-the Rectory, whose outward aspect on this bright cost; but as you look well in anything, economy in dress need never grieve you. We both love our children, and feel how all-important it is to provide for them. Though a good boy, Edward's college expenses are heavy. I assure you it is difficult to meet them, and yet it would be still harder to throw away the advantages he has had by not continuing them. You are willing to make some little sacrifice for him?" "Oh, yes, of course; but I did not think you would grudge me a new dress when I required it. You know there is nothing wasted. I never have a new gown without giving an old one either to Mona or Nita, and that saves buying. As they are shorter than I am, mine makes up very well for them, don't they, girls?" To this question the reply was not quite so spontaneous as Mrs. Morton wished. Being answered in the negative, Mrs. Moreton went on placidly sipping her tea; the letters probably referred to parish matters, in which she took no interest. After a few minutes Mr. Moreton put aside his empty cup, and cutting open the cover of the nearest letter, read it with evident satisfaction. "They do very well, mamma," said the eldest "We shall most likely succeed; see, Mona, Mr. daughter; but the second remained silent. InheritKelly gives us all his votes," he said, handing the ing some portion of her mother's vanity, Nita would welcome paper to his daughter. It was a promise have liked more frequent opportunities of gratifying from a wealthy friend in favour of an afflicted child it. Mr. Morton did not answer his wife's inuendo for whom he was endeavouring to procure admission about grudging; he knew she did not mean it; she to an asylum for the blind. The contents of the was too sweet-tempered with him to bear any real second letter were not so agreeable. They not only resentment; yet she was of that nature which dechased away the benign expression the other had fends itself by little pin-pricks when a favourite called forth, but cast a sorrowful shade upon a coun- weakness is attacked. Intending to press home the tenance already worn and delicate. A little printing, lesson of economy more strongly when she came to many flourishes, and a suspicious line of figures at him for the money, he turned towards the window the side, easily explained the communication. It with the remaining letter in his hand. The Rectory was a long bill. After looking at the sum total, with dining-room was large; indeed, the house was altoa half-suppressed sigh he tossed the paper across the gether spacious, having been built by some former table to his wife, saying, "Pay it at once, my dear. patron for his own habitation. I do not like you to have bills. This seems a high one, but I suppose you know all about it, and are prepared to meet it." "Not for this," said the lady, colouring deeply as she cast her eye upon the last line of figures. "This is, indeed, more than I expected. There must be some mistake; I could not have spent all that." "Mark off any error you find, and pay the account at once. You see it dates back some time; it ought not to have run on so long." Hurriedly at first, and then carefully, Mrs. Moreton examined the items, but could not fix upon an inaccuracy. "If it must be paid, I shall be obliged to come to you for help; I have not even half the sum in my purse." The rector, who had risen, approached his wife, and taking back the obnoxious paper, slowly scanned the contents. When he spoke again there was some reproach, though no asperity, in his tone. "My dear, why will you hamper me with needless expenditure? In our peculiar circumstances it behoves us to be more than commonly careful, for the children's sake. You of all people can easily dispense with adventitious adornment." The last clause was added just as an ominous frown began to mar one of the loveliest faces that nature had ever made, and very sweet now as it relaxed into a smile at the little compliment intended. But the smile had a little perverseness in its curve, as Mrs. Moreton replied, "You said that my dress was in excellent taste when we dined at the Deanery, for which occasion I bought it." "Did I? Well, I spoke of what pleased the eye, not the judgment, which should decide in a matter of Shaking off the transient annoyance caused by her husband's gently expressed disapprobation, Mrs. Moreton passed the next half-hour on the lawn, flitting among her flower-beds, scissors in hand, accompanied by Nita, who carried a basket to receive the flowers as her mother cut them. It was her office to put them in vases and place them where they would be seen to most advantage. A more severe portion of the domestic duties fell to the share of Mona, she being the active spirit of the family, ever ready to take upon her slender shoulders any burden that was too heavy or too disagreeable for every one else. The right hand and darling of her father, and trained by him to discriminate in things that differ, she had become the general referee. Unconsciously almost both her mother and sister were led by her opinion. She was, besides, Mr. Moreton's constant companion, the one with whom he most freely conversed, so that her mind had imperceptibly taken its colouring from his. In features she resembled her