I should not, could not have taken it, dear one. I must and will be independent. No, child, nothing at least, almost nothing is yours. You are mine, and I am glad-" "Of what, Hildred ?" "That we are free of all obligations. It is glorious to be free-free!" Hildred repeated the word, glancing out with a fierce look in her eyes that told of her having known some kind of slavery. "I was getting sick of life," she went on; "it was not life, it was only a living death I had with my aunt-great-aunt as she was, but would not be called greataunt. Every day I grew more wicked, Millie. I liked better to be feared-hated than loved by them. "Now I am free, I will live a glorious, battling life! Much as I love you, I should have been miserable again, if, to take care of you, I had had to share your fortune and life in respectable idleness." "But, Hildred, if we are poor, what shall we do? You will have to go back again, and hadn't I better go out as a gov- | six months-well! thank you, aunt, that erness ?" 66 I go back again? Never! I should be an idiot to do so. And you! You do not think your being poor will make any difference to that lover of yours, do you? If you do, you-we-will starve, before you shall marry him. But there will be no need to starve, or even to want: I shall work, as I have always longed to do." Millie lifted up her eyes, and said quietly: "O Hildred! I did not mean that. But I should not like-he's not richand-" "I see. But you are not penniless even now; you shall still be a bit of an heiress." And Hildred then first conceived a resolution she afterwards acted out. "But, Hildred, was not your aunt kind? Oh! if I had but known you were not happy!" Millie spoke so earnestly that tears came into her eyes. "Why didn't you write ?" "Do you think I was going to tell you all my wild troubles, child? I bore them, and they did not break my spirit. Indeed, if I had been a meek, mean, hypocritical creature, I might have been very comfortable." With what scorn she said the last word! "If I wanted to go back ever so much," she added, "I could not. I lost all chance of reinstatement by coming to you. Mine was too good a place to be empty long. I had a spiteful letter from the old lady this morning, bidding me an affecting farewell, and telling me of an amiable and accomplished cousin of mine who is filling my place to the old lady's entire satisfaction, reminding me, too, that I could not live on the miserable pittance left me by my father!" "You had other letters, hadn't you, Hildred ?" "One from this same heir, in answer to an epistle of mine. He is so polite that I feel mine was unnecessarily bitter. He talks about duty to those nearest him compelling him to do what is painful, and such stuff as that. Perhaps he satisfies his own conscience, however." "Your other letter?" Hildred looked fearlessly into Millie's inquiring eyes; but a richer color came into her cheeks as she answered: "An inclosure in my aunt's. A cruel letter," she went on dreamily; "yet it pleases me well enough. Truly it has been somewhat long in reaching me-five, you sent it at all, though it wasn't out of kindness you did so. I shall see now what truth there is in some of these fine words. If they are true, why then, the world is not so bitter but a smile may make it sweet' for somebody. But tell me, Millie, child, is it true that men are deceivers ever? Do you expect to find any man constant, loving one for oneself alone ?" "I would I were dead if not," Millie answered faintly. "Is it so, Millie ?" Hildred said, halfstartled at the fervency of that low reply. Stooping down, she pressed a kiss on the girl's forehead, saying: "That is right; be thorough in all your life." "Dear Hildred, some of us have to suf fer; no one suffers thoroughly who does not suffer patiently." "Suffer! You shall not know much about suffering if I can help it. Now tell me," she went on, "when does this mysterious friend of yours, whose name I have not heard you name yet-when does he return ?" "Very soon-any day. O Hildred! when you see him, you will think it strange that he cares for such a girl as I am. I never could fancy it true that he liked me much, till-till I was in great trouble, and then he was so tender. But I don't like talking about this, even to you, for he has never said to me plainly that-" "That he loves you: wishes to marry you ?" "So I don't feel as if it were right to talk about it." "Ah! when he comes back you will not care much about poor Hildred any more." "I shall, Hildred, you know I shall-I am not fickle, I never forget. But isn't it odd? He did not even know I had a sister until a few days before he left. You see, I did not know you well, did'nt love you, or I should have spoken about you. When I thought of you, Hildred, it used always to be with fear." "Why, silly one?" "I don't know; I had heard you were very proud-and so you are. I thought you would despise poor me, but you don't. I was right in picturing you in other things though. When I crept into the room, the day you came, and, before you knew I was come, saw you standing erect, "No; but I expected it might be so when I heard how sudden my uncle's death was. If I had found you a rich, well-befriended young lady, Millie, I should not have stayed with you long. But, now, no more pleasant twilight-talk. We must have candles, shut out the beautiful night, and go right earnestly to business." "Business! how funny, we two girls !" "Very funny, but no farce with me, child." And so it seemed. The room shut up and lights brought, Hildred settled herself at the table, and was soon absorbed in looking over sundry old papers; some her uncle's, some