His strongly-marked features, his steady eyes, and the firm lines of his mouth giving an expression of strength on which, in his professional capacity, many a feeble feminine soul leant with no ill-placed confidence. Like his son Robert, he wore neither moustache nor beard, and the curves of quiet humour about the corners of his mouth stood unmistakably revealed. Mrs. Grant was in her way as attractive as her husband. Lively and clever, and Lively and clever, and with the innate refinement of good breeding, her quick intellect was suspected by some of her friends to be not unappreciated by her husband in occasional intricate matters connected with the office, though in a manner strictly sub rosâ, and not even darkly to be hinted at to the world at large. No personal suffering--and her health was very variable — ever prevailed to quench the brightness of Mrs. Grant's spirit; no amount of domestic turmoil ever attained to the point of being a worry; the cares of a busy household glided off her as lightly as though her one presence combined a multiplicity of persons-quick decision and equability of temper being the levers which moved all harmoniously. With such parents it was less to be wondered at that Robert Grant should be what he was-unless, indeed, we accept the theory that character in immediate descent deteriorates, and requires an interval of rest of a generation or two before reappearing in its primal excellence. On this showing we must accept the fact as a pleasing anomaly that the son in this case did reproduce the good qualities with a difference of both father and mother. CHAPTER XII.—A WALK THROUGH THE ROBERT GRANT was standing by one of the low windows of the dining-room at the Grange one fine day in the last week of September. He was apparently contemplating a flock of sheep, who, having been but lately introduced into the meadow, were proceeding, after the manner of their race, to investigate every nook and corner of their new domain. With loud bleatings and occasional bites at the fresh herbage, they wandered from end to end. In reality the young man's thoughts were occupied with matters far removed from farming interests. He was thinking of Lotta. In a day or two he was to set off for Yorkshire, to enter on the two years' residence agreed on. Since the little incident mentioned in the last chapter he had seen her frequently. They had walked and ridden together, and errands of all kinds to the Birches had presented themselves. Of late he had felt at times some nervous dissatisfaction with her manner. He fancied she seemed less at her ease, and that she showed a little inclination to avoid him. To go away and leave her for months with even the shadow of a cloud between them was not to be thought ofwith even the shadow of a doubt. He had not felt sure before that he would speak to her yet-all seemed so happy as it was; but now, as he stood by the window, he decided that he would. His sister unconsciously came to his assistance. 'I know nothing whatever of your erudite studies, Bee. I hope you are not trying to make Miss Grey a blue-stocking. It would not suit her." "Oh, we know very well that if gentlemen had their way they would have us girls as empty-headed as cuckoos," said Beatrice wrathfully. "That is a new discovery in natural history, is it?" "You would like us only to know how to darn stockings and make puddings; possibly, to read the papers to you might be also permissible. I never heard that those typical requirements need be less accurately performed by ladies who cultivate their minds a little as well!" "There-there-don't distress yourself," said Robert, laughing, "the rights of women shall be duly regarded. Come, Bee, the book." Lotta was, for a wonder, indoors when Robert Grant arrived and delivered himself of his commission, but he had little difficulty in persuading her to put on her hat and come out for a walk. They had not been in the habit of walking alone together-the Miss Bevans had too great a regard for the proprieties, and their excursions had generally been made either in Marion's company or with Beatrice. This afternoon, however, Marion was away, and Barbara, to whom Mr. Grant preferred his request, could not or did not refuse, and so it came to pass that the two found them selves walking side by side, soberly enough, along the hilly field path which is reached from the Rood road, and leads away, over stretches of arable and grass land alternately, as far as the village of Oare. It was a favourite walk at the Birches. The expanse of country visible all round gave a feeling of freedom and of being able to breathe, often most appreciated by dwellers in wooded districts. Let me know that I shall find my little wife when I come back." Lotta was silent for