cheek deepened to a rosy pink. "Do not build upon that, Gilbert," she said very earnestly. "Why not, Alice?" "I can hardly say why; only I think it may bring you much disappointment; and-I don't say it will, but it might lead you to loiter upon the way, and to call at places not marked upon your chart; and so you might come upon the breakers. You might make Tredgold Court your desired haven." He thought a little, and then answered, "I see the danger, Alice, and I will try to avoid it. But you are a woman; and women do not see things always as men see them. There is no harm in my trying to get back-lawfully -what once was ours; is there, Miss Margaret?" "No, indeed, Gilbert," I answered heartily; I was vexed with Alice for throwing cold water on her brother's bright ambitions; but then Alice's life had always been so pale and faded in its hues, it was natural that she should care little for any earthly good; yearning, as she must be, for the land where there is no more weariness nor pain. But I did not understand Alice Tredgold: she held the blessings of this life in honourable repute; and she accorded to them their just value; and she was patient with a patience of which I had no conception. Of all Christian graces, Alice, perhaps, practised patience most perfectly,—the patience that springs from a calm, unwavering faith; and of all heavenly virtues, patience was precisely the one I knew least about. "One thing I have to ask, Miss Margaret," said Gilbert after a short silence-and he spoke hesitatingly and blushed scarlet-"might I take away, and keep for my very own, the Latin grammar you were so kind as to lend me a year agone?" "Surely you may, Gilbert. A poor old tattered thing,— it is not worth your keeping now. Why, you will have plenty of new books, all you want and wish for, lexicons and everything!" "I know it, Miss Margaret; but that dear old Latin grammar will always be to me a treasure. I shall look at it creek, when I sat often, and think of the hours beside the poring over it, mending nets or sails, or waiting for the tide; and I shall think of you, and the day you made me understand about the third declension, and all the rest of it. I may have many a costly volume, perhaps, that I never could have hoped for had not all this turned up through the wreck; but never, never shall I have one that I care for like the old book you brought me when I had scarcely any others. And, Miss Margaret, I have taken the liberty of making you a little present,—not as payment for your goodness-oh, no, that could never be ;-but just something for you to remember me by when I am far away. And, of all things, I thought you would like this the best." Now "this" was a plain wooden inkstand, with two plain ink-glasses fitted into it, and a hollowed pen-tray; and it stood upon four round wooden feet. I looked for a minute, and then a sudden idea flashed in upon me, and I cried, "Oh, Gilbert! it is never—” "Yes, it is, Miss Margaret. I went down to the rocks at low tide, and found several bits that I could tell were part of the poor 'Little Gipsy;' and I took the best pieces, and cut it out myself, and polished it, and I got Jem Byers to turn the legs, or knobs, for me, and I had these glasses fitted in. And if you will accept it, and use it always, Miss Margaret, I shall be the proudest fellow alive." I need not say this was a very welcome gift to me; I valued it then as Gilbert's present, and the work of his own hands, and a memento of the poor little boat in which I had spent so many happy hours. The time came when I treasured it as a most precious relic, when no fingers but my own ever touched it, when it seemed to be all that remained to me of the happy days of my youth-the days when my little bark was gently rocking on the smooth, clear waters of a glassy bay, ere yet it was hurried out into the broad seas, and tossed upon the heaving waves of the great rush and struggle that is in the world. CHAPTER IX. 1 THE CROSS AND THE CROWN. AND Gilbert went away to Southam, and our old haunts by the creek and along the shingly shore were deserted, for I never cared to go thither with Miriam; and she seemed to prefer inland rambles to walks upon the beach. And the days passed on quietly and uneventfully, the mellow autumn faded, and the chill blasts of winter came sweeping over the bay, and the waves looked cold and leaden, and the wind at night roared like thunder against the high, scarred cliffs. I missed Gilbert very much, and should have felt his absence still more had I not found my time pretty thoroughly occupied. Though I only attended Miss Everitt's morning classes, I had always plenty of exercises to write, and lessons to prepare for the morrow; and I had begun to learn music, and took to it as naturally as a duckling takes to water. Also I prosecuted my Latin, and papa gave me an