it afresh nobly. Are there none beside yourself to be forgiven and comforted ?"

Did she understand him? The meek pathetic eyes grew radiant.

"Ah, if I dared! if it would only be right!" she faltered. "Unto seventy times seven have you forgotten that, Miss Nethecote?"

The white lips quivered. “What, have I been wrong all through? is that what you mean? Is it I who ought to have forgiven? You are a clergyman. I see, you know all ; tell me." "Not now; when you are stronger, perhaps. Say your Te Deum now, and try to sleep." And so he blessed her, and went. But not many days after she sent for him again.

"You must hear me now," she said; and the noble heart disburdened itself.

"These great souls sin deeply," was William Elliott's simple comment. "Now I know both sides and can judge fairly. You are a good woman, but you have been less generous than he. I am Guy Chichester's friend, and I dare to tell you of your faults."

"Oh, do," she humbly prayed him.

"You loved him truly, but you loved your own will better. You might have trusted him."

"I will," said Honor Nethecote; and she kept her word. "When?" he inquired, softly.

"Wait a little you will see," was her answer; and from that moment she began rapidly to amend.

William Elliott's prophecy was correct. From the day of his conversation with her there was a marked change in Honor. Earnest in everything, she set herself to get well with all the strength of her womanly will: she did not linger over her convalescence as poor Dym was doing; the real vigor of her constitution asserted itself; in a marvelously short time she took off her sickness and declared herself well. She smiled with sweet incredulity when Dr. Grey quoted to her the two favorite sayings of the celebrated Bishop of Geneva-" Make haste slowly," and "Well enough is soon enough"-declaring he would have them written up in letters of gold in every room of convalescence; and when Honor scolded him for perverting such noble maxims to mere bodily uses, he returned,

L*

seriously, "We are not always merciful to the poor body, or we should not lay such heavy burdens on it before it is fairly recruited and ready for work. You will not be the woman you were for a long time to come, Miss Nethecote; be careful. I am not sure yet that I shall not recommend your brother to take you southward for a winter or two." And more than once he repeated the same thing very gravely.

Honor did not refuse to hearken, but for all that she set her nurses at naught; and one wild Mareh day, when the winds seemed blowing from the four quarters of heaven, and the sunshine fell in broken streaks on the window-ledges, Honor crept into Dym's room, looking as fair and white as one of her favorite lilies.

Dym was lying alone, and feeling as dreary as the prospect outside; two gaunt poplars waved to and fro before her window; the bare boughs creaked in the gusty air; the low appletrees flapped noisily; a robin flew down on the white garden path; the grasses shivered; and a whirl of gray dust was everywhere.

"Poor little robin out there in the cold;" thought Dym. “Ah, that was what Honor called me." She sighed at the remembrance, and half urned; and there was Honor looking at her, and in another moment they were clasped in each other's arms.

It was a long, clinging embrace, for community of suffering had united those two dissimilar natures indissolubly. The thin white faces met lovingly, but Honor was the first to disengage herself.

"I am very womanish and weak still," she said, with a little gentle effort after merriment; but Dym's agitation was infectious, and she subsided into her chair with wet eyes, as Dym still clung to her, and covered the hand she held with tears and kisses.

Come, birdie, this will not do;" but Honor fondled her still more lovingly.

"You have been so ill, Honor, and all through me," said Dym. "I wonder you do not hate the sight of me. Will has told me how they feared for you."

"I thought I was at death's door, but he brought me back," replied Honor, gravely; but her tones shook a little. “I wanted sadly to see you, dear, but they would not let me.

Perhaps it was as well; my looks might have frightened you."

"You are not quite the same Honor now," returned Dym, in a distressed voice; and she was right: the beautiful eyes had a heavy look in them; the temples were blue-veined and had deep hollows; the wasted hands and arms were pitiful.

Honor gave a weak little laugh. "Comparisons are odious. You cannot talk yourself, Dym. You have lost all your pretty. color, and your eyes are twice the size they ought to be."

"That is what Will says. Oh, Honor, you have seen

Will!"

"Yes, I have seen him. If it were not for Humphrey, I think I should envy you your brother; as it is, for the future I shall reverence him almost as much as you do."

"I am so glad!" sighed Dym. "But is it not sad-his affliction, I mean? He is quite young, but he looks older than Mr. Nethecote."