relating entirely to Millie's affairs. A lawyer was coming tomorrow; but Hildred would not be content ignorantly and passively to leave. all in his hands, although Millie advised her to do so, saying that surely no one would cheat two orphan girls. Hildred's dark look of bitter pride came back as she answered that she did not know; that, at any rate, she preferred knowing a little into the matter herself. So she sat for hours puzzling out very complicated and irregular accounts, and Millie stayed by her, giving her what assistance she could, till Hildred marked the pale weariness on her face, and sent her to bed. It was long past midnight when Hildred herself finally raised her head with the triumphant look of one who has mastered a difficulty. She locked up the now methodically arranged papers; paced the room some time, looking rather wild with her hair pushed back from her flushed face, and her dark brows knit in eager thought; and then went up-stairs; knelt no nightly form with her-by the window, looking up at the stars, and prayed fervently for two most dear to her; undressed in the dark, and laid herself down softly beside her sleeping sister. CHAPTER II. NEXT morning, as they sat at breakfast, the sisters were gayer than they had yet been. Millie's mood was sobered and chastened by rememberance that one who had loved her well, lay in the churchyard; yet her face was full of a tender hope that, in its calmness, seemed more like certainty-content. Hildred's gayety was somewhat forced, and her manner rather absent; her face fixed by resolute purpose, which her keen eyes, looking onward, appeared to see already fulfilling. Millie was relieved from a great dread when her sister told her that she need not yet leave the house she so much loved; that they might stay in it at least till after Christmas-only paying rent for living in what Millie had thought her own property, which was strange. In that time, Hildred said, though Christmas was not far off, much might happen, and they could settle plans for their future. Hildred had many schemes for herself-glancing all of them at a possibility, but falling off from it shyly, and then growing confused in all but one central idea, that she would be independent, and would make herself famous; for Millie she had but one plan, fixed and constant. The day was one of those serenely beautiful days we often get in late autumn; the sky cloudless, the air fresh yet soft, the whole earth dazzlingly bright-vestured. "A holiday morning, Millie!" Hildred exclaimed, as they stood in the sun on the door-step. "Let us be children now: this afternoon I shall put on my woman of business and of the world aspect. You shall take me one of your favorite rambles. We will go blackberrying, if any berries are left for us." Hildred and Millie went out together, and spent the whole bright morning in aimless wandering, and gay hopeful talk. The expression of Hildred's face softened and grew sweeter with every hour she spent with Millie; she did not often startle the girl now by the vehemence of her demonstrations of affection, or by the abruptness # of her manners, as she had constantly Millie was very pretty so Hildred told Lying on the turf beside Millie, she stretched out her right arm appealingly, not heeding that she threw her hand violently upon a short tuft of prickly gorse; she was thinking too absorbedly to feel the pain. It was not until Millie exclaimed, "O Hildred! your poor hand!" that her attention was drawn to it. Hildred's were beautiful, though not very small hands; well-formed, and as white as Millie's own. She was sorry the right hand was scratched, for it looked ugly, and she took delight in having every thing belonging to her admirable-not that she cared for admiration, save such as innocent Millie's; for often in her short life she had turned from it with disdain; but that it seemed to her right and fitting that she should be handsome, proper that she should be proud. Hildred gloried in all consciousness of power-and beauty was a power. She had never wished to be deformed or ugly; although often she had disliked to read in people's looks that they saw her beautiful. Hildred was sorry, therefore, that she had disfigured her hand; but she liked to feel Millie's soft, caressing touch as she bound up the wounds. Yet, when patched up, it looked very ugly, and Hildred transferred the two or three splendid rings she always wore on it to her other, that the wounded one might not be so conspicuous. It was growing afternoon, and clouding over drearily; Millie looked chill. Hildred proposed that they should go home, and they wound their way down the hillside. Daylight was fading when the expected lawyer came. Hildred had fancied that Millie looked a shade paler than usual, and seemed weary after the morning's ramble. She said she would not have her pretty head troubled about business, and left her lying on the sofa in the firelighted drawing-room. For the first time since his death the uncle's study was lighted up, and Hildred sat there with the man of law. As Millie lay thinking how sweet it was to have a sister so strong, so wise, to take care of her; wondering if it were sweeter yet to have a mother, and then, perchance, pondering deeply how it would be to have a husband-her thinking, after awhile, became dreaming; she did not stir when some one opened the housedoor, as if with a privileged hand; when a firm step came through the hall; and, after a moment's pause, into the very room. The study was at the back of the house; Hildred sitting there, bringing the whole power of her intellect, concentrating her attention upon the