nd in losing the lover. But, as one year after
another went by, and the younger members of her family fell off into
their separate domestic orbits, she began to shrink a little at the
perspective of a lonely life, growing lonelier as it receded from the
Present.

By this time, Leonard Clare had become almost a dream to her. She had
neither seen him nor heard of him since he let go her hand on that
memorable evening beside the stream. He was a strange, bewildering
chance, a cypher concealing a secret which she could not intelligently
read. Why should she keep the memory of that power which was, perhaps,
some unconscious quality of his nature (no, it was not so! something
deeper than reason cried:), or long since forgotten, if felt, by him?

The man whom she most esteemed came back to her. She knew the ripeness
and harmony of his intellect, the nobility of his character, and the
generosity of a feeling which would be satisfied with only a partial
return. She felt sure, also, that she should never possess a sentiment
nearer to love than that which pleaded his cause in her heart. But her
hand lay quiet in his, her pulses were calm when he spoke, and his face,
manly and true as it was, never invaded her dreams. All questioning was
vain; her heart gave no solution of the riddle. Perhaps her own want
was common to all lives: then she was cherishing a selfish ideal, and
rejecting the positive good offered to her hands.

After long hesitation she yielded. The predictions of society came to
naught; instead of becoming an "eccentric" spinster, Miss Bartram was
announced to be the affianced bride of Mr. Lawrie. A few weeks and
months rolled around, and when the wedding-day came, she almost hailed
it as the port of refuge, where she should find a placid and peaceful
life.

They were married by an aged clergyman, a relative of the bridegroom.
The cross-street where his chapel stood, fronting a Methodist
church--both of the simplest form of that architecture fondly supposed
to be Gothic,--was quite blocked up by the carriages of the party. The
pews were crowded with elegant guests, the altar was decorated with
flowers, and the ceremony lacked nothing of its usual solemn beauty.
The bride was pale, but strikingly calm and self-possessed, and when
she moved towards the door as Mrs. Lawrie, on her husband's arm, many
matrons, recalling their own experience, marvelled at her unflurried
dignity.

Just as they passed out the door, and