o whom he would have surrendered Sophy with so keen a pang
as to Charles Haughton's son.

The poor young lovers! all the stars seemed against them! Was it not
enough that Guy Darrell should be so obdurate! must the mild William
Losely be also a malefic in their horoscope?

But when, that same evening, the old man more observantly than ever
watched his grandchild, his comfort vanished--misgivings came over
him--he felt assured that the fatal shaft had been broken in the wound,
and that the heart was bleeding inly.

True; not without prophetic insight had Arabella Crane said to the
pining, but resolute, quiet child, behind the scenes of Mr. Rugge's
show, "How much you will love one day." All that night Waife lay awake
pondering--revolving--exhausting that wondrous fertility of resource
which teemed in his inventive brain. In vain!

And now--(the day after this conversation with Lady Montfort, whose
illness grieves, but does not surprise him)--now, as he sits and thinks,
and gazes abstractedly into that far, pale, winter sky-now, the old man
is still scheming how to reconcile a human loving heart to the eternal
loss of that affection which has so many perishable counterfeits, but
which, when true in all its elements--complete in all its varied wealth
of feeling, is never to be forgotten and never to be replaced.

CHAPTER II.

AN OFFERING TO THE MANES.

Three sides of Waife's cottage were within Lady Montfort's grounds; the
fourth side, with its more public, entrance, bordered the lane. Now,
as he thus sate, he was startled by a low timid ring at the door which
opened on the lane. Who could it be?--not Jasper! He began to tremble.
The ring was repeated. One woman-servant composed all his establishment.
He heard her opening the door--heard a low voice; it seemed a soft,
fresh, young voice. His room-door opened, and the woman, who of course
knew the visitor by sight and name, having often remarked him on the
grounds with Lady Montfort and Sophy, said, in a cheerful tone, as if
bringing good news, "Mr. Lionel Haughton."

Scarcely was the door closed--scarcely the young man in the room,
before, with all his delightful, passionate frankness, Lionel had
clasped Waife's reluctant hand in both his own, and, with tears in his
eyes, and choking in his voice, was pouring forth sentences so loosely
knit together that they seemed almost incoherent; now a burst of
congratulation--now a falter of condolence--now words that