"Lilian," said Jack, coming forward, "I have brought my wife to see you."

“And I hope she will let me love her, as I have always loved her husband," was the sweet rejoinder, taking Mrs. Tremaine's hand in her own, and kissing the bright face.

"Jack has been a very dear friend to me and mine," she said, with a little catch at the last word. "I wish we might know each other well. You are to be here such a short time we must assiduously cultivate each other. Come with me," leading them into the house.

"Oh, Jack, how did you ever dare to love such an angel?” cried impulsive Mrs. Tremaine, when they were seated in the ambulance on their way up the country.

"I don't think I ever did love her in the way you mean," answered Jack, slowly and doubtfully.

"Yes, you did," cried his wife, "until"-with pardonable arrogance-"you met me."

"But she was always above me, far beyond," said Jack.

"And you had to content yourself with something of the earth earthy,' like myself."

"Yes," absently answered Jack. "Susie, did you notice? She thinks of him as belonging to herself, solely and alone. It sounds heartless; but she might not have had that comfort if he had lived."

"There was something more than that in her face," answered the keen-witted wife. Then, under her breath, she quoted,

"Oh, love for a year, a month, or a day;
But alas! for the love that lives alway."

"Do you believe in that?" asked her husband, looking into her eyes.

"Why, of course. I am surrounded by examples of its truth. And while for Lilian the adage means much sorrow, for me, dear, it happened to bring joy."

MARGARET FOSTER OWEN.

ONE OF THE DUANES.

(Concluded from page 360.)

CHAPTER XIX. (Continued.)

"DID he give you any message for me, or did he just go and leave no word?" Bonny asked, sinking back into her chair again.

"Yes, miss, he says, just as he was going out the front door, to say he'd be back again this aft'noon, fur I made bold to tell him you'd be certain shore to be home then," broke in Jane, whose heart had been fluttering for the last hour with the memory of the rare treat she had enjoyed in the sight of a handsome young man. "He looked awful disapp'inted when I couldn't find you nowheres, but he kind o' brightened up considerable when I said you'd be home in the aft'noon."

"Jane," ," said Miss Mehitabel, severely, "I must bid you be quiet. You have acted in a very unauthorized manner, and although in this case it may turn out for the best, I never wish you to

"Oh, don't, Aunt Mehitabel!" cried Bonny. "I am so pleased with Jane, I mean to give her that blue dress she admired so much yesterday. Mr. Sidney is a friend I haven't seen for a long time, and I would not have missed him for-for-a great deal. Please let me give the blue dress to Jane."

"Jane, you may go and get that plum tart and the cream," said Aunt Hitty, in an uncompromising manner; and lingeringly Jane

"I believe I will retire up-stairs, my dear, and just take forty winks," announced Miss Mehitabel.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and Bonny, long since dressed in one of her most becoming gowns, was flitting restlessly about the cool "east parlor," bending over the roses in the wide-mouthed Indian bowls, straightening books upon the tables, and upsetting her aunt's nerves generally. And so that long-tried spinster was glad of a well-founded excuse to get away.

As moment after moment went by, the girl's face faded visibly

from brightest bloom of excited anticipation, through many degrees, to the pallor of hope deferred. Perhaps he would not come again, after all. Something might have happened, or Aunt Hitty's cold manner might have discouraged him. And, though deep down in her heart she knew that all the coldness of all the people in the world, except herself, ought not to keep him away from her, and that indeed nothing could well happen which would wholly detain him from her, now he was so near, she found it impossible to make that very nearness seem real.

When one is suddenly informed that a certain desire, long denied, is about to be granted one at last, the hand extended to receive it is doubtfully outstretched, lest after all there should be some misunderstanding. And thus Bonny, who found the hope she had feared to acknowledge materialized into definite and reasonable expectation, was inclined to feel that somehow she had deceived herself, and that the day would pass, and she would be disappointed, and to-morrow all would be dull as it had been before. If she had been told to look for Sidney's coming next month, or even next week, she could gradually have grown used to the idea, and so have acquired a belief in it; but, to-day! it was too much. Something would happen to prevent, she felt miserably sure.

"I believe I shall go up-stairs and take a short nap," repeated Miss Mehitabel, in a slightly higher key. "Don't fatigue yourself by so much unnecessary wandering about, Isabel dear, and when your friend comes, if he does come, please excuse me to him for a little while at least. Ah, talking of a certain spirit! there he comes now, I do believe, up the piazza steps. I think I will slip quietly away before he gets in, and leave you to receive him alone; for if I don't go now, there is no telling when I can escape." And suiting the action to the word, she caught up her knitting and hastily left the

room.

