her neat stitches while her thoughts were for England, Pauline, and you know I have miles away from her occupation. So profound was her reverie that she was deaf to the tread of footsteps on the flags under the window, and it might have been that the fallen leaves muffled the sound. The steps paused an instant at the porch; then came on boldly through the entry, and into the very room where she sat. Then indeed Pauline looked up, and started to her feet. A tall man, dark and majestic, was standing before her, and gazing earnestly into her face with eyes that she well remembered. Deep-set, keen, dark eyes, that could flash a stern glance now and then; but, oh, how kindly they had always rested on her ! With a little cry she moved towards him, holding out her hands; and he took the hands eagerly, and clasped them in his own. "I was cruel to startle you," he said. "Sit down again; you are pale; you must not stand." It was a deep voice-just the voice that would ring out bravely on a battle-field; but the tone that met her ears was wonderfully tender and low. With almost womanly care and gentleness he seated her in the easy-chair from which she had risen, picked up the scattered doll's garments and laid them on the table, and knelt down on the hearthrug at her feet. Like one in a dream Pauline sat and looked into that handsome face, close-shaven, and bronzed by Indian suns. One or two white hairs silvered his dark head; but the heavy moustache that drooped over the mouth was still black as jet. Two years had gone by since she had last seen that face, and at the sight of it the early days of her widowhood came back. She tried to speak, but her lips quivered, and a sob came instead of words. a little estate in Richmond that requires looking after. That was my excuse.” "It does one good to see you standing there," she said with a ring of gladness in her voice. "I could fancy myself back again in my pretty drawing-room at Poonah. But, oh! what a change has gone over my world since those days, Vere! And isn't this a poor, dark, little house to come to?" "It doesn't seem poor and dark to me," he answered; "but I am afraid it is a dull home for you and the children. It has served you fairly well for a time; but you mustn't live here always." We must find "Oh, no; not always. another home when Janet and Mabel are older. I'm longing for you to see them, Vere; but they are gone to a juvenile party. They don't get many festivities.” "I have studied their photographs attentively, but I don't see you in either of them, Pauline. They are wonderfully like poor Charlie." "Oh, but they are like me too; every one says so. The portraits are mere caricatures; I wish I could have sent you better. Do you find me much changed, Vere?" "Thinner, but not so pale as when I saw you last." The dusk was fast creeping on, but, as if to make up for waning daylight, the fire suddenly sent out a bright flame that illumined Pauline's face and figure. It was a habit of hers to play with her rings whenever she was a little agitated or preoccupied ; and now her slim white fingers were at their old trick, shifting sapphires and diamonds until they glittered in the firelight. Major Templeford stood and watched her, remembering how proud poor Charlie Montrose had been of his wife's beautiful hands. She looked up at Oh, Pauline, forgive me!" he pleaded. "I ought not to have come upon you sud-him quickly, with eyes that flashed like the denly. My impatience made me unkind." Not unkind-never unkind," she whispered. "I shall be myself again in a minute. And I am, oh, so glad to see you!" His smile thanked her, but he was silent. For some moments the hush lasted; and then Fenton returned to the house, shutting the hall-door sharply behind her. At the sound Major Templeford rose from his knees, and softly closed the door of the drawing-room. "When did you arrive?" Pauline asked, as he came back to the hearthrug, and stood leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece. "This morning, at Southampton," he replied. "I was seized with a great longing jewels she wore. "I was worn out at the last, Vere. I had sunk down and hidden my face, and you were standing on the other side of the bed. When I lifted my head he was speaking to you; but I could not hear the words." "The words were, 'Take care of Pauline and the children for me.'" "Thank you for telling me," she said gratefully. No one could have been more faithful to a trust. How you always loved Charlie !" He was a true friend to me always. You know, Pauline, that it was he who stood by my side when my young wife was laid in the grave. That was before he married you.' "Yes, I know. It seems to me, Vere, that God has dealt in the same way with us both. 'Our sun went down while it was yet day;' and your spell of sunshine was briefer than mine." The room was growing darker and darker. CHAPTER VIII.