picker. Don't hev no fear o' that sort, Miss Theyn!" And here even Bab's voice grew fainter as her breathing became overpowered by betraying emotion. "Don't hev no fear o' that sort. I'll . . . well, I'll let ya know when he's i' daänger!"

It was evident that Bab had not intended to end her speech thus; and other things more important were evident also. Thorhilda's experience had not been wide, but she had her woman's instincts to guide her, and her instinct told her plainly that Bab's emotion could only have one cause. This and other new knowledge complicated the feeling which had brought Miss Theyn to saunter there, in the very middle of Ulvstan Bight, with Barbara

Burdas.

Other complications were at hand. Thorhilda herself hardly knew what drew her to notice that Bab's perturbation had suddenly and greatly increased, but instantly her eyes followed the direction of her companion's eyes, and almost to her distress she saw that the figure advancing rapidly toward them over the beach was the figure of her brother Hartas. Thorhilda's exclamation of concern did not escape Bab's notice.

CHAPTER III.-ULVSTAN BIGHT.

"For hast thou not a herald on my cheek,
To tell the coming nearer of thy ways,
And in my veins a stronger blood that flows,
A bell that strikes on pulses of my heart,
Submissive life that proudly comes and goes
Through eyes that burn, and speechless lips that part?
And hast thou not a hidden life in mine,

In thee a soul which none may know for thine?"
MARK ANDRÉ RAFFALOVITCH.

HARTAS THEYN was coming down the beach slowly, yet with more intentness in his deliberate gait than was usually to be observed. He had seen from the road by the Forecliff that the lady who was walking with Barbara Burdas was none other than his elder sister.

Thorhilda consciously repressed all outward sign as she watched his approach; her face did not betray the sadness she felt as she noted his slouching air-his shabby, shapeless clothing. The very hat he wore, an old grey felt, seemed to betray what manner of man its wearer had come to be; and as he came nearer, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, a pipe between his lips, a sullen, defiant, yet questioning look in the depths of his dark eyes, a touch of something that was almost dread entered into her feeling. It was but momentary, this strange emotion; and she offered her greeting without more restraint than was usual between them.

"You did not expect to see me here, Hartas?" she said pleasantly.

"No, I didn't," replied the young man, after half a minute's irritating silence. "An' if I'm to tell the truth, I don't know 'at I'd any particular wish to see you." And his eyes flashed a little, as if conscious of a certain amount of daring in his speech.

If this daring were ventured upon for Bab's sake, or because of her presence there, it was a mistake; but this Hartas had not discernment enough to perceive. Bab was looking on with interest, but she repressed all tendency to smile.

Thorhilda replied instantly and easily, "That is not polite, Hartas," she said. “But let it pass. I did not come here to irritate you. And..."

"Could you say what you did come for?" interrupted Hartas, with a certain coarse sharpness in his tone.

'Readily. I came down to make the acquaintance of Barbara Burdas. I wished to know her; I had wished it for some time. So far, I am glad I did come. Don't try to make me regret it."

"I don't spend my breath in such efforts as them, as a rule," rejoined the young man, taking his pipe from his mouth, and speaking with evident strong effort to restrain himself. "But have a care! I don't force myself upon your friends."

"True," said Thorhilda; and again, before she could find the word she wished to use, the opportunity was taken from her.

'D'ya want yer sister to think she's forced herself upon a friend o' yours?" Bab asked, still seeming as if she tried to restrain the sarcastic smile that appeared to play about her lips almost ceaselessly. Hartas Theyn's manner changed instantly in replying to Bab. It was as if the better nature within him asserted itself all at once; his higher manhood responded to her slightest touch.

"I don't want no quarrellin'," he replied, speaking with a mildness and softness so new in him that even his sister discerned it with an infinite surprise. "I don't want no quarrellin', an' it's only fair to expect that if I keep away fra them, as I always hev done” [this with an unmitigated scorn], "they'll hev the goodness to keep away fra me. Friend's o' that sort 's best separated; so I've heard tell afore to-day." Then, warming with his own eloquence, Hartas turned again to Thorhilda, saying emphatically,

"I mean no harm; and as I said just now, I want no quarrellin'; but if you want to keep out o' mischief, keep away fra me; an'

from all interference in my affairs. I can manage them for myself, thank ya, all the same."

Thorhilda hesitated a moment, recognising the effort Hartas had made, and also the element of fairness in his words, yet it was inevitable that other thoughts should force themselves upon her.

"Hartas, do you remember that you are my brother?" she asked after a moment of swift, deep thinking.

"An' what o' that? It's neither your fault nor mine."

