heart knoweth its own bitterness, and it's him as wears the shoe as is hurted by it. It's all day long and every day as I misses her; and then ye comes and tells me as she's gone to glory and all happy and comfortable up there i' th' clouds! I'm sure she ain't," said the old man with great energy. "I'm sure as how she's a thinkin' ' What's my old man a doin' wi'out me? and how's he a gettin' on all his lone ?' and that'll fret her and worrit her; and 'tain't reasonable to tell me she've a forgotten a' about me, as she were allus fettlin' for and bustlin' about and humouring, any more than I has about her. That's what I think," ended Nathan, passing the back of his hard horny hand over his old wrinkled face, as a solitary tear, more pathetic than a whole bucketful from younger eyes, rolled slowly down his cheek.

Roland was silent; and there are cases when silence is the best speech and the truest consolation,-there are deeper and more eloquent expressions of feeling than any that words can give. Nathan was soon placated by it.

Why wast thou not at the burying, lad?" he said kindly, after a bit. "My Bessie thowt a deal about thee. Thee should'st ha' made a shift to get back for't."

"Tweren't by my own will, Master Nathan. My feyther 'd a sent me after no end o' cattle and debts and coils and things t'other side York; and he somehow kep' it from me as he'd heerd she were ill that day afore I went away. I niver know'd nowt till I come home."

"'Twere just Joshuay all over," answered the old man. "It's a kittle thing for to deal wi' such as he. I'd a took it into my head it were along o' some sweetheart as thou'st a found i' those parts, thou wast biding such a time away; thy father went on telling sa mich about Mitchell's daughter. I wish I'd a know'd thou wast a' right, I'd a made more o' a struggle for thee along o' Cassie's portion. I've a set it down now in her name. But I'd no power for to bind Ashford; and 'twill hardly help thee wi' him, he'll be so cockey now, whativer it may do wi' thy feyther. You've got your handful with them two, Roland. I were in too great a hurry mebbe to pay the money; but I couldn't abide as any one should say I kep' what weren't mine. My Bessie used allus for to say I took too much account o' what man could say o' me. Hur were a very wise 'ooman were my Bessie," said the old man, shaking his head sadly; "much wiser nor me as sets up for it sa mich."

Roland went moodily home to his father's house, which stood back in a corner of the irregular, uneven old market-place. The dwelling part was over a sort of low stable opening on to the cattle-sheds, which had another entrance from the close behind a deep, dark stone archway led into them, by which he could bring out his beasts to market when he wished. The three rooms which the father and son inhabited were only approached by an outside stone stair, making the house into a sort of fortalice, which no one could enter without notice; and this suited Joshua. There was an unused garret lighted by a large round unglazed lucarne in

the tall gable, which looked like a great hollow eye. Two of the windows below had been walled up to save window-tax, as the rooms had a look-out behind; and altogether the place had a grim closed-up look, and went by the name of the "one-eyed house."

Joshua was standing upon his steps as his son came up.

“Well, Nathan have a kep' the money for 's life now, haven't he?" said he, eagerly, hardly leaving room for Roland to pass.

"He set it in Cassie's name at Jones's yesterday," answered his son, shortly, as he turned into the house, scarcely looking round.

Joshua started with a long whistle: it was so unlike what he would have done himself that he could hardly believe it even now, and went hastily away. He began to think that he had outwitted himself. In his extreme dislike to the marriage he had determined in his own mind that Nathan would never allow the money to go away during his lifetime. His own affairs had reached such a pass that he would willingly have obtained such a sum as Cassie's dower even at the sacrifice of his own illwill and temper, and now he had himself put his son out of the way of securing it! Moreover, he disliked the sort of armed peace of their intercourse it deranged his selfishness, if not his heart, it made the house gloomy and uncomfortable, and he did not like being uncomfortable.

Having smoked the pipe of reflection in the little public he returned into the kitchen about an hour afterwards. Roland had fetched in water and coals, and done the various little household "jobs" as usual; for since his wife's death his father had resisted the entrance of any other woman inside his doors. "We do a deal better by ourselves," he always said whenever the subject came up; "I dunno want any woman to come potterin' and dawdlin' and gossipin' about. Roland's very handy." And he did not spare his son.

