'I have one more favour to ask today,' replied Agatha, and it is that you will talk to me of St. Helens, and only St. Helens. Let me try to imagine, for to-day at least, that there has been no intervening time, that the old days have come back again.'

It will be difficult for me, Miss Burton,' said Mr. Lynn; 'but I will try.' And so Mr. Lynn began by speaking of Mrs. Vernor, and why she had left home, and the reason of his accompanying her, his mother being anxious that she should not travel alone in her agitated frame of mind. And then, insensibly, they glided into other subjects, so that when the servant opened the door and announced the carriage, both fancied that it had only been away a few minutes.

Mr. Lynn offered Agatha his arm. She was brighter now, something like undefined hope had sprung up within her; but not so with him.

'Miss Burton, Agatha,' he said, as he grasped her hand, once more— good-bye.'

'Not good-bye,' she said; 'I am coming again to-morrow to see Mrs. Vernor.' She got into the carriage, the door was shut, she looked out of the window into the gathering darkness; he was watching her, and she saw him still standing until the carriage turned the corner of the square.

Mrs. Burton had not come back after all, so no disagreeable questions were asked. Agatha had not felt so happy as she did that night for what seemed to her whole ages, and she dropped asleep saying to herself, 'To-inorrow I shall see him— to-morrow, to-morrow.' Alas! for the human to-morrow!

CHAPTER VI.

The next day, when Agatha got up, her whole mind was engrossed with one idea, and that was-Mr. Lynn. She waited impatiently until breakfast was over, and then asked Mrs. Burton if she might order the carriage for eleven o'clock. Mrs. Burton acquiesced, provided she would be ready to return at two, reminding her that in a few days

Lord Dunmore would be in London, and that it would be well for her to have finished all her business, so as to be at liberty.

Liberty! how the word grated upon Agatha's ear. But for to-day at least,' she said, as she went upstairs, I will forget him; for to-day I will be the old Agatha.' Then she took off her diamond ring, and all the ornaments which had been gifts from Lord Dunmore, and put on the dress she knew Mr. Lynn would like, remembering all his tastes, even to the colour of her gloves. She did not analyze her motives, she only followed her inclinations; and then she hurried down stairs, sprang into the carriage, and looking up at the drawing-room window, nodded gaily to Mrs. Burton as she drove off.

The drive to Bayswater seemed interminable; but she was there at last, and going up the stairs she had gone down the day before, leaning on Mr. Lynn's arm. Mrs. Vernor was in the sitting-room; she put her arms round Agatha, kissed her as she took off her bonnet, and made her sit down. Then she began a hundred questions, which Agatha hardly knew how to answer, for all the while she was listening for Mr. Lynn's footstep. She was not prepared for disappointment, but waited and hoped on, and tried to appear interested in other subjects. At last, when nearly an hour had passed away, she could bear it no longer. 'Mr. Lynn?' she said.

'Mr. Lynn went home this morning.'

Gone, really gone!' exclaimed Agatha, forgetful of everything but her bitter mortification. 'Tell me you did not mean it; it can't be true.' And she laid her hand imploringly on Mrs. Vernor's arm.

'Yes, Agatha, it is quite true.'

And he left no message for me. Oh! he has been unkind.'

'He did leave a message, Agatha,' said Mrs. Vernor, quietly taking both Agatha's hands in hers. 'He told me, if you asked, to say that he went away because it was best.'

Agatha burst into tears, she could not help it; the reaction was too great. Mrs. Vernor tried to soothe her.

Agatha,' she said, 'you are not happy; tell me what I can do for you; you have always been like a child to me.'

'You can do nothing,' replied Agatha, looking up, and dashing the tears from her eyes. Mine is a miserable lot, but I have brought it on myself, and I must abide by it.'

'Agatha,' said Mrs. Vernor, 'tell me one thing-did you love Mr. Lynn?'

'Don't ask me,' said Agatha, starting up; it is too late now; I am to be Lord Dunm ore's wife in three weeks-what is Mr. Lynn to me?'

'The sorrows, Agatha, that are of our own making will bring their consequent suffering. There is no position in life from which we are not bound to save ourselves should it be yet in our power, if that position be one which we know is wrong; and you are wrong, Agatha, if you do not love Lord Dunmore.'