"No; it is no one's fault; but it is a fact, a fact that means much, and, for me, involves much. If I could forget it I should bewell, something I hope I am not. Fortunately for me I cannot forget it; more fortunately still, I cannot altogether ignore it. I cannot let you and your life's deepest affairs pass by me as if no tie existed. . .. I do not wish to forget, or to ignore. Why should you wish it ?"

"Because I'm made of a different sort o' stuff-a commoner sort, if you will; an' because I'm cast in a different mould. Say what you like, it isn't easy for you to look down-fool as I am I can see as much as that. But, take my word for it, it isn't any easier for me to look up. An' why should either you or me strive to look up or down against the grain? Because the world expects it! Then let it expect. I'm good at disappointin' expectations o' that sort. We're better apart, an' you know it!" Then turning away, a little excited, a little angry, perturbed by nervous perturbations of various kinds, he lifted his eyes to discern the approach of influences yet more disturbing to him than any he had encountered that luckless morning. And yet it was only two ladies who were approaching, two elderly and, more or less, elegantly dressed ladies. Hartas instantly divined that they were his aunts in search of Thorhilda.

"Heaven help us!" he exclaimed. "Here's two more of 'em! Bab, let's fly. There's the cave!"

"Me fly!" Bab exclaimed indignantly. "It will be the first time! And as she stood watching the two ladies advancing slowly over the slimy, slippery stones and tangle, again the half-satirical smile gathered about her mouth. Hartas watched her face with admiration expressed on every feature of his own; and Thorhilda stood, controlling the fear of a scene that was mingled with her expectancy. Mrs. Godfrey, the Canon's stately and still beautiful wife; Mrs. Kerne,

"THINK again, Bab!" Hartas whispered to the only quite self-possessed one of the waiting three. "Think again! There's the Pirate's Hole!"

"Go into it, if you're frightened," replied Bab curtly.

Hartas was silenced; but the unpleasant anticipation of the moment was not done away. He smoked on more vigorously than before. Thorhilda uttered some small nothing to Bab, and then turned to meet the two approaching figures. To her comfort her Aunt Milicent's face was the face it usually was-beautiful, kind, smiling; free from all disfigurement of untoward expression. She was not a woman to mar any influence she might have by uncontrolled feminine petulance.

...

"Well!" she said cheerfully to Thorhilda. "I thought you were to wait for me on the promenade, dear! But how lovely this is! How breezy !-And there is Hartas! I haven't seen him for an age. Hartas -how do you do? And how are you all at the Grange? We were thinking of driving round that way; but now we needn't. All quite well? Delightful! But, of course, that doesn't include your poor Aunt Averil. How I should like to hear for once that she was quite well."

So Mrs. Godfrey ran on in her easy, womanof-the-world way; glancing at Barbara Burdas, understanding, feeling acutely all the incongruity of the elements that made up the surrounding atmosphere; knowing herself to be ten times less distressed than Mrs. Kerne, who stood by her side, yet not too nearsilent, hard, stern, disapproving to the uttermost. And yet Mrs. Godfrey's social nerves should surely have been as keenly sensitive as those of Squire Theyn's sister. All the world knew of the upbringing of the latter in

Mrs. Godfrey's early recollections were of a different order. She was one of the five daughters of the Rector of Luneworth, a small village in a Midland county-a village where a kindly duke and duchess had reigned supreme, making much of the Rector's pretty children, and affording them many advantages as they grew up which could not other wise have been obtained. As all the neighbourhood knew, the Miss Chalgroves had shared the lessons that masters came down from London to give to the Ladies Haddingley. And, later in life, some of the Rector's daughters had made a first social appearance on the same evening, and in the same place, as some of their more favoured friends. And they were truly friends, who had remained friendly much to Milicent Godfrey's permanent good, pleasure, and satisfactionmuch to her sister Averil's deterioration. Averil had been the eldest of them all-a clever, fretful, nervous woman, who had all her life magnified her slight ailments into illnesses, and who had condescended to share her sister Grace's home when the latter married Squire Theyn, with an inexpressible disgust. That her sister Milicent had never offered her a couple of rooms at the Rectory at Market Yarburgh remained a standing cause for bitterness. It was not likely to be removed so long as Mrs. Godfrey should care for her husband's peace of mind.

It was the quick sight of Mrs. Kerne, the Squire's widowed sister, that had discerned the group upon the beach. She had met Mrs. Godfrey at the turn leading down to the promenade, accepted her invitation to walk with her to meet Thorhilda with an indifference that was more than merely ungraciousness, and when they found that Thorhilda had left the promenade, her instinct led her to express her shallow satisfaction in somewhat irritating speech. Peering round above

Mrs. Kerne was a short, stout woman, moving with the ungainly movement natural to her age and proportions. Her red face grew redder as she descended the narrow, unsavoury road that led to the beach, and her usually unamiable expression did not grow more amiable. By the time she had arrived at the point when it was necessary to shake hands with Thorhilda she had perhaps unaware, poor woman!-acquired a most forbidding aspect. Thorhilda shrank, as from a coming blow; but this was only for a second, her larger nature conquered, and she stood considerate, courageous.

