betrothal first, came echoing back upon my mind. He had broken her heart and made her fate a desolation-and I almost thought some strange connection existed between myself and this heart-broken woman whom I never saw; but why was I the victim offered to her manes; why should the wrong and misery she had suffered be thus revenged on me. once a world of tenderness and pathetic beauty invested the name. Mater Dolorosa-mother of sorrows-say rather a cold and unmoved sword of punishment-a calm superior afflicting fate.

Mary

I bore two days succeeding this one, with a composure impossible to a less degree of mental excitement than this that had dominion of my mind. Then, going home, I announced abruptly my determination to leave Edinburgh, and seek my fortune somewhere else. Somewhere! I had formed no definite idea where this vague new world should be; but visions of quiet inland places far away, where even my native tongue would be as unknown as myself, had

given me comfort in my thoughts.

Moved by my mother's strong emotion-her grief to hear of my resolve-the weeping and entreaties into which this sudden intimation surprised her, and her appeal to me not to leave her desolate, I laid my heart open to her tender eye, which already knew its secrets so well. My mother ceased to resist my purpose. The tears would not dry up at once out of her kind and sorrowful eyes, and I think I can feel now the pang that must have stricken her heart; but she no longer bade me stay.

"You will see the world; you will be better of it, Willie," she said, with a deep sigh; and straightway, as she began to make preparations for my journey, a hundred little natural relieving thoughts came to lighten the heart which had a hold so broad and kindly upon all the humanities of life. I, who went away from her a limited youth of narrow breeding, and restricted education, would come back again, she thought, an accomplished man. I, whom an adverse fortune had shut out from enjoyments, largely

bestowed upon many whom my mother thought less deserving, would reach a higher class of pleasures than my compeers could reach—and the kindly pride of love gleamed under the half-dried tear, and drew it glistening down to sanctify a smile. My own heart lightened out of its heaviness. It was a relief to me to be freed from the close trammels of my former life, and throw it with all its pains behind me. I did not know then how I should yet turn back upon this sombre youth with fond regret, and live its dim days over again; for my mind was eased and lightened, when I laid its present bondage by.

CHAPTER III.

My father remonstrated angrily and with astonishment. Andrew humphed and sneered, and shrugged his shoulders. Mr. Middleton was mildly amazed and confounded, not without a faint suspicion of "some cause" for my extraordinary resignation of the stool in his office, which I, another piece of furniture, had occupied so long. My mother, the person to whom my departure was really a grief and loss, said nothing except of hope and encouragement, unless when now and then a heavy sigh stole unawares out of her heart; and she put up her

hand hastily, and said with an attempted smile: "I will be very dreary, Willie, after you are away."

On the morning of my last day at home, a letter from Jamie arrived, but scarcely to cheer us. Jamie had got a humble situation in one of the smaller Canadian towns, without trust or responsibility, or danger-so Sybil wrote with tears, and we read with a pang-enough to keep them at present, and which might lead eventually to better things. But his own part of the letter was discouraging, full of fears and despondency; he was ill and feeble, he said, and never had recovered the bodily and mental misery of his last week at home; and there were evidences of lost heart and failing courage in the letter beyond the distinct complaints it bore. Had it come a fortnight sooner, I might have been moved to remain even in my irksome place; but now all our arrangements were made, and the decision beyond recall.

But my heart smote me as I saw all the self

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