"Does he? I did not notice. I only thought what a beautiful soul he must have to look and speak so; but then, you see, I always knew he must be good."

66

Why; Honor?"

"Because you loved him so, and because he was Mr. Chichester's friend," answered Honor, simply; and just then the subject of their talk entered.

use.

They were in the pretty little morning room that Honor called her boudoir, and which had been appropriated to Dym's Will gave a start of surprise when he saw Miss Nethecote; he thought to have found his sister alone, as usual; but, as he told Guy Chichester afterwards, he had never seen a prettier sight than those two women clinging together hand in hand.

The firelight played on Dym's rose-colored wrapper and loose shining hair. Honor leaned back a little wearily; she had knotted up her brown hair tightly, and by some quaint sweet fashion of her own wore a white cashmere dress, trimmed with soft fur at the neck and wrists; the full throat gleaming whitely from the dainty ruff; the calm repose, the full breathing life of the figure was in strange juxtaposition to the inert, hopeless lethargy in which he had seen it last.

A faint color rose to her face, as though his entrance stirred some memory.

"I hope I do not disturb you. I am glad to see you so much better, Miss Nethecote," holding her hand with congratulating pressure.

“Thank you, I am well;" but the trembling of the fingers was not lost on him.

Forgive me if I contradict you," he returned, cheerily. "You are not so much above us poor mortals as that. You are still weak enough to be nervous.

"I have no nerves," she assured him, calmly.

"Not ordinary ones, I grant you: you are too finely tempered for that. Dym, Mr. Chichester has sent you these flowers," throwing her a bouquet of violets and snowdrops, at which Dym blushed brightly with surprise and pleasure. "He wants to know if you have any message for St. Luke's?"

"St. Luke's!" Miss Nethecote leaned back in her chair; there was a slight quiver of the nostrils; her eyelids flickered, and then swept her cheek. Will's eyes noted the sudden paleness. He smiled to himself, as though he thought Miss Nethecote's nerves were not invulnerable.

"It is a sudden fancy of his to go up by the mail-train tonight. Lythe has been writing up about some riot in the schools. I tell him it is madness to travel by night in such weather, but he is obstinate as usual. He is out riding now, but I suppose he will be back by evening."

Honor shielded her eyes with her hand; there was doubt, irresolution, a slight confusion, in her aspect; then she decided. "Mr. Elliott.'

Will almost started; the voice was changed and trembling. "Will you give him a message from me?"

"A hundred, if you will," he returned, gayly.

She smiled; her color rose; a faint, fair tinge spread over brow, cheek, and neck, touching the delicate ear; there was a strange shining light in the brown eyes that almost dazzled him. She penciled a few words hastily on a slip of paper, and, crossing the room with weak slow footsteps, put it into his hand.

And this was what Guy Chichester read some hours afterwards:

"Come to me before you go.

"HONOR BRIGHT."

CHAPTER XIX.

66 THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE."

"DEAR, are you asleep?" asked Honor, presently. With the twilight she had stolen back into Dym's room: the candles were still unlighted, but the pine-knots diffused a warm spicy odor through the room; the firelight played on the low ceiling and over the brackets and statuettes; the wind had lulled, and the moon shone through the uncurtained window, through which still waved the shadows of the gaunt poplars.

Dym lay so still that Honor had more than once fancied she was asleep.

"No; only thinking, Honor."

"So was I. How silent we have both been! Dym, have you ever tried to find out the reason of a sudden silence?"

"No, dear." Dym's tone was languid; she was on the dim border-land where the introspective meets melancholy; her thoughts were undefinable-a trifle sad. She roused into outer life with difficulty.

"I had a little sister once, and when we were children together, and this silence fell between us like a veil, my mother would lift up her hand and say, gently, I can hear her quiet voice now, Hush, children, an angel is passing through the room; and sometimes, so strong is childish faith, I could almost fancy a soft wing brushed past me."

"What a beautiful thought!" returned Dym, in an awestruck voice.

"It teaches reverence in silence as well as words. 'The cloud of witnesses' are too often absent from our mind. Dym, there is something heavy on my heart to-night, as though some coming joy oppressed me. After all, there is something awful in a great happiness."

"Are you so happy, Honor?" And Dym sighed.

"Yes, happy; happier than I have ever been in my life. Dym, sometimes I fancy we are friends," her voice rounding and modulating into sweetness.