The influence of Barbara Burdas alone held Hartas Theyn to the spot of wet, weed-strewn sand on which he stood, his pipe still in his mouth, his big, unkept brown hands still in the pockets of his trousers. The mere sight of him seemed to awaken the ire of Mrs. Kerne. That he should stand there before her, calmly smoking, with Barbara Burdas by his side, was too much for the small amount of equanimity at her disposal. No description made by means of pen or pencil could do justice to the expression of her face as she broke the brief silence, sniffing the air as she did so as an ill-tempered horse sniffs it at the beginning of the mischief he has it in his head to bring about.

"I can't say that I see exactly why I've been brought down here," she remarked, glancing from her niece to her even less favoured nephew. "What is the meaning of it? An' why are you standing there, Hartas, looking more like a fool than usual, if that's possible?... I suppose the truth is I've been tricked! brought down here to be introduced to your

Stop a minute," Hartas interposed, at last taking the pipe from between his lips, putting it behind him, and letting his dark eyes flash their fullest power upon Mrs. Kerne. "Stop a minute," he said. "If you've been brought down here, it's been by no will o' mine. I haven't seen you this

year past, and wouldn't ha' minded if I hadn't seen you for years to come. . . . All the same, say what you've got to say to me, but take my advice for once, leave other folks alone-especially folks 'at's never me'lled wi' you.

"It isn't much I've got to say to you," Mrs. Kerne replied, the angry colour deepening on her face as she spoke, and a keen light darting from her small eyes. "It isn't much I've got to say; an' first I may as well just thank you for your plain speaking. I'll not forget it! You may have cause to remember it yourself, sooner or later. It'll not be the first time 'at the readiness of your tongue has had to do with the emptiness of your pocket." "Mebbe not," interrupted Hartas. "I'd as soon my pockets were empty as try to fill 'em wi' toadyin' rich relations Most things has their price."

"I'm glad you've found that out," replied Mrs. Kerne. "But you've more to learn yet, if all be true 'at one hears an' sees. However, as you say, perhaps I'd better leave you to go to ruin by your own road. You've been travellin' on it a good bit now, by all accounts, an' from the very first I've felt that tryin' to stop you would be like tryin' to stop a thunderbolt."

"Just like that; an' about as much of a mistake," said Hartas, with an irritating attempt to seem cool. But the effort was obvious, and Thorhilda, who discerned all too plainly whither these amenities were likely to lead, turning to her brother, said gently

"Hartas, it is my fault that this has happened. I couldn't foresee it, of course. But let us put an end to it. Aunt Katherine will take cold if she remains here on the wet beach any longer; and we are going homeAunt Milicent and myself. Hadn't you better go too? And shall you be at the Grange to-morrow-in the afternoon? I want to see you. Don't refuse me, Hartas: I don't often ask favours of you."

It was strange how Thorhilda's voice, speaking gently, kindly, quietly, seemed to change the elements of that untoward atmosphere. Mrs. Kerne's countenance relaxed all unconsciously; Mrs. Godfrey smiled, and turned with a pleasant word to Barbara Burdas, who had been standing there during those brief moments, silent, wondering, perplexed, and not a little saddened. Bab knew nothing of Tennyson, but the spirit of one of the poet's verses was rankling in her heart

"If this be high, what is it to be low?"

Bab could not put the inquiry in these words, but in her own way, and of her own self, she asked the question; and later, in her own home, it came back upon her with fuller force than ever. Was this the surrounding of the man who had seemed to step down from some higher place, to condescend in speaking to her, to seem as if he stood on the verge of ruin in making known to her his deep and passionate affection? Bab understood much, more even than she knew that she understood, but naturally, from her social standpoint, there was a good deal that was confusing to her. Hitherto she had not cared to know of any dividing lines there might be in ranks above her own, and though discernment had seldom failed her in such cases of pretension as she had come across, she yet had no knowledge of the great gulfs that are fixed between class and class, and are only now and then bridged over by bridges of gold. But ignorant as she might be, she had yet discerned, instantly and instinctively, that Mrs. Godfrey and Miss Theyn were at least as far above Hartas as Hartas was above herself, and that the lines on which Mrs. Kerne's life was laid down were more familiar to him, and, in a certain sense, more consonant, than the lines of the two other lives into which Bab had had so mere a glimpse. Yet brief as the insight had been it had developed an infinitude of suggestive ideas; and it was significant that Bab's thought was drawn to dwell mainly upon the gentler, the higher phase of the humanity presented to her in those few moments. Naturally, her thinking and wondering was of a vague and inexact order, but it was not without its influence, for she recognised clearly that the hour of her meeting with Miss Theyn was the most striking landmark of her hitherto uneventful history.