mother, except that her eyes were more expressive. Laid side by side their two photographs were singularly alike, yet you could not be five minutes in the same room with them without feeling that the two characters were widely dissimilar. The delicate bloom on the fair cheeks was the same to a casual observer, but Mona's, with the sensibility of youth, deepened rapidly under any sudden emotion; it would be hard to say where lay the difference in the curve of those rosy lips, yet one countenance gave the idea of weakness, and the other, not of power, perhaps, but of a certain steadfastness of purpose. If fault could be found with a face so attractive, it would be with its seriousness, arising probably from an early initiation into the troubles of others. Being the eldest of the family, a certain responsi- | bility early devolved upon her. Independent action, or personality in her tastes and inclinations, was scarcely known to her; all she did or left undone being either to help her mother, please her father, or to promote the interests of Edward and Nita. With this view her careful home education was completed by sending her at eighteen to an excellent school, where the great stimulus to study had been the help she would be to her parents if able to instruct her sister. The plan succeeded better than those schemes usually do. More womanly than most girls, and setting to work at an age when the mind is most capable of solid improvement, Mona became better qualified for the task of teaching others than the generality of those who undertake it. When Edward went to college she returned home and became her sister's governess, aided now and then by Mr. Moreton. That was two years ago. Nita's studies were but fitful now, pursued chiefly at her own discretion. She was just seventeen, and thought it time to be emancipated from what she termed "lessons;" and, as her mother was of the same opinion, and continually claimed her society, Mona became more and more her father's helper. Very happy they were, these two, bound together by the loving reverence the young heart feels for the object that fills up its ideal of worth and excellence on the one side, and by a harmony of taste as well as a deep affection on the other. Breakfast over, Mona as usual made preparations to execute the commissions entrusted to her, and, when ready, went to Mr. Moreton's study. It was empty. She next proceeded to the dining-roona, and found him sitting close to the window, the letter lying under his hand on his knee, with a pale, ashen hue upon his countenance. Running to him in great alarm, she wound her arm round his neck. "My dear, darling father, what is the matter, you are ill-you have had bad news? Is anything wrong with Edward? No, you said you had not heard from him. What has happened? What is it?" she asked, pale and terrified at what she saw, her fear all the more distressing from its vagueness. "Nothing very dreadful, my child," he replied, trying to smile. "In reality I am not unprepared for this; but, my health not being so good as it was, sudden incidents try me a little. What would you, my Mona, say to leaving Hillesden, and beginning life afresh somewhere else? Mr. Sinclair is coming to live here." A shade of anxious distress flitted across the girl's pure brow as she took the letter her father offered her. She read it twice through, finishing by a careful examination of the signature before raising her eyes. "What will you do?" she whispered, hardly trusting herself to speak. "What will your mother say?" he replied, the effect of the intelligence upon her appearing to weigh more upon him than any anxiety about himself. "It is all right you know, Mona; I took the living with the understanding that I was to hold it for Mr. Sinclair at his pleasure. That I have enjoyed it for twelve years ought not to make me unwilling to resign. All things considered, it is strange that he should have left me so long in possession. He does not intend taking it himself for six months more, so we shall pass another summer and autumn in our present beautiful home, and for the rest, God will provide. I fear your mother will be greatly grieved, yet Mr. Sinclair is only doing his duty, what, in his place, I should have thought it necessary to do long ago. Don't think that I repine, Mona," he added, caressing his daughter, in whose liquid eyes some large drops were gathering, "it is all right, all well, though it may not be easy to persuade my dear wife to think so." He sighed as he spoke, aware that he had before him a task from which most men shrink-that of persuading an unpersuadable woman; then sinking his voice into tones of tenderness, he seemed to be pleading for the mother to her child. "We must be patient and gentle with her, Mona. However conveyed, the news will be a great blow. The fact of Mr. Sinclair being about to be instituted to his own living cannot long remain a secret; she must hear the first account from me." Half-an-hour later Mr. Moreton sought his wife and made her acquainted with the contents of Mr. Sinclair's letter. The effect was pretty much what he expected. Surprised and aggrieved, as well as unreasoning in her displeasure, between sobs and tears she could hardly find words to express her disappointment