had a soft place in his heart, it was for his garden and his flowers. These were very lovely; in color and scent delicious to one who had been long ill. John lay looking at them and at her, as if, oblivious of past and future, his whole life were absorbed into that one exquisite hour.

For me where I sat, I do not clearly know, nor probably did any one else.

"There," said Miss March to herself, in a tone of almost childish satisfaction, as she arranged the last hyacinth to her liking.

"They are very beautiful," I heard John's voice answer, with a strange tremble in it. "It is growing too dark to judge of colors; but the scent is delicious, even here." "I could move the table closer to you."

"Thank you-let me do it—will you sit down?"

She did so, after a very slight hesitation, by John's side. Neither spoke-but sat quietly there, with the sunset light on their two heads, softly touching them both, and then as softly melting away.

"There is a new moon to-night," Miss March remarked, appositely and gravely.

"Is there? Then I have been ill a whole month. For I remember noticing it through the trees the night when-" He did not say what night, and she did not ask. To such a very unimportant conversation as they were apparently holding, my involuntary listening could do no harm.

"You will be able to walk out soon, I hope," said Miss March again. "Norton Bury is a pretty town.”

John asked, suddenly-"Are you going to leave it ?" "Not yet I do not know for certain-perhaps not at all. I mean," she added, hurriedly "that being independent, and having entirely separated from, and been given up by my cousins, I prefer residing with Mrs. Jessop altogether."

"Of course-most natural." The words were formally spoken, and John did not speak again for some time.

"I hope," said Ursula, breaking the pause, and then stopping, as if her own voice frightened her.

"What do you hope?"

"That long before this moon has grown old, you will be quite strong again."

"Thank you! I hope so too. I have need for strength, God knows!" He sighed heavily.

"And you will have what you need, so as to do your work in the world. You must not be afraid."

"I am not afraid. I shall bear my burthen like other men. Every one has some inevitable burthen to bear." "So I believe."

And now the room darkened so fast, that I could not see them; but their voices seemed a great way off, as the children's voices playing at the old well-head used to sound to me when I lay under the brow of the Flat-in the dim twilights at Enderley.

"I intend," John said, "as soon as I am able, to leave Norton Bury, and go abroad for some time."

"Where ?"

"To America. It is the best country for a young man who has neither money, nor kindred, nor position-nothing, in fact, but his own right hand with which to carve out his own fortunes-as I will, if I can.

She murmured something, about this being "quite right."

"I am glad you think so." But his voice had resumed that formal tone which ever and anon mingled strangely with its low, deep tenderness. "In any case, I must quit England. I have reasons for so doing."

"What reasons ?"

The question seemed to startle John-he did not reply

at once.

"If you wish, I will tell you; in order that, should I ever come back-or if I should not come back at all, you who were kind enough to be my friend, will know I did not go away from mere youthful recklessness, or love of change." He waited, apparently for some answer-but it came not, and he continued:

"I am going, because there has befallen me a great trouble, which, while I stay here, I cannot get free from or overcome. I do not wish to sink under it-I had rather, as you said, 'do my work in the world,' as a man ought. No man has a right to say unto his Maker; 'My burthen is heavier than I can bear.' Do you not think so?"

"I do."

"Do you not think I am right in thus meeting, and trying to conquer, an inevitable ill ?”

"Is it inevitable ?"

"Hush!" John answered, wildly. "Don't reason with me-you cannot judge-you do not know. It is enough that I must go. If I stay I shall become unworthy of myself, unworthy of Forgive me, I have no right to talk thus; but you called me friend,' and I would like you to think kindly of me always. Because-because-" And his voice shook-broke down utterly. "God love thee and take care of thee, wherever I may go!"

"John, stay!"

It was but a low, faint cry, like that of a little bird. But he heard it felt it. In the silence of the dark she crept up to him, like a young bird to its mate, and he took her into the shelter of his love for evermore. At once, all was made clear between them; for whatever the world might say, they were in the sight of heaven equal, and she received as much as she gave.

*

*

*

When Jael brought in lights, the room seemed to me, at first, all in a wild dazzle. Then I saw John rise, and Miss March with him. Holding her hand, he led her across the room. His head was erect, his eyes shining-his whole aspect that of a man who declares before all the world, "This is my own."

"Eh?" said my father, gazing at them from over his spectacles.

John spoke brokenly, "We have no parents, neither she nor I. Bless her for she has promised to be my wife."

And the old man blessed her, with tears.

CHAPTER XIX.

"I HARDLY like taking thee out this wet day, Phineas—but it is a comfort to have thee."

Perhaps it was, for John was bent on a trying errand. He was going to communicate to Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe, Ursula's legal guardian and trustee, the fact that she had promised him her hand-him, John Halifax, the tanner. He did it—nay, insisted upon doing it-the day after he came of age, and just one week after they had been be