pen in her hand, and with the soft flush in her face dying away into paleness. Those other children of her father had forsaken him through anger and antipathy; and was she to be lured away from him by any promise of joy and happiness to herself? She laid her head down upon the desk before her, and did not lift it again for a long while. There was no sob to be heard, and no tear fell from her eyes. If she accepted Justin, she must give up her father; and she asked herself mournfully, what would become of him, if he was left to run on in his evil ways, with none of the checks she could interpose?

"Why did you go away so soon?" she wrote at last, not daring to begin with any epithet of affection. "My father kept me only a minute, and I came back again to you, and found you gone. He called me to tell me you are to inherit Herford. I am more glad than I could say to you; for though poor Richard ought to be the heir, I have always feared that Herford Court would come to ruin, just as our old place is. You know how my father has ruined Rillage Grange. I cannot remember it very much better than it is now; but they say it was a beautiful place, when it came to him from his father. You know what my father might have been; and you know what he is. Well! Richard would have been as he is; you will be what he might have been.

"Justin, I am very sorry; I am almost heart-broken for him. Sometimes I feel all compassion, and grief, and tenderness for him; and then it seems to me as though I could not go on, day after day, seeing him destroy himself. But I shall bear it better, and have more patience now, because you will help me. I ought to have said to you that I cannot be your wife, as long as my father needs me. There is not a creature in the world who has any influence over him besides me. If I left him he would ruin. himself swiftly, body and soul. Every one else has forsaken him, because they could not bear it. But God has given to me strength and courage to bear it; and I must never give him up. It would be next thing to heaven to be your wife. But I ought not and I cannot quit my father even for heaven itself, if I can keep him back from any evil. Think of it. It may be long years; it may be nearly all our life-time. No, it would be best for you to forget what you have said to me this evening; but it will be best for me to remember it, and live upon it. It will lift me up out of my dull and dreary cares

to think that you have once really loved me.

"Do not think I am unhappy as I write this; I am quietly, blissfully happy. I keep saying to myself, He loves me, he loves me !' I may well be happy. There is not a woman in the world with whom I would change lots to-night. But it shall not interfere with our future friendship that you were once so good to me as to wish me to be your wife. If you marry some one else, as I almost hope you will by-and-by, I shall try to forget it then, for your sake; but until that time, I will remember it morning and night, when I pray God to bless you. He will bless you. You will be a good rich man, as you have been a good poor one. Ah! my dear! I thank God Richard is not in your place to make another bad rich man in this little corner of England. I shall see Herford and Herford people good and prosperous. How much happier it is for me that I have not to bid you farewell, and see your face no more. That would make my life dreary indeed. But I shall see you still as often as ever. The road over the cliffs will be no farther, either for you or me. I shall see you coming. as my friend, bringing me courage and patience to fulfil my duties. There will be no separation between us. You at Herford and I at Rillage, only the fields and the cliffs between us. Was it not the faith and love of true hearts, never altogether failing Him, which made our Lord's life not one of utter suffering? He was never left alone, never but once; and then the Father was with Him.

"Yours, my dear Justin,
"DIANA."

She did not venture to read her letter again, after finishing it. If she could have been Justin's wife! But that could not be. She was the only prop of the falling house. If she was not there what would become of George, to whom the estate would come, or what was left of it, at her father's death? How would poor Milly manage, with her brood of little children and her scampish husband, who would not work, but was not ashamed to beg? And Regy, far away in Australia, whose appeals for help to keep him from actual starvation often wrung her heart. They were all leaning upon her, and if she forsook her post they would sink low in actual poverty and degradation. She knew well how thriftless and extravagant they were, how incapable of helping themselves out of their difficulties, and how

thankless to her for the little aid she could give them, snatched from the general wreck and ruin about her. But she could not abandon them or her father-no, not if the gates of heaven were thrown open to her.

Squire Lynn was in the habit of saying, "Spoil your children, fool them to the top of their bent, let 'em take their own way, and don't cross 'em. I did it with my youngest, little Di, and just mark how she has turned out. There isn't a woman like her in all the country round, and she never went to school in her life."

CHAPTER IX.-DRIFTING.

JUSTIN did his utmost to shake Diana Lynn's resolution, but she had a mind and conscience of her own, and was accustomed to abide by their decision. It was hard to have the chance of happiness urged upon her and yet to turn away from it, and sentence herself to imprisonment with a drunken and eccentric father, whose mode of life made it impossible for her to have any associates of her own. Justin thrust upon her acceptance the highest earthly happiness she could wish for; but she would not take it at the cost of others, though he argued that her duty lay in choosing her own welfare and his. "Why do you tempt me?" she cried, almost indignantly. "Don't you see how difficult it is for me to stand by my father and the others? It is no pleasure, no profit, no glory to me to keep true to them! I would rather be your wife than anything else in the world, but I was born his daughter and their sister; nothing can alter that. And you know they would sink lower than they are if I left my place here. You have every thing you can wish for: your mother and Pansy, your estate and parish, and a hundred things to do and occupy you, all apart from

me.