and vexation. Mr. Moreton was obliged to wait until the storm had a little subsided before he attempted either to argue or console, and even then the effort was something like the vain attempt to weave a rope of sand. That Mr. Sinclair did but take his own again, that it was a right and proper thing for him to do so, and that the real ground of surprise was the long period of inaction in which he had lived, were arguments that had no weight with Mrs. Moreton, and in no degree diminished her sense of the cruelty that deprived her of a happy home, and her husband of an employment in which he delighted. Mr. Moreton's calm statement of the facts of the case, and his honest desire to make the best of it, only served to exasperate her. The small house to which they would in all probability be condemned, and the thought of the necessarily economical character of their future arrangements, nearly drove her into hysterics. "How unkind of him, how inconsiderate, to take away the living after leaving us in possession so many years; how unchristian, how ungentlemanlike. And what will become of us? I can never be so happy anywhere as at Hillesden." "We "We will endeavour to carry our happiness with us wherever we go," observed Mr. Moreton, trying to encourage a little hopefulness in her. remain here six months more, and may continue in the Rectory even longer if we desire it. Mr. Sinclair is going to pass the summer and autumn in Switzerland. Besides that, he says he wishes to consult our convenience as much as possible. He does not propose coming to Hillesden until the winter, and even then he gives me the option to remain as his curate, if I have nothing better in view. He is really showing us all the kindness in his power." "Kindness!" retorted the lady, with as much scorn on her countenance as her pretty lips could express-"defend me from such kindness as that. His curate, too, after having been the rector! Oh, that is very kind, certainly. I am glad you can feel grateful for it." "But, my dear, we ought to feel grateful," returned Mr. Moreton, firmly. "Have we not had the enjoyment of a beautiful house and a comfortable income for twelve years?" "Which makes it so hard to give it up now," whined Mrs. Moreton. "Have we not been able to educate our children, or nearly so? In other circumstances we could not have put Edward to college; now he has but two terms more to keep. Here is Mona, our dear, brave Mona, who will be our joy and comfort whether rich or poor; " and the tender father put out his hand to the young girl, at that moment entering the room, and drew her to his side. If it was not Mr. Moreton's lot to find a helpmate in his wife, he had all the comfort in his daughter that a father could desire. "If I can but continue Edward's college terms," he continued. "It will be difficult, but not impossible. We both wish that." "Of course I wish it, and many other things too," said Mrs. Moreton, in a peevish tone, as her husband anxiously looked into her face for an answer. "I wish it as much as you do, but how is it to be done, if we have to live in a small house with no money?" "One state will help the other. Besides, Mr. Sinclair is rich, and from the tone of his letter I infer that he means to be generous. He will probably offer me a liberal stipend.' "And you are willing to be servant where you have been master! How can you be so meanspirited?" asked Mrs. Moreton, with an energy of passion rare in her placid temperament. "My dear," returned the rector, gravely, laying his hand on that of his wife, and speaking with a seriousness that arrested her displeasure, "I am only a servant-the unworthy servant of the best of Masters, and He will never leave me while I am faithful in His work, be the time short or long." As the last words passed his lips he slowly left the room for the quiet nook he called his study. It was a bright sunny day at the end of May when spring is merging into a less variable season, and the air comes fresh and balmy, laden with the promises of summer. Lifting his eyes, for a time he watched with apparent interest the light shadows playing fitfully on the grass-plat before him, as the thin clouds lazily floated in the broad blue sky. But his thoughts were far away. "Čould I have been spared a little longer, just to see my boy well educated and firmly principled before he starts in life," was the thought weighing most heavily on his heart. At that moment a lesson he had so often taught others was eloquently brought home to himself by a loud twittering overhead, caused by a commotion among some half-dozen sparrows, who circled and whirled above the window, chattering in language he could not fail to interpret and translate. "Are ye not of more value than they?" came the question, which he answered again and again as his eye wandered from flower-bed to flower-bed of the pretty garden, his wife's pride and delight, soon to be hers no more. A clump of white lilies, beautiful in their unsullied purity, arrested his attention. Who clothed them? Would not the same Divine Providence take care of the lilies of his home? He could not doubt it. For Mr. Moreton, though human in his feelings, was Christian in his faith. In a few minutes the longing, lingering look was recalled, the