He had soon finished his work out of doors; there were but few cattle now in the sheds to look after. Some rude sort of cookery for his father's supper was going on, and he sat moodily over a pretence of fire, considering his woes. Even if Joshua gave his consent, Ashford, now that his daughter was an heiress, was less likely to allow the marriage than before in her poverty. Chewing the cud of his bitter thoughts, and ingeniously tormenting himself with all the possible chances against his love, he sat with his head in his hand, thinking sadly of his mother, of whom he had been extremely fond. "She wouldn't ha' let feyther serve me so," he said to himself. The poor woman had led a sad time of it with her husband; she was a "strivin' pious 'ooman," and a most tender mother to her only child, and as long as her life lasted Joshua had been kept somewhat more straight, but she had been dead three years, and Roland knew that the downward course was becoming faster. His father's affairs began to weigh very heavily on his mind. Until the journey to York he had been kept almost entirely in the dark concerning them, but he could tell now how serious they were becoming. There was particularly a tangled skein concerning Jackman the horsedealer, which he could not unravel. Debts, bargains, "set-offs," and

loans were all mixed together in Joshua's version of the affair in inextricable confusion. He had vainly tried to come to some arrangement with the fellow, and remembered particularly the unpleasant look on his face as he said, "You may tell your father as I shall come over soon for a settlement."

"See thee, lad," said his father, coming up behind him suddenly and taking him gently by the shoulder. Fair play's a jewel,-sin' thy mind is so set upo' this lass, if you choose to go in for her and ma' her lend me this money her aunt left her gin yer married, I'm game-tho' it's a poor creatur's daughter to wed wi'. Sammy Ellot's been here again outrageous for's brass, and I dunna know where to turn for some."

"What, refuse Cassie when she'd nought, and offer for her fleece like as if she were a sheep!" said Roland, fiercely, in a tone which he had never used to his father before. "I'm none so base!"

"Well, ye may please yersen, it's your matter more nor mine. The business and a' will fall through an this goes on; but I'm getting an old man, so p'r'aps it dunno sinnify. Why, I'd wed wi' the Devil's daughter if so be she'd money, and bide wi' the old folk an I were you, Roland, and wanted brass as we do now!" said his father, with a grin. little sorry to have shown his cards so plainly, he went on, so sore set upo' the lass a while back, and thought no end o' her for a' the fine things under the sun when I were t' other way, and now when I'm come over, ye're so contrairy, like a woman as doesna know her own mind! "

And then a "And ye was

He went out of the room as he spoke, and let the temptation work. It is a very good plan to treat conscientious scruples as if they were mere marks of weakness and indecision; few can help being influenced more or less by the look which their deeds bear in the eyes of others.

CHAPTER XII.

THE DRUID'S STONES.

FOR a few days Roland was firm against the idea; at the end of that time, however, he heard that German had been inquiring for him. He dared not go up to Stone Edge with his bad conscience about him, poor fellow. "She's a rich 'ooman now," he muttered; but he thought there would be no harm in lighting a fire on the rock. "Who knows whether she mightn't look out?" The first time nothing came of it, no one had seen his sign; the next night the wind blew out his fire; but the third time German, as he drove the cows home, saw the little pale blue column rising in the still evening air, and went and fetched his sister and lit the return fire. The original signal was suddenly trampled out, and German, as he watched it, pointed this out, and said, with some compunction for his doubts as to Roland's good faith, "He sees ourn, lass; I shouldn't wonder if he'll be here afore long."

Restless and uneasy, she hurried down to the house again to tell Lydia.

"Sit thee down, dear child. Even if he be coming, he canna be up at the Stones for this hour welly an he had wings."

"Dunna stop me, dear, I canna bide still; let me go up there and wait a bit; 'twill do me good even he dunna come. I feel as if the room were stiflin' o' me." Lydia said no more, but followed her up to the

summit.

It was not often that the winds were still on that exposed point, but this evening there was hardly a breath stirring, as the shadows gradually sank over the magnificent view at their feet. Folds of hill, deep clefts in the rock, open dales with the blue river tracing out its own course, and catching golden reflections on its windings here and there; beyond all, the purple moors, which stretched without a break, it was said, right on over the border.