Life cannot be lonely and desolate to you. You have everything you wish for."

“Except you, Diana," he said persistently. "And I have nothing I wish for," she answered, looking up to him with her dark, deep eyes, "nothing but your love, and that I must set on one side as a temptation and a snare if you will not cease to urge me. I thought you had made me happier, but you are making me miserable."

"I will not make you miserable," he said discontentedly; "but my life must be very poor and incomplete without you. My mother and Pansy ! An old woman, not over-wise, and a little child, and no other companionship! All the hardship is not on your side, my darling!"

But it had to stand at that, and Justin was compelled to bear his disappointment. In fact he was so occupied at this time, that except at short intervals his disappointment did not prey upon him. As Diana had refused to be his wife, at least for an indefinite season, he could not confide to her that secret perplexity of his. The matter remained simply in his hands, and was drifting along to a quiet settlement. The whole neighbourhood was satisfied with old Richard Herford's will, for which it had been fully prepared beforehand, and expressed its satisfaction in flattering terms to the new owner. His uncle Watson, the lawyer at Lowborough, expedited the final settlement of the affairs with friendly expedition, taking them almost into his own hands, as though Justin was a minor. Though he was fond of both his nephews, he was glad of the turn which had made Justin the heir of Herford, feeling a rooted conviction that he would make a good provision for his younger brother, if ever he should turn up again, whereas the young scamp himself would have run through the property swiftly. He was one of the two executors appointed by the will, and he immediately applied for probate of it. He also effected the change of name from Webb to Herford, required by the testator, as speedily as possible, almost without consulting Justin at all. But there was no reasonable objection that Justin could offer to these proceedings without confiding his difficulty to Mr. Watson. This he could not bring himself to do. He felt that he must keep his power in his own hands.

But he was in no haste to leave his small, inconvenient vicarage, or to give up his living, distasteful as his profession was to him. Now that another career, the one he would have chosen, was open to him, his humble home and his pastoral duties seemed dearer to him. His church was better filled, and he fancied he could preach to his people with more result than formerly. There was no one to thwart or hinder him in his parish. Mrs. Herford was quite content to reign alone at the Court, if she might have the income of the whole estate to spend, but her own three hundred a year was insufficient to keep it up as it should be. Justin was not taking his proper place in the neighbourhood, she complained, by dwelling in that little poky vicarage, and Mr. Watson sided with her. Justin ought to live as Herford of Herford Court was expected to live.

But it was more than twelve months after old Richard Herford's death before Justin

gave up his little living and removed to the Court. During that time he was busy making every possible inquiry after his missing brother, and following up every clue that seemed likely to lead to his discovery. It was all in vain. No sign came to them that the prodigal son was yet alive, though in some far country. His mother, when she was in low spirits, wept abundantly over the mysterious fate of her poor boy; but Mrs. Herford was seldom in low spirits, now she was undisputed mistress of Herford Court, though she had some jealous misgivings with regard to Diana Lynn, and treated the friendship existing between her and Justin with chilling distance.

It was not long before Justin Herford was made justice of the peace, for a magistrate was much needed in the neighbourhood, Squire Lynn being frequently unfit to discharge the duties of that office. All the cares of a landowner came upon him. In this throng of new duties the old ones became too burdensome. It had always been irksome to him to visit the sick and dying, to christen the infants, and bury the dead among his parishioners. He was a little more at home in the schools, asking questions of the red-fisted, red-faced boys and girls fresh from the beach, especially when Pansy was with him, displaying her intimate acquaintance with every one of them, and prompting the answers that should be given. But he had not time for the faithful discharge of these obligations; and when at last his conscience was satisfied that he had done all he could for the finding of Richard, he resigned his living, and, it being in his own gift, appointed to it his own friend and old college chum, a poor curate from a north-country parish, who accepted it with unbounded gratitude and joy.

