"How can you help it, Mr. Chichester?"

Dym was almost beside herself. A ghost of a smile flitted across Mr. Chichester's stern face at her childishness, and then he braced himself up to fresh severity.

"You are wasting my time and your own; I cannot keep my guests waiting. I have sent for you this morning to give you an opportunity of making some apology; but I see I am mistaken.'

May I go, then, sir?" Certainly Dym knew how to be provoking.

"You may go when I have finished what I have to say," he returned, in his haughtiest manner. "I am sorry you oblige me to speak so peremptorily. Your apology to me is of small moment; but I request-nay, I insist that you make one without delay to Miss Nethecote."

Dym rose without a word.

"Do you understand me, Miss Elliott?"

"I understand you well, Mr. Chichester," turning very pale, and speaking as proudly as he.

And you mean to comply with my wish?"

"If not-you have my resignation," spoken with a little

scorn.

"What folly! what madness!" he muttered, walking to the window; "the girl must be crazy. Miss Elliott," turning to her with a heavy frown on his face, "I think we have talked long enough. When I hear you have made amends to Miss Nethecote, we will think about your leaving us."

CHAPTER XVII.

UNDER THE STARS.

COBWEBS again! A few poor pitiful meshes.

Half-truths magnified; a little leak widening into a dangerous breach; a few hasty words uttered at random, to be wiped out by bitter tears.

After all, how often are we like the Midianites!—a few broken pitchers, a slight confusion of lights, a sudden terror

in the host, and we turn our hands against each other. We war with our best friends; we fall upon swords stretched out in our defence.

There is a wonderful axiom in philosophy-God help us if it be true!-that sound never dies; that a word once spoken goes echoing on through space forever. Think of that vast inconceivable torrent of sound rolling up among the stars; think of the horrible blasphemies of earth, the foul words, the foolish utterances, that add volume to that dread accusation: an eternity of sound, never to be silenced till time shall be no more!

When the books are opened-what if for the space of half an hour there shall again be silence in heaven?—and that pitiful wave of sound reverberate to the everlasting doors, shall we not be judged beforehand who speak so leniently of the sins of the tongue, who laugh lightly over words that will make the angels veil their faces?

"Let your words be few," says the wise man.

Speak much and often," is the counsel of fools.

"Little by little, by degrees," is the devil's motto. The father of lies is a wary diplomatist. If we fell too quickly, we should rise too humbly; no one slips the whole way downhill. We first lay plenty of those paving-stones which we are told line the nether world; we are full of good intentions; we are a little too long in groping our way upward, perhaps; there is dust that blinds us; stumbling-blocks, rough stones, that trip us up. Sometimes we fall prone; at other times we gather fresh strength and rise; now and then we cast our staff away. Ah, well for us that in the wilderness God's providence and our good angel do not desert us, for there are many whose beginnings of evil were small, whose end is a lost eternity.

"Let not the sun go down on your wrath." I wonder how many of us appreciate the wisdom, the intense common sense, to speak with all reverence, of those words. "To strike when the iron is hot," is homely parlance, but it conveys the same truth.

We should never sleep on our anger. It is as though we called an evil spirit to our couch and bade it watch beside us. There is no hatred so intense as the hatred begotten of love. There is no wrath so cruel as that we cherish against a be loved object.

As religious wars have been the bloodiest ever known in this world's history, so is our antagonism the strongest when a friend has provoked it. The cruellest passion of which human nature is capable is jealousy; and jealousy is begotten of love.

Dym had entered Guy Chichester's presence subdued and saddened, conscious of her fault, but not willing to own it; but she left it feeling as cold and hard as a stone. She was waiting for her olive-branch to come to her, without sending out the messenger for it. Ah, when our flood-tides are ebbing, how few of us ever stretch out our bands and pull "the dove into the ark"!

If it comes to us, well and good; but Pride-the foremost of the rank and file of the "Devil's Own"-forbids us to make the first advances. In her present mood, which was Esau-like, Dym would have died rather than ask Honor's pardon.

"Let him turn me away, as he wanted to turn Stewart," she said to herself, with a bitter laugh.

