the winter. The windows before mentioned are thrown wide open, and admit the ceaseless murmur of the sea without, as it dashes against the shingly beach in measured cadence, while the soft breeze which is stirring, ever and anon carries along with it the joyous laughter of merry children who are at play in the gay garden below, which is merely divided from the carriage drive by a thick hedge of laurustinus and flowering shrubs. The room to which these windows belong, and command so pleasant a prospect, is a very cheery apartment, evidently used as a general sitting-room by its occupants, and bears an air of comfort and homeliness, best described by the word “habitable.”

Standing with his back to the fireplace is Evered Randall, intent on reading a letter. He is much altered for the better since we last saw him, and though still looking pale and thin, he has lost that air of invalidism which used to characterise all his movements. The nobleness and intellectuality of his features are brought into greater prominence now that the lines of suffering have vanished from his face, and if there still remains a soupçon of sorrow, it only tends to enhance the interest which such a face would always inspire.

At the breakfast table is Virginia, she is dressed in deep mourning for Aunt Cicely, who had died about three weeks before, from the effects of another stroke of paralysis, which though it did not come without warning, shattered all her mental faculties at the first onset, and made the four days she lingered very painful to those who were watching her. Virginia too has been reading a letter, which is now put by, while she devotes all her attention to the intricacies of tea-making. There is a look of greater depth on her countenance, and usually her face and demeanour wear a sweet gravity and peacefulness which has a peculiar charm; just now, however, it appears slightly ruffled, and on the completion of her occupation she goes to the window, and placing both her arms upon the sill, leans forward upon them, and so looks out upon the glorious scene before her. The shade on her face deepens from perplexity to anxiety, and though she seems absorbed in contemplating the fairy-like barks as they sail on the azure ocean, it is her eye only that perceives, her senses are entirely possessed with the uneasiness depicted on her face.

Presently Evered shuts up his letter, proceeds to the window in which Virginia stands, and folding his arms, looks down with an amused smile on his face as she remains motionless in the position she first assumed, unconscious even of his presence.

"When are you going to wake up and give me some breakfast, Virgie? I am getting quite hungry," he says after a long pause, during which he has been watching her narrowly.

She starts, and brings her head in suddenly, exclaiming, "Have you been waiting long for it? I had quite forgotten the time," and as she speaks she goes to the table, and with an effort succeeds in driving the perplexity from her face.

Evered however knows her too well not to note the latent uneasiness still remaining, and though perhaps divining its cause, asks as she brings him his cup of tea,

"What is the matter, little one ?"

"I've had a letter from home."

"Well, so have I. How wonderful!"

Virginia smiles, despite her gravity at her own vagueness, but says no less obscurely, "I cannot understand it."

'It, what is it?" says Evered, smiling, "you are rather mysterious this morning."

"I mean Aunt Isabelle's letter. It seems so strange when she knows we shall soon be leaving Torquay, that she should tell me nothing of her plans for me, nor where—”

"Perhaps there is more about that in my letter, you shall see it after breakfast," interrupts Evered hastily, as if he guessed her words and did not wish them spoken; then quickly changing the subject, adds, "What a great many more people come to Matins now than when we first came here."

"A great many more," Virginia assents abstractedly; and the conversation flags through the whole of breakfast time.

Afterwards Virginia has some business to see to, and Evered writes letters till she returns, when he proposes they should go down to the beach together. ""Twould be a pity to lose this glorious morning, and we shall not have many more days to enjoy in this pretty place," he ends almost gaily, without a shadow of regret in his voice.

Virginia agrees to the beach project, but as she goes to dress sighs a weary little sigh as she thinks how soon she will have to part with him. Their moods are strangely different this morning, he so glad and cheerful, she so uneasy and perplexed, though perhaps there is a cause for that. “He told me the other day that he had heard of work, but has said nothing about it since," she says mentally. "I shall ask him to-day if anything more is settled, and where he is going. How

sad it will be to part with him, but I must learn to live alone. I should not feel so sad to-day if Aunt Isabelle had said something about my coming home, but she merely mentions plans for herself and Nina. I really cannot understand it. Perhaps Evered's letter will throw some light upon it. I shall be very, very sorry to leave the dear old London home, but now dear Aunt Cicely is dead, 'twould never be the same,—and after all one place is as good as another. And Nina,ah! yes, how I hope she will be happy."

This soliloquy has been going on while she dresses. Now she goes down to her brother, and he, gathering up the letters he has just written, and those received this morning, goes out with her into the warm sunny May air, through the flower-dotted garden and so down

to the beach below.

