new better than Margaret Mackenzie;
and had altogether dropped the poetries of life, if at any time any
of such poetries had belonged to him. He was, in fact, ten years
older than Margaret Mackenzie; but he now looked to be almost twenty
years her senior. She was a woman who at thirty-five had more of the
graces of womanhood than had belonged to her at twenty. He was a man
who at forty-five had lost all that youth does for a man. But still I
think that she would have fallen back upon her former love, and found
that to be sufficient, had he asked her to do so even now. She would
have felt herself bound by her faith to do so, had he said that such
was his wish, before the reading of her brother's will. But he did no
such thing. "I hope he will have made you comfortable," he said.

"I hope he will have left me above want," Margaret had replied--and
that had then been all. She had, perhaps, half-expected something
more from him, remembering that the obstacle which had separated them
was now removed. But nothing more came, and it would hardly be true
to say that she was disappointed. She had no strong desire to marry
Harry Handcock whom no one now called Harry any longer; but yet, for
the sake of human nature, she bestowed a sigh upon his coldness, when
he carried his tenderness no further than a wish that she might be
comfortable.

There had of necessity been much of secrecy in the life of Margaret
Mackenzie. She had possessed no friend to whom she could express her
thoughts and feelings with confidence. I doubt whether any living
being knew that there now existed, up in that small back bedroom in
Arundel Street, quires of manuscript in which Margaret had written
her thoughts and feelings,--hundreds of rhymes which had never met
any eye but her own; and outspoken words of love contained in letters
which had never been sent, or been intended to be sent, to any
destination. Indeed these letters had been commenced with no name,
and finished with no signature. It would be hardly true to say that
they had been intended for Harry Handcock, even at the warmest period
of her love. They had rather been trials of her strength,--proofs
of what she might do if fortune should ever be so kind to her as to
allow of her loving. No one had ever guessed all this, or had dreamed
of accusing Margaret of romance. No one capable of testing her
character had known her. In latter days she had now and again dined
in Gower Street, but her sister-i