e tried to comfort him.

"Dear Brian," she said, "I know--I understand. Poor fellow! it is very
hard for you. It is hard for us all; but I think it is hardest of all
for you."

"I would have given my life for his, Angela," said Brian, in a smothered
voice.

"I know you would. I know you loved him," said Angela, the tears
streaming now down her pale cheeks. "There is only one thing for us to
say, Brian--It was God's will that he should go."

"How you must hate the sight of me," groaned Brian. He had almost
forgotten the presence of Mrs. Luttrell, whose hard, watchful eyes were
taking notice of every detail of the scene.

"I will not trouble you long; I am going to leave Scotland; I will go
far away; you shall never see my face again."

"But I should be sorry for that," said Angela's soft, caressing voice,
into which a tremor stole from time to time that made it doubly sweet.
"I shall want to see you again. Promise me that you will come back,
Brian--some day."

"Some day?" he repeated, mournfully. "Well, some day, Angela, when you
can look on me without so much pain as you must needs feel now, any day
when you have need of me. But, as I am going so very soon, will you tell
me yourself whether Netherglen is a place that you hold in utter
abhorrence now? Would it hurt you to make Netherglen your home? Could
you and my mother find happiness--or at least peace--if you lived here
together? or would it be too great a trial for you to bear?"

"It rests with you to decide, Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell from her sofa.
"I have no choice; it signifies little to me whether I go or stay. If it
would pain you to live at Netherglen, say so; and we will choose another
home."

"Pain me?" said Angela. "To stay here--in Richard's home?"

"Would you dislike it?" asked Mrs. Luttrell.

The girl came to her side, and put her arms round the mother's neck.
Mrs. Luttrell's face softened curiously as she did so; she laid one of
her hands upon Angela's shining hair with a caressing movement.

"Dislike it? It would be my only happiness," said Angela. She stopped,
and then went on with soft vehemence--"To think that I was in his house,
that I looked on the things that he used to see every day, that I could
sometimes do the thing that he would have liked to see me doing--it is
all I could wish for, all that life could give me now! Yes, yes, let us
stay."

"It's perhaps not so good for you as one might wish," said Mrs.
Luttrell, regarding