a while, but she was struggling to speak. He saw it, and waited patiently. When her words seemed as if they would not come he took her hand, and stroking it gently, said, "You are not afraid of megive me a little word." With a great effort she looked up; every vestige of colour was gone from her cheeks. Robert," she said-using his name unconsciously for the first time-"forgive me, but I cannot marry you." "But why?" he said after a moment; "you love me?" A succession of stiles led from field to field. The corn had all been carried, and over the stubble fields with their varied tints of maize and amber the soft shadows of the afternoon clouds flitted rapidly, here bringing out a dash of golden colour, there deepening the sombre hues into almost winter greyness. "Yes. I will tell you the truth. That Patches of wood, sheltering farm homesteads must be best. I do--at least, I could love where the new ricks already reared them-you-yes, indeed, I do love you, Robert; selves, lay here and there; in the distance but I have thought a great deal about it the long white steam-cloud of a passing train lately, because I could not help feeling what caught the light. we were growing to each other- She stopped for a moment, and then went on clearly, and without a tremble in her voice. Marriage is not all, and happiness is not all, in this world-but to do right. I see The two walked slowly on, and at first their talk was much as usual, but the slight shadow which Robert had felt before seemed all the more to-day to hang over Lotta. "You are not so good at a long walk as that clearly." you used to be," he said at last. "I am not tired, Mr. Grant," she replied. They were standing by the topmost stile, just where another long stubble field stretched away to a fir wood. Two tracks of grass on each side of the foot-path wound all across it, rising out of which a late harebell or two bent their fragile heads to the breeze; close by the stile, under the wall, some great purple thistles were growing. Lotta was leaning against the massive stone which formed the stile. She had gathered one of the honey-scented blooms and was stroking the soft hairy petals with her finger. Suddenly, Robert Grant began to speak, but, before he could frame a sentence, Lotta's eyes flashed up at him with such a wild glance of pain that he was startled. It seemed as if she would say-"Stop, stop; let me be happy a little longer! My darling!" he exclaimed. "ThereI have said it- —! Oh, Miss Grey, Lotta, my own dearest! I need not tell you-need I—that I love you ?” "I think," he continued, more quietly, you must have known it for a long time. Feelings as deep as mine must make themselves felt. I would not hurry you for the world; but I am going away, perhaps for two years-let me go with the knowledge that you are mine to help me on in my work. Robert made a gesture to stop her. Some one was passing some woman had come over the field path, unnoticed by them, and was waiting to cross the stile. Lotta turned her back to her and she went by. Then she began again-"Robert, I am peculiarly situated. I have met with kindness such as is the lot of few. When I was a little troublesome child, my dear adopted aunts took me into their home. They were not so very young then, and I don't think they cared much for children, but that never weighed with them for an instant. Had I been penniless-and at first they thought I was-it would, I know, have made no shadow of difference. From that hour to this they have never let me know what it is to be uncared for or unloved; they have never once lost patience with me, or spared thought, or time, or trouble for my good. Mr. Grant, do you know one of my earliest memories is of Aunt Marion's saying 'You will stay with us, and be a comfort to us when we grow old.' I don't mean that she meant to bind me by any promise, or spoke with much thought; but, all the same, that is what I ought to do, and, Robert, that is what I mean to do." He was going to speak, but she silenced him, and went on— 'They are getting older now, and Aunt Barbara is never likely to be well or strong again. They are getting to cling to me much more. I see it, I feel it every day. I am a companion to dear auntie now, and I think I am a comfort to them both. Tell mecould I ought I to leave them?" little shivering sigh. It touched him to the quick. "Oh, Lotta! unsay it all," he said. But she only shook her head and struggled with her tears. Hitherto she had kept them back "It is what parents have to do—to lose bravely, but she knew the time was coming their children," he said. when they would have their way. "Yes, that is true: I have said that to myself also, but they have, in one sense, a closer claim than a mother, because I had no claim on them. My