"What made you think of that ?" returned Guy, somewhat abruptly, as he lifted her over the stile, and they walked on together.

"It is the motto of the Elliotts as well as the Chichesters," replied Dym, softly. "He conquers who endures;' it was quoting that that first made me call him Will Conqueror. Ah, Mr. Chichester, you have seen Will-how does he look ?" Passably well-not a giant, perhaps. Strange that you should have said those words, and at this very spot too. Miss Elliott, do you believe in omens ?"

"I am afraid I do.'

"Don't be afraid," he replied, warmly: "if I may accept this as an omen, you have made my welcome home a sweet

one.

"Have I, Mr. Chichester?"

"Yes, my child."

He had never called her that before; and there was a gentle affectionate tone in his voice as he spoke. Was he glad to see her? Dym thought that he was. The wind blew coldly from the hills, and a few more flakes were falling; but Dym did not shiver now; she had forgotten the cold and the darkness as she followed the tracks Guy Chichester made in the snow.

"Tread thou in my footsteps boldly. Do you feel like good King Wenceslaus's page, Miss Elliott? I won't promise you that you will not feel the cold any longer, though." And as Dym laughed, "By the by, for whom was that amiable greeting intended when you came up to me just now?"

"Not for you, Mr. Chichester. Ah, I am so glad you have come home!" Loyal je serai durant ma vie might have been Dym's motto. She brought out her words with a great sigh of relief.

If Mr. Chichester was surprised at the girl's enthusiasm, he kept it to himself. "Poor child, have you been dull?" he said, in the same kindly paternal tone. "What has my mother been about, I wonder? She ought to have taken you to the vicarage."

"Mrs. Fortescue did not ask me,' was the low response. "So I suspected. Ah, well, Katherine has not found her Petruchio yet. Latimer is not a good shrew-tamer. I must give her ladyship a hint on the subject one of these days." "Oh, please do not, Mr. Chichester. Į am far happier at

Ingleside. I know Mrs. Fortescue does not like me," implored Dym, somewhat frankly.

"My cousin Katherine has her whims, as other people have. As I intend that you shall be received into Birst with society, and her ladyship aspires to the leadership of that society, I shall see that this negligence is repaired." Dym never dared to contradict when the squire spoke in this severe tone; he was evidently displeased at his cousin's haughtiness; but when he next spoke he had resumed his tone of pleasant raillery. "So you don't like the vicarage, eh?"

"I never feel at home there," was the honest answer. "Latimer is kind to you, isn't he?"

"As kind as he knows how to be. He chills one a little. I like the boys best."

"They have a lot of young people with them to-night. I came up with Trevor, and he told me he and his wife were going up to supper after service. The boys are going to play snapdragon, much to the vicar's disgust. Don't you think it is a shame to marry a clergyman and to act contrary to his opinions?" "Mrs. Fortescue thinks eves and vigils are popish," returned Dym, wickedly.

"I know she does. Latimer will shut himself up in his study and make believe he is studying his Christmas sermon. Lat is a good fellow, and hates making a fuss; and, after all, there is no sin in snapdragon."

"I think they ought all to go to church if he wishes it," returned Dym, with a little decision.

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Why aren't you there, then, instead of roaming about the fields and addressing uncivil speeches to some persons unknown? You have not told me yet whom you are so tired of seeing." Dym felt rather foolish at this question: was the squire plaguing her on purpose?

"I was afraid it was Mr. Nethecote," she stammered. is always about the fields of an evening."

"He

"Oh, indeed," was the pointed answer; but Dym could not see the smile that accompanied it.

"I wish Miss Nethecote would come back, and that would keep him more at home," observed Dym, who was rather nettled at the squire's tone.

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What, has she not returned? How is that?" he asked, quickly.

"A cousin of theirs has lost her husband lately, and Miss Nethecote is remaining with her and the children."

،،

Helen Stewart. Ah, an old playmate of Honor's. Is it the loss of his sister's company that has given old Humphrey these roaming habits, I wonder? Talk about the-you know what, Miss Elliott, there he is, I declare. I say, Nethecote!" Why, it is never the squire!" came in broad accents through the darkness.

،،

Why shouldn't it be, man? You didn't think I had turned into a Londoner, did you ?”

"Almost," was the dry response, as the two men shook hands; and then Humphrey peered in his short-sighted way through the gloom.

،، Miss Elliott is here, Humphrey." "Ay, ay!" brightening up. "You have stayed over-long at Woodside, surely, Miss Elliott?"

"I am not accountable to you for the time I spend there, am I, Mr. Nethecote?" was the sulky answer, for Dym was cross at having her tête-à-tête broken up; she so seldom enjoyed a word with the squire, and now Humphrey had spoiled her pleasure.