CHAPTER V.-ON THE FORECLIFF.
"Whither away, Delight!

Thou camest but now; wilt thou so soon depart,
And give me up to-night?

For weeks of lingering pain and smart,
But one half-hour of comfort for my heart!"
GEORGE HErbert.

"YES; I'm glad to have seen them," Bab said to herself, as she stood alone at the door of her grandfather's cottage that night. The children were all in bed, little Stevie with his grandfather, Jack and Zeb in another bed in the far corner of the attic. Ailsie was in Bab's room, down below, a little square, dark place, with only room for a bed and a chair and the box in which Bab kept her "Sunday things "-her own and Ailsie's, and the latter were more than the former.

Few things pleased Bab more than to be able to buy some bit of bright ribbon for Ailsie's hat, or a kerchief for Ailsie's neck. No child on the Forecliff was more warmly and prettily clad than Ailsie Burdas.

sea.

It was moonlight now, the tide was half high, and the bay was filled from point to point with the sparkling of the silent silver There were a few fishing-cobles in the offing, two or three more were landing, making a picturesque group of dark, moving outlines upon the white margin of the waters. Bab was no artist, no poet, but something of the poet temperament there was in the girl, and that something was heightened at the present moment by the emotion she was contending against, striving to hide its intensity even from her own self. Bab had never acknowledged, even in her inmost thought, that there was any possibility of Hartas Theyn winning from her a return of the affection he professed so passionately. Rather was she conscious of that spirit of rebellion which so often dawns with a dawning love, the spirit of fear, of shrinking reluctance.

Hitherto the thought of becoming the wife of a man whose position in life was superior to her own had held but little temptation for her. She was not dazzled by the knowledge of Hartas Theyn's higher standing, of his better birth, of his reputed wealth. She would have been glad to exchange her life for one that offered greater freedom from care, greater ease, more ability to procure for herself and those belonging to her some of the things that were now counted as luxuries not to be thought of; but she had never been prepared to sacrifice herself too completely for such advantages as these. She was young and strong, and as willing to work as she was able. Why, then, should she dream of purchasing at a great price the things she did not very greatly desire to have!

But now to-night other thoughts came across her as she stood there, other visions filled her brain, vague visions of a gentler and more beautiful life-a life far from all roughness and rudeness-in a word, the life that might be lived by the woman to whom Miss Theyn would say, "My sister!"

"My sister!" Bab had said the words to herself; then she uttered them half-audibly, with a thrill like that of the lover who first says to himself, "My wife."

Could Thorhilda Theyn have known it all, could she have looked but one moment into Bab's heart and brain as the girl stood there

by the cottage door, feeling almost as if her very breathing were restrained by the force of the new vision, the compelling touch of the new affection, surely for very humility Miss Theyn would have been sad at heart. It was well for her peace that she might not know.

Bab had never before come into contact with any woman of such winning grace, sucli refined loveliness; never before had she been moved by such attractive gentleness. And there was something more than these a mystic and far-off something that drew the untrained fisher - girl with a strong and strange fascination, a fascination that she could neither understand nor resist.

"I'd lay my life down for her," she said, blushing as she spoke for the warmth of her own word, though no one was by to hear it, or to hold her in contempt for evermore for having used it. The blush was the sign of her heart's inexperience.

Thinking thus of Miss Theyn it was not wonderful that softened thoughts of Miss Theyn's brother should come; that his humility of manner to herself should appear in a new and more attractive light; that the remembrance of his affection should have more force to touch her own; that his oftrepeated assurance of life-long protection and unfailing devotion should appeal more strongly to her imagination. Ah, what a dream it was! how bright! how sweet! how possible! but, alas, how very brief!

Bab would not look at the ending of the dream: she put it away resolutely. Some day she would be compelled to look at it, but not to-night, not to-night. It was as if she herself were pleading with herself for a little good, a little beauty, a little softness, a little ease. Some day she might have to pay the price for the dream. Well, let the demand be made and she would honour it for Miss Theyn's sake she would honour it, though it cost all that she had, to the last limit.

"Yes, I'd do that; I'd lay down my life. if so 'twere to be that she needed it!" Bab repeated, still standing there, watching the dark, picturesque grouping of the men and boats upon the silver of the beach, the swiftly-changing lights and shadows seeming to correspond with the changes of her own thought and emotion. Presently a voice broke upon the silence, not roughly or rudely, yet with a strangely jarring effect upon her present mood, an effect that was for the instant almost as the first rising of anger. No intrusion could have been more unwelcome.