As he looked at her face it touched him with a keen sense of rest, tenderness, re

sponsive sympathy.

"I don't believe we do; the sense of beauty is as much, nay more, a part of your life than it is of mine, I know. The only difference lies in the expression of the feeling, not in the feeling itself."

"No," said Eve; "there must be some difference in that, too, for Turner teaches us more of the beauty of a sunset than we should have known of ourselves. Do you remember that old relation of Wordsworth's, who said when she was young there were no mountains and no lakes ? and as for the poets,―Think how they have opened our eyes!"

A quick impulse moved him out of himself.

Then you are a poet, Eve, for I learn of you."

"Of me," she said, startled and turning with wide eyes at something in his voice.

"Yes. Oh, Eve! why did you banish me from school? I could have learnt so well from you."

The colour rushed to her face, her heart beat fast, and it was a positive relief to her that just at that moment her father called

out.

"Eve, child, I want you to show your greenhouse to Mr. Breynton."

"There isn't much to show," she said, as "Three gera

she went towards them.

niums and two hyacinths, I think."

Roland was vexed; but yet in the reaction that followed there might have been some relief blended with his feeling; a return of the old distrust, that though Evelyn was the sweetest woman he knew, she was not to him the only woman in the world; the old fear of wronging both him

self and her.

Unknown to himself there

was a consciousness, very far apart from love within him, a gladness that he was still free.

And Eve, when her visitors had gone, and she was alone in her own room, tried vainly to quiet herself, and the sudden impetuous rush of joy, and hope, and love, that would fill her heart.

"What a fool I am!" she thought to herself. "What a fool! what a fool! But I am so happy. I do think now I may let myself think of him. Oh, what a fool I am!" as she covered her face with her hands, with that swift impulse which comes to every girl when she first fully realizes her love.

CHAPTER VI.

"When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful, old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights;
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow;
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such beauty as you master now."

SHAKESPEARE, Sonnets.

"HALF-PAST eleven; I must be off," said Roland, relinquishing his cue in the billiard room of the Arts' Club, three nights later. Halloo, Max, here you are at last!”

Max had been on the river all day, dividing his time between sketching and rowing, and only managed to catch a late

train at Taplow.

His appearance was

somewhat dilapidated, presenting a contrast to Roland, who was attired in our modern version of purple and fine linen.

"I want something to eat," said Breynton. "I'm famished; all I could get at Taplow was a gory chop. Oh, hang it! don't bolt for a minute or two; stay and have a modest drink. You'll need it if you are going to the Fields' crush.”

Roland complied, and sat near Max, while the latter appeased the demands of a frantic appetite. "Will Miss Goring be there?" Max inquired, after some little time.

"I don't know," said Roland;" she knows the Fields, but I don't fancy--"

"I suppose no woman, even she, has common sense enough to see that a cram like the Fields' can't be pleasant. It is the fashion, and that is enough."