she is above middle height, she seems short as she stands bowed down beside the old stone trough, at one end of which two black pigs are feeding, while a jackdaw hops at the other end with so humorous a twinkle in his eye (he keeps one closed) that you almost fancy he is thinking of tickling the pigs with the straw he holds in his beak. The ground between the house and the trough is soft and swampy-stamped with the frequent tread of pigs and dog, and cat and fowls. Three blackand-white ducks have paddled up and down it this morning so often with their broad, yellow feet, that water oozes up in one corner and forms an inky pool, at which they drink with seeming delight. But when, after this feat, they come waddling to the broad, flat stone in front of the back-door, Mrs. Leir rouses from her dreamy mood, and, snatching up the corners of her apron, drives them

away.

"I must speak to Reuben," she says, with a sigh, and then passes round the house, through the orchard, and out at the gate in the low, stone fence, to the smithy itself.

It is close by on the road, just divided from the garden by a high hawthorn-hedge, white now with blossoms, and filling the air with perfume.

There is no use in describing, for smithies have a family resemblance, but it is not always that the blacksmith's hammer is wielded by such a man as Reuben Leir.

Not handsome, but tall, and strong, and healthy-looking, with rich, brown hair and beard suggestive of ripe hazel-nuts, a frank, amiable mouth, and rather a dreamy, far-off look in his pale-blue eyes-you would have said, looking at him, a man with energies that might be roused if some sleeping chord were touched, but one just as likely to plod through life without discovering that he had more wits than his fellows.

He was whistling "Coming through the Rye," and striking ponderous blows on a little bit of iron, that seemed as if it must surely be annihilated and dispersed into the showery sparks that flew up from the anvil.

He left off whistling when he saw his mother.

"Tea-time is it, mother? I'm coming," he said, in a strong, cheerful voice.

Mrs. Leir waited till he put aside his hammer and came out of the forge.

"Tea will be ready by time you're ready for it," she said; "but I want three words with you first, Reuben."

She went on into the garden again, and her son followed. His head dropped on his chest, and a sort of dogged irresolution showed at the corners of his mouth. When they reached the door he stopped.

"I wish you'd say them here, then," he said, coolly. I've got one or two things to do this evening."

Mrs. Leir faced around at once. There was a bright, angry spot on each cheek, but there was more sorrow than anger in her eyes.

'Why do you not say out at once, ReuDen, that you are going to meet Rose Morrison?"

"There is no use in my saying it," she went on, in a hard, unconciliating voice, "but still I must warn you, Reuben. You began by admiring, you went on to talking, and you are getting to love that little conceited French girl in spite of yourself." Reuben stood upright, and put up his hand to stop her.

"Don't say what you may be sorry for," he said. "I do love Rose, but she is not French; her mother is a Frenchwoman, but Bob Morrison was every bit as much an Englishman as my father was."

He nodded, and walked away quickly. He was very fond of his mother, and this was the first element of discord that had come between them.

"It is always so," he said, to himself; "if I loved an angel, my mother would cry her down. All mothers are so they can't give up their sons and daughters."

Perhaps if his mother had heard him, the words would have given her pain. Martha Leir was not an ordinary woman. She was unpopular with her neighbors, because, being better educated, she held herself a little apart, but she had no small, petty jealousies, and, if she had thought Rose Morrison likely to make her son happy, she would have taken her to her heart at once.

"She will never be content with one man," Mrs. Leir sighed. "Just at first she may be taken up with Reuben, but, when the novelty wears off, she will flirt as her mother has flirted before her. Rose has more of her mother than of her father in her. My Reuben is too good for the likes of her-or of any Hookton girl."

II.

HOOKTON is a fishing-village just two miles from Mercombe, but much farther off than this distance because of the rugged, ill-made, steep road. There is another road by the cliffs through the land - slip, but that is a long way round. The shortest way lies between these two-a steep climb up the face of the cliff, then across fields of young wheat and mangolds, till the path falls into the road again, which hereabouts is more even and level than it is nearer Mercombe. Just a little way on a huge stone-quarry opens on each side of the road, and it is bere that Reuben Leir stands waiting. The place is very silent-the quarrymen have gone home to the little wooden cottages that peep out like birds'-nests where gaps come in the masses of the cream-colored stone. Far off in front, beyond the ash-trees which border the road, the cliffs rise high, and, parting, give a sudden vision of sea so blue that it seems almost too vivid for reality. Reuben has stood for ten minutes, waiting near the quarry-opening, but no one comes down the road to meet him.

