"Missus," he said, looking up hungrily-at the lady this time-" Missus, do'ee gie 'un a bit o' bread!"

Agatha, full of compassion, was eager to send the servants, or take him into the kitchen, or even fetch him his dinner with her own hands. Mr. Harper interfered.

"I will bring him some food myself. Stay here, my man; don't stir hence. Remember, you have nothing to do with my father."

There was a warning severity in the tone which annoyed Agatha. Why did her husband speak harshly to the poor miner? But men were never so tender-hearted as women. Still she obeyed Mr. Harper's evident wish that she should go away; and spent the time in Elizabeth's room, telling her of this little incident.

Miss Harper listened with all the quick intelligence of her bright eyes. The only remark she made was:

"What could have led this miner to come back to Dorsetshire after our family?"

Agatha had never thought of this, indeed she did not want to think. Her heart was brimming with charity. She longed to empty it out in a torrent of benefactions, to which even Anne Valery's constant stream of good deeds appeared measured and slow. Elizabeth watched her with a strange, piercing expression-Elizabeth, who from her silent nest seemed to behold all things clearer, like a spirit sitting half-way in upper air, to whose passionless wide vision distant mazes take form and proportion. Often, there was something almost supernatural in Elizabeth and her attentive eyes.

"My dear," she said at last, when Agatha paused for a response to her own enthusiasm, "Man proposes-God disposes! Go and talk over these things with your husband first." Agatha went.

She met Nathanael on the staircase, going up to their own room.

"Ah! is it you! I am so glad. Come and tell me what has been done about the poor miner."

"He is gone. I have sent him back to Cornwall."

"What, so soon? Not to starve at that Wheal -Wheal something or other—I always forget the name ?"

"Do forget it. Don't let the matter trouble my little wife. Let her run down-stairs and think of something else."

He patted her hair with an assumed carelessness, and was passing her by; but she stopped him.

strengthen herself in the bold projects she was about to communicate, by stealing her own into her husband's hand. However, she placed herself on the floor at his feet, in the attitude of a Circassian beauty; or-she accidentally thought-not unlike a Circassian slave.

'Begin, please! I must hear about these mines."

"I doubt if you could understand, Agathaat least with the few explanations I can give you!"

"Nevertheless, I'll try. Why are the poor men starving in this way?"

"You heard but now. Because the mines were first opened on a speculation, worked carelessly-dishonestly, I fear-till the speculator's money failed, and the vein stopped. Then the miners being thrown out of employ were reduced to great distress, as this man tells me." "But why should he have come here after your father ?"

"And," continued Nathanael, in a quick and rather inexplicable correlative, "the mines were lately sold as waste land. Anne Valery bought them."

5 Why did she do that ?"

"Out of charity; that she might begin some employment-flax-growing, I think-to find food for the poor people. There the tale's ended, my Lady Inquisitive. Will you go down to my sisters?"

"Not yet. I want to talk to you a little-a very little longer. May I ?"

And she dropped her head, blushing as the young will blush over the same charitable feeling which the old and hardened ostentatiously parade.

Mr. Harper gazed hopelessly around, as if longing for any means of escape and solitude. His wife saw him and was pained.

"What are you tired of me?"

No, no, dear. Only, I am so busy-and have so many things to think about just now." "Tell me some of them."

"What-tell you all my business mysteries," he returned, playfully. "Didn't you say to me once, before we were married, that you hated secrets, and never could keep one in your life?"

"It is true-quite true. I do hate them," cried Agatha. And for all your smiling, I know you are keeping back something from me now.'

Foolish little wife !"

"Foolish-but still a wife. Look at me, and tell the truth. Is there anything in your heart which I do not know?"

"Yes, Agatha, many things."

The sudden change from jest to deep earnest startled the wife so much that she was struck dumb.

Agatha, are we beginning again to be angry with one another? Is there never to be peace between us ?"

“Peace” only? Nothing closer, dearer ? Yet what was it that, as Agatha looked at her husband, made her think even his "peace" better than any other's love?

"I want some money-a very great deal." Mr. Harper turned away. "Wherefore?" "Cannot you guess? I thought you would at once-nay, that you would be the first to propose it. I am glad I am first. Now, do guess."

"I had rather not, if it is a serious matter. If otherwise, I am hardly quite merry enough for jests to-day. Tell me."

"It is a very simple thing, though it has cost me half an hour's puzzling. I never thought so much about business in all my life. Well-she hesitated.