As she sat among the guests that evening, people wondered what had come to Miss Elliott. In lieu of her former dreamy silence and timid shrinking, she talked, and talked well; her dark eyes shone with strange fitful light; a sort of fever burned in her veins, and gave colour to her olive skin; the pale, prettylooking girl had warmed almost into beauty. Mr. Lintot for the first time entered into conversation with her. Humphrey, who was present, stood beside them perfectly silent: he could not understand this new phase. Dym talked feverishly; but there was method in her madness. She grew argumentative, sparkling, witty; some of her racy sayings provoked peals of laughter, and reached Guy himself. As though the dark, moody figure added zest to her mirth, she redoubled her efforts.

An hour afterwards, Mrs. Chichester found the girl sitting wan and exhausted on her little bed, with all the light gone out out of her face; but she made an effort of gaiety when she saw her friend.

"Ah, you are coming to scold me. Did you think I wanted a cap and bells to-night, Mrs. Chichester?" with a miserable little laugh.

"My dear, that will do We have had enough of this folly.'

"If you knew how tired I was of being sensible, and Mr Lintot was so amusing," pleaded Dym.

"Do you think I have come at this time of night to talk to about Mr. Lintot?"

you

"No; oh, no;" then, hypocritically, "but I must confess I was rather too bad this evening."

Mrs. Chichester sighed at the flippant tone; and then she took Dym's hot hand and stroked it gently. "My dear, you are tired and feverish. better talk to-morrow."

Perhaps we had

"As you please;" then, affecting to yawn, very tired too, Mrs. Chichester."

"You must be

"I think I should sleep better if you would let me speak to you now," went on her friend, gently. "My dear, what I have heard to-day has distressed me greatly."

A restless tapping of Dym's foot against the floor; the tired face was beginning to grow sullen again. She was still in her white dress; but her braids of hair had been loosened, and fell over her shoulders in dark, shining masses. As she sat there curled up on the foot of the bed, she looked such a child that Mrs. Chichester could almost have taken her in her arms and kissed the wilfulness away; but no child's naughtiness shone in Dym's heavy eyes.

"My dear, I thought you loved me."

"Do I not, Mrs. Chichester?" But the tone was cold. "If you loved me, would you think of leaving me, when you know," her voice sinking in spite of herself, "how helpless I am likely to become?"

Dym pushed back the hair from her temples with a movement of irritation. "You need not have reminded me of that, when you know I must go."

"Has Guy told you so?"

Dym was silent, and then her honesty was too much for

"No, Mrs. Chichester; I am sending myself away. no use trying to be good, and so I have given it up.' "But why must you go, my child?"

It is

"Because I cannot stop here. Oh, why do you question me so? I cannot be good, like you and Miss Nethecote, and so I had better go. I never meant to leave you, Mrs. Chichester," her bosom heaving in spite of herself.

Р

"You

have always been so kind to me, and I love you so; but there are many that will serve you better, and not trouble you as I should do if I stayed."

"I will risk it," was the gentle answer. cannot have you leave me in this way."

"My child, I

"I have brought it on myself," in a low voice: "his conditions are too hard. I will not ask Miss Nethecote's pardon."

My dear Miss Elliott, not if you be in the wrong?" "Not when he bids me do it in that manner. I have been wronged, too, cruelly wronged. I will not stay here to be treated and laughed at as though I were a child!"

66

Hush, hush!"

No, no, I will not hush. Do you know how hard he has been to me? I was wrong; but I have not deserved such angry looks and words. He looked as though he would almost have crushed me. I felt then as though I hated him." "You hated Guy?"

"It was too bad to hate my benefactor, was it not? Of course it was all my temper. Oh, Mrs. Chichester, you are disappointed in me too."

"Poor child, you sorely grieve me.'

"I grieve every one," returned Dym, sadly.

"When I go

home to Will, he will be ready to give me up too. Do you know what I was thinking about when you came up-stairs, Mrs. Chichester?"

Mrs. Chichester shook her head.

I was thinking of a fairy-story Mr. Chichester once told Edith, about a fair, beautiful woman, who had a millstone given her instead of a heart, and who was beloved by a great prince." "My dear, the darkness is making you fanciful."

"She was the delight of his eyes because she was so beautiful; but her stoniness and want of love chilled him in time. It is a long story; but I know she found her own heart again too late."

"That is true of many women, I fear."

"The end is too dreadful. She went mad, for he loved some one else; and she went through the streets crying, 'Oh, my heart, my heart!' and some good fairy in pity gave her back the millstone again and changed her into a statue."

"Very pretty; but we are wandering from the subject, my child."