vered the peaked roofs of the houses too, and they stood in listening rows, white and still. Here and there a pale flicker from the gas-lamps struggled with the a

uered Fate, conquered life and love, before now. It grew darker: he was pacing now slowly in the shadow of a long low wall surrounding the grounds of some building. When he came near the gate, he would stop and listen: he could ha

aid Knowles; "Miss Howth

d joined them, standing in the shadow of the lumber, talking to Vandyke. He did n

in yonder,-the House of Refuge: you know. He coul

in no mood f

ily, recurring to some subject Holmes had interrupted

no," said the other; "you'

did no

like some forsaken Cyclops with his eye out, dragging down whate

own to keep himself warm. A lithe, slow figure, a clear face with delicate lips, and c

id Knowles, as the lo

out, and went down the silent street into the road beyond. Holmes kept hi

ndyke?" demanded Knowl

e a machine. It is the way with modern reformers. Men are so m

flushe

Do you mean to say there is none to d

man's face

r does not despise the pavers. He did not give you the spirit and understanding for paving, eh, is that it? How do yo

creed, then,-that the true work for a man or a wo

ke la

lf. I only meant for you to take care what you do. That woman looks as the Prodigal Son might have do

got up

eet; for they walked on. "The world has waited six thousand years for

he old man's words, they were chanting the one anthem of the world, the Gloria in Excelsis. Hearing the deep organ-roll, the men stopped outside to listen: it heaved and sobbed through the night, as if be

his hat, unconscious that he did it; he put it on slowly, and walked on. What was it that Knowles had said to

ts of the town behind them were shrouded in snow; the hills, the moors, the prairie swept off into th

t?" said the lit

re. "For its King-that shall be. Not as He came before.

either, Charley," growled Knowles. "There's an infernal lot of work

e scarce ever did with anybody. Knowles noticed it, and, after he was out of hearing, mumbled out some sarcasm at "a minister of the gospel

he hours until this day, to be balked now by a little loss of blood. The moon was nearly down before he reached the Cloughton hills: he turned there into a narrow path which he rem

ould last in their House of Refuge? There was not a morsel of her flesh that was not pure and holy in his eyes. His Margret? He chafed with an intolerable fever to make her his, but for one instant, as she had been once. Now, when it was too late. For he went back over every word he had spoken that night, forcing himself to go through with it,-every cold, poisoned word. It was a fitting penance. "There is no such thing as love in real life:" he had told her that! How he had stood, with all the power of his "divine soul" in his will, and told her,-he,-a man,-that he put away her love from him then, forever! He spared himself nothing,-slurred over nothing; spurned himself, as it were, for the meanness, in which he had wallowed that night. How firm he had been! how kind! how masterful!-pluming himself on his man's strength, whil

hinking. Some old thought was stealing into his brain, perhaps, fresh and warm, like a soft spring air,-some hope of the future, in which this child-woman came close to him, and near. It was an idle dream, only would taunt him when it was over, but he opened his

not reason now,-abandoned himself, as morbid men only do, to this delirious hope of a home, and cheerful warmth, and this woman's love fresh and eternal: a pleasant dream at first, to be put away at pleasure. But it grew bolder, touched under-deeps in his nature of longing and intense passion; all that

e fields, his heavy step crushing the snow, a dry heat in his blood, his eye intent, still, unt

awn. He had a keen eye; did not fail to see the marks of poverty about the place, the gateless fences, even the bare room with its worn and patched carpet: noted it all with a triumphant gleam of satisfaction. There was a black shadow passing and repassing the windows: he wa

at it cost her to see him again he could not tell: her face did not alter. It was lifeless and schooled, the eyes looking s

er turn away for an instant; then she waited for him, entirely tranquil, the clear fire shedding a still glow over the room, no cry or sh

he had remembered how he had held her in his arms, touched her cold lips, and then flung her off,-he had remembered it, every nerve shrinking with remorse and unutterable tenderness: now--! The utter quiet of her face told more than words could do. She did not love him; he was

ht be cold and grave as he, but underneath he knew there was a thwarted, hungry spirit,-a

Stephen," she said, simpl

He leaned on the mantel-shelf,

e chosen. Besides, I have come back ill and poor,-a beggar perhaps. How do women receive such,-generous wome

stood still and

e been down near dea

ew gray, but she looke

an say that. As for hand-shaking, my

d's heart clean of anger and revenge, even scorn for the wretch that sold himself for money. There was nothing else to sweep out, was there?"

man

It is no time to trifle or wear masks. That has passe

meet you and hear your good-bye. Dr. Knowles told me your marriage

e that her voice w

fingers. You could tell the serene and gracious lady who is chaffering for it what a bargain she has made,-that there is not in it one spark of manly honour or true love. Don't ven

d he grasped, and sto

me?"-in the sam

t of shudder in his powerful frame. He stood a momen

e worn old heart can gnaw on itself a little

ld go to him; then controlling herself, she stood silent. He had not seen the movement,-or, if he saw, did not heed it. He