"Go on, Agatha."

I want it must come out--I want you to take half or all of my-our money which is in the Funds (as I believe Major Harper said, though I have not the least idea what Funds are) and with it to buy a new mine, and set the poor miners all working again; they'll like it a great deal better than flax-growing. And perhaps we could afterwards build schools and cottages, and do oceans of good. Oh! how glad I am I was born an heiress!"

She rose, her eyes brightening; her little figure dilated; she had never looked so lovely -so loveable. And yet the husband sat as it were stone blind and dumb.

"You cannot have any objection to this, I know," Agatha went on. "It is not like giving money openly away-making a show of charity. Nobody need know but that we do it on our own account-just to increase our riches;" and she laughed merrily at the idea. "Think now-how much money would it take?" 'I cannot tell."

A great deal, probably, since you look so serious over it," said the wife, a little vexed. "Perhaps my plan is foolish in some things; but I think it is right, and I am very firmfirmer than you imagine-when I feel I am in the right. Surely, living so cheaply in that tiny house-and we will live cheaper still if you choose-we shall have plenty to spare. We must do this. Say that we shall."

Her husband was silent. Gradually the blush of enthusiasm deepened into that of annoyance-real anger. "Mr. Harper, I wait until you answer me."

As she turned away, Nathanael looked after her. Such a flood of tenderness, reverence, sorrow, passion, rarely swept over a human face.

Then he rose, paced up the room in his asual fashion, and down again; pausing once at the window (a strange thing for him to

"My dear wife, it grieves me to pain you by a refusal-grieves me more than you can tell; but the plan you propose is utterly impracticable."

"Indeed!" Her color flashed, darkened of a stormy red, and paled. She was exercising very great self-restraint.

"I will ask less," she resumed, bitterly. "I had forgotten the extreme prudence of your character. Give me just what you think is sufficient for charity." And her lip tried not to curl-her heart tried not to despise her husband.

Nathanael gave no answer.

"Mr. Harper, three-four times lately you have denied me what I asked. Thrice it was merely my own pleasure-which I relin quished. This time it is a matter of principle, and I will not yield. Will you-since I have made you master of my fortune-will you allow me enough out of it for my own slight gratification? That at least is but justice.'

"Justice !" echoed Nathanael, his features sinking gradually into the rigidity they sometimes wore a warning of how much the gentleness of his nature could bear.

"Hear me for one minute, Agatha. I know this is hard, very hard for you. I have prevented your living in London; I have taken a smaller house than you like; I have restricted you in acts of charity. But for all these things I have reasons.'

"Will you tell me those reasons ?" It was a tone, not of entreaty, but of threateningsuch as a man rarely hears from a woman without all the pride within him recoiling into obstinacy.

Mr. Harper grew yet paler, though still his answer was soft-"Agatha, do not ask me. I cannot tell you."

"You dare not! You are ashamed!"

He walked away from her. When he returned, it was less the lover that spoke than the man. "I am not ashamed of anything I do, and I have clear motives for all. I only desire my wife to have patience, and trust her husband."

"I trust my husband!" she cried, in violent passion-" When he acts outrageously, unjustly, insultingly-binds me hand and foot like a child, and then smiles and tells me 'to be patient!' When he has secrets from me-when, for all I know, his whole conduct may have been one long deceit towards me.'

"Take care, Agatha." The words were said between his teeth, and then the lips closed in that strong straight line which made his face look all iron.

"I say it may have been-I have heard of such things"-and she laughed fearfully at the horrible thought a tempting devil was putting into her mind-"I have heard of young girls-poor desolate creatures, cursed with riches, and having no one to guard them

of some stranger coming and marrying them hastily, but not for love-oh, not for love!" And her laughter grew absolutely frightful in its mockery. "How do I know but that you thus married me?"

Her wild eyes fixed themselves on her hus- | band. She saw his face change to very ghastliness, and guilt itself could not have trembled more than the shudder which ran through his frame.

"I was right," she gasped, her passion subdued into cold horror-"You did marry me for my money!"

No answer-not a breath-only an incredulous stare. Once more Agatha's passion rose, a sea of wrath, misery, despair, that dashed her blindly on, she recked not where.

"I see it all now-all your wickedness. You never loved me, you only loved my riches. You have them now, and so you can stand there and gaze at me, as hard, as dumb as a stone. But I will make you hear-I will shriek it into your silence again-again-You married me for my money!"