duty becomes all the stronger." "I would not hurry you, Lotta. I had no thought of taking you away at present-only let me hope I may some day." "Ah, don't you see," she said piteously, "that my heart would be always crying after you? I should be thinking the time so long, and should be always being tempted to repine. No, it is of no use to cling to that, nor would I bind you down to anything so uncertain, to half a lifetime perhaps. It would not do for either of us." "And how can I be otherwise than bound?" asked he sadly. "Oh, you will-perhaps," she answered. "I don't ask you to forget me, or to alter towards me. I could not do that; but there must not be any promise between us, anything more than friendship." All this time her finger had never ceased mechanically smoothing the thistle blossom. Robert Grant, with a sterner look than usual on his face, stood gazing at the distance. "My darling," he answered, with a return to his old gentleness, "there is nothing to forgive. You must forgive me for my selfishness. I can't rise to your heights all at once, my sweetest." "And nothing must be said to my aunts —not a word—promise me," she said. Mr. Grant gave her his promise, and then there seemed nothing more to say. Unwilling as he was to think so, sore and wounded, all but angry as he was, Robert Grant felt the words Lotta had spoken were final; in his inner consciousness he felt it. They turned sadly homewards. Fair and flitting lights touched all the wide landscape tenderly—warm, sunny lights; but on their path lay the shadows of parting, the cold, clinging shadows of heart-sickness. As they climbed up the hill leading to the road under the beech-trees Robert heard a When they came to the garden-door Lotta held out her hand and smiled. Good-bye," she said. Robert took her hand in both his; she had taken off her glove, and he felt how cold it was. He raised it gently to his lips and turned away. There was a little bustle in the house when Lotta reached home. She heard voices in the drawing-room, and a terror seized her lest Mrs. Cleverley and her dashing daughter Madge should be come to tea. She felt she could hardly bear it. She listened for a moment. There was a stir of chairs as though of persons rising to leave, and she sped noiselessly up to her room. Shaken and agitated as she was, strange to say, her first feeling after parting with Robert had been almost one of relief. This that had happened had been hanging over her more and more of late; now it had come and was over. But, whatever she felt, she must not stop to think now; at any cost, she must not think yet: there would be time enough for that presently. As soon as she knew the visitors were safely gone, she hastily smoothed her hair, and, bathing her face, tried to feel sure she was looking as usual. She spoke a word or two aloud, to be sure she could speak, and she hoped it sounded in her natural tone. Then, like one hurrying from herself, she ran down-stairs. It was already getting dusk, and Harriet had lighted a blazing fire of logs and fir-cones. The evenings were autumnal enough now, at the end of September, to make fires pleasant, although during the late lovely weather they never needed them in the daytime. Lotta knelt down and warmed herself. She wondered why she felt so cold; she could not keep herself from shivering. Hush, hush!" she kept whispering to her. self. Lotta Oh, what a comfort that fire was! felt as if a cold, black grate would have put the finishing touch to her wretchedness. Poor old Bunch had pressed up close to the fender, but she did not dare to take her in her arms as she usually did. Her one thought was to keep up, and she could not trust herself to any touch of tenderness. There was a refreshing smell of coffee in the room. They only had it in the evening Occasionally, when either of the aunts were tired, or for any particular reason, and this, too, seemed another little special providence for the poor child. How kindly little things do arrange themselves sometimes in our sorest need! Marion came in cheerfully. "Barbara will be here directly," she said. "How dark it is getting now at tea-time! We shall almost want the gas." "Oh, not to-night, auntie," said Lotta, and again she dreaded lest her voice should sound strange. It seemed to hurt her so to speak. VIII. X.S. I know who is tired," said Marion. "Yes, a little. I was rejoicing over your coffee, auntie." "I ordered it for Barbara. Fanny Cleverley has been talking to her so long, I knew she must be at her last gasp! Madge was with her, regretting you were away, Lotta." Barbara came in, and they all settled down. Lotta's seat was back to the fading light, and her two aunts were too busy talking to take much notice of her. Lotta hardly heard a