me as his, she must not be "unequally
yoked with an unbeliever." And thus the very hopelessness of her love
became its food and strength; the feeling which she would have checked
with maidenly modesty, had it been connected even remotely with
marriage, was allowed to take immediate and entire dominion; and she
held herself permitted to keep him next her heart of hearts, because
she could do nothing for him but pray for his conversion.

And pray for him she did, the noble, guileless girl, day and night,
that he might be converted; that he might prosper, and become--perhaps
rich, at least useful; a mighty instrument in some good work. And then
she would build up one beautiful castle in the air after another, out
of her fancies about what such a man, whom she had invested in her own
mind with all the wisdom of Solomon, might do if his "talents were
sanctified." Then she prayed that he might recover his lost gold--when
it was good for him; that he might discover the thief: no, that would
only involve fresh shame and sorrow: that the thief, then, might be
brought to repentance, and confession, and restitution. That was the
solution of the dark problem, and for that she prayed; while her face
grew sadder and sadder day by day.

For a while, over and above the pain which the theft caused her, there
came--how could it be otherwise?--sudden pangs of regret that this
same love was hopeless, at least upon this side of the grave.
Inconsistent they were with the chivalrous unselfishness of her usual
temper; and as such she dashed them from her, and conquered them,
after a while, by a method which many a woman knows too well. It was
but "one cross more;" a natural part of her destiny--the child of
sorrow and heaviness of heart. Pleasure in joy she was never to find
on earth; she would find it, then, in grief. And nursing her own
melancholy, she went on her way, sad, sweet, and steadfast, and
lavished more care and tenderness, and even gaiety, than ever upon her
neighbours' children, because she knew that she should never have a
child of her own.

But there is a third damsel, to whom, whether more or less engaging
than Grace Harvey or Miss Heale, my readers must needs be introduced.
Let Miss Heale herself do it, with eyes full of jealous curiosity.

"There is a foreign letter for Mr. Thurnall, marked Montreal, and sent
on here from Whitbury," said she, one morning at breakfast, and in a
significant tone; for the address was eviden