"He may, and he may not. I left it all in God's hands. Surely to Heaven! your father was as well there as in old Dr. Thorpe's hands."

"I can only hope that you were and are insane, mother."

"Nay, my lad, I hev all my senses. I am as sane, and a good bit saner, than either thy father was or thou art. My word! Any Leigh must hev been stark crazy who was standing, pen in hand as one may say, to sign away house and land. And that is what thy father would hev done, hed not the fever put a stop to such wickedness. I hev always been told that sickness comes from the hand of God. Well, then, I left thy father to the will of Him that sent the fever. I didn't interfere one way or t'other. God hed His awn will. Does ta think old Thorpe's medicines were stronger than His will?"

"Mother, such reasoning is wicked. You know you did wrong."

"I did quite right! I'll stand to that, alive or dead! I saved house and land for thee. Ay, and for all that follow thee."

"I will have neither house nor land. I am going away from England. How could I bear to stop here?" "Thou wilt stop here. If ta goes away, whativer is to become of the property?"

"Do as you wish with it. If the dead Leighs are more to you than your living husband and son, give them the house. I will not share it with them."

"Thou art not worthy to do it."

"And if I stayed here, I should stay to carry out father's desire. I would mortgage-I would sell Leigh

House and land and keep the mill going, for that would keep a thousand families in bread."

"My word!

Thou art a reprobate!

Out of my

I'll niver own thee again!

Thou wants to be lord

sight! Out of my hearing!

I know what thou is after.

and master at Atherton Court. And the Leighs' place may fall into anybody's or nobody's hands. Thou art a wicked one, and no mistake."

"I shall never now ask Miss Atherton to come into our family. How could I?"

"Thou hed better not. I told her father an hour ago she niver could marry thee. I gave the proud old fellow a set-down he won't forget in a hurry."

"O mother! mother! How could you shame me so? You have broken my heart twice over!

How

I

"If ta can do nothing but cry, go to thy room. hev my awn sorrow, and it is as much as I can bear. Does ta think I hev no feelings? Does ta think that doing my duty pays me for all I hev hed to give up? I tell thee there is a worm at my heart and a fire in my brain, and they will worry and burn me into my grave before they'll stop a moment!"

She swept the table clear with passionate haste as she spoke, locked the doors, and taking the candle off the table, went upstairs. Lancelot remained in the large, dark sitting-room. He wondered where his mother would go. She went straight to the room in which her husband had died. She had occupied it all her married life; she was evidently not going to resign her right to it because Death had taken her place there for a little while. Lancelot heard her close the windows; he heard

her heavy footfalls, her movements about the ambries and drawers, just as the squire had heard them a few hours before. She had been preparing the chamber for her use then; she was now preparing herself to lie down in it, and sleep such sleep as was possible to her.

Lancelot sat still thinking. However hopeless a man may be, he must still think and still plan; for life, somehow, must be got over, and a grave fairly and honestly earned. At this hour all else had vanished; hope for better days seemed hopeless. He could not bear to contemplate taking one penny from his father's estate. He could not think of the estate as belonging in any shape to him. His father's unnatural death, whether it was known to others or not, was known to him. He would have felt base beyond contemplation to have profited himself in any way by it.

He

He compelled

mother was inHe could not say

But this was only the beginning of sorrows. knew that Francesca must be given up. himself to face this terrible fact. His sane, or she was in full intent athe word; he tried not to be conscious of the letters that spelled it, but they would come before his eyes as if they were written in fire.

How could he tell Squire Atherton the real facts? And yet how shameful it would be to continue his engagement with his daughter, hiding them! How could he tell them to Francesca? It would be impossible. Then what should he say to account for the silence and desertion that must now cancel all their sweet hopes? Every explanation he thought of only made things worse; for at the last it came to these questions:

"Can I accuse my mother to Francesca? Can I accuse her to Francesca's father? Would they be willing to risk the awful dread of inheritable insanity? Would they be willing to ignore the suspicion of a crime still more terrible?" In any case, was it his duty to betray either the misfortune or the crime of his mother? He could not feel in himself any particle of that Brutus-conscience which took the public into confidence or consideration. His mother was still his mother. find excuses for her no stranger would allow. that her punishment had already begun. His desertion of her was a part of it.

He could

He knew

Yes, in spite of his own overwhelming sorrow, even with the thought of sweet Francesca breaking his tender heart, he sobbed out with an almost divine compassion:

"My poor, wretched mother! God be pitiful to her!"

CHAPTER IX.

LOVE TIED IN A KNOT.

"A little sorrow, a little pleasure,

Fate metes us from the dusty measure

That holds the date of all of us."

"Ah, but alas! for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore!

Ah, for the voice that has flown away, like a bird, to an unknown shore!"

IT

"Welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,

And frequent sights of what is to be borne;
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

T is very hard to believe what goes against our wishes; and it was almost impossible for Francesca to believe that Lancelot would now really leave England. There seemed to be such good and valid reasons for his remaining at home, that, in spite of his melancholy letters and their certain air of change, Francesca would not consider his exile as a likelihood.

One morning in October, Miss Loida and her niece were in the garden together. It was a fresh, frosty morning, with plenty of sunshine. The squire had gone into the village on electioneering business, and the ladies, in spite of the contradiction in their love affairs, were not unhappy. Miss Loida was talking with the gardener, and she had her hands full of the latest asters.