word. She felt glad, in a dull sort of way, when tea was over, though Harriet's entrance brought the un 14 welcome light, and shut out the dark sky which seemed to soothe her. an How the hours dragged that evening! She got out a German book and a dictionary as excuse for silence, but she could not understand a word, and every nerve seemed to ache. At last Marion, who had looked curiously at her two or three times, said I know you are very tired, Lotta; don't try to study. Go to bed, dear.” Oh, might she go? She could hardly keep the tears out of her eyes as she replied "I think I will, if you don't mind, auntie." As she took her candle, after having kissed them both, she said, "I may very likely drop off to sleep before you come up, auntie; so don't trouble to look in." At last—then, at last she was shut safely into her little room alone; the strain, the weary effort was over, and no one had noticed anything, she thought. She loosened her hair, threw on her dressing-gown, and then she fell on her knees by the bedside. Not to pray, except as in our hours of agony the voiceless attitude may be a truer prayer than words. Neither did she shed tears at first, but heavy sobs came heaving up one by one from her oppressed heart. It seemed so hard-so hard! To refuse anything to Robert would have been painful; but would he understand her seeming so cold, so unresponsive? Worse than all to strive against was the thought that would surge up again and again"It is not too late." A word would bring him back. Might she not speak it? Would not her aunts themselves desire her to do so? For hours she knelt there, struggling with conflicting thoughts. She heard the house shut up for the night, she heard her aunts go to their rooms, and still the strife went "Help me, help me!" she sobbed, but she hardly thought to Whom. on. The scarcely conscious petition was heard none the less; the help never denied to souls in their extremity came to her. In the silent night the peace of God was gently distilled, drop by drop, into her fainting and weary spirit. She rose up, completed her undressing, and lay down in her bed, though not for a long time to sleep. It was nearly morning when, rising again, she went to the window, and there, in the hush of the dawn, hung a clear full-moon in the pearly grey of the sky. There is something peculiarly lovely and touching in a morning moon. To Lotta it seemed to shine down on her like a benediction with its pure, peaceful, unchanging light. She was so glad she had looked out; it seemed to soothe and strengthen her. She lay down again, and almost immediately she fell asleep. She slept so soundly that the stir of Harriet's coming in as usual in the morning failed to awake her, and she was still sleeping when her Aunt Marion came up later, to see what had delayed her. Marion looked down on the sweet face lying with ruffled hair on the pillow; she could not read all, but she thought she read in her face the signs of past emotion. If it were so, she was not sure it had been any painful emotion, so serene and lovely was the quietness on lip and brow. As she stood watching, Lotta awoke. said. Yes, indeed, my pet; breakfast is ready and waiting. But don't hurry. Shall I send you up some, or shall I keep it back for you?" "I would rather get up, dear auntie. Keep some for me, please," said Lotta, beginning to twist up her hair as she spoke. She felt strangely weak and tired when she was dressed, but the calm that had mercifully come to her in the night watches was with her still, and remained with her all that day. The next morning she awoke with a feverish cold, or what seemed like one, and she had orders to remain in bed. It was a welcome mandate, but it had one effect which she had hardly anticipated. It prevented her seeing. Robert Grant, who came to say good-bye before starting for Mr. Featherstone's. She hardly knew whether to be sorry or not, but on the whole it was a relief, and it helped to keep her secret safe from the aunts' keen eyes. "Robert Grant came in just now," said Marion innocently. "He does not seem in such good spirits as he was about his work. He left a message for you, Lotta, and said he should tell Beatrice to come and see you." And so that chapter in Lotta's life came to a close. CHAPTER XIII.-CHILL DAYS. ROBERT GRANT went away and settled down at Mr. Featherstone's. It was a pleasant enough life, though to enter into it lies not within the scope of this story. It would have suited him to perfection, and he would have been quite happy but for this blight that had fallen on him. It was as if some one had sponged out every bright colour from the picture of his life. He had hardly known before how much every smallest pleasure in anticipation had been bound up with the |