He went on along the high-road till he came to a small gate on the left. The high hedge was cut into an arch above the gate, and through this showed a garden glowing with ranunculus and anemones, and behind a wooden cottage clothed with creeping plants.

her. Her face was hidden by the straw-colored sun-bonnet pushed down over her eyes.

"At last!" Reuben said, reproachfully. The face was quickly raised at this—a pretty, bright, brown face, with laughing, shy, black eyes, a little nose and mouth; and, as she smiled, white, even teeth showed through the red lips.

"Am I late?" the girl said, carelessly. "Well, it is better that you should be first." Reuben opened the gate, and held it for her to pass out.

"Never mind, now you are come," he said, "but I want a talk with you, Rose. I am worried to death."

Rose gave him a sweet look out of her long, narrow, dark eyes.

"You poor old Reuben- who worries you?"

"Never mind; the very sight of you seems to make me all right, you dear little girl." Reuben looked up and down the road, and, no one being visible, he put his arm round Rose's waist, and drew her toward him.

Rose drew herself away.

"You go on so fast, Reuben! How many times, how many times I have told you that I can't take up with a man whose mother does not even speak to me!"

Reuben sighed.

"Don't you worry too, Rose darling, or it will seem as if all went cross with me. My mother does not know you. When she does, of course she must love you. Who could help it, my darling?"

He looked tenderly at the girl, but she tossed her head. "To hear you talk, Reuben' -a bright flush rose in her cheeks, and she played nervously with the long strings of her sun-bonnet-" one would think your mother was the queen. You do not seem to see any offense in her holding herself aloof from us. Why, every one comes to see mother, and I should have thought her being home would have served as a reason to Mrs. Leir long ago, if any reason were wanting." She spoke very angrily, and flung her bonnet-strings wide apart. She had turned away from Reuben while she spoke. He pulled at her pinafore.

"Don't be cross, Rose. I tell you my mother is so good and so loving that she will come round when she sees I can't be happy without you.”

Rose turned round and looked at him. Her eyes shone brightly, and her red lip curled with scorn.

"Mr. Reuben Leir, you scarcely seem to know who I am, or who you are yourself. It appears to me that you take it for granted that I am thankful to be your wife-your mother is the only person whose consent has to be asked. Now I am not going to creep into any man's family! It is your mother's place to seek me that is the way my mother says such things should be arranged. No; I say good-by to you, Reuben Leir, until your mother comes to her senses."

She walked slowly back to the gate; but Reuben was too much vexed to combat her resolution. He did not even follow her. Only, as the gate closed behind her, he gave a sigh that ended in a groan.

"Why is she so winning, or why my

mother so prejudiced? She will not even trust her own eyes-it's past bearing!"

III.

NEXT morning found Reuben at work early. On the previous evening he had gone home and upbraided his mother with her pride and exclusiveness. "You make my life miserable," he had said; and then Mrs. Leir had looked at him out of her deep, steadfast eyes, and had told him that the girl he loved was a coquette.

"She is too studied in all her ways to live only for you or any man, my boy. She will always want admirers round her."

And upon this Reuben had gone to bed without his supper, and had gone off early in the morning to work at his plot on the land-slip. Looking at the wonderful harvest of all kinds reaped on that bit of land, it is surprising that all has not been blown into the sea or diminished by some fresh rent in the tall, circling cliffs that shelter it north and east, for, although some of the plots are level and screened from the precipitous descent of the beach by hedges wreathed with clematis and dog-roses almost in bloom, some of the potato and wheat plots are almost perpendicular, and cling on to those towering and green-hued cliffs, seemingly at great risk of falling into the sea.

Reuben's donkey-cart is sheltered in a rude shed just at the entrance to the landslip, and his donkey is tethered near. Far away on the right, through jutting cliffs which spring up here and there among the less cultivated bits among the yellow furze and clustering beneath, a lovely glimpse may be got of the bay of Sidmouth and its far-reaching, crimson cliffs; while on the left a bold, chalky headland stands forward, barring the passage. But for the sea-birds, which disappear between it and the intensely blue sky, one might fancy there was no passage round its sharp outline.