hour or two in the evenings as he could spare the time; and meanwhile I was really beginning to speak French intelligibly, which achievement was, of course, owing to little Mirrie's companionship. Somehow my life seemed altogether changed, and I felt conscious of a certain change within myself. I was no more a child, caring only for the occupations of the hour, finding perfect happiness, as it were, in the mere enjoyment of being alive. I began to be ashamed of my hoydenish propensities, and, even had Gilbert remained at North Combe, I am not at all sure that the old alliance would have remained unaltered. Dimly, and by no means complacently, I was beginning to feel the restraints of growing womanhood,—to perceive that it was not in the fitness of things that I, Margaret Torrington, now in my fifteenth year, a gentlewoman born, should go flying about the shore, as Susan said, "like a great tomboy" (alas! my own conscience endorsed the uncomplimentary epithet); that un kempt locks, and faded, washed-out sun bonnet, and a tippet all awry, were not the costume for my father's daughter; that a knowledge of Latin and some acquaintance with the earlier books of Euclid could not atone for lamentable ignorance in all feminine lore and all feminine accomplishments; that an intimacy with all the flowers that grew, and all the shells that ocean whispered to, and all the strata that the solid earth comprised, were no compensation for lack of womanly intuition and womanly refinement. Perhaps my intercourse with other girls had taught me this; perhaps it was that childhood was passing away in the natural course of things, and maidenhood asserting itself with equally natural pertinacity: how it was, I know not, only I can distinctly remember that at this period I felt myself in a most uncomfortable transition state, and lamented my lost childhood on the one hand, while, on the other, I was pressing forward with eager step and impetuous throb of heart to the days that were to come, the days that were to show me the plenitude of life itself,-the days when I should be a looker-on no more, but a real actor on the world's great stage,—the days when I should be really launched on the wide ocean itself, no longer riding quietly at anchor in the wind-defended harbour, but bound for the port,-though what port I could not really tell myself. I suppose I was unconsciously realizing to myself Longfellow's stanzas "Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, On the brooklet's swift advance, Yes; half timid and reluctant,-yet half impetuous and impatient; for it is grand to be a complete woman,—heart, and soul, and brain; but very sweet to be a child, innocent of the evil that is in the world, and content with simple joys and simple aspirations. Thank God, all ye whose child hood, robed even in the sweet glamour of the past, is a memory replete with blessedness. Miriam and I "got on," as people say, very tolerably: certainly I ruled everywhere and at all times, and she was quite content to yield. I took the lead, and she, for the most part, meekly followed suit, seldom advancing opinions of her own, and very seldom proposing any change in the quiet routine of the day. But I never regarded her as an adequate companion: I looked upon her as an advanced baby, who might amuse me or be troublesome to me; but never as my equal,-never as the younger sister for whom I had wished so long. And yet, still I felt uneasily enough that there was something in Miriam beyond my comprehension,―a depth of purpose, and a wonderful self-repression, by no means in accordance with the estimate I entertained of her capacities. Even mamma said that there was a great deal in Miriam she did not understand,—a most rare union of childishness and maturity; "but," she added, "a sweeter, better-principled child I never met with; she really gives no trouble, and is always like quiet sunshine in the house." This I could not contradict even to my own jealous heart; but I felt sick with discontent whenever it was said. At last came Christmas, and we were released for a few weeks from our usual course of study; only I took advantage of the extra leisure to practise diligently, and Miriam was equally busy with her pencils and her little box of paints,— drawing being evidently her pleasure and her forte. Susan was busy with her puddings and the all-important mince. pies, which Miriam, by the way, had only heard of, but never seen; while mamma, as was generally the case, found more than enough to do. Early on Christmas-eve Miss Berners, our rector's daughter, came to ask us if we would assist her in the decoration of the church. We were, of course, delighted to do anything of the kind, and mamma, after some little demur on account of chills and damps, consented, and we went away to enter on our novel work. Clara Berners was |