-"SHOULD AULD ACQUAINT- MAJOR TEMPLEFORD had left his baggage at the railway station, giving orders that it should be taken to an old inn at the castle end of the village. He declined Pauline's offer of a room in the cottage. The beginning of the evening was scarcely pleasant to any member of the party; the children were not present to break up the stiffness, and Vere had come so suddenly into the family circle that everybody was a little taken aback. Graham, who might have helped his sister, and set them all at ease, did nothing but lean back in his chair in a languid posture, wearing a countenance expressive of the deepest gloom. He did not like intruders; they disturbed the peace of that home-life that he was just beginning to think delightful. Moreover, why should this fellow be coming from India to look up Pauline? It was very unnecessary and absurd, even although he was the appointed guardian of the children. They were all getting on well enough without him. The contrast between the two men was so great that Alison could not help noticing it as she sat in her corner. Graham's slim and almost boyish figure looked all the slighter beside the major's stalwart frame. His face, oval and pale, was perhaps too refined about the mouth and chin, and though there was a moustache, it was light | and rather scanty. He lounged, and sometimes glanced at Vere out of his sleepy grey | eyes, but made so little effort to be agreeable that Alison longed to shake him. Major Templeford, firm, grand, and dignified, evidently regarded him, good-naturedly, as a spoiled lad whose humours must be treated with indulgence. After making her quiet observations for a little while, Miss Cope slipped away to the school-room, on the plea of having letters to write; and it must be admitted that the Major would have been glad to see Graham get up and follow her. As to Graham himself, he thought of Alison and the schoolroom fire with great longing, and ardently wished that Pauline would banish him. At eight the children came home, and were only permitted to have a peep at Major Templeford. Their joy and excitement at seeing him were so great that, if Alison had not come out of her sanctum and forcibly taken possession of them, they would not have slept a wink that night. Their governess did not leave them until they were in bed and beginning to be drowsy, and when she returned to the school-room it was to find Graham slowly pacing up and down the apartment. "I hate unexpected visitors," he said. They break up the quiet of the family." "But it must be very pleasant for Mrs. Montrose. Her life is almost too quiet; and then Major Templeford is the children's guardian, and she must have a great deal to say to him." "I don't know what she can have to say to him. As to his being the children's guardian, one gets sick of hearing that.” "He is a very handsome man, " said Alison, with mischief hiding under her de mure manner. "So handsome that one gets tired of looking at him. He is just the kind of man to be the hero of a woman's novel," responded Graham, quickening his walk. "I think he would make a capital hero," Alison assented. "He looks as if he could do doughty deeds." They are often better done by men who don't look as if they could do them, Miss Cope. Your carpet-knights can be warriors on the battle-field.” "I don't mean to disparage anybody's valour," said Alison meekly. Graham paused in his walk, and came to a stand before the fire. "I didn't think Major Templeford would have captivated you," he said. "I thought you would have liked a man of another type." "I don't think I am captivated, Mr. Eadie." "You are so helpful," he went on softly, "that I fancied you would like somebody who wanted helping. Templeford is a very self-sufficient person, I should say.” Alison looked up with a gleam of mirth about her lips and eyes, but it faded as she saw the sadness in his face. "I do like helping people,” she admitted; "that's my mission, I believe. And I'm afraid I have too much self-sufficiency myself to admire it greatly in another. There's the supper-bell, Mr. Eadie." Graham sat down to the evening meal in a better temper, and got up quite an animated conversation with his sister's guest. Later Later on he attended Major Templeford to the door of his inn, and returned to find Pauline alone by the drawing-room fire. "I suppose this really is an unexpected visit," he said, taking a seat opposite to her. "He did not give you a hint of his coming?" "Not the least hint; it was a great surprise, and a very great pleasure. How little altered he is!" she added, half to herself. "I did not expect to see so young a man. I should have thought Charlie would have chosen some steady old fogey for the children's guardian." Oh, Graham, no fogey could be steadier! Vere Templeford has had sorrow enough to make him sober and staid; and more than that he is a very good man." "I suppose he goes to church regularly, and that sort of thing. It's astonishing how a little piety pleases women." Pauline's large bright eyes flashed a look | of unwonted reproach; but they softened in an instant. "There is no cant in him," she replied. "If you knew him better you would not suspect him of it. He always had a wonderful influence over Charlie and the other officers of his regiment, but he never preached to them about religion. He just went his own way, and they saw what a good way it was." "You say he has had sorrows ?" "Yes; I don't think you have ever heard his story. He was married, when only oneand-twenty, to a beautiful girl of eighteen. They had lived but one year together when she was thrown out of a carriage, and died on the spot where she fell. That was before I met Charlie; but my husband was then Major Templeford's closest friend, and comforted him in his grief." "I have heard Charlie speak of Templeford," said Graham. Oh, you cannot imagine how Charlie valued and loved him. He always asked Vere's advice about every step he took, and not a day passed without our seeing him. It was terribly hard to say good-bye to him when I left India." There were tears in her eyes, and Graham's brow darkened. "It was all very