Reuben has been hard at work weeding his crops. He stands upright, takes off his hat and wipes his forehead with a blue handkerchief; then he goes back to his cart and gets a lump of bread and cheese and a draught of cider.

It is his determination to work off his annoyance; he has gone on over-long. He looks out over the shimmering, golden waves, and is surprised to see how nearly the sun has reached them As he stands gazing at the strange color of the waves, where broad lines of purple and crimson show as if the fishes had been having fierce battles thereon, he fancies he hears voices below; but the sea gets rougher every instant, and the waves come dashing up against the loose rocks scattered along the beach with so much creaming fury, that it is difficult to distinguish sound. But Reuben has caught a laugh he knows by heart, and now, in a pause caused by the retreat of the waves, he hears the laugh answered in a deep man's voice. The rush of the waves is over, they have just gone back to kiss their advancing mates, and then bring them on in triumph to thunder at the foot of the precipice on which Reuben stands-as yet they do not quite reach it, though they send up a shining cloud of

empty menace-and, as Reuben leans over the flowery hedge which grows on the dizzy edge, he sees that a space of some feet is still dry. He looks onward along this path. At some distance half-way between him and the headland are two figures-the girl is Rose, and her companion is a tall French fisherman, named Jacques Gaspard. He is a stranger, who has been staying at the inn at Hookton for a fortnight past; he spends his money freely, and is popular among the rougher fishermen, but the quieter ones avoid him, and tell one another that he is either a smuggler or a spy. "No good either way"-" Confound him!" Reuben frowns heavily, and leans still farther over the hedge, watching the pair. "She knows no better, poor little thing; but Gaspard's not a fit man for a girl to trust herself alone with." He leaned over, watching eagerly. Just at this moment Gaspard stopped, looked back, and Reuben imagined that he saw triumph in his face. A path led up the sheer face of the cliff at this point, and the Frenchman, seeing the water already dashing against the face of the headland, seemed to be persuading his companion to try and mount it. Reuben saw his intention. "Come back, Rose, come back!" he cried, but his words were thrown back to him by the furious wind. Rose seemed to be tying her bonnet more firmly on her head, and then she turned to mount the cliff; but she was evidently fearful; she clung to Gaspard's arm, and presently he unclasped her fingers and put the arm firmly round her waist.

At this sight Reuben lost his wits. He leaned over the hedge and stretched out both arms, as if he thought to reach Rose.

"Rose-Rose-come back!-ah-" There came a crash, a frantic, scrambling sound, and Reuben disappeared from the laud-slip.

IV.

MARTHA LEIR has had an unhappy day— it is so rarely now that the peace of her life is disturbed by strife. Five years ago, before John Leir went to his rest, there used to be frequent discussions-they were hardly quarrels-between the blacksmith and his sonthe father so greatly deprecated the son's want of energy, and his general easiness of disposition; but when Martha was left alone, Reuben's tenderness and loving care blinded her to all shortcomings, and the mother and son had led a peaceful, happy life, unclouded by any quarrel, till some one told Mrs. Leir that her son was courting Rose Morrison.

She had grown so accustomed to his tender care of her, that at first the news came as a painful shock; then, when her commonsense told her that this was an event which must be looked for sooner or later, she began to study Rose Morrison, and found no comfort in the study either for herself or Reuben. "What can be hoped for," she said, bitterly, "from the daughter of a French ladies'maid?" and then she spoke to Reuben; but her speaking only produced estrangement and coldness, and she avoided the subject, until her son's frequent absence and silent moods when at home created an irritation in her mind which had at last found voice on the previous evening.

Dinner-time came, and no Reuben; and Mrs. Leir grew troubled. Her son had said he must weed his vegetables, so she had guessed he was on the land-slip, but, as the day went on, she decided that he had driven over to Colyton and would be home for supper.

