middle of this sentence.

"Grandmother," he said, almost in a whisper, "here she is coming along
the road."

"Miss Rosewarne?"

"Yes: shall I introduce you?"

"If you like."

Wenna was coming down the steep road between the high hedges with a
small girl on each side of her, whom she was leading by the hand. She
was gayly talking to them: you could hear the children laughing at what
she said. Old Mrs. Trelyon came to the conclusion that this merry young
lady, with the light and free step, the careless talk and fresh color in
her face, was certainly not dying of any love-affair.

"Take the reins, grandmother, for a minute."

He had leapt down into the road, and was standing before her almost ere
she had time to recognize him. For a moment a quick gleam of gladness
shone on her face: then, almost instinctively, she seemed to shrink from
him, and she was reserved, distant, and formal.

He introduced her to the old lady, who said something nice to her about
her sister. The young man was looking wistfully at her, troubled at
heart that she treated him so coldly.

"I have got to break some news to you," he said: "perhaps you will
consider it good news."

She looked up quickly.

"Nothing has happened to anybody--only some one has arrived. Mr.
Roscorla is at the inn."

She did not flinch. He was vexed with her that she showed no sign of
fear or dislike. On the contrary, she quickly said that she must then go
down to the inn; and she bade them both good-bye in a placid and
ordinary way, while he drove off with dark thoughts crowding into his
imagination of what might happen down at the inn during the next few
days. He was angry with her, he scarcely knew why.

Meanwhile Wenna, apparently quite calm, went on down the road, but there
was no more laughing in her voice, no more light in her face.

"Miss Wenna," said the smaller of the two children, who could not
understand this change, and who looked up with big, wondering eyes, "why
does oo tremble so?"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

SONNET.

The curious eye may watch her lovely face,
Whereon such rare and roseate tinctures glow,
And cry, How fair the rose and lily show
Mid all the glories of a maiden grace!
If this sweet show, this bloom and tender glance,
Would so attract a stranger's unskilled eyes,
Until he sees the light of Paradise
Dawn in the garden of that countenance--
I, to whom love hath given finer power