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CHAPTER XXII.

FRIDAY.

Is it the union of repose and motion which makes a river so satisfactory? We watch the sea fascinated but anxious, for we know that the storm must come. We muse by the lake, till its monotony has made us dull. The river is always there, and is always passing, full of movement and rest, change without violence, progress without revolution, pleasant as the touch of a loving hand which soothes a tired man to sleep.

On a most lovely morning Mr Sebastian Archer and his accomplished daughter, accompanied by Mr Kerisen, who had but lately taken to early hours, got out of the train at the little station of Sunleigh. It is a pleasant spot. A small cheerful house, with green blinds; a small garden by the line, with gay old-fashioned flowers and sweet

lavender; a small cock, agreeably conscious of his importance, and strutting while his two fat hen housewives more wisely scratched and ate. Besides these little things, there was the name of the station boldly and beautifully writ large in flints. A pleasant impression is given by places where the very officials unbend to flowers and art. Life must be less hurried here. Sunleigh in the morning light was healthy and happy in the eyes of the lady to whom flowers came most often in the shape of missiles, formal as the rapture of a claque, falling with a bump like turnips, scentless as the admiration of habitués. She thought that her voice would sound clearer after a breath of this balmy air. She sprang gaily into the local fly, nodded a good-bye to the gentlemen, who chose to walk, and so was driven away. A slight graceful girl in well-fitting gown, she sat upright, with her hands lying idle in her lap, recalling a familiar bit of music, smiling involuntarily at the meadows and tangled hedgerows, glad of all the rest and sweetness for herself and for Irvine Dale. She crossed a strip of common where the gorse was all ablaze, down a shady lane all glimmering under the beeches, and on a sudden she saw the Thames. She gave a low cry of delight. It was a revelation to her, who only

knew the river business-like and dignified by its fine embankment. She had watched the tide surge turbid and yellow against the stone steps, the brown barges drifting up, and the deep London cloud torn and flying; and at evening had stopped to see the lights spring up along the edge, across the bridge, and high up round as a moon in the clock tower at Westminster. But this stream lazily lapping its banks, swaying the murmurous reeds and lifting the little grasses, could not be the same Thames. It had time for such trifling matters, and was so rich in leisure that it could spread itself in the sun, curve back to catch the light again, ruffle itself to break the rays for fun. There is no hurry, no hurry, it seemed to say, and the summer was longer on its banks.

Miss Marion awoke from a trance as the fly pulled up before a porch modestly gay with sweetbrier. It was the front of a cottage, but the cottage had grown along its trim lawn for the accommodation of jealous patrons. The young lady stepped lightly down and pulled the bell, not a whit embarrassed by the thought of asking for a young man. She was too apt to forget the small conventionalities. After a short time the door was opened, and there appeared on the threshold an

other young lady. The two girls looked at each other with wonder.

"We heard that Mr Dale was staying here."

Yes, he is here; but I am afraid you can't see him. He is ill." Then continued Miss Katharine, relenting, "Won't you come in?" and then, with a slight disdain, as the visitor hesitated, "There is no danger."

"I am not afraid," said Miss Marion, quickly. "I came with my father, who is walking from the station. He heard that Mr Dale was ill, and he-that is, we wished to see if we could do There was a trace of defiance in

any good." her speech.

"Won't you come in?"

"Thank you; you are very good: I will come in, and wait for my father."

When the two girls were seated in the pleasant room, which opens wide on to the lawn sloping to the quiet river, there was a time of awkward silence.

"Is Mr Dale very ill?" asked Marion, studiously limiting the amount of interest in the question.

"I think he is better to-day. He has been very feverish and delirious. He has everything, I think,

which he wants. His aunt, Miss Harefel, is here, and we have got a good nurse."

"A nurse!"

Katharine fancied an accent of reproach. Who was this critical young lady? she wondered. "We

do all we can," she said, and she felt how little it was; "but we have not practice. One can't do anything well without practice."

That is true." The words leapt out as Miss Archer recognised her pet belief. "You think it strange of us to come," she went on, quickly; knew your your cousin abroad."

we

"He is no relation," said truthful Katharine, 'only a very old friend. I am here with his aunt, Miss Harefel."

Ah! that is the aunt of Mr Edward Harefel too. Has he come back to England? Is he not here to take care of his cousin?"

of

"He has just come back. It was he who told us poor Irvine's illness." Her thoughts went back to a familiar groove. What would come of her obedience to Ned's summons? Surely she was right to come, for Irvine had need of her. He loved her, and she had been hard to him. Did she love him? Had she always loved him? There was no use thinking foolish thoughts when he lay

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