Evening grew into night. The wind had risen, and howled furiously round the cottage, and the rain beat against the windows. Martha Leir kept a clear fire in the open grate till past ten o'clock. Reuben had never been so late. She could not go to bed. She went to the door and looked out, but a fierce current of air rushed in, blew out her candle, and made it hard work for her to shut the door again.

"He'll never come home through this," she said; "the wind is enough to blow the cart over." At last she went to bed, but it was not easy to sleep through the wind and rain; and the feeling that she and her son had parted without any reconciliation, after the hard words that had been said on both sides, helped to drive sleep away, and even when it came she often roused with a terrified start at the dreams that came along with it.

She fully waked up about four o'clock. Her room was filled with sunshine, and all traces of the storm had disappeared. When she last fell asleep, she had resolved to seek for her son on the land-slip; but now the bright morning light made her ashamed of the terror that she had suffered through the night.

All at once she started, listened eagerly, and then, dressing herself as quickly as possible, she hurried down-stairs. Roger, the donkey, had been reared by her husband, and it was his bray that she had heard. She was sure she should know it among a hundred, and she ran down-stairs in the glad hope that Reuben would meet her at the gate.

"How frightened I must have been about | him!" she said, with a smile of pity at her own weakness. Her heart beat so fast that she could not move as quickly as she wished; but when she reached the gate her face changed to a pale-gray hue, and her limbs shook. She stretched out one hand mechanically, and clung for support to the gate. There was Roger, trying to raise the latch with his broad, soft nose; but Reuben was not to be seen.

Mrs. Leir looked at the donkey as if she expected it to speak, and then she saw that the cord by which it had been tied was hanging from its neck. It had broken loose from its fastenings, and had come home without its master.

But Martha Leir's spirit soon revived. It was possible that, if Reuben had been at work some distance off, he might not at first have seen Roger's escape, and the search for his donkey might have kept him out too late to come home. And yet there were no signs of fatigue about the donkey; he was plainly hungry, and Mrs. Leir opened the gate and let him in to find his way to the shed he occupied at the back of the house. Then she hurried back to her room, put on her bonnet and cloak, and set off toward the sea.

The village round the vicarage and the inn was still asleep when she reached it; but

in the green lane leading up from the beach she saw coming toward her a well-known figure in the blue garb of a fisherman. This was old Peter, and the basket he carried showed his calling. It was filled with dabs and gurnet, while over all was stretched a huge and hideous skate, more like a sea-monster than a fish fit for human food.

Peter was a short, square man, with little, twinkling eyes that were never still.

"You be out early, missus. Now, I had a call to be stirring betimes, seeing as the storm perwented I overnight from so doing, and twad a bin mortal foolish to leave good victual to go stinkin' afore it was cooked; so I just brings it across, and betime I be in Mercombe, and has had a bit to eat and drink, they'll be up and stirring. But why 'ee so early, Missus Leir, if I may be so bold?”and he peered at her curiously with his small eyes.

Martha Leir asked herself the same question. She had not courage to tell the universal gossip Peter that she was out thus early because Reuben had not come home all night; but the twinkling eyes were fixed upon her she was obliged to answer.

"I'm going to the land-slip," she said, trying to appear unconcerned; "Reuben has a bit of land there."

"Aha! that minds me there were summat I had to say to 'ee, Missus Leir. Tell Reuben he'd best not lose his time with Miss Rosie at the quarry-side. Old Peter keeps his eyes open. Her likes summat a trifle faster than Reuben. I sighted her and that French Gaspard a-walking like sweethearts yesterday. A fine lad like Reuben shouldn't be content with other men's leavings."

Peter chuckled. He never took his eyes from Mrs. Leir's face, and he saw that she winced at his words.

"Good-morning, Peter," she said, stiffly. "I wish you luck with your fish ; " and she climbed the style and proceeded to mount the grass-cliff which leads to the land-slip. But before she had taken many steps she wished she had asked for Peter's company; he knew the country thoroughly, and, besides, he would have been a help-help in what she dared not think. She turned to look, but he was already out of sight. She must go on bravely and face whatever misfortune she had to encounter alone.

light.

