nests in it. Then those little cottages just past the churchyard-does Margot live in one of them, I wonder, the old woman who was Philip's nurse when he was a baby? He told me once she lived in the village. I will go to her when I get there, and hear all about him; a grave, silent, abstracted sort of youngling I should think you were, my lord and master that is to be. Perhaps, whilst I am looking at the picture just now, he is in one of the cottages, reading to the people, and comforting them in their troubles, if they have any. This view must have been taken very early in the morning, for the shadows lie so sharp and clear upon the grass- they are so long too; that elm tree reaches quite up the road, almost as far as the meadows. I wonder if those meadows are pleasant to walk in; if there are many wild flowers in them; if there is plenty of moss to be found along the hedge-sides; if cowslips and violets grow there. Philip and I will soon find out. "Philip and I!" How naturally the words seem to sound, just as if they had always belonged to each other; with a pleasant, ringing, familiar music, like some dear old tune! And yet, little more than a year ago, I had not even seen him or heard his name. Now it will always be "Philip and I;" nothing will come between us any more. Philip and I in joy, Philip and I in sorrow; if loss and disappointment and weariness come, Philip and I will share them together; if joy and hope fulfilled, we will be thankful for them. No grief will be utterly dark so long as Philip and I can divide it between us. "Philip and I," through life until death; and after that, when all time is past away, in that other and purer world from which all earthly feeling and earthly sorrow are purged, it will be the same 66 Philip and I,” never to be parted any more for ever. Yonder is Maud coming up the garden. I will put away my picture now, and go with her for our walk through the village. How many wait for her coming daily to cheer them! If she were taken away, how much sunshine would be missed here! I will try to be like her. I will try to make some one glad every day so long as I stop here in Braeton, and then - October 9th, Monday evening. A year ago tonight, on just such a tranquil, half-dark evening as this, I sat here in my window, looking out into the deepening twilight, and waiting for Mr. Lowe to come. The golden autumn time has returned, the trees shed their crimson leaves all round me; I hear the same undertone of decay, of Nature weary with her long year's work, and sighing for the sleep of winter to come. Again these calm, grey, twilight evenings draw on, when the shadows creep up so softly upon my Lingold Wood, and over Braeton valley, and along the dimpling lines of these Downshire hills. Everything without has wound back to its old place, and I too have come here again as I did a year ago tonight, to listen for his coming; not with wonderment and uncertainty and longing, as then, but very calmly, very solemnly. For this is indeed the last time I shall sit here listening to the old familiar household sounds within, and the same soft chiming of bells and rustling of autumn branches without. This old life of mine is going from me, and I lay it away with a strange feeling of reverence, almost of regret. To-morrow will unlock the gates of that other and untried one. now Maud is to be my bridesmaid-only Maud. She will have it so. I never say 66 poor Maud" I never even think it, for there seems to have come down upon her whole life such a great peacefulness; a perfect rest, which is never given but as the price of tears; at times almost a bright and springing joy, as though always around her and over her there was his unseen presence, making the dark places light. She is just as quiet, just as busy, just as useful as ever; only with a shade of sweet dignity in every look and motion, which those may well wear who bear for their Master such a holy cross as He has given her. Maud, I think I know now what those words mean, "Perfect through suffering." It gets very dark. I can but just see the grey tower of the church, and trace the outline of the trees round it. When next this twilight falls I shall not be watching it here. Good-bye, old life of mine! Good-bye, Braeton! Good-bye, Lingold Wood, with your crimson leaves dropping in the |