94 ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.

cousin with an account of how I grieve; and
remember, believe me, I take good care to pre-
vent any woman’s caprice from having power
over me a second time.”

“ You do quite right,” replied Rose—* quite
right.” They walked on together until they
arrived within sight of the cottage door, but nei-
ther spoke.

‘“T have a great deal to do—much to prepare.
I must wish you good-night. Good-bye, and a
kinder temper.” She faltered.

“ Going,” said Edward—* going away in
such haste; and to-part thus. There must be
some mistake. I have watched you narrowly,
suspiciously, as men do who have been once
deceived; and I have seen no trace of un-
womanly ambition in you; [I little thought
you would, on the slightest hint, so willingly
embrace the first opportunity of entering into
the sphere I thought you dreaded—as I do.”

_“T told you Helen was ill.”

“ A megrim—a whim—a”’

‘¢ You do her wrong; she has been a mother,
and her child is dead.”

‘¢ A blow to her ambition,” said Edward, so
coldly that Rose (such is human nature) breath-
ed more freely. Was it possible, then—could
it be possible—that his feelings had been excit-
ed not by the remembrance of Helen, but the
thought of her own departure? Yet still her
simple sense of justice urged her to say, “ Again