"May the Lord have mercy on me!" broke involuntarily from Mrs. Leir's blanched lips; but she did not even sob or wring her hands, as a less self-contained woman would have done. She forced herself to act. She saw she could not reach her son; it was impossible to get down the face of the rock, and certainly she could not climb over the rough masses of granite from below. She must seek help. She looked up, and the huge bird again swooped across just over the spot where Reuben lay. She shuddered; if she went away, the foul bird might attack the senseless body.

She reached the little shed and looked under its low, thatched eaves. Yes, there was the donkey-cart, and hanging to a post the broken bit of cord by which Roger had been fastened. A cormorant soared over the cliffs, flapping his huge, black wings. On the path beside the hedge lay Reuben's weeding-spud; and then all at once Martha Leir saw that the hedge itself was broken away.

She stood still an instant, unable to move, and then she leaned forward and looked over the cliff. It was again high tide, and the waves had nearly reached the wall of cliff; but it was a quiet, lapping sea; there was no blinding haze of spray to bewilder eyesight, nothing to hide from the mother's eyes the sight that was then waiting for her.

Many feet down the cliff, between the rock itself and one of the fantastic crags that here and there project from it, lay Reu

But help must be got.

64

"God will care for him better than I can," she said; and she ran rapidly along the way to Mercombe Mouth. They will be stirring at Williams's by now," she thought; and the hope seemed to give her wings.

Williams's farm was a few hundred yards from the beach, abutting on the green lawn which led from Mercombe. A noisy chorus of pigs clamoring for their breakfast greeted her as she opened the five-barred gate; but she scarcely heard them. She felt she must almost fall down on her knees in thankfulness in the midst of the pig-trodden straw that littered the yard; for there stood, in front of the farm-house, not only Joe Tilly, Mr. Williams's factotum and the most experienced fisherman in Mercombe, but Mr. Williams himself. He was dressed ready for a journey, and was busy stowing away various things in the cart that stood before the garden-gate; for the house lay some way back from the pig-yard, and he did not see Mrs. Leir; but Joe Tilly saw her, and noted the anguish in her face.

"What ails ye, Missus Leir?" he said, kindly; "it's early for ye to be out-doors." The kindly voice and the look of sympathy took away her courage. She quite broke down.

"O Joe! O Mr. Williams!" she sobbed, "for God's sake come!-my boy's fallen over the cliff, and he lies there, half-way down."

Mr. Williams's head had been buried in the cart, but he drew it out in a hurry, his red forehead grown purple, and his stiff, irongray hair bristling up with the shock of the widow's words.

"Bless my soul! d'ye mean it?" he said. "Good Heavens! how did it happen? Then he turned to his man.-" We must leave this job. Mother'll see to the horse. You, Joe, run for a couple of men and a long ladder and ropes, and a blanket, and follow over the beach. I'll go round to the foot of the cliff.-Come, Mrs. Leir, and show me where the poor fellow is ;" and then led the way down to the beach.

"Are you sure, missus?" said Williams, speaking for the first time since they had left the farm.

"I'm as sure as I can be," she said, sadly. As she spoke, a great, black bird swooped slowly down and lighted on the point of the projecting crag.

He did not tell Reuben's mother that he had thus quietly set aside an important journey for her sake. Something in her white, agonized face compelled him to help her and to be silent.

By the time they reached the bay below the land-slip the tide had turned, but they could get no glimpse of Reuben-the pro

Williams gave a loud cry, and the startled cormorant flew away seaward, uttering a harsh croak as he sailed overhead.

How long the waiting seemed! Mrs. Leir paced up and down, examining the cliff with eager eyes to see if the least chance of a footing thereon was practicable; but there was not a crevice to be found in the hard, closegrained rocks. Then she went as far as she could seaward among the slippery rocks that bordered the beach, to see if she could get a glimpse of the precious burden hanging so high in mid-air. She was recalled by a joy. ful shout from Mr. Williams.

"Here's Joe!" he cried, "and the lad

der."

And Joe Tilly and his two companions came quickly round the angle of the cliff that formed the near corner of the bay.

