ld wish it."

"That is nonsense, aunt. It is indeed, for neither of us wish it." A
lie on such a subject from a woman under such circumstances is hardly
to be considered a lie at all. It is spoken with no mean object, and
is the only bulwark which the woman has ready at her need to cover
her own weakness.

"From what he said yesterday," continued Mrs. Winterfield, "I think
it is your own fault."

"Pray,--pray do not talk in that way. It cannot be matter of any
fault that two people do not want to marry each other."

"Of course I asked him no positive question. It would be indelicate
even in me to have done that. But he spoke as though he thought very
highly of you."

"No doubt he does. And so do I of Mr. Possitt."

"Mr. Possitt is a very excellent young man," said Mrs. Winterfield,
gravely. Mr. Possitt was, indeed, her favourite curate at Perivale,
and always dined at the house on Sundays between services, when Mrs.
Winterfield was very particular in seeing that he took two glasses of
her best port wine to support him. "But Mr. Possitt has nothing but
his curacy."

"There is no danger, aunt, I can assure you."

"I don't know what you call danger; but Frederic seemed to think that
you are always sharp with him. You don't want to quarrel with him, I
hope, because I love him better than any one in the world?"

"Oh, aunt, what cruel things you say to me without thinking of them!"

"I do not mean to be cruel, but I will say nothing more about him. As
I told you before, that I had not thought it expedient to leave away
any portion of my little property from Frederic,--believing as I
did then, that the money intended for you by your father was still
remaining,--it is best that you should now know that I have at last
learnt the truth, and that I will at once see my lawyer about making
this change."

"Dear aunt, of course I thank you."

"I want no thanks, Clara. I humbly strive to do what I believe to be
my duty. I have never felt myself to be more than a steward of my
money. That I have often failed in my stewardship I know well;--for
in what duties do we not all fail?" Then she gently laid herself
back in her arm-chair, closing her eyes, while she kept fast clasped
in her hands the little book of daily devotion which she had been
striving to read when the conversation had been commenced. Clara
knew then that nothing more was to be said, and that she was not at
present to interrupt her aunt. From her posture, an