I had an idle fancy that it would be good on this Christmas night to bare the secrets hidden in here to you,-to suffer your pure eyes

me slowly, bu

ing t

ng down on her with its proud sadness,

hould stay longer, is there? You made ready to

speak God's trut

t. Words-polite words-are bitterer than death, sometimes. If ever we happen to meet, that courte

you

into the shadow,

e sudden though

e to satisfy. It would be a trifle to you: will you g

p to her throat; t

sh, Stephen," sh

A heart so cold and strong as yours need not fear inspec

motionless

is no hurt in your hear

, lifeless eyes. It was a true woman's motion, remembering even then to scorn deception. The light glowed brightly in her face, as the slow min

r us to come near them after they have died to us,-to touch their hands, to kiss their lips, to find what l

pati

ith me when I go, for the last time. Shal

rness of truth. "I asked God, that night, to show me my work; and I

?" he demand

p it cheerful. When my father kisses me at night, or my mother says, 'G

the deep silence, like the humble voice of the home

look down into your heart that you have given to this great w

"-but her whis

o

e struggled weakly under the power of his eye, not meeting it. He waited r

n of all others: it is no time for mock shame. I know it was my hand that held the very sec

ed you

ved her, or self-delusion, she

me no long

you no

re wearing her eyes, and the vexing click of the clock. After

id, "it never returns. Did y

, and Duty woul

is g

g nothing. When she looked up, Holmes was standing by the window, with his fac

ment, Margret. It will not do you harm."-He spoke gravely, solemnly.-"When you loved me long ago, selfish, erring as I was, you fulfilled the

h of niggardly selfishness, of which this man knew nothing. Nobler than she; half angry as she felt that, sitting at his feet, looking up. He knew it, too; the grave judging voice told it; he had taken his rightful place. Just, as only a man can be,

e on your face that does not prove it false. I have keen eyes, Margret!"- He laughed.-"You have wrung this love out of your heart? If it were easy to do, did it need to wring with it every sparkle of pleasure and grace out of your life! Your very

d under h

, used to stand the desk where I helped you with

emem

gate there was that elm I planted, and you promised to

t done,

use you do not dare to think of me, you dare not tr

stood there in the old way, her

ruel,-le

rpor of this face,-the dead, frozen eyes! It is a 'nightmare death in life.' Good God, to think that I have done this! T

to be coaxed back to love and smiles again. The hard man's eyes filled with tears, as he thought of it. He watched the deep, tearless sobs that shook her breast: he had wounded her to death,-his bonny Margret! She was like a dea

before I go,-a Christmas story, say. It will not touch you,-it is

ked up

will,

useless, made him stand back from her, as though she were some

waking dream: only a clear vision of what

et the girl understood it, looked into

or man that did not grow from my love of you; there was nothing noble or kindly in my nature that did not flow into that love, and deepen there. I was your master, too. I held my own soul by no diviner right than I held your love and owed you mine. I understand it, now, when it is too late."-He wiped the cold drops from his face.-"Now do you know whether it is remorse I feel, when I think ho

p and filled the broken words. It may have been thus with the girl, for her face deepened as she listened.

nothing to hope for but time to work humbly and atone for the wrongs I had done. When I lay yonder, my soul on the coast of eternity, I resolved to atone

n?" she sobbed; "I

ort choked down the word he would have spok

t then. The better part of my nature was crushed out, and flung away with you, Margret. I cried for it,-I wanted help to be a better, purer man. I need it now. And so," he said, with a smile that hurt her more than tear

went to the window: the dull waste of snow loo

muttered to himself. "I

touch thril

tephen?" whispered

looking at the little dar

elfish. More than you. Stephen, help me to

to the old words of their qu

"I suffer, Margret. Do not

et us be fri

ild; her face was turned away; lo

ear the story. Holmes's pale lip worked: what was this coming to him? His

but one place for her,-her soul with my soul, her heart on my heart."-He ope

ace,-a smile crept out on her own, ar

whispered, and softly laid

ence. Without, the deep night paused, gray, impenetrable. Did it hope that far angel-voices would break its breathless hush, as once on the fields of Judea, to usher in Christmas morn? A hush, in air, and earth, and sky, of waiting hope, of a promised joy. Down there in the farm-window two human hearts had given t

face. She lifted her head from his breast, and when he stooped to touch her lips, shook herself free, laughing carelessly. Alas, Stephen Holmes! you will have little time for morbid questionings in those years to c

perfect?" she demanded. "I think the pale skin hurts

ks at me half-yielding and half-defiant,-you know th

sto

rse grows maudlin when it goes into word

ealthy hand,-the very touch

t, with her sudden tears, and laughter, and angry heats, is gone,-I killed her, I think,-gone long ago. I will not take in p

red for, when she had believed she was old and hard: the very idle jesting made her youth and happiness real to

eeks must hint at a glow within, as yours do now. I will have no hard angles, no

out the bright, tearful face, shining in th

g-willed reformer, standing alone: a sovereign lady with kind words for the world, who gives

the clock, however, grew tired of the long soliloquy, and

tephen Holmes,-quick! before your sovereign lady fad

ay as yet was to him the day when love came into the world. He knew the meaning of that. So he watched with an eagerness new to him the day-breaking. He could see Margret's window, and a dim light in it: she would be awake, praying for him, no doubt. He pondered on that. Would you think Holmes weak, if he forsook the faith of Fichte, sometime, led by a woman's hand? Think of the apostle of the positive philosophers, and say no more. He could see a flickering light at dawn crossing the hall: he remembered the old school-master's habit well,-calling "Happy Christmas" at every door: he meant to go down there for breakfast, as he used to do, imagining how the old man would wring his hands, with a "Holloa! you're welcome home, Stephen, boy!" and Mrs. Howth would bring out the jars of pine-apple preserve which her sister sent her every year from the West Indies. And then-- Never mind what then. Stephen Holmes was very much in love, and this Christmas-day had much to bring him. Yet it was with a solemn shadow on his face that he watched the dawn, showing that he grasped the awful meaning of this day that "brought love into the world." Through the clear, frosty night he could hear a low chime of distant bells shiver the air, hurrying faint and far to tell the glad tidings. He fancied that the dawn flushed warm to hear the story,-