It was a terrible suspense. Martha Leir could do nothing. She offered to help in holding the ladder, but the men put her gently on one side; they could manage, they said. She could only stand gazing with hard, dry eyes. While two of them mounted, cord in hand, Mr. Williams stood by the ladder. When they reached the spur of rock, she saw one of them get off the ladder; he stooped down. She could gaze no more. She covered her eyes, and prayed for her boy's life

REUBEN LEIR recovers slowly. He was terribly bruised and injured in that awful fall. His leg was broken, and he will never walk again without a stick or a crutch. Martha sits and gazes at her son, scarcely daring to believe he is restored to her, and yet she is so little softened by the trial she has undergone that in her heart she curses Rose Morrison as the cause of Reuben's calamity.

In one way she has learned and profited. In all these anxious weeks of nursing she has found out how kind her neighbors are, and also how helpful outward sympathy is to a heart that has to bear its burden alone. From the vicar to the poorest cottager came some tokens of good-will or offers of help.

Some time went by before Reuben showed consciousness of what had befallen him. When he learned how grave his injuries were, he relapsed into almost constant silence.

About two months have gone by, and Mrs. Leir sits knitting beside her son's sofa.

"There is a tap at the door, mother; are you not going to answer it?" he says, such a strange, shy tone in his voice that his mother looks up. A faint-pink streak on each of her son's pale cheeks makes her feel uneasy and perplexed. She hardly knows why, but she goes to the door and opens it.

Rose Morrison is standing in the little garden. Her eyes are full of tears, and she blushes when she sees Martha Leir.

"Wait!" the elder woman says, holding up her hand; and she goes back and shuts the door of Reuben's room. Then she returns, and says sternly to the frightened girl, "What do you want, Miss Morrison?" "O Mrs. Leir!"-Rose is angry as well as frightened "don't look at me like that -don't, now! You only make me feel wicked."

"I should like to make you feel unhappy, for you deserve it; that it was you that sent my son nearly to his death, I've learned from his talk in his illness; he never speaks of you now."

"Ah!"-Rose wiped her eyes-" please do let me see him, poor dear fellow! I know the sight of me will do him good, and I am so sorry, and he will believe I am sorry; he is not so cruel as you are. Do let me in; I long so to see him again."

Rose's voice is sweet and persuasive, but Martha Leir is flint.

"You long to see my Reuben!-you, who could fancy he was content to share you with that French fellow Gaspard! Go along with you! You are worse than I thought you, Rose Morrison. You are not fit even to look on Reuben's face again!"

She puts her strong, bony hand on Rose's shoulder, and pushes her from the door and closes it.

When she goes back to Reuben she is amazed to find that he has dragged himself to the window, and stands there looking out.

"Was that Rose?" Then, without waiting for his mother to answer: "How kind of her to come and inquire for me!"

Mrs. Leir turns full of wrath and with a bitter sentence ready, but Reuben is clinging to the casement, trembling and overpowered by the unusual exertion he has made. She puts her arm round him very tenderly, and guides him back to the sofa.

"My poor, dear lad," she whispers, "forgive me; I must only think of you."

VI.

ANOTHER month has gone by, and Reuben can now get about alone, leaning on a stout stick, a present which Farmer Williams brought him from Exeter. His mother still likes to think her arm as necessary as the stick, but Reuben is anxious for independence, and to-day he has persuaded her to drive over to Colyton with a neighbor, for the sake of the change.

As he paces slowly up and down in front of the cottage, he is thinking of his mother.

"How loving and unselfish her care of me has been, and not one word of reproach! How could I have vexed her for such a girl as Rose Morrison?"

He turns to pace down the road again, and there is Rose! She has come up behind him unobserved. Reuben grows pale and then red; then he tries to pass her so fast that he stumbles, and would fall but for the stick.

"Reuben," the girl cries out, "won't you even speak to me? You would, if you knew how unhappy I am, and if you could see how I grieve for you."

"I-I am obliged to you, Rose," he says, in a strange, choked voice, "but there can be no friendship between you and me now."

She fixes her dark, glowing eyes on his changing, irresolute face, and then she bursts into passionate weeping.

Reuben is troubled-the old love tugs at his heart, but he forces himself to remember Jacques Gaspard and that walk along the beach. It is very hard to stand unmoved by Rose's tears.

"Don't cry, Rose," the poor fellow says; "I forgive you-and I hope you will be happy!"

"I shall never be happy again, Reuben. Your mother says I was the cause of your accident, and you think I deceived you."

