found her, still kneeling in her bride's dress, with her hand clasped in Mrs. Chichester's, and Guy standing beside them.

"Do not be long, my wife," whispered Guy, leading Honor to the door. But there was no need to hasten her; in a marvelously short time she returned, before Guy had got back from the field that was still ringing with the cheers.

He came in, looking pleased and excited.

Good-by, Dym," were Honor's parting words as she pressed the girl fervently to her. "This day has linked us together more than ever. One day, dear, may you be as happy as I am!" "I leave you a precious legacy, Miss Elliott," said Mr. Chichester, as he came up to shake hands with her. "Take care of my mother, and God bless you! You know I shall never forget my little friend."

But it was at Mrs. Chichester's side that Honor tarried longest.

Good-by, mother; you are mine as well as Guy's now. Do not be lonely without us." And people marveled at the long silent embrace that followed.

The guests and servants were all on the terrace, and some of the younger ones threw garlands into the carriage as it rolled off. Will stooped down and picked up one that lay at his feet it was a green rowan spray.

Will took the night mail up to London that same evening; not even Dym's entreaties could induce him to defer his departure to the next day.

"My dear child, I must go," he returned, quite gently; but when Will spoke in that tone she knew he meant to keep his word. Dym went back to the great brilliant drawingroom, where Beatrix was playing on the grand piano, and Mrs. Chichester, with tired face and unsteady lips, was listening to her sister's dreary platitudes. Mrs. Fortescue, in an elegant pose, was talking London gossip with Colonel Delaire, and her husband was playing spillikins with Edith.

How empty the room seemed! what vacuum! what dreariness! How she missed the tall restless figure that always perambulated it at this time in the evening, or harangued them from the rug! How mercilessly he used to quiz her! what drollery, what covert sarcasms spoke in every tone of his voice! He could make them laugh, but he could be eloquent too.

There were times when Mrs. Chichester and she would

hush their very breath as they listened to him. What grand thoughts, what a vast comprehensive grasp of mind he had! sometimes his voice would change and tremble with the very greatness of his subject; then all at once he would be silent; Dym wandering in the corridors afterwards would hear weird music, suffering, passionate, drawn into strange chords and thrills of sound, reverberating through the room till Kelpie howled a protest, and came up fawning to his master, to coax him to a midnight ramble through the sleeping village.

But Kelpie had gone with his master, and it would be long before Ingleside would welcome their return. We all know the vacuum after a great excitement; the lights have gone out at the feast, our friends have departed; far away they may be thinking of us, but we are sitting lonely and sad without them; this morning they were with us, we pressed their hands and bade God speed them, and now they are gone.

Life is full of these wearinesses, these disgusts; when our days lose their flavor, and are nothing but minutes and hours; with some of us it is like Mariana in her moated grange:

"Old faces glimmered through the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without."

The very silence has a voice within it; we hear our friends though not a word is spoken.

Humphrey looked across the room very longingly for some time before he ventured to approach the corner where Dym had ensconced herself.

It was by the open window, for the evening was mild. Dym had a book before her, but her eyes were looking out on the moonlighted terraces; her face had a sorrowful, wistful expression. Humphrey thought evidently his presence disturbed her, for a gleam of impatience crossed her face.

"Are you going, Mr. Nethecote?"

"Not just yet," he replied, sitting down beside her. Humphrey was short-sighted, and his chair got entangled with the violet silk. Dym reproved him with a little sharpness as she freed herself.

"I am afraid I am very clumsy," said poor Humphrey, apologetically. It was almost painful to see how humble he

would be with this girl; the more capricious and uncertain she was, the gentler he would be with her. Humphrey was always being punished for her unsatisfactory moods, though the truth must be owned he often stumbled upon them with a singular want of tact. Humphrey would not see when he was not wanted; he would come up with his honest face and jest just at the wrong moment. At times Dym would behave herself very sweetly to him; with all her humors she had an odd confidence and faith in this simple kindly friend of hers. days together Humphrey would nourish the hope that his suit was not looked upon unfavorably. The mistake lay in Dym's perfect unconsciousness and his ignorance of it; it had never entered her head to recognize Humphrey as a lover, and Humphrey had not as yet ventured to address her.

