actice, he must one day acquire a high reputation.
Perhaps this opinion might have been in some degree shaken by the long
and frequent holidays of his young partner during this winter. Michael
had never been so much at home since he left it, a boy of sixteen, and
before the winter had passed, all formality between him and Lilian had
vanished. Again they wandered together, as in childhood, through the
garden walks; again Lilian learned to regard him, not only as a loved
friend, but as a guide and protector.

Mrs. Grahame saw the growth of these feelings with delight. She loved
Lilian, and gave the highest proof of her esteem for her, in believing
her worthy of her son. Mr. Grahame was less satisfied. He, too, loved
Lilian, and would have welcomed her to his heart as a daughter, but her
lately acquired fortune, and her connection with the Trevanion family,
gave her a right to higher expectations in marriage, than to become the
wife of a mechanic of very moderate fortunes, howsoever great was his
ability, or howsoever distinguished his personal qualities. No--Mr.
Grahame was not satisfied, and nothing but his confidence in Michael
kept him silent. The confidence was not misplaced.

The news of Lilian's fortune, and of Mr. and Mrs. Trevanion's offer to
receive her into their family, had sent a sharp pang through the heart
of Michael Grahame, which had taught him the true character of his
attachment to her.

"She is removed from my world--she can be nothing to me now," was the
first stern whisper of his heart, which was modified after two or three
interviews into--"She can only be a dear friend and sister. I must never
think of her in any other light." And, devoted as he had been to her
through the winter, no word, no look had told of love less calm or more
exacting than this. But there came a time when the quick blush on
Lilian's cheek at his approach, the tremor of her little hand as he
clasped it, told that she shared his feeling, without his power of
self-control. Then came the hour of trial to Michael Grahame's nature.
Self-immolation were easy in comparison with the infliction of one pang
on her. And wherefore should either suffer? Was it not a false sentiment
that denied to her the right to decide for herself, between those shows
and fashions which the world most prizes, and the indulgence of the
purest and sweetest affections of our nature? Was he not in truth
sacrificing her happiness to his own pride? It was a qu