warm tide of natural emotion ebbed back, and the rector, calm and serene, went forth to his daily duties, none the less able to love and sympathise with others that he had gone through a fiery trial himself. CHAPTER II. Ar the end of May London is at its best, before the glowing ardour of the summer sun falls with blistering heat upon the pavement and sends back into the heavy air the depressing weight of an atmosphere never very elastic. Business or amusement, not yet jaded and tired, fills its thoroughfares by day, and pleasure laughs and dances under sparkling lights and glittering gildings by night. Old heads, not yet désillusionés, dream golden dreams, and young hearts, aglow with indefinite hopes and expectations, weave bright visions wherewith to deck the future, without pausing to look back upon their own experience or that of others, however legibly written. Warren Sinclair, with whom we have to do, did not belong to either class, having reached the prosaic condition of wishing to see things as they really are. Conscious of having been in a measure led to follow the ignis fatuus of an imagination suddenly excited, he was now attempting to find his way back to the old paths of sober reflection to which he was more accustomed. He was a bachelor, in the prime of his manhood, and rich-a position too ordinary to mark him out for a hero were it not for the better qualification of being honestly desirous to act up to his conscience, notwithstanding the lions in the way. Much of his life had been spent abroad. When not travelling he was usually to be found in a comfortable pied-àterre in Harley Street, taking a part in the busy doings of the season, but not absorbed by them. He liked society and mixed in it freely, choosing his associates more from among the learned and thoughtful than from the gay and fashionable. His wellcultivated mind rendered him an agreeable companion. If not brilliant he was solid, and whatever the qualities of his heart, they were sufficient to attach warmly those who were admitted to his friendship. A first-rate cook made his dinners, perhaps himself, too, somewhat popular, for, unromantic as it may be, the great motive-power lies too much where Napoleon placed it when he used the blunt unvarnished phraseology that has since passed into a proverb. a proverb. Mr. Sinclair was also good-natured, allowing his half-brother to entertain particular inmates at his table almost without restriction, and strove in many ways to lessen the inequalities which fortune had made between them. Many fashionable drawing-rooms were open to him, more than he cared to frequent, the prestige of wealth usually securing a warm welcome, even where the hostess has neither daughters nor speculations. In general Mr. Sinclair sat apart conversing with one of his own sex, leaving the other to the persiflage and more graceful attractions of his elder brother, Captain Orde. Children of the same mother, they were in some respects as different in appearance as in circumstances. Captain Orde had little more than his halfpay, while Warren inherited from his father Arkesden Abbey and a large fortune, besides the living of Hillesden, which he had hitherto left in the charge of Mr. Moreton. The tall, elegant figure of Cecil Orde formed a great contrast to his own, which was certainly deficient in grace as well as strength; but the features of both were equally handsome, and Warren's soft grey eye, clear and honest, expressive of sweetness and feeling, gave him a physiognomy both attractive and sympathetic. The morning that brought Mr. Sinclair's letter | watched it with a scholar's eye, and plunged into the respecting the living to Hillesden Rectory found memories of history. Now the modern life of its him inditing another on the same subject, in a northern shore transported him into another world, very different direction. To see his fine face so lined and one which proved enchanted ground. Warren and troubled, as from time to time he lifted his pen Sinclair slid into love he knew not how, and was himfrom the paper, looking somewhat helplessly about him self surprised, when fully alive to the fact, that he as if expecting aid from surrounding objects, you would had wooed and won the beauty of the season. But have said at once that he was engaged in a difficult having taken the malady, he bore himself bravely task. And difficult it certainly was, nothing less through its different phases. Life grew younger, and than an attempt, by some nicety of language, to take where old things did not become new, much of their the bitter flavour out of an unpalatable resolution. faded colouring was restored. In his extreme contentWithout any mental indecision on the subject, he ment Warren was sometimes guilty of building castles yet had much solicitude as to the light in which it in the air, looking forward to a future not the less might be viewed in another quarter. dazzling that its promises were still unfamiliar. It was a marvel that he had not earlier discovered how poor and dreary existence is when unbrightened by the ties of affection! For three months he gave himself up without scruple to the enjoyment of every pleasure within his reach, and could have challenged all his acquaintance to point out a happier