But Mr. Nethecote had a staunch friend in the 'squire. "Come, come, that's the second uncivil speech I have heard from your lips to-night, Miss Elliott. I won't have old Humphrey snubbed in my presence. As my mother is out, I've ordered tea in the library and if you promise to be amiable, and make it for both of us, I will give you a dozen choice anecdotes of Will Clericus's sayings and doings. There's a bargain. Nethecote, you'll bear us company, will you not?"

"If I shall not be in Miss Elliott's way," was the rueful answer. But Dym, who was already ashamed of her petulance, confirmed the squire's invitation so prettily that Humphrey cheered up again.

That evening was full of perilous sweetness to Dym. Mrs. Chichester, sitting in the vicarage drawing-room and wishing Miss Elliott could be with her, little thought how happily her young companion was employed. The library was Mr. Chichester's private sanctum, and, except for changing the flowervases in the early morning, Dym had never been invited to cross the threshold. Mrs. Chichester would sit there sometimes of an evening, when they had to discuss particular

business; but Guy, was chary of such invitations even to his

mother.

It was a small room, but fitted up with the greatest taste and fastidiousness, paneled in dark oak; the carved bookcases were of the same wood, and the hangings to the deep baywindow were of violet velvet.

The lamps were lighted, and a splendid wood fire burned on the hearth, the pine logs diffusing a sweet spicy smell as they burned. Kelpie stretched himself out lazily on the black-bear rug. Dym, sitting behind the silver urn, with her brown dress brightened up with a breast-knot of holly and winter's roses, looked such an image of girlish content and youthfulness that Guy caught himself wondering once or twice whether Humphrey, after all, was good enough for her, and whether there could be any truth in his mother's supposition.

He rather thought there was, as he saw how Humphrey blinked his hazel eyes and watched her every movement after tea. Dym fetched her work, and sat down demurely enough by the centre-table. Mr. Chichester had finished his budget of news from St. Luke's, and was quietly discussing home affairs with Humphrey. Mr. Nethecote's answers were hardly as shrewd as usual; a pretty little rose tint was on Dym's usually pale cheeks, the lace ruffle just suited the dainty white throat. Heaven knows how fair that girlish figure had grown in honest Humphrey's eyes, who just twelve years ago had buried his young betrothed, the sister of that very Helen Stewart whose desolate home Honor was at present brightening.

Few people save the squire knew the history of that early engagement of Humphrey's. Katie Murray was only Dym's age, a young governess of eighteen, when her grave cousin Humphrey fell in love with her. She was a bright sonsielooking girl, very fair; and yet Humphrey, in spite of Dym's olive complexion and dark hair, always would have it she reminded him of Katie.

Humphrey nearly broke his honest heart when he lost his sweetheart. Kate was not clever, but had transferred very warm, affectionate heart into her cousin's keeping; she succumbed to a fever she had caught in nursing her little pupils. The pretty head was shorn of its long, fair tresses when Humphrey next saw it, and the rosy lips were dry and black

ened with fever.

“Ah, well, I shall see my girl in heaven,"

he said, as he turned away.

He spoke very little of his sorrow, even to his sisterthese reticent natures suffer silently; some of the bitterest tears Honor ever shed were for her brother. She told Guy Chichester that she felt abashed by Humphrey's goodness and resignation. "He tries to keep bright, that I may not be saddened by his sorrow; but I can see what the effort is to him." "You both spring from the same parent stem, Honor," he said, smiling; "you and Humphrey live your feelings instead of talking about them." But this was hardly true of either brother or sister-they were slow in attaching themselves. Humphrey especially suffered from that thoroughly English disease, mauvaise honte; but both could be passionately demonstrative at times to the object of their affection.

So Humphrey hardly bore himself as a love-sick girl would have done; but he honestly owned his affliction, and mourned long and faithfully for his sweetheart Katie, as he always fondly called her. The years went on, healing the old wound, and just as Humphrey seemed settling into sober old bachelorhood, Dym's bright face and sprightly tongue began to stir the sluggish impulse of the man's heart.

Dym worked on, happily unconscious that she was Humphrey Nethecote's fate. She had plenty of merry smiles and words for him to-night; content is rarely quarrelsome, and Dym was wondrously content.

"The king has come to his own again," she said to herself, with a certain amused consciousness of Guy's lordly looks and ways. He had bidden her a cheery good-night, and had gone out with Humphrey to bring his mother home; when he had taken a few steps in the snow he came back with a strange suppressed eagerness in his manner.

"Good-night, my good little prophet."

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Good-night, Mr. Chichester."

Qui patitur vincit. I shall remember-it is the Chichester's watchword. There, run in out of the snow, my child. Good-night again, God bless you." And, with a smile of singular sweetness, Guy Chichester plunged into the dark shrubberies to rejoin Humphrey.

But neither of them knew Humphrey Nethecote's motto: Per crucem ad coronam-Through the cross to the crown.