At the foot of the great dark stones which had seen such strange sights in their youth, grim, grey, and terrible in themselves and their recollections, sat the two women, in perfect silence. Cassie had clasped her arms round her knees and laid her head upon them, till Lydia, in the dumb pain of seeing such self-concentration, lifted it up without speaking, and laid her own head there. The movement broke the spell of silent

grief, and she burst into tears.

"Suppose it should be as father and they all says? she sobbed. "One 'ud think if he'd cared he might ha' come back frae York or sent a' that time I were wi' aunt Bessie; he mun ha' knowed I should be there."

Lydia soothed and petted her. "I'm hoping as he'll soon be here, my darlin', and once ye can see intil each other's eyes mebbe all will be plain." And then in terror lest old Ashford should miss them from their work and come out after them, she whispered, "I'll send German to thee," and went off in haste.

The shadows fell darker and darker as the afterglow departed, but a great bank of magnificent fleecy clouds, heaped in masses many thousand feet high, and tinged with gorgeous sunset hues, moved in stately procession across the valley. The sun set, the earth grew dim, but their lofty eminences caught the rays long after the world was in shadow, till at last their splendid tints died away into a hectic paleness like that of Mont Blanc himself when left by the sun's light.

It was so striking that Cassandra's attention was diverted, and she watched the death-like change as a sort of omen with a deep sigh, when behind her she heard a motion and turned suddenly, for "the Stones had a bad name as an eerie place, though she was fearless of such things at that moment. It was only Roland, out of breath with his rush up the hill.

She sprang up and he seized both her hands, but somehow the thought of the mean bargain he was sent there to drive, threw a constraint over his manner which Cassandra saw immediately and felt keenly.

"I wanted to see yer-to tell yer"-she began, constrainedly too. "Have yer heard, Roland," she added, more naturally, "that my uncle have a paid me the sixty-eight pounds? and I wanted to say that th' ould squire will ha' his back rents, and so feyther mun take it to pay him wi'. You know it were my mother's by right, and so he ought to ha' had it before," she repeated mechanically. "But he'll gie his consent, happen you'll take me without it," said the poor girl with a tearful smile.

"Oh, Cassie! and my father's sent me up to say I may marry thee an thou'lt lend him the money!" groaned Roland, leaving hold of her hands.

The poison of mistrust had entered into poor Cassie's soul, and she shivered within herself: "I mun let my own father hae what I hae got," she said aloud gravely.

Nature had endowed Cassandra with a most imperial presence not at all matching the tender heart within, and as she turned away with her majestic manner, repeating, "There's no one else has a right to't," poor Roland's soul sank within him. He had no courage to explain that he knew he could not and ought not to leave his father. It was not so much that it was quite impossible for Joshua to get on at all without some one he could rely on to look after his affairs, and attend to the cattle and horses as they were bought and sold, but that deep in his heart was the conviction that the love of his son was the only tender point in the unscrupulous Joshua's character, and that it kept him from some evil things. Yet such a house could only be bearable to Cassie if she came with his father's full consent; he could not even think otherwise of asking her to live with them. All this trembled on his lips, but found no expression; it sounded to him too bald and cold to put into words, to sacrifice her thus, as it were, to one so little worthy; and poor Cassie, after waiting a moment for him to say more, for the word which she had predetermined must vindicate him from her father's taunt, turned away with the outward selfcontrol which her life of trial had taught her.

"Ye'r not goin' to leave me so," said poor Roland passionately. She turned irresolutely for a moment, and he seized her in his arms and kissed her hands, her shoulders, everything but her lips, fervently; but she drew herself away, when still he said no more, and moved quietly towards German, who was standing waiting for her by the rude stone-wall which fenced in the wild bit of moor-land where stood the Druid's temple, and went off silently into the grey evening.

"She haven't even looked round," said the poor fellow, flinging his arms over his head and turning headlong down the steep hill-side.

Cassandra went straight into the house with a fixed expression in her face which frightened Lydia's anxious heart; but words there were none, and she seemed glad to occupy herself by obeying her father's impatient demands for bread-and-cheese and beer. Only once, as she and Lyddy met in the dark passage that led to the kitchen, she whispered in answer to a loving pressure of her hand,—

"His father sent him to chaffer for the

money hissen."