man. The second event to which reference has been made, though of a totally different character, had grown out of the first. It was a soft stirring of conscience, slight and almost imperceptible in the commencement, like the languid movement of the leaves on a hot summer's day. Happiness is often a touchstone by which the fundamentals of character are revealed, leading the less worthy into levity and excess, and the nobler-minded to a grateful sense of benefits received and responsibilities incurred. In the fulness of his heart Warren began to cast off a certain crust which, analysed, might be resolved into selfishness and indolence, though he himself knew nothing about it. A glow of general philanthropy followed, making him desirous to find some means of testifying his gratitude for the change that had come upon him. Before long the way was traced for him in an unexpected manner. During the last six months two events, destined to affect all his future life, had happened to him. The one was but an everyday affair, a mere episode, coming, as some would say, by chance, yet fraught with such important interests that no man in his proper senses would willingly yield so much to a power so capricious. Mr. Sinclair had fallen in love, and he was one to whom such a circumstance would be no transient pastime, nor even the preference of a heart influenced by the judgment. Till the age of thirty-five sentiment had found no place in his thoughts; realities, with their numerous demands and stimulants, had been enough to occupy him. The tenderness natural to his disposition had found its expression in acts of philanthropy and kindness, and had not sought its gratification in the softer emotions, which, by adding the gentler qualities to mental power, often give the fleuron of beauty to manly strength. An over-consciousness of deficiency in personal attractions, without rendering him morose, had made him in youth retiring, and in maturer life some remnant of the same self-depreciation had silently operated in keeping him principally to the society of men. Of women he knew but little, nor had he any inclination to seek them, though when in their company it would have been foreign to his character and instincts to bear himself towards them otherwise than with the gentle chivalry inseparable from true manliness. Was it that the hour closing his independence had struck, and that he must accept his fate blindfold? or was there some subtle charm in the orange groves and fragrant perfumes of the south that woke his senses to a new phase of existence, before which the past receded as flat, stale, and unprofitable? However explained, the fact remained; the staid, thoughtful Warren Sinclair, enthralled by a novel fascination, found himself idling away his time in a manner he had never done before, and roving hither and thither under a sky of unsullied brightness, where the balmy air swept over sunlit vineyards, where glad voices and bright eyes invited him to take part in the pastimes and pleasures of a continental season. No thought of danger to his liberty occurred to him. Yet for the first time he was drawn into a circle where beauty, soft refinement, and busy idleness paved the way for receiving new impressions, one of which was that this winter residence at Cannes proved the pleasantest portion of his existence. He had travelled much and thought much, but the result had hitherto partaken of the nature of uncultivated fruit, not free from the crudity that nature, unassisted, is apt to produce. The broad, glittering sea, sparkling in the sunshine, or lazily lapping the sandy coast with its blue-tinted waves, lured him away from old associations. Hitherto in his wanderings he had Most of us have now and then been brought under the influence of some sudden and powerful impression from scenes or words long familiar to the outward senses though silent to all beside. There are special moments when a veil is lifted and our eyes gaze into a new world of which we were before in ignorance. Such a circumstance befell Warren Sinclair. If he did not preach sermons, he was in the habit of hearing them, listening Sunday after Sunday with unruffled complacency, until one memorable day. It was the same preacher, the same voice, the same tone, yet Mr. Sinclair heard something that pierced him to the quick. "Why standest thou all the day idle? Son, go work to-day in my vineyard.” The words followed him through the olive yards as he sauntered under their grey shadow, they mingled with the accents of his betrothed as she lightly criticised the sermon, and accompanied him home to his hotel and his pillow. They came back to his ears in the stillness of the night, startled away sleep, and sent his mind wandering among the mazes of his past life, or oscillating among new schemes for the future. And this day after day, the echoes becoming louder and louder until he could no longer refuse to listen, nor render their signification less imperative by any special pleading of his own. It was no satisfactory argument that, when engaging himself to Helen Lestocq, he never contemplated taking up his orders or departing from the habits of past years. He intended her to choose her home, and only felt solicitous to render it worthy of one so take