Neither speak for some time after they are seated, both seem enjoying the rare beauty of the scene before them. The sky is cloudless, a rich, deep blue, less deep where the line of horizon melts into the sea, so blended as to form an indistinguishable union, while nearer inland the water rivals the sky above. Calm, almost as a lake it is before them, each little wave as it breaks on the stones, leaving a track of snowy foam behind it, which quickly sinks away to be followed by another and another. Far out beyond the Shag and Oarstone1 stand immoveable and firm, basking in the golden sunlight, while a tiny skiff lies in the shade of the former, catching at intervals the light on its sails. Evered is the first to break the silence, by saying,

"I suppose you will be very sorry to leave Torquay, Virgie ?" She draws a long breath, before answering,

"Indeed I shall. Being here has been the happiest time of my life. And now I don't know even what is to become of me," she continued, taking a letter from her pocket; "Aunt Isabelle says nothing about where I am to go, or what she has settled for me. She speaks of her own plans, and—and of Nina's, but not one word does she say about

me.

See here, I will read you what she says-'A friend of your uncle Richard's is negociating for the house, so I have no fear of not getting a tenant. I have long been wishing to let it, at any rate, for some months, and now I am still more anxious to do so for many reasons, it will always be full of painful associations to me. We have settled not to put off little Nina's wedding on account of dear Cicely's death, it is the last thing she would have wished, I am sure. Added to which, old 1 Two outlying rocks, visible from the Meadfoot sands, Torquay.

Mr. Staley is obliged to go to Australia in the middle of July on important business, and unless the marriage takes place early in June, the young people would get no honeymoon, which would be a sad pity, as Reginald has set his heart on taking Nina to Rome. For Nina's sake too, I am very anxious there should be no delay, for I have great hopes that married life may sober and deepen her character, which sadly wants ballast. This arrangement will enable them to return before Mr. Staley sails, and ere his departure he will formally take his son into partnership. Aunt Persis wishes the wedding to take place from her house, and it will be as quiet as possible, in fact no one but ourselves; so as soon as Number 19 is let, I shall go down to Warwickshire with Nina. I suppose it will end in my living with Persis, at all events for the present, till I see how things fall out. I might go and keep house for Richard, but I can speak of nothing definitely.' She does not even mention my name. Shall I have to live with Aunt Persis and the cousins, do you think?" asks Virginia ruefully.

"But

"No, I don't think you will," answered Evered smiling. before we talk about your plans, I must ask you, dear, though it may seem selfish, to attend to my own affairs for a few minutes, as they are now fully settled, then I can explain yours to you. You remember our conversation about Ardleigh last September I dare say? Well! I little thought that the old friend, Sir Harry mentioned, was myself."

"You?" cries Virginia, "O, Evered! how very very glad I am. I am so surprised."

"Not more than I was, when Sir Harry's letter came about a fortnight ago, asking if I would accept the living. Of course there was only one answer to that question, and I wrote at once to say so, but as there were several things to arrange before we could say it was finally settled, I waited till to-day to tell you. Everything is now fully determined. Hugh Forster remains there as my junior Curate, and you will be surprised to hear that Mr. Courtenay has consented to be the other assistant Priest. He has found his health failing for some time past, as London never agreed with him, and this added to the continual hard work of such a parish as S. Margaret's, tells so much upon him that he has seen it would be impossible for him to continue there any longer. In point of fact, he will not come to lighter work at Ardleigh, as I have told him, but he says it is not hard work that hurts him, but having to carry it on in a place which never suited him.

It will be an immense advantage for me to have the help of so good and experienced a man as he at Ardleigh, which is a very large parish, and I being young should often want advice, I am sure."

"It does seem a pleasant prospect for you, Evered," says Virginia. "I don't think anything better could have befallen you. Are you not very pleased to think of going there again, and for a permanency too, and feeling it belongs to you? I think it's a perfect plan," she adds, forgetting her own perplexity and trouble in sympathizing with

him.

"Yes," acquiesces Evered, though not without a shade of sadness in his voice, perhaps occasioned by the remembrance of one who had worked there with him so long, and was now no longer visibly present, "Yes," he repeats more gladly, as if ashamed of his regret for him who had exchanged his place in the Church Militant, for one in the Church Resting," and there is only one thing wanted to make it, for me, as perfect as anything can be here, and that depends on your answer to one question."

"My answer to a question," repeats Virginia in astonishment, " What can it be ?"

This," he says, "Will you come and live with me there?"

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Those of my readers who wish to know somewhat of the new life which Virginia led with her brother at Ardleigh, must consent to pass over a period of more than six months, and look in at the Rectory on the Feast of S. Thomas. Snow is on the ground, "deep, and crisp, and even," as the old carol has it. Several days of hard frost have followed the fall, and bound the ground like iron, tendering little hope of a thaw at present. It is about three in the afternoon, but freezing so hard, even now, that last night's hoar-frost is frozen on the trees, and little icicles hang suspended from the branches.

It is not however with the outer world that we have to do, but with a certain study in Ardleigh Rectory, into which we will with some curiosity, take the liberty of looking. It is a low square room, lighted by two windows reaching to the ground. The walls are wainscoted with oak nearly half-way up, the remainder being adorned with well filled book-shelves of the same material. The floor is covered with a dark red carpet, rather worn in places, but for all that not so ancient as to destroy the harmony of the room, but rather, if possible, to enhance it. The oaken chairs, though looking by no means com