'Dear Mrs. Vernor,' said Agatha, laying her head upon her friend's shoulder, 'I have been a miserable coward, but I have stood so alone, and now I feel that there is no escape; all I ask is, do not speak of it.'

Mrs. Vernor had stood up, and was about to remonstrate, but Mrs. Burton was unexpectedly announced, and saying anything more became impossible. She had come sooner than she intended, to take her darling Agatha away, and to indulge herself at the same time, she said, with a peep at Mrs. Vernor: she wished to hear her opinion on Agatha's looks, and thank her in person for all the care she had taken of her dear child at St. Helens.

Mrs. Burton could be very gracious when she liked, especially to those whom she considered her inferiors, when it did not compromise her in the eyes of the fashionable world; and Mrs. Burton had also a theory that, sooner or later, nearly every one can be made useful in some way. So she was most sympathising about Mrs. Vernor's consumptive pupil, and her hurried visit to town; begged her to dine with them, and even offered to send the carriage to fetch her.

Mrs. Vernor was leaving town the

next morning, so she refused, and Mrs. Burton and Agatha took their leave. As Agatha kissed her friend, Mrs. Vernor managed to whisper, in answer to her clinging embrace,

'If ever, Agatha, you want a home, promise me you will come to St. Helens.' And those words came back to Agatha when most she needed the assurance.

Mrs. Vernor left London the following day, and Agatha returned to her old life. Her trousseau progressed rapidly, and everything neared its fulfilment.

Three nights before the wedding, Agatha was seated alone before her own fire. She had but just parted from her mother, as each had gone to her own room, and they had been all the evening talking of dress and jewels, and arranging future plans. Agatha was weary and heart-sick. 'Better,' she said, 'be dead than so utterly wretched. Oh! mother, what is my happiness to you?' And then the thought flashed into her mind, 'Perhaps I am wronging her-it is not yet too late for that.' She started up, put on her dressing-gown, and went swiftly down the passage until she reached her mother's room, knocked softly, and entered.

Mrs. Burton was sitting in an easy chair over the fire, reading one of a packet of letters. She looked surprised at Agatha's entrance, as if it were an unusual event at that hour.

'You are surprised to see me,' said Agatha; but, mother, I have something to say, something I want your advice about. You will think it is late perhaps,' she continued, with all the calmness of desperation; but

But I think I can guess,' said Mrs. Burton, smiling; you want the white lace flounces for your amber silk.'

Agatha shook her head; her mother's total unsuspiciousness made her task very difficult. She waited for a moment, then she knelt on the ground, low down at her mother's feet, and told her that she could not marry Lord Dunmore.

Mrs. Burton's face grew livid as she listened.

'Agatha, what madness is this? Not marry Lord Dunmore? be dis

graced yourself, and disgrace us all for life?'

'But, mother,' said Agatha, 'think of my happiness. Oh, mother! only let me give it up, and I will work for you, I will never leave you: we will be so happy, in spite of all the lost hateful grandeur, which can only make me miserable. Mother, if you ever loved me, save me!'

Mrs. Burton looked staggered, but she rallied.

'Agatha, you can't mean it: think of the expense I have been at, the ruinous outlay on your London season, your dress, everything-everything which was to be put straight by your marriage with Lord Dunmore.'

'Think, mother,' said Agatha, with the passionate, pleading look still in her eyes, 'how young I am to sacrifice a whole life; think what I shall suffer if I am obliged to live for ever with a man I-I hate.'

'You will get to like him, Agatha.' 'Never!' she replied. 'I might try to do my duty, but I should fail even there, because

'Because,' exclaimed Mrs. Burton, 'it is as I suspected; you have some romantic schoolgirl fancy for some one else. I only wish,' she said, with rising indignation, 'I had never let you go to St. Helens, and then you would not have fallen, as you did, into the hands of low, designing people.'

Agatha started up-her eyes were flaming.

'I will not hear it,' she said, 'even from you. All the real happiness I have ever known was at St. Helens; all the rest of my life, since I grew up, has been a vain, miserable delusion; it has made me a false, deceitful woman, deceiving even the man I am going to marry, and who believes in me: it is my duty at least to tell him.'