well for you to be intimate with this man while your husband lived,” he said gloomily; "but now that you are unmarried you must stand on less familiar terms with him. It won't do to be calling him 'Vere,' and consulting him in everything." Pauline's eyes flashed again, but she spoke quietly enough. "I see you don't understand things," she answered patiently. "You do not realise that Charlie solemnly committed us all to Major Templeford's care when he was dying.' "Of course you are right in keeping friendly with him, Pauline. But if he comes here to visit you, and you make a point of being so very kind, you know what people will say, and what he will think." This speech made Pauline rise suddenly from her seat, and fall to playing with her rings in an agitated manner. "He would never think-what you are thinking," she said with some excitement. "And how can people talk when this is the first time he has ever been here?" "I don't suppose they have begun to talk yet," her brother answered, in his lazy, melancholy way; "but they soon will begin. My advice to you is--don't encourage Templeford too much, unless you mean "I don't mean anything of the kind, and he doesn't mean it either! We are friends, Graham, and nothing more." "I am glad to hear it; I don't like the idea of my sister marrying a second time. Only I do not see why you and he think it necessary to write to each other by every mail if you are friends and nothing more." "Because there is so much to say—about the children and about everything," replied poor Pauline, feeling herself driven very hard. "Well, I won't bore you with any more warnings. Go to bed, Pauline; you are looking awfully tired." And he gave her a kiss that made amends for all. The next day was Sunday, and when the party from Meadow Cottage set out for church, Pauline was miserably conscious that everybody's eye was upon her. It was one of those fine Sundays which deprive people of all excuse for staying at home, and so the whole world of Castleport dutifully attended divine service. And the villagers were rewarded for their pains; Mrs. Montrose, with a military escort on each side of her, was a sight to be remembered and talked about for a month to come. Alison, bringing up the rear with the children, enjoyed this little bit of comedy to the uttermost. It was not often that Graham went to church, but to-day he had turned out as the protector of his sister. He walked with as stern a face as if the whole party were on their way to immediate execution, and a most unusual stiffness in his carriage gave rise to Janet's whisper-"How funny Uncle Graham looks this morning!" Pauline's secret nervousness had painted her cheeks with carmine, and given her eyes a brilliancy that made her look uncommonly youthful; and as to Major Templeford, his appearance was remarkable enough to draw all glances upon him. Alison fully entered into Mrs. Montrose's feelings, and understood them better perhaps than the widow herself did; but it was quite impossible not to look upon the comic side of the matter. Pauline did not feel more at her ease when they were inside the church. Her pew was a conspicuous one in the chancel, and she heartily envied the little organ-blower in his sheltered nook. Many a time, poor soul ! she had got help and comfort within those walls, but neither was to be had to-day. Graham had a special dislike to Castleport church, which was a fine old building, with one of the most beautiful western portals in the kingdom. On a winter afternoon, when only a few tapers made a faint light under its dim arches, it was chill and gloomy enough to scare worshippers away. But on bright mornings when the sunshine played upon its massive columns, and showed the remains of curious old sculpture on its walls, it had a grandeur and dignity of its own. In a niche, on the left side of the east window, was a bust in white marble of a knight of the Tudor period. He wore the pointed beard and stiff ruff of his time, and gazed with stony eyes down the long nave, Sunday after Sunday, till Graham said that everybody must hate the sight of him. But on this particular day, Pauline found herself almost wishing that that blind stare was the only gaze she had to encounter. Other feelings mingled with this unpleasant consciousness of being watched. She re membered the days when she and Charlie and Vere had all worshipped together. And at last she almost forgot the face by her side, and thought of another face that she should never see again until the dead in Christ should rise. Oh, what a wide distance lay between her restlessness and his rest! And how mean and undignified seemed all her petty troubles beside his eternal calm! Yet if he could but have lived to be the companion and protector of her life, the world would not have been so troublesome a place to poor Pauline. Graham's sense of duty was not strong enough to carry him through the afternoon service. He stayed at home on the sofa with a book and a cigarette, and let Castleport say what it pleased about Major Templeford and Mrs. Montrose. That Sunday evening was long remembered by Vere as a happy picture of English home-life. He stood by the piano with Alison and the children, while Pauline played hymn tunes for them to sing. Like many other little ones who know nothing of the strife of this world, they loved to sing about the rest of heaven. They chose those hymns that told of struggles ended and labour past, and yet they had never known what it was either to struggle or to