our Master's gifts and render Him no return, beautiful. Arkesden Abbey, the noble inheritance | Neither mind nor heart could long be satisfied to received from his father, was let, being too large for a bachelor's occupation, and the lease was not half run out. Of that she was aware, and had been more than willing to reside abroad until the abbey should be vacant. How would the change he now contemplated affect her? In early days, when Helen's smiles were most new, though not most dear, she had acknowledged his profession, then hardly more than nominal, to be a drawback upon her happiness; and this frank confession, so often in his mind, formed the first link in the chain of thought that ultimately led him to the most important decision of his life. In order to explain the repugnance he saw reason to fear, he was obliged to think, and think deeply. Once launched into the subtle question of motives, he was led on from one point to another until he stood where he could neither recede nor advance without, as he apprehended, causing pain to her or damage to himself. Unable to trifle with conscience, even in its feeble flutterings, he resolved to be freed for a time from an influence that might be hurtful, and to be firmly settled in his own mind before running the risk of disturbing their mutual relations. Under the plea of having serious matters to engage his attention, he left Cannes when the spring had a little advanced, and came to England. That was in the beginning of April. The end of May saw the result of his deliberations in the letter sent to Mr. Moreton, and in the one he was now inditing to Helen Lestocq for the purpose of making known the change that had taken place in his views, of which, for wise reasons, he had deferred the communication until remonstrance was useless. He was not the less anxious about the consequences. Slowly, very slowly travelled the pen across the paper, stopping frequently while he selected a less obnoxious word or pared something away from the sentence. At the end of a longer space of time than he was wont to give to pages far more lengthy than the present, he finished his letter, which no care or effort could render otherwise than abrupt. My dearest Helen, If the purport of these few The writing finished, Mr. Sinclair drew a heavy sigh, and threw himself back in his chair. He did not like his letter, and misdoubted its effect, though the honesty of his character obliged him to make known his present sentiments without disguise. It would be such a blow to lose this brilliant creature, who had already brought joy and music into his life, hitherto cold and silent. Without owning exactly that such a contingency existed, his heart sank very low within him. After having found her voice so sweet, her smiles so bewitching, her approbation so dear, without Helen he must ever be conscious of a great void. He had almost wished he had never known her, yet, even before the vague thought could take a definite form he condemned his own cowardice, and blamed himself for distressing the worthiness and truth of one who had not only listened to his vows, but pledged her own. "We should not have been happy long had I decided otherwise," he mused, as he fastened down the envelope. "We are both made of stuff that could not subside into idleness or frivolity." "WHEN GEORGE THE THIRD WAS KING." ON the morning of Kensington was thrown into a of the 25th October, 1760, the old lines takes you entirely by surprise I shall be obliged to reflect upon myself for not having earlier given you an insight into the feelings that have been working in my mind. And yet I acted with deliberation. It appeared to me unwise to open the subject until all doubt and hesitation were at an end. When you promised me your hand it was to share a life which then had no particular aim or object beyond living happily together, without reference to the duties to which I was naturally pledged before I knew you. I refer to my ordination vows. It is not necessary, even were I able to do so, to place before you the process of reasoning which has brought me to feel it impossible any longer to ignore them. I must take my post in the ranks of God's ministers and give personal character, or information as to the private life of the king. His myself to His service. I must henceforth labour in the vineyard in which I have so long been a loiterer. It is my intention to apply to the Bishop for institution to the living of Hillesden, which a very worthy man has been holding for me for some years. I propose taking possession about Christmas-time. I can believe that this communication, so different from the expectations you have hitherto entertained, may be disturbing at first, but it will, I trust, gain your sympathy after a little reflection. To live for ourselves alone, my darling, would not be happiness. * Innumerable huge volumes have been devoted to the transactions of the reign of George III, but, behind these, the monarch himself passes almost into obscurity, and the bulky volumes of Adolphus, Walpole, Belshaw, Bissett, and other such historians, convey little idea of the reign was, indeed, singularly interesting; but the monarch was an ex- clated, we attempt this, which still can only be a hasty and imperfect |