matter before her, heard nothing external to that study, apart from that matter. She had some trouble in persuading Mr. Blankardt that it was any use for him to go over the business with her; more-for he was a sensible, conscientious, practical man-in making him understand, that she had fully determined, and that it was no use to oppose her, on a course of action he could not approve, and from which he tried to dissuade her; most of all, in extracting from him a promise that (as she would have her own way) he would take the necessary steps for her when she sent him her final command to do so: all this took time, energy, and what was far more difficult to Hildred, patience. Meanwhile, what was passing in the drawing-room? That some one who had entered so unceremoniously, came softly up to where the bright fire-light played upon a fair young head, thrown back upon a crimson sofa-cushion, as Millie lay dreaming, with her hands folded, crossed quietly upon her breast. That some one was a large man, and he looked gigantic in the dim, uncertain light; yet he had walked quite noiselessly up the room, and bent down over the sweet, calm face, before even an eyelash stirred. He bent very low; and a heavy lock of his strong hair swept across a pale cheek; then Millie awoke, in tumultuous fright, conscious of a presence. But when she sat up, and could be quite sure that she was not still dreaming, no one was near her; only a tall, dark figure stood by the fire, a grave. face was looking into it, its light flashed upon a noble brow, and stern, set mouth. Millie uttered a name with such a sweet accent of simple glad surprise, that its owner was quickly at her side. He not only took her hands, both of them, but he drew her into his arms saying: "You are mine, sweet Millie, is it not so ?" She answered only, "Yes." "And you love me-very much ?" he continued. Vaguely thinking that he, perhaps, should first say that to her, Millie remained silent. "Millie! my Millie!" he went on, in a tone she could not resist. "You must not be proud and cold with me. I love you because you are gentle, meek, infinitely sweet. I want your love to soothe me, to give me rest. I have had much pain and trouble, Millie." Her little fingers tightened their grasp of the great hand that held both hers. That might have been answer enough surely; but he was not satisfied, for he added: 66 So, Millie, you must say: 'I do love you very much, dear Erle."" A low tremulous voice repeated"I do! indeed, I do! I love you very much, dear Erle!" "That is right, sweet Millie. Now, how are you? Have you been grieving much, my child? Have you been alone all these long days since I left you?" And he looked down fondly upon her. There was very little said during the hour or more that Millie and Erle Lyneward sat together. He had never talked to her much, and she-her little heart was too full! At last Millie said: "That man is gone now, and I must go to my sister." Millie said, "My sister," with a strange pride in the words. She could only say them speaking of one person in the wide world. She felt sure that the lawyer was gone, for she heard the bustle of departure, some time since, and wondered uneasily why Hildred did not come in. But when she rose, Mr. Lyneward drew her back. He did not choose to spare her yet; there would be plenty of time for sisters and explanations to-morrow, he said. Neither of them had heard the door softly opened a little while before; nor seen a tall figure stand at it a moment, a bewildered face grow conscious of misery. Neither could be conscious of the agony of a passionate heart, that believed itself breaking. Hildred had come to the door; and, seeing no bright light stream from underneath it, had opened it very gently, expecting to find Millie asleep. What had she seen so horrible in that room? The gloomy afternoon had wildened into a weird, wet night; a few moments before, she had been hospitably sorry to allow Mr. Blankardt to go out into it, well-defended as he was; now she rushed out with uncovered head, up the steep garden, up on to the bleak, bare top of the hill. It was blackly dark. The dark "No! My sister came! O Mr. Lyne-ness seemed to touch her on all sides, to ward, I love her dearly!" Millie began.. 66 Silly child! I am not Mr. Lyneward for you any more, and I do not care to hear how much you love any body but me." "And don't you love any body but me?" Millie asked, lifting up her head, fixing her "wise, innocent" eyes on his. But he did not answer, only kissed her eyes gravely, saying softly: "How pretty you are, Millie, my Millie!" then he drew her down to him again, and-sighed. After a little he asked Millie why she wept, for he felt warm tears drop down upon his hand, and when she breathed out that it was because she was so happy, his strong arm wrapped her round closer yet, and he said reverently: "God keep you so!" press round her, to crush against her strained eyeballs, to madden her. She shrieked-no one could hear-and she shrieked out that Erle Lyneward was a traitor. She had almost cursed Millie's innocent, sweet face. She had thrown herself on the ground. After lying there half-stupefied awhile, she rose; the proud, strong heart called up all its strength. She even smiled to herself, saying that she could bear it-ay, and more a thousand times. There was one bitter consolation: her pride was wounded in no wise. She was not deserted; this man had never known that she loved him. She had treated him like a dog when he dared to speak to her of love, as she did all who so spoke in that past that seemed many a life-time ago; for her wild heart had been driven to des |