labour. But they would know it all some day, thought Vere, and they were, perhaps, unconsciously preparing themselves for that inevitable time. The cosy little drawing-room, with its bright fire, and a lamp set in the middle of its round table, was a a warm nook on a November night. When the children, tired of their music, had gone to bed, Pauline still sat at the piano, and Vere lingered by her side talking in a low tone. For a little while she was happily forgetful of her brother and his warnings, and Graham himself was interested in a half-whispered conversation with Alison that he forgot to observe the doings of the other pair. SO "You have not praised me for going to church to-day," he said. "I did not think you deserved praise," she answered. "What, not for making a sacrifice of myself for the good of others?" "No. An act of self-sacrifice ought to be its own reward." "I feel snubbed; but of course you are walking on a lofty height that I shall never climb! Well, Miss Cope, if I ever take to church-going it will be to please others; and don't you think it would be better to stay away than go from so low a motive?" Certainly not," rejoined Alison, with a gentle decision that gave her words weight. From the lower motive you may mount to the higher." "I think I am getting to like good things better than I did,” he said. "When you and the children were singing your hymns I liked listening. I wonder if I am really going to cross over to the right side of life.' I hope so," she replied, smiling. Nearly a week went by, and Major Templeford was compelled to admit to himself that he was disappointed. No one knew how eagerly he had looked forward to seeing Pauline again, and yet their intercourse was anything but satisfactory. Only at their first meeting had she seemed entirely like her old self. Afterwards, there was a restraint upon her words and looks that there had never been upon her letters, and in his bitterness of heart the Major almost wished himself back in India. Who was to blame for this change? Vere thought that he had not far to look for the worker of the mischief. He could trace the brother's influence in the sister's shy manner, and it could hardly be expected of him that he should be in charity with Graham Eadie. He was pretty well acquainted with Graham's history, and was not disposed to look too leniently upon his faults. Nor did he feel moved to compassion by Pauline's account of the young man's delicate health and dreary prospects. Mrs. Montrose was quick to notice his lack of sympathy, and it widened the gulf that was already opening between them. And yet he had come from India with a set purpose in his mind, and from that purpose he would not be turned, come what might. There are some women who can walk contentedly through life without a strong arm to lean upon; women who, like Alison Cope, are guided and protected by God and their own true hearts. But Pauline would always stand in need of a human guide and protector; and it would go hard with her and the children if no Greatheart were found to conduct them on their pilgrimage. While the girls were but bairns, Meadow Cottage was a suitable retreat for their mother and themselves; but Vere knew well enough that the first entrance into the world again would make Pauline feel her loneliness a thousand times more than she had felt it yet. But how would she answer that question he had come across the sea to ask? Uncertain as he was, he resolved to try his fate. AN EVENING WITH THE NAVVIES. BY MRS. CHARLES GARNETT. "When you said last night that book was written by a navvy, it brought my heart into my mouth." Maybe some day Daniel's book may produce the same effect upon his readers. We heartily wish him success. WE had been to a rehearsal of the musical | books of manuscript? Yes! a story written part of the coming entertainment on secretly in scrap hours, which the sight of the the Friday evening. The trebles had dragged, "Songs of the Rail" had encouraged him to in "The Shield, the Sword, and the Battle," produce. How earnestly he told usuntil John Iron, a tall and powerful man with a musical soul, had stamped the time in thundering earnest, his dark eyes flashing and his head nodding in unison with his waving hand; then there was a difference, and the two succeeding anthems were creditably performed. Some of Alexander Anderson's The heavens were glittering and throbbing "Songs of the Rail" had been selected, and with countless stars as our cheerful party of two navvies had volunteered to read the half-a-dozen walked homewards across the touching poems of their brother excavator on dewy fields that night. Saturday, Sunday, the following Tuesday evening. Then the and Monday were all gloriously fine. The book was passed from hand to hand, and the tender greens of the early spring time swept photograph of the Scotch author, standing over the fields and tipped the outlines of the with his pick in his hand and his shovel at grey tree trunks and branches. Flowering his feet, was gazed at with pleasure. And a gorse-bushes were scattered like golden result followed, for did not Daniel bring up bouquets on the brown moorlands, and the in his pocket to our farmhouse lodging, and birds twittered little songs on the whitening read to us in the garden (scented by southern-hawthorns. But we looked askance at the wood and blossoming rosemary) in the sun- smiling weather, for the glass was falling. shine the following afternoon, his three copy- The barometer told truly. We awoke on |