Reuben is tired, and this agitation robs him of his little strength. The girl's quick eyes see his weakness.

"Dear Reuben," she says, tenderly, “you are not well enough to stand talking; let me help you in. There-put your hand on my shoulder, and let us come in-doors."

Her eyes are so sweet and loving-her whole manner so softened from the petulant Rose he had loved so dearly-that Reuben gives up his resistance. He puts his hand on the little, soft shoulder so lovingly offeredwhich does not give much support, after all -and yet, somehow, by the time he reaches his sofa, he looks brighter and more like his old self than he has looked since the accident.

Five minutes after, Rose is seated on the sofa beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

"And you are not going to marry that French fellow?" says Reuben.

Rose raises her head, and looks at him in her old saucy fashion.

Reuben feels the blood rush to his face. Why should he hide this happiness from his mother-why should she not share his joy?

"Mother"-she was leaning over himhe took both her hands in his-"I must tell you what has happened. I have seen Rose, and we are friends again."

Mrs. Leir drew her hands away. 66 That girl! O Reuben!" in a broken voice that was full of un:itterable pain.

"Don't say any thing against her, dear

mother; she is to be my wife." He raised himself and kissed her face, now turned away from him in bitterness of heart. "She is so sorry, and she has always loved me. She never cared for Jacques. You will take her for a daughter, won't you, mother dear?"

Mrs. Leir's mouth trembled, but the earnestness in her son's face conquered.

"I can't stand in the way of your happiness, dear," she said, sadly, "and if this is your happiness, I will take Rose Morrisonbut, O my boy-my boy-don't risk yourself a second time—don't give yourself, in a hurry, to a light woman who has cared for other men before she cared for you, and will care for them again. Ab, my Reuben, you are worth the first place in a girl's heart, instead of coming in at the end."

Reuben had grown very red indeed. "Thank you for your consent," he said; 'but, mother, please don't speak badly of Rose. It's unjust, and I can't bear it."

VII.

REUBEN resented his mother's words, and yet, as soon as he was free from the witchery of Rose's presence, his heart was heavy with doubt-not because he had seen her with Gaspard; she had explained that to him, and he knew the man so well that he could believe he had forced his company on the girl. The doubt that troubled Reuben was about himself-could he make Rose happy?

"I am such a slow, quiet fellow," he thought, "and, since my fall, I often fretand she is such a lively darling." But the strong love he felt-the greater now that it had been repressed-drew him next day to the quarry. He lifted the latch of the garden-gate, and went into the cool, tree-shaded garden. The place was so green that the tulips and anemones seemed to gain in brilliancy of color.

Reuben had hurried fast along the road, spite of his weakness; but, by the time he reached the cottage-door, he had lost strength and courage, and his knock had a timid sound.

Mrs. Morrison's lame tread was heard on the lime-ash floor, and she opened the door -a small, dark woman, with narrow, sharp eyes that seemed to be always prying into those of the people to whom she spoke. She was very trimly dressed, and she looked more like Rose's elder sister than her mother.

"Ah," she smiled up in Reuben's face, "is it, then, Monsieur Leir? I am glad to see you, monsieur, and I am sorry; for you do not come, I know, to see me. I am glad to see you walk again-but Rose is not at home."

"Where is she?" Reuben said, abruptly. Ah, mon Dieu !"-she held up her hands with a gesture of deprecation-" what can I tell you, monsieur? Rose goes here and she goes there, and I do not ask her where she goes. Believe me, it is a great mistake to interfere with young people; and, when you marry Rose, you must treat her as I do. I am very glad to see you friends again."

There was such a cunning look in her eyes that Reuben started.

"I will wait, if you please, Mrs. Morrison," he said; "I want to see Rose."

Mrs. Morrison pointed to a chair, and Reuben seated himself, and looked round the square, low-roofed room. How much prettier and more trim it was than his own home-what tasteful muslin curtains those were in the windows, and how charming the little nosegays looked, placed so exactly where the room was dark and bare.

Mrs. Morrison watched him as he sat there, and this made him fidgety. 'Rose dresses up the room, Monsieur Reuben; she likes pretty, tasteful ways. That is why I am glad she is to marry you-you are able to give her a good home, and money to spend on clothes; and Rose likes pretty dresses, Monsieur Reuben."