Gradually the neighbourhood began to forget that Justin Herford, of Herford Court, had formerly been Justin Webb, the vicar of that little seaboard parish. He was the squire, and though the estate was a small one, he was one of the influential landowners in the county; possessing an amount of education and cultivation superior to most of them. He was looked up to as a man of mark. If he was absent from the magistrates' meetings all parties regretted it; and especially the accused, if they happened to be less culpable than they appeared to be. His business faculties, which had not found scope as a clergyman, were developed in the successful management of his estate and the little village belonging to him. It was a singularly pros

perous life he led. He was a born master, with a quick eye to detect bad service or good, and a firm, quick will to exact from each person his best work. His lands were farmed to perfection; and his tenants stirred up to vie with him in the careful cultivation of their ground. His village was clean and orderly, with savings banks and reading rooms for his people. The church, under his friend Philip Cunliffe, was as well controlled as his estate. He had his intimate friend living within a stone's throw of his own home, and the woman whom he loved with unswerving constancy and devotion within an hour's walk of him. His little Pansy was blooming into a pretty, sweettempered, charming girl. Yet there were times when Justin's sky was clouded, he hardly knew why. There was a slumbering, subtle sense of insecurity underlying all his sunny days. But even this passed away, as year after year went by, bringing no news of his disinherited brother.

CHAPTER X.-THE VICAR OF HERFORD.

PHILIP CUNLIFFE, the friend to whom Justin had given the living of Herford, was an enthusiast in all the duties and offices of his profession. He set them far above every other obligation, and his whole heart was bent upon their fulfilment. There was a good share of asceticism in his temperament; and worldly affairs of any kind had little interest for him. He literally took no thought for his life, what he should eat, or what he should drink, or what clothing he should put on. He might be seen every day of the year, fine or stormy, marching with slow long strides about his parish to the most distant outlying homesteads, dressed in a shabby, white-seamed old coat, which had come very gradually down from the dignity of Sunday wear, to the last stage of brownness that it was possible for a gentleman's coat to exhibit. His tall, spare figure, and gentle, absorbed face, were familiar to every one of his parishioners, down to the youngest child that could totter about the fields and lanes, or patter into the tide on the beach. He knew nothing, and could learn nothing about farming and fishing; and his parish felt that he was all the more a parson for that. Both farmers and fishermen felt a mutual contempt for each other's opinion in the calling that other had not been born to; and a parson, who meddled with neither, but stuck close to his books and his church, was worthy of their deepest respect. When Mr. Cunliffe stopped to speak to them at their work, with his thin,

leek, were picturesque enough; but Justin's eye was offended by the dirt and squalor of the unkept garden, and of the rooms within,

Though Mr. Cunliffe took no thought for his life, it was essential that some one should take thought for him, and for the food and clothing of the household. The vicarage was full of children, till the small rooms which had appeared so inconvenient and comfortless to Justin seemed always overflowing with them. There was not much order or neatness in the house, and it would have been a work of difficulty to maintain either; but Mr. Cunliffe was too contemplative and rapt in thought to take much notice of the general discomfort and confusion. His study was in the attics, out of the noise and disturbance; and there he spent most of his time when he was not about his parish business. Mrs. Cunliffe was a meek-looking little woman, with a soft step, and quiet muffled voice, apt to fall into a whisper. She was not a stirring, energetic, bustling person; though the female population of Herford were in the habit of saying under their breath that she was a deep one. It was always with a reluctant step that any farmer's or fisher's wife carried her goods to the vicarage, where she was certain to come away beaten in her efforts to make a bargain. The offertory money passed through Mrs. Cunliffe's hands; and though there was very little real poverty or need in the parish, there were low murmurs current among the old folks, whose claims upon it had been more liberally met in Justin's time. She had been known to give twopence to the mother of a family, plunged into sudden distress by the illness of her husband, with the encouraging remark, "There! that will float you again! The words had run into a proverb among the Herford folk. "We've a rare good parson," they said among themselves, "but parson's wife--she's no better than she should be."

There was one cottage in Herford which was always an eye-sore to Justin, and a plague of heart to Mr. Cunliffe. It was the last in the long, straggling village street, farthest away from the beach, and nearest to the coppices of dwarfed trees and tangled brushwood, where Richard Herford in his boyhood had learned how to snare his father's game and poach on his preserves. The thick stone walls of this cottage, and the thatched roof, covered with ivy and house

woman living in it, Martha Dart, and her daughter Leah, were the last of the bad lot who had helped to ruin Richard. Herford was too small a place to be a desirable dwelling for men decidedly set against the tide; and after old Richard Herford's death, the little gang of poachers and petty larceny delinquents had melted away before the general improvement and prosperity which followed Justin's succession to the estate. Old Martha Dart, who had been goose-girl at the Court, and had her cottage almost rent free, was too old to flit away with her gang of sons and grandsons; and her youngest daughter Leah was usually at home with her.

But though Justin rarely set his foot into the cottage, Mr. Cunliffe visited it as regularly as any other house in his parish. He had never succeeded in winning this old woman to church, though Leah, who was ambitious, had consented to sing in the gallery with the children of the Sunday school, if Miss Jenny Cunliffe would sing there too. Old Martha Dart went, she said, to meeting in the lighthouse, where a service was held on Sunday night, at an hour when the parish church was closed.

