der would Edward Lynne have quite approved of those tears; I
wonder would he have been pleased to have observed the cheek of his
affianced bride pressed against the drawing-room window, to catch a
last glimpse of the cab which dashed from Mr. Ivers' door. Perhaps
not--for the generous nature of woman's love and woman's friendship,
is often beyond man's comprehension--but he would have been pleased to
see, after she had paced the room for half an hour, the eagerness with
which she received and opened a letter from himself; to have witnessed
the warm kiss impressed upon his name; to hear the murmured "dear,
_dear_ Edward!" Her heart had never for a moment failed in its
truth--never for an instant wavered.

That day week the cousins separated. "You must come to me when I
return, Rose," said Helen--"you must come and witness my triumphs.
My husband's brother is very ill--cannot live long--but _that_ is a
secret. I trust Ivers will make a figure in the lower, before called
to the upper house; if he does not, it will break my heart. There, God
bless you, Rose; you have been very affectionate, very sweet to me,
but I do, I confess, envy you that cheerful countenance--cheerful and
calm. I always think that contented people want mind and feeling; but
you do not, Rose. By the way, how strangely Mr. ---- disappeared;
I thought you had clipped his wings. Well, next season, perhaps. Of
course, after this, you will think no more of Edward." Fortunately for
Rose, Helen expected no replies, and after a few more words, as I have
said, they parted.

In little more than three months, Rose Dillon and Edward Lynne were
married.

CHAPTER VIII.

"It's a decent match enough," said old Mrs. Myles to the rector when
two years had elapsed, and she had become reconciled to it. "Of course
Rose never could have taken the same stand as Helen, who has been a
lady now more than a year; though she's a good, grateful girl, and
Edward very attentive--very attentive indeed--and I must say more so
than I expected. Helen, I mean my lady, you know, has, as she says in
her last letter, a great deal to do with her money--of course she must
have; and so, sir, pray do not let any one in Abbeyweld know that the
little annuity is not continued--regularly, I mean," she added, while
a certain twitching of her features evinced how much she felt, though
she did not at the moment confess it, the neglect of one she so dearly
loved. Like most talkative people