Mrs. Burton was really alarmed; her terror lest Agatha should fulfil her threat made her grow cold all over. She saw in one glance Lady Dunmore's triumph, Lady Alice Wendover's, herself sunk in the shade, Valentine's heiress lost: so she begged and prayed, she even wept, she appealed to her love, to her duty; she implored her to think

of the disgrace, and at last Agatha promised, and Mrs. Burton, still fearful, went with her back to her room, saw her into bed, and sat by her until Agatha had, or Mrs. Burton thought she had, sunk into a calm sleep.

'To-morrow,' said Mrs. Burton, 'Lord Dunmore and Valentine come; I must prevent her doing anything rash to-morrow, and the day after she is to be married.'

The next morning Agatha seemed much as usual, only she looked ill. Lord Dunmore and Valentine arrived in the afternoon, and they all went out driving. Mrs. Burton tried, by an extra amount of conversation and gaiety, to cover Agatha's silence, and she laughed pleasantly when Lord Dunmore showed some anxiety about her, and assured him it was only excitement.

After dinner, when the gentlemen joined the ladies, Lord Dunmore took a vacant chair beside Agatha, and Mrs. Burton felt a sickening dread lest, in the opportunity given by a téte-à-tête, Agatha might betray herself; but it was needless. Agatha felt utterly hopeless and miserable, but she did not expect to be anything else. She looked at Lord Dunmore, as he bent his head over her, and shuddered as she thought, 'To-morrow he will be my husband.'

Lord Dunmore was in great spirits: he talked of what he should do, of what Agatha was to do; and then he took from his waistcoatpocket a small ring-case and displayed a plain gold hoop, and made her fit it on, and then raised her hand to his lips, his small light eyes gleaming with triumph as he paid her some whispered compliment.

Agatha withdrew her hand and glanced at the ring, emblem of love and truth and eternity; and she felt as if she must fling it away, and go away herself, anywhere, so that it was away-away from him. But with all this at her heart, she sat on and submitted, and Mrs. Burton sat on and watched; but it was over at last, and Agatha was alone in her own room.

She stood for some time gazing down into the glowing embers, a

little foot resting on the polished fender, trying to feel at least that perhaps, after all, her choice for the future had been for the best, that it had been out of her power to avert it, and that it was her fate.

We are all, more or less, what circumstances make us; and Agatha's powers of reasoning had never been developed beyond the atmosphere by which she had been surrounded during the last three years of her life. When Agatha, at the age of sixteen, had left Mrs. Vernor's care to enjoy the advantages of continental masters, she was just at that period of life when the character is forming, when it is most susceptible of external influences, most easily moulded for good or evil; and Mrs. Burton's maternal precepts all tended to utter worldliness, so that Agatha grew into womanhood with her judgment warped by social prejudices, with her real warmth of disposition and generous impulses pruned to the conventional standard, her ambition and vanity fostered until the false and the real had become so entangled that it seemed impossible but that, year by year, all the good would be utterly crushed out, and only what was false and heartless remain.

But there was one thing which had saved Agatha, and that was her love for Mr. Lynn. All that was good and beautiful seemed to her to come into her existence through and by him.

There is no woman born who would not be ennobled, exalted, purified by the knowledge that a good man loves her. Years may come and go, changes take place, but the fact remains, the unalterable fact, that the one master hand has struck the hitherto untouched chords, and the vibration never dies. Agatha had nerved herself for a conflict which she was not armed to carry on; there was wild rebellion in her heart, and she could not subdue it. The coals assumed fantastic shapes, and her thoughts went wearily over the old ground and the old arguments, but it would not do. She went to the door, locked it, and then taking a small cedar-wood box from her wardrobe,

sat down before the dressing-table, and began slowly taking out its contents.

To any looker-on they would not have seemed of much interest: two or three little notes, some dried grass and flowers, some seaweed, a scrap of cornelian-but each had a remembrance which, after to-night, she must put away for ever.

Agatha impatiently shook away the tears that welled up unbidden into her eyes, but as she did so her glance rested on the shining folds of white satin and lace;-it was her bridal dress. "To-morrow,' she said, bitterly, 'I shall be a peeresssurely that should satisfy me;' but her voice, as she whispered the words, sounded hollow and unreal, and died into a moan, whilst Mr. Lynn's name hovered on her lips. She still wore her evening dress, and some bracelets and other ornaments which were the gifts of Lord Dunmore. She suddenly tore them off and flung them down as if they had stung her; she longed to crush them beneath her feet, to hide them from her sight-anything but to see them glittering on her neck and arms.