Still no word. The silence she spoke of was awful. Nathanael stood upright, his hands knotted together, the lids dropping over his eyes. He neither looked at her nor at anything. There was not the slightest expression in his face-it might have been carved in granite. When at last, almost to see if he were living man, Agatha clutched his arm, it also felt hard, immoveable, like a granite rock.

"Mr. Harper!" she cried, terror mingling with the outburst of her rage.

He merely lifted his eyes and looked at the door. Not once-oh! never once on her! Ay, I will go," she answered-" most gladly, most thankfully! I will run anywhere to

escape your presence."

She crossed the room, and tried to unfasten the door, which she had herself bolted a little while before, out of play; but her trembling fingers were useless. She was obliged to call her husband's help, and he came.

Perfectly silent, without a single glance towards her, he undid the fastening, and set the door open for her to pass. A pang of fear, nay remorse, came over Agatha.

66

Speak," she cried-"if only one word, speak!"

His lips moved, as though framing an inarticulate “No,” and then closed again in that iron line. He still stood holding the door.

Hardly knowing what she did, Agatha sprang past the threshold, and tottered a few steps on. Then turning, she saw the door shut behind her, slowly, noiselessly, but it was shut. She felt as if the door of hope had been shut upon her heart.

She turned again, and fled away.

CHAPTER XVIII.

It was late afternoon. The rain had ceased, and glowed into one of those soft October days, so exquisitely sunny and fair. The light glimmered through the closed Venetian blinds of "Anne's room," and danced on the carpet and about Agatha's feet as she sat, quiet at last, and tried to remember how she had come and how long she had been there. She had seen no one; nobody ever came into "Anne's

room."

F

The dressing-bell rang-the only sound she had heard in the house for hours.

She started up, waking to the frightful certainty that all was real-that the ways of the household were going on just as usual-that she must rouse up, no matter staggering under what burden of misery, and go through her daily part as if nothing had happened, and nothing was about to happen.

Nothing? when this day, perhaps this same hour, must decide one of two things-whether she was a wretched wife, bound for life to a man who married her solely for mercenary motives, or whether she was a wife-perhaps in this even more wretched-who had so wronged and insulted her husband that nothing ever could win his forgiveness or restore his love. His love, which, as she now dimly began to see, and shuddered in the seeing, was becoming to her the most precious thing in existence.

Never, until she sat there, quite alone, and feeling what it was to be left alone, after being so watched and cherished-never until now had she understood what the world would be to her if doomed to question her husband's honour or to outlive her husband's love.

"It must have been all a dream," she said, moving her cold fingers to and fro over her forehead. "He never could have wronged me so, or I him. He must surely explain, and I will ask his pardon for what I said in my passion-unless, indeed, my accusation were true."

But she could not think of that possibility now-it maddened her.

"I shall meet him soon. I wonder how he will meet me. That will decide all.-Hark!" She listened with a vague expectation of footsteps at the door. But no one came.

፡፡

I suppose he is in his room still-our room." And all the solemn union of married life-the perpetual presence, the never parting night or day, which makes dissension in that tie more awful than in any other human bondrushed upon her with unutterable terror.

"If he has deceived and wronged me, how shall I endure his sight? If I have outraged him, and he will not forgive me-oh, what will become of me?"

She heard various bells ringing throughout the house, and knew that she had no time to lose. She rose up, feebly, with that aching numbed feeling which strong agitation leaves in the whole frame, and tottered to the mir

ror.

"I must look at myself, to see that there is nothing strange about me, in case I meet any one in the passages.-Oh, what a face!"

It was sallow, blanched, with dark shadows. round the eyes, and dark lines drawn everywhere. That first storm of wild passion-that agony of remorse following, had left indelible marks. She seemed ten years older since she had last beheld herself, which was when she pulled out her long curls in the morning. She pulled them out mechanically now, trying to make of them a screen to hide the poor face that she had used to fancy they adorned: Then she flew like a frightened creature along the passages, and without meeting any one, reached her chamber-door. It was a little way open; she need not knock then-knock

and wait trembling for the answer. Perhaps Mr. Harper was not there, and so for a few minutes she was safe from the dreaded meeting. She went in.