"I suppose most girls do," he said; but the woman's prying eyes and coaxing manner fidgeted him. He wished he had walked on to meet Rose, instead of waiting. He sat silent, and presently Mrs. Morrison began on new ground.

"I believe you, my darling," he said, fondly; "but give me a proof that you're in earnest. Marry me this day fortnight."

Rose began to exclaim :

"But my clothes, Reuben-I must have proper clothes."

He stopped her.

"I asked a proof, Rose. You will not refuse me, my darling girl!"

She looked confused-ready to cry. "Very well," she said, slowly. "I will tell mother, and you can settle it with her."

They had reached the garden-gate, and she ran in, leaving Reuben gazing after the charming picture she made in the shaded garden.

VIII.

Ir is the day before the wedding. Both Hookton and Mercombe had been full of eager anticipation and gossip. Rose has not been so triumphant as some of her neighbors expected. Mrs. Leir has been pale and sorrowful, but Reuben looked full of happiness. His recovery.has progressed with astonishing rapidity. When he woke this morning, he said to himself, "To-morrow-only till to-morrow," and then went off early to put the last finishing touches to his new house. He will not turn his mother out of the cottage where she has lived so long; his hope is, that eventually she will grow to like Rose, and they shall all live then together. For the present he has rented a small cottage down in the valley, beside the river. Rose has been very restless this morning. She has promised to wait in for Reuben, and yet she has a longing to go down to Hookton. She tells her mother this.

แ

แ

Speak away," he said, "but mind you speak the truth this time. Remember I'm not a soft fool like your new lover Mr. Leir." There was a mocking sound in his voice, and Rose trembled.

"You are cruel," she sobbed. "You say you love me, and you do not marry me. Why do you come back and spoil my future? I do not love Reuben Leir as I have loved you, but he loves me, and I mean to be a good wife to him. He offers me a good, comfortable home, and he does not play fast and loose, as you do."

Jacques swore fiercely.

"That's a lie -I am ready-say you will come to me at once, and I will marry you, and give you all that a woman can wish for."

Rose gave him a loving, wistful look. "Will you marry me before you take me away?" she said, timidly.

"Ah, bah!" the sailor said. "Women are all alike. They expect unlimited trust to be placed in them, and they give none." He changed his tone. "Why doubt me, Rose, my angel?"

"I was wrong to say so much. It does not matter. I have promised Reuben, and I will keep my word. Now I must go. Good

"I told him I never wanted to speak to him again," she says, fretfully. 'Well, when he hears I am going to be married, he will go away in a rage."

She ran back to the cottage. "Mother, don't let Reuben go after me if he comes. I shall be back directly."

She quickly left the garden, and went into the quarry. There were caves here running deep into the stone, and yet scarcely showing an opening. Rose paused before one of these and whistled softly. In a moment the whistle came back like a powerful echo, and the girl went forward into the cave. Light came from above some way down through fissures in the stone, and Rose saw at once that Jacques Gaspard was very angry. She felt frightened, and drew away from him, but he grasped her arm firmly.

The sailor stood thinking. At last he shrugged his shoulders, and stood aside to let her pass.

"As you will. My plan would have made you a happy woman. Well, I bear you no malice; I will bring you a wedding-present if you care to have it."

ly.

"A present! What?" said Rose, eager

A smile crossed Jacques's face. "A brooch and a pair of ear-rings fit for a princess. Listen. I will come to the point below the land-slip this evening-if you like to meet me and take them."

"There?" Rose shuddered. "Yes! there and nowhere else, at nine o'clock to-night," he said, roughly.

Rose hesitated, and then she said: "All right, I will be there!" and ran back to the cottage.

She was not a moment too soon. Before she had recovered from the fright and flutter of Jacques's visit, Reuben came limping up the garden-path.

"Ah!-how I wish he was more like Jacques!" she said to berself.

Reuben sat talking; he was in gay spirits, but Rose could not rally. She was by turns cross and tearful, and at last she asked her lover to leave her to herself.

"Very well; I will go now, darling, but I've not said all I've got to say, my girl. I'll come down and have a talk in the even

ing."