In the eyes of many there might appear something overstrained and exaggerated in Dym's affection for Guy Chichester. The world is given to look coldly on these sorts of platonic friendship; and in the main I am inclined to think the world may be right. Very rarely we may find a safe exception.

Dym's pure childlike nature found its safeguard in ignorance. At present it was merely hero-worship, and the grateful love of the benefited to the benefactor. Had Guy Chichester been old and gray-bearded, Dym would have had the same admiring tenderness, only it would have been more openly avowed. Dym's sorrow when she read the ending to Honor's story was merely caused by the instinctive dread of losing her friend: some instinct warned her that such a change must influence her own life. In their perfect happiness they would not need her. Honor would take her place: her work at Ingleside would be over.

"Out in the cold indeed!" Poor little, fluttering, childish heart growing womanly out of very pain, tasting for the first time the bitter-sweet of life!

Dym's troubled thoughts were carrying her into weary speculations about the future, when a quick tap at the door recalled her to the present. It could only be Humphrey, who had been of late a frequent visitor: certainly Dym's lowvoiced "Come in" had no welcoming sound in it.

"That sounded dubious. Are you sure I may come in?" Dym's heart gave a sudden bound. How many weeks had it been since she had heard that kindly voice! The ruddy flame leaped up among the scattered logs as Guy Chichester's broad shoulders blocked up the doorway, and his keen inquisitive glance scanned sofa and window-seat as though in search of some one; then he paused, and put his hand to his beard with the old movement of dissatisfied impatience. "Are you alone? I thought-Where is Miss Nethecote?"

Dym had stretched out her hands with an involuntary cry of surprise and pleasure; now they dropped to her side, and her lip quivered like a child. She had not seen him since that night, and yet he had no welcome for her; he had saved her from the cold and darkness only for this!

This was Dym's first unreasoning thought. Her second was to cry shame on her selfishness; surely the first welcome should be Honor's.

"She was here just now; she will come back directly. Will you ring? Shall I send for her?" Dym's quavering voice had not a note of strength in it: it silenced Guy Chichester's impatience directly.

"By no means. I can wait; only she sent for me. Ah, my child, how you have suffered !" And, moved to sudden compassion by the sight of the sweet pale face, Mr. Chichester stooped over her couch and lifted the little hand to his lips.

The grave caress was too much for Dym; her colour fluttered dangerously, and the large dark eyes brimmed over with

tears.

"Dear child, I have been so sorry for you; but you are better now?"

"Much better;" and then, under her breath, "Oh, I am so glad to see you again, Mr. Chichester."

The frank kindness of his look said he was glad too.

"I have missed my little friend," sitting down by her, and glancing pitifully at the wasted hands and sunken cheeks: you must make haste and come back to us; my mother has been quite lost without you."

66

"Your mother-oh, she has been so good to me!" Ingleside is not the same place to her without you. How have you managed to creep so far into her heart?" "I don't know," smiling faintly. "Did you say you had missed me, Mr. Chichester?"

"Of course" with his old mischievous look; "I have no one to contradict me now." But he repented of his jest when he saw Dym cover her face with her thin hands. "My dear child-nay, I was only jesting. No, I will not have this," taking down her hands authoritatively. Then, as he read traces of real agitation in the white trembling lip, Elliott, my poor girl, why, what is this?"

"Miss

"Oh, Mr. Chichester. if you would only tell me you have forgiven me!" Dym's two hands went out imploringly to him. In spite of her trouble, she looked such a child, with her long wavy hair floating on the pillow, that he could not refrain from an exclamation of pity. So young and weak, how could he have found it in his heart to have been so stern with her?

"If you will let me hear you say so once, I think I could be almost happy."

"Hush!" was all his answer; "you are hurting me."

'Again?" her voice breaking almost into a sob.

do nothing to atone for my fault, then ?"

"Can I

"You have atoned for it over and over again. I will not have you bring up these old troubles."

"I cannot help it. Has not my imprudence nearly cost Honor's life?"

Mr. Chichester shuddered. "True," he muttered; then, as he raised his eyes and saw Dym's wistful look, he generously hastened to comfort her. Will it make you happier to hear it? Well, then, I forgive you freely. Are you satisfied now?"

"But if she had died!" Dym half whispered to herself; and again that quick shudder passed over him.

"If she had," catching his breath, then speaking calmly"if she had, I should still have forgiven you."

"Oh, Mr. Chichester !"