For

As he sat down beside her, hardly repulsed by her ungraciousness, though a little rueful over it, a faint suspicion came into his mind that he was too rough and uncouth to be the husband of such a dainty little creature. In spite of her sullenness, Dym looked wonderfully well to-night: the rich silk and lace ruffles and the dead-gold locket became her marvelously, as she sat there with her smooth dark hair tucked behind her ears, and the troubled light shining in her eyes. She looked certainly very graceful and attractive, and other men besides Humphrey Nethecote might have felt inclined to lose their hearts to her.

"I suppose I shall have to go now," continued Humphrey. "I am putting off the evil moment as long as I can, for, though I wouldn't wish it, it is hard to go home and miss the Duchess."

Dym felt a little visiting of remorse. Here she was luxuriating in her sad thoughts, while all this time Humphrey was bravely striving after cheerfulness and hiding deep down in his heart that he sorely felt the loss of his only sister, the sweet woman-face that had made the brightness of his hearth for so many years.

There is something especially sad when a middle-aged brother or sister loses the companion of life. Now and then one hears of such cases, but it is death oftener than marriage that robs them of their domestic treasure. Humphrey was years enough older than Honor to feel a sort of fatherly love for her; he had been a boy when she was an infant in her cradle, and a youth when she was a little maiden tottering after him and calling

out to Humphie to lift her over the stepping-stone. But Honor had been his wise and cheerful companion for many years now. Without weakness, Humphrey had learned to trust her judgment and respect her decision. "Ask the Duchess; she knows more about it than I," was a frequent speech on his lips. I believe if Honor had understood such things he would have farmed his lands on her method in preference to his own. It was pleasant to see the mutual love and reverence of the brother and sister; and yet he had given her up to his friend without a selfish sigh, and was bravely setting himself to do without her.

Perhaps Humphrey's quiet manly bearing won her respect at last; perhaps, as I said before, Dym felt some visitings of remorse, for her manner changed and softened.

"It must be very dull for you. I am afraid you will miss her dreadfully," she said, trying to infuse a little interest into her tone.

Humphrey brightened up.

"These things come a little hard at first," he returned, sturdily. "Once I should have thought of doing without my right hand sooner than I'd have done without the Duchess. You see, a man grows to lean upon his womankind; with me it was 'Duchess do this, and Duchess do that' all day long."

"Poor Mr. Nethecote!" It was all Dym said, but her eyes beamed on him full of kindliness. Something seemed to tug at Humphrey's heart-strings and to take away his breath for a moment; her voice was sweet to him, and so was her pity; but if he could only make her understand that she could comfort him.

"It is not so bad as it might be," he broke out in a gruff unsteady voice. "I shall not be quite lonely when I smoke my pipe in the evening; I shall have heaps of queer thoughts to keep me company. I wonder what you would say if you knew some of them."

Dym shook her head. She was not quite sure that she eared to know many of Humphrey's thoughts. She yawned a little as Humphrey prosed on in his slow way: he noticed it at last.

"I must go away. I see I am tiring you," he said, very sadly. Dym dropped him a little curtsy and then gave him her hand; her eyes blinked at him, looking very drowsy and

pretty. "Good-by, dear," he said, patting the little hand kindly.

Dym looked after him. As the honest fellow went out, stumbling over the ottomans and footstools, a sudden color came into her cheeks. Why had he called her dear? had he forgotten? was he so very unhappy? "Poor Humphrey, we must cheer him up," she thought, as she went up to her room; and, oddly enough, she fell asleep still thinking of him.

CHAPTER XXV.

A FRAGMENT OF THE OLD, OLD STORY.

DYM was not without courage. The day after the wedding she set herself to take up her old duties again with a tolerable amount of determination and steadiness. It was dull; but life was dull, she said to herself, with a stoical shrug of the shoulders. She knew what Ingleside without Mr. Chichester was; and, though she sorely and persistently missed him every hour of the day, she resolutely banished all painful regrets, and bore herself at least with outward cheerfulness.

Perhaps Humphrey's unselfishness had taught her something; but it was certain Mr. Chichester's last words had sunk deeply into her heart. “I leave you a precious legacy," he had said to her, with one of his winning smiles; and from that moment there was something sacred to Dym in the trust reposed in her. She would prove herself worthy of it; she would show him that hers was no hireling labor; if possible, she would redouble her loving services to his mother, content if, on his return, he would reward her with one of his approving looks.

Guy Chichester had acted wisely in commending his mother to Dym's care. Dym had always been willing and affectionate, but her work had lacked enthusiasm; Guy's words had lent impetus to it. Mrs. Chichester soon felt the change in her young companion. Dym never complained of weariness now;