The room was empty, but her husband's handkerchief and riding-gloves were lying about; he had apparently just gone downstairs. Nevertheless, though a relief, it was rather a shock to her to find the room deserted. She felt a weight in its silence, forewarning her of she knew not what; she looked round inquiringly, as if the walls could tell her what had passed within them since she left. At last she took up her husband's gloves and laid them by with a care foreign to her general habit, and with a strange tenderness. When Mary's maid answered her suminons, she could not forbear asking, carelessly, but with an inward heart-beat-"Where was Mr. Harper ?"

The dinner, the long, dreadful dinner, with the brilliant light glimmering in her face, and showing every expression there; with old Mr. Harper leaning forward to address her every time she relapsed into silence; with the consciousness upon her that there was no medium course, that she must talk and laugh, fast and recklessly, or else fall into tears; with the knowledge, worst of all, that there was one sitting at the bottom of the table whom she dared not look at, but whom nevertheless she perpetually saw.

Her husband had taken his usual place, and sustained it in his usual manner. There was the same brotherly chat with Mary and Eulalie, the same answers to his father, and when once, in the dinner-table courtesies, he addressed his wife, the tone was precisely as it had ever been.

He then could sit and read quietly to his father. With them, too, all household ways went on unaltered with her only was the tempest-the despair. Her remorse ebbed down-her pride and anger rose. Light-a fierce flashing light-came to her eyes, and crimson rose to her cheeks. She dressed herself with care, and went down-though not until the last minute-to the drawing-room. Mary met her at the door. "I was just coming to fetch you. Nathanael said you had been sitting in Anne's room."

How could he know?' Had he watched her?

She answered flippantly, "Tis very true. I have been enjoying my own company. Have I detained you, though? Is everybody here?" Everybody was here. He was here. Though she never glanced that way, she saw him, and the look he wore. To others it might seem his ordinary look, a little paler, a little more reserved, but she knew what it meant. She knew likewise, now that her passion had subsided, how his whole character and demeanour gave the lie to the accusation she had cast upon him. She had outraged him in the keenest point where a proud man and a man of honour can be outraged by his wife; her own hand had cleft a gulf between them which might never close.

At the thought her heart seemed dropping down-down in her bosom, like a bird whose wing is broken, it knows not how. Sick, giddy, she clung to Mary's arm for a moment. "Nathanael, look here. What is the matter with your wife?"

Nothing," Agatha cried. "I have only stupified myself with-with thinking. I will think no more-no more."

She tossed her head back with a fierce laugh. Her husband, who had half risen at Mary's call, resumed his seat, making no remark.

He had never been used to show her much fondness or attention before his family, so it did not appear strange that in the few minutes before dinner he should talk to his sisters, and leave his wife to the anxious courtesies of his father. For it was now an acknowledged fact at Kingcombe Holm that the Squire was grow. ing very fond of Agatha.

Yet she felt herself powerless to burst through it. His perfect silence, leaving his honour, the honour of both, in her hands, was like a chain of iron wrapped round her; however she writhed and dashed herself against it, there it was.

The Squire seemed to remain at table longer than ever to-day. He would not let his woman-kind depart. He had many toasts to give, and various old reminiscences to unfold to his daughter-in-law. She heard all in a misty dream, and kept on vaguely smiling. At last the purgatory was ended, and they rose.

Nathanael held the door open for his wife and sisters to retire-things went on so formally even in the every-day life at Kingcombe Holm. In passing, Agatha felt as if she must burst through that icy barrier he had drawn; she must meet her husband's look, and compe! him to meet hers. She gave him a look, proud, threatening, yet full of hidden misery. He would surely answer that.

Some

No! No response-not even anger. sorrow perhaps, but a sorrow that was stern, hopeless, undemonstrative, as was his own nature. If any wreck had been, it had already sank down into those deep waters, of which the surface appeared perpetually calm.

Agatha threw him back another look. Scorn was there and hatred-she felt as though she did really hate him at that moment. Her heart gave a leap, like a smitten deer, and then a laughing devil" seemed to enter therein, and dash her on-anywhere-to anything.

"Come Mary-come Eulalie, we must be very merry to-night, and my husband must join, for all his solemnity. Shake it off quick, Mr. Harper, or we'll call you a deceiver-a smooth-faced, smiling cheat."

Laughing out loud-she caught his hand, wrung it violently, and struck it aside. "How comical you are!" said the languid Eulalie. are you

'But," whispered sensible Mary, quite sure Nathanael liked the joke."

"Who cares?" Yet Agatha looked back. He had merely drawn his hand in again to the other, and his colour faintly rose. Otherwise the poor, mad, passionate girl, might as