"I should have been to blame as well as you." Then, breaking into one of his sunny smiles, "But we will not imagine such dreadful things; Honor is safe, and you are better, and God has been very good to us." But the mention of her name brought back the old impatience: he rose from his seat and began pacing the room.

"Do you know what has become of her? I shall lose my train, and I think she wishes to speak to me." And his hand rested furtively where Honor's little pencilled note was hidden,

"If you go down, I will send her to you." And Guy, who needed no other bidding, came up to her couch again to bid her good-by.

"I shall not see you again, I suppose; good-night, rest well." But Dym's wistful hand detained him.

"We are friends again, Mr. Chichester?"

"Ay, surely. Why not?"

"Sick people have curious whims sometimes. I wish you would call me that again."

"What, my little friend?"

"I like that too; but there is a name you use sometimes." And, strange to say, he understood her.

Silly child," he said, with an indulgent smile.

"You are

getting spoiled among us. There, good-night, my child, good night. Why do you look so grave?"

"I was only thinking of our motto, you remember, Qui patitur vincit: it comes true always. Good-night, God bless you, Mr. Chichester!"

Did he understand her?

"He is come," was all she said to Honor, whom she found sitting alone in the moonlight. Honor bent her head in response, and a moment afterwards noiselessly left the room.

CHAPTER XX.

CROWNED.

GUY CHICHESTER was alone.

Honor's pretty sitting-room had a pleasant homelike air about it this evening: the soft lamp-light fell on the gray damask and delicately stencilled walls, Kiddle-a-wink was stretched on the white rug, a work-basket stood open on Honor's little table, and some lacework lay where it had been thrown down weeks ago; a riding-whip and gauntlet were beside it. A look of pain crossed Guy Chichester's face as he noted these little tokens of Honor's presence, and then he threw his ar across the back of the low velvet lounging-chair, and buried his face on them.

arms

Heaven knows what bitter thoughts were surging up in the man's mind as his head sank despondingly on his folded arms. Regret for the past mingling with fears for the future; intolerable longings, remorse for a wasted life, for talents frittered away, for opportunities lost, for faults that had blasted so fair a promise, blended with rebellion against Fate, that had robbed him of his heart's desire.

I nearly lost her," was his inward groan. "She was right; and what good would my life have been to me—what good is it now? I am weary of this struggle; of what avail is my manhood? I cannot bear this state of things much longer; it is maddening." The broad shoulders heaved with "Fool!" he went on, the impatient sigh. weak, unmanly, to think I can hardly master myself in her presence.

One

of these days I must rise against this soft tyranny; one of these days I must tell her that she must be my wife or nothing to me. Nothing! As though I could blot her out of my life

-as though I could endure existence without her! Friendship! the very thought is oppressive—a mere mockery. Oh, Honor, I may have sinned, but at least you will have to answer for these wasted embittered years." A stifled sigh seemed to echo the unspoken reproach—a soft sweep of drapery came nearer and nearer.

"Guy!" It scarcely needed that whispered monosyllable to bring Guy Chichester back to the present again, for the hand whose touch had always thrilled through his man's pulses was lying lightly on his arm; but the brown bearded face was only lifted for a moment. She could feel the electric shock that ran through him.

"Oh, Honor, Honor!"

She kept her steady hand on his arm, but her voice shook in its sweetness.

"Dear Guy, look again; it is your old Honor."

"But so changed, so pitiably changed! Honor, the girl was right: I might have lost you."

"True, dear friend."

He raised his head, and drew her towards him with a fond peremptory movement, but for once there was no resistance. She stood with her head a little drooping and eyes downcast, as his keen glance noted the ravages that disease had made in her beautiful face and figure: evidently he was unprepared for the change, for he relaxed his hold with a sudden groan.

Her clear wistful eyes questioned him, and then a fear seized her; she grew paler, and pressed her hand to her side. "Guy, you frighten me. Am I such a wreck?" For the poor soul feared that her beauty had faded. What if sickness had robbed her of her charms, and she no longer found favour in his eyes? But in his pain he misunderstood her.

"It would not have been fair. Death had no right to deprive me of my treasure before it had come into my keeping," he said, almost savagely. The old Berserker spirit kindled in his eye; the man seemed defying his fate.

"I wanted to live. Oh, it seemed too dreadful to die!" she murmured, pressing nearer to him. Another time she would have rebuked his bitterness; now her weakness and her