"I like the ways on it best," said the bleareyed, bent old woman, "it's more home-like. It does na' matter what clothes I go in ; and I hanna' got no church clothes, like Christians. I dun very well at the old lighthouse. He's my brother-in-law; and there's a chimbleycorner as I can sit in just the same as my own fire-side. Church religion's too grand for such as me."

"My good woman, religion is the same everywhere, in church or chapel," said Mr. Cunliffe, in a firm yet mild tone. He had said the same words over hundreds of times, and would say them hundreds of times more to old Martha Dart's dull ears. "Religion is to believe in God, and to love Him. You can do that here, in your own house, in the poorest rags, as truly as the richest personage in the grandest church in the world. Going to church or chapel is not religion; it is only part of the outward form of it."

"Ay! ay! I canna' understand," muttered old Martha sullenly, "if it inna religion to go to church, folks is in a bad way. I go to th' old lighthouse, because I've got no church-going clothes; but I war married in church, and I'll be buried in church, and if that inna religion enough for an old creature

like me, God Almighty's very hard to please, and there's more folks like me in a bad way."

Martha," said Mr. Cunliffe earnestly, "let me tell you once more that God is not hard to please. Nay; He loves you, and only seeks your love. He is looking out for you, and is ready to welcome you; like the father in the parable I read to you so often. You recollect? The younger son had gone away into a far country, and had wasted all he had in riotous living; and he was coming home again, ragged, and hungry, and penniless. 'But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed That is only a poor image of what God feels for you and me."

"Ay! but it doesn't seem real like," answered the old woman. "I always think of Master Dick when you talk like that. Th' old master didn't forgive him like the man in the book. Leastways he cut him off from everything. Laws! it's easier to tell a tale like that than to love folks and forgive folks. God Almighty's cut me off from everything, even church-going clothes; and I canna believe as He's willing to give me the best robe, and a ring for my finger, and new shoes for my feet. Nay! I'll be bound to be buried in your church, and if that inna enough, why, I must take my luck with the other folk."

"You leave mother alone, sir," said Leah, "she's in a bad way to-day, she is. But it's true what she said. It was a hard thing of th' old master to cut off his only son. It's ten years since he died, and nigh upon fifteen since Master Dick ran away. He was a brave bold young gentleman as ever trod."

"There is nothing in the parable to indicate the time of his absence," he replied; "he did not come back till he had spent all, and was ready to perish with hunger."

"He came home because he'd nothing to eat," said Leah, with a hard smile on her face; "it wasn't for love of his father, or of his mother that bore him. Master Dick's sure to come back some day, when he's got no more money to spend, and is tired of

earnin' any. He'll come home yet; and what will he feel when, instead of his father a lookin' out for him, and a runnin' to meet him, he finds another man's son set up in his stead as master of Herford? Do you think he'll believe in God Almighty's love, sir?"

"If Richard Herford is still living," replied Mr. Cunliffe, "he cannot expect to find his father alive yet. He knew how old he was, and how little chance there could be of ever seeing his face again; and he trampled on his father's love, and counted it worthless. It is what you are doing with the love of God."

"I think I've got as much religion as the quality," said Leah, with a slightly anxious. expression on her face; "Miss Pansy isn't more regular than me at church. I shouldn't like to have less than the quality."

But fortunately for Leah Mr. Cunliffe had not heard what she said, for her mother had spoken to him at the same moment, and he was listening to her querulous tones. His visit was soon brought to an end, and he left the cottage somewhat more faint-hearted than usual at his failure in making any impression on the dull and obstinate mind of the old woman, whose life was drawing so nearly to its close.

Leah Dart was regarded as a link between the old times and the new in Herford. She had not had her full share of the excitement and variety of the former days, when poaching and smuggling and petty thefts had filled the cottage with a rude abundance of forbidden luxuries, besides bringing a succession of stirring and hair-breadth escapes from detection; old times, which formed the constant theme of her mother's lamentations. Nor had slie been able to share fully in the new reign of quiet prosperity and comfort which had set in upon the little sea-side village. She was a girl of sixteen when Richard Herford disappeared, and probably no one had mourned him more deeply, or continued to cherish the hope of his return more faithfully. She had helped her mother in the care of the poultry belonging to the Court, and so had frequent opportunities of seeing Richard, who had never failed in giving the rosy black-eyed girl a word or a smile as he passed her at her work. She had often watched and waited for hours, and placed herself in his way to catch either the smile or the word. The young heir was three years older than herself, and was almost an object of worship to her. And after he was gone she could not bring herself to look with any favour on