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 "Father? No, no; if you knew him as I do, you would not say that," with a tender look in the direction of the sleeper.

"You love him very much? "

"Very, very much. He has been more than a father to me."

"Ah!" and the young man sighed. "I thought of making a request, Mary; but I see it would be hopeless."

Mary averted her face. She knew instinctively what that request was. The young man paused to see if there were any further sign, and thought he saw a tear stealing down the fair cheek.

"Would you entrust your life to one who would love you—yes, quite as dearly as he?"

"Don't, don't," said Mary, rising to her feet, and still averting her face. "I know all you would say. But that can never be. My duty is here—with him. Do not tempt me to forget it."

The sleeper in the arm-chair slightly moved. Dreaming probably. A smile wreathed itself around the withered lips, as though the dream were a happy one.

"Do not hastily decide, Mary. On your decision so much depends—for me. You like me a little: ah! I see you do. I knew I was not so deceived as all that. Don't think I cannot appreciate and admire your loyalty—your devotion to my uncle; but he would be the last to stand in the way of your future happiness. Let me wake him, and you shall hear it from his own lips?"

"No—pray don't; I know what his answer would be. He would never think of self; he never has done. He would only think of me. He has devoted himself heart and soul to me. I can sacrifice a little in return for his dear sake."

Yes; evidently happy dreams. A sigh of contentment came from the lips of the sleeper.

"Ah! Mary," said Phil, "every word you utter makes it harder for me to relinquish all hope. I cannot accept your decision as final. See, I have to run over to Tunbridge this evening. It will be midnight before I return. It is now nine. That will give you three good hours to decide. If I see a light burning in your window—as I have often seen it unbeknown to you when I've returned here for a last look after wishing you good night—I will take it that your decision is favourable. If the light be out, then I shall know that my hopes are too. That shall be my farewell. I will not trust myself to see you again."

"That would be cruel," said Mary, with a suppressed sob.

"On whose part? Not mine, Mary, for with you will rest the more agreeable alternative."

And before she could say more he had gone. The girl covered her face with her hands and wept. Then she knew that life has its sorrows and perplexities for young as well as old.

"Mary, dear." It was the voice—very quiet and soft it seemed—of Sim.

"Awake, father?" The girl came forward and put her arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately.

"Why, lass, what's the matter? Your cheek is wet. You've been crying!"

"And you. See!" and with her hand-