ife.

"Of course we shall be poor, mother; but we expect that."

"I hope you will, at least, be happy," said Mrs. Wilkinson, not
liking at present to dwell on the subject of their poverty, as her
conscience began to admonish her with reference to the three hundred
and fifty pounds per annum.

"I should think I might be able to get pupils," continued Arthur.
"If I had two at one hundred and fifty pounds each, we might be
comfortable enough."

"Perhaps Adela would not like to have lads in the house."

"Ah, mother, you don't know Adela. She will not object to anything
because she does not herself like it." And in this manner that affair
was so far settled.

And then Adela was invited to Hurst Staple, and she accepted the
invitation. She was not coy in declaring the pleasure with which she
did so, nor was she bashful or shamefaced in the matter. She loved
the man that she was to marry--had long loved him; and now it was
permitted to her to declare her love. Now it was her duty to declare
it, and to assure him, with all the pretty protestations in her
power, that her best efforts should be given to sweeten his cup, and
smooth his path. Her duty now was to seek his happiness, to share his
troubles, to be one with him. In her mind it was not less her duty
now than it would be when, by God's ordinance, they should be one
bone and one flesh.

While their mother had held her seat on her high horse, with
reference to that question of the house, Sophia and Mary had almost
professed hostility to Adela. They had given in no cordial adherence
to their brother's marriage; but now they were able to talk of their
coming sister with interest and affection. "I know that Adela would
like this, Arthur;" and "I'm sure that Adela would prefer that;" and
"when we're gone, you know, Adela will do so and so." Arthur received
all this with brotherly love and the kindest smiles, and thanked God
in his heart that his mother had taken that blessed journey to Bowes
Lodge.

"Adela," he once said to her, as they were walking together, one
lonely spring evening, along the reedy bank of that river, "Adela,
had I had your courage, all this would have been settled long since."

"I don't know," she said; "but I am sure of this, that it is much
better as it is. Now we may fairly trust that we do know our own
minds. Love should be tried, perhaps, before it is trusted."

"I should have trusted yours at the first word you could have spoken,
the fir