Instantly Bonny's restless wanderings were suspended. Seizing a volume at random from a table, she fairly precipitated herself into the nearest chair. Thus when Sidney was announced, and entered, she was discovered bending in an absorbed fashion over a "Book of Beauty," unconscious of the trifling fact that she held it upside down. In another moment the book lay open, with crumpled leaves, at her feet, and she was standing face to face with him, both her hands grasped nervously by his.

Both, perhaps, had dwelt in fancy upon such a meeting, until to their minds its possibilities had become established actualities. They had doubtless mentally rehearsed what each would be likely to say and do; but now, with Bonny's first sentence the bubble of anticipation dissolved into the cold water of conventionality.

"Mr. Sidney, I am so very glad to see you again."

He released her hands reluctantly, and she resumed her seat, with a slight gesture beckoning him to one near her side. He looked at her, at the short, babyish curls, the small oval face which seemed pathetic in its lack of the old color and glancing dimples, and at the dark, downcast lashes that made shadows on her cheeks. He thought he would have been willing to sell ten years of his life if he could then have gathered the little frail figure into his arms, and yet for the gift of a kingdom he could not have dared attempt it, not while those white curtains hid her tell-tale eyes. They sat so close together that the lace trimming on her dress almost brushed against his knee, but they had perhaps felt nearer to each other when a thousand miles had separated them, than they felt now.

The silence, though in reality it had hardly lasted half a moment, grew oppressive. Bonny raised her eyes suddenly and encountered his fixed upon her face. "Why did you never answer my letters ?"

he asked.

all."

"I never received them. I never knew you had written to me at

"Did you not, really?" very eagerly. "How glad I am to hear you tell me that! But it is strange. I wrote to you twice, the first time not more than four weeks after you went away from Barrancas. I had thought it best not to write before, though I longed to do it. You were too weak and ill to be troubled by reading or answering letters from me, or any one else, just then."

"Oh, that partly explains it," Bonny said, thoughtfully. "I only stopped in New York four weeks. I longed for Duanesville, the thought of it seemed so restful, and they brought me here, where I have been ever since. But they might have forwarded my letters, and papa has been in New York from time to time. He might have brought them to me; indeed, he has brought me two or three."

For an instant Sidney said nothing, and both faces looked troubled. Then he asked, "Did your father tell you that I had spoken to him about my feelings towards you before he left Barrancas ?"

"No," Bonny murmured, blushing vividly.

"I spoke to him, and asked his permission to see you, when I could get leave, in New York. You see," rather constrainedly, "I had not even then given up all hope. He said-and I could not blame him for so saying-that he wished, and he thought his daughter would wish, forever to drop all association with Barrancas and its people. He did not forbid my going to New York; he scarcely could do that, but I could say nothing more to him then. Afterwards, when I found that it would be long before I should see you, I wrote twice, once from Barrancas, and once from Wilkesbarre, where I have been stationed during the riots, directing my letters to your New York address. Perhaps they never reached there; but if they did, and you

were not allowed to see them, doubtless the motive for keeping them from you was a kindly one, and I shall not condemn or question it for a moment, especially since Fate has let me come to you at last."

"How did you know where to find me?" asked Bonny, glad to let the puzzling subject of the letters rest.

"I went first to your New York home, and there the housekeeper informed me. But tell me this, would you have answered my letters if you had received them ?"

"I do not see why I should not have done so." She would gladly (but dared not) ask him what had been said in the letters that were lost.

"Did you never wonder-that is, if you thought of me at allwhy I did not write or come to you?"

She was silent, and sat twisting her bangles about her slender wrists, nervously.

"Didn't you care?"

"I fancied that perhaps I did know why." She turned her face away from him. "You had learned that what I had told you must keep us apart was truly the obstacle it had seemed to me. That is what I thought."

Before she could move or protest he was down on one knee before her, his eyes compelling hers, and his hands clasped about her waist. "Did you dare to believe that?" he asked, with a passionate resentment, which told her how cruel she had been in such a mistake. "Did you think so meanly of me? No wonder you are cold! I came here the moment I could come, in spite of the fact that I had never heard a word from you. I wouldn't believe you did not care enough even to write. I knew something had prevented you. I came here to tell you what for all these months has been meat and drink and life to me, my love, and I find you cold as snow. You call me Mr. Sidney, and say you are so glad to see me again! Tell me, if I can prove to you that nothing but sheer necessity has kept me from you, will that still be all you shall feel,—or will there be something more, something I once told you I should wait for, because I hoped so greatly it would come at last?"

She was carried away by the force of his earnestness. It was good to feel that after all he was stronger than she, and that nothing had made any difference in his regard.

"Prove to me," she said, timidly.

"I won't talk to you about what I felt while you were ill. That goes beyond words. When you were to be brought North, I asked to see you just for a moment, but the doctor thought it would be more prudent not to allow it. Then, a few weeks later, I applied for leave of absence, meaning to come North, but Revere had been before me, and of course as he was going, and I was the only lieutenant then