She knelt down and buried her face in her hands; her long dark hair fell in heavy masses over her white shoulders, and no statue of despair could ever have typified more abandoned grief.

Nearly an hour passed away; then she started up, pushed the hair back from her face and glanced at the clock; the long, delicate hands pointed to the hour of midnight. Agatha's breath came in short panting gasps; before that hand could once more return to the same spot on the enamelled dial, her doom would be irrevocably sealed.

A sudden desperate resolution flashed across her mind: it was, since none would save her, to save herself. She paced up and down the room after the thought had presented itself, and tried to concentrate her resolution. Agatha was brave by nature, and every feeling in her heart urged her to the step; but she wavered long ere her decision became final, and then she went to

the table, and, with the calmness of desperation, drew out her desk and wrote, first to Lord Dunmore, and then to her mother.

Lord Dunmore's letter was very short; she blamed no one but herself, and told him that, for both their sakes, it was better she should tell him then, though it were even at the eleventh hour, that her heart had never been his, rather than that, in after years, he should find out that she had deceived him. 'I can ask you to try and forgive me now,' she said-'then I could not.'

To her mother she wrote:

'I have tried hard to carry out my promise, but I have failed. I dare not kneel by Lord Dunmore's side, to-morrow, and vow to him love, honour, and obedience-I would rather die. You need not be anxious about me: I am going to St. Helens, and if you have ever loved me, you will forgive your unhappy

'AGATHA.'

When these were written, she locked the desk, first taking from it a packet of Lord Dunmore's letters; then she went to the dressing-table and collected her jewels, and, putting them carefully into their cases, made up the whole into a parcel directed to Lord Dunmore. She then selected from her wardrobe a dark winter dress, and taking off her evening attire, put it on, arranged different things about the room, moving noiselessly, but with the same air of determination on her face that had come over her on first realizing the possibility of escape; and thus the night passed.

Agatha did not even lie down, but sat waiting, as prisoners wait, for the verdict of life or death. At a quarter before five o'clock she put on a long cloak, a straw bonnet, and tied over her face, so as entirely to conceal it, a thick black veil. When this was done she took her letter to Lord Dunmore, for she thought if she left it to her mother it might never reach him; then she crept down stairs and softly unfastened the hall-door.

The bitter east wind swept past her, and flakes of snow were driven in her face, but she heeded them not;

she closed the door behind her, and went out alone into the street.

It was so new and strange a position for Agatha to find herself alone in the streets of London, and at so early an hour, that at first she paused involuntarily, as if uncertain whether to go back or not, but her hesitation did not last; she drew her cloak tightly round her, and went hurriedly on. The cold was so intense that her trembling feet almost refused to carry her, and the snow was so thick that she could hardly see her way.

She went through the Marble Arch out into the broad thoroughfare: it was as dark as night, and the few passers-by heeded her not. She waited for a cab, hoping that one might pass, and fortune at last befriended her; she had hardly sufficient voice left to call to the driver, but, luckily, he was passing by slowly, and came close to her. She got in, and ordered the man to drive to the Euston station. Although it did not take more than half an hour to reach her destination, it seemed to Agatha that she would never be there, the time passed so slowly. She paid the cabman his fare, and went straight to the ticket-office, took her ticket, and passed on to the platform. Her first act was to post Lord Dunmore's letter, and then she sat down and waited for the train. It came at last, and she got in; it moved slowly off, and all was over. Agatha sat in the farthest corner of the carriage, and did not speak, but watched the breaking of the grey winter morning-her bridal morning; she saw the sun rise and gleam over the fields white with their mantle of snow, and she felt that, come what might, she was saved.

It was late in the evening when she arrived at Denborough; the station was a little way out of the town, but she did not dare to take a fly, she was so afraid of being recognized. She drew her veil more closely over her face, and walked away all alone in the direction of St. Helens, only fearful of meeting any one she knew, She had eaten nothing since the day before, but the excitement kept her up, and at