CHAPTER II.

Te Aroha News, Volume IV, Issue 189, 29 January 1887, Page 3

CHAPTER 11.

Another year has passed ; it ia November again, and once more the moon is shedding its friivet y nys into the little study, which beams had lighted in the self-eamo way »xaetlv a year ago. There is no alteration, it might have been but a night after, everytfciug is so much the same. The light is gleaming oa * ne book shelve?, filled with Xh© works of ancient and modern writers ; ftsd it is making strange shadows in the

corners of the room. But it ia falling brightest on the figure of a girl wnoee chair is drawn up by the window full in its light. There is no difference in the cosy little room, or any o its surroundings ; the only attraction is in the owner. As she Bits there so still and quiet, how different she is from the Cecily Gilburn of a year ago. No Haßb is on her face now ; it is very pale ; tae hands are perfectly still ; there is no restlessness in her manner, no bright eager look in the blue eyes ; no quick turning of the well-formed head to glance again at tho j rows of *»ooks beside her Sne doea not seem in any haste for the time to pass, and yet to morrow is agaiu the first day of the University examination, and Cecily is going up for it. Her eyes, which are encircled with shadowy ringe, are fixed on the moon -lit landscape beyond ; the expression of the pale face ia infinitely sad, but still very quiet. For a long time there is no movement on her part, she remains perfectly still, and then, when at length she does rise from her chair, and drawing down the blind, move towards the table, there is nothing of the quick excited movement of | a year ago. Is Cecily more confident of passing this i time? Again the examination is over, and the months are passing on, it is the end ot February ; next month and Cecily will know the result of her second trial. At the close of a warm summer day, Cecily puts on her hat and wanders away from the house on the cliffs. It has been a glorious day, and the sun is just setting, throwing its rosy glow over sky and sea Cecily sits down on the grasey slope, and then taking off her hat, so that the cooling breeze may blow on her aching head, she turns aB if to look at the glorious scene stretched out before her. The round red ball of fire has just touched the edge of the water, far away on the horizon ; above the soft fleecy clouds are tinged with pink and gold ; those nearer the setting light arq glowing with a deeper colour, and cast upon the water is the dying reflection from the sinking sun. The great cliffs have caught the glow also ; they are standing out bold and clear, although the radiant light has softened their rugged outlines. Near at hand the waters of the incoming tide are rippling dreamily among the rounded stones and pebbles on the bright yellow sand, and sweeping in gentle curves round the rocks. There is a warm. softness in the evening air, and a light breeze is staring among the leaves and grass. Cecily's head \s turned towards the glowing sky, but she w not watching the fading glories of the bright day ; her blue eyes have a far away look in them, and the sad weary face shows no sympathy with nature's bright mood. She notes nothing striking in the sunset, as she would have done at another time ; she only feels that there is a soothing caltnnes3 in the air, and here she gets what she has been longing for all day— a little peace in her troubled mind and quietness around her It is almost a year ago, she is thinking now, since the news of her failure came, and all but a year since she and Wilfred quarrelled. Only a year ; it might have been three from all she seems to have gone through since then. She thinks of all she had lost by that year's study ; of the love which seemed to hava died away in her family from her, and of the weary struggle she ha 3 had to win it back. She knows that her family still think her foolish to work as she has been doing, but still she has won again, by her, gentleness and forbearance, that love which she lost for so loag. Her place in the family h hers once more, and she is never told now that study is her absorbing interest. Her brothers and sisters are learning to come to her again in their troubles and difficulties, they do not keep away from her as they did, and, weary work aa the struggle is at times to be patient with them, ehe is succeeding. Now if she takes her degree this j ear she will be very glad ; but u she does not, and with that her mind wanders back to last year's failure and the bitter consequences which followed it. Again she seems to hear Wilfred's cruel hasty words, and the thought of what followed them brings the burning teais to the girl's blue eyes. But with a proud gesture eho dashes them away, and turns again to look in the direction of the fading sunlight. Once again her face softens, and the lips quiver slightly ; Cecily i= very human and knows what heartache is, in | spite of the culd indifferent mariner the tries to wrap round herself. If Wilfred were to come back now, would he recall his cruel words, and believe that she has learned to combine the useful with the beautiful : lie had gone away soon after their disagreement, and th«y have noc seen each other since, but she has heard that he is coming home again, and that very soon, within a few day? ; now wearily Cecily wishes she could leave the place whilst he is in it. But such a thing is impossible ; and will she be able to act as if ha were only an acquaintanco ? How fervently she hopes that the remembrance of the happy days of childhood which they spent together will not overpower her and make her falter when she first sees him again ? for Cecily, is very, very proud still, and she never forgets that it was Wilhed who broke off their engagement, Now again her thoughts turn to the examination*, and she wonders whether she has succeeded this time, one herself feels more sure this year, for she has studied more deeply, and it seems to her that has gone through the papers with greater ease. But suddenly her thoughts are recalled from herself by a loud piercing ory, and as Cecily hastily rises, and looks in the direction from which the sound came, she sees a eight w&ich makes her turn cold. There on the other part of the cliff, which projects beyond that which she is on, and which is somo distance away, ehe sees that her wild little sister of ten years old has clambered down, and now from her attitude looks as if she were nearly falling. Cecily starts at onco for that part of the cliff, but she is obliged to go by the beach, it is the only v/ay che can get to Dora. Will ehe never be able to reach the cliff in time to warn the child of her danger in leaning over that ledge so ? What has come over her that ehe cannot go more quickly : has all this study taken away her power of running, (and ehe used to be£o fleet-footed)? Cecily knows every inch of that cliff where it is possible for anyone to climb, for time upon time has she scaled it. She haa gone steadily up, but wild little Dora, her pefc eister, what has possessed her to go there, with her careless way of climbing and her unsure footing ? Cecily keeps her eyes fixed on tho little girl, aud her every movement ia watched with intense anxiety. Why does she not try to keep still ? she will be over that ledge, down on the cruel rocks in a few moments, sf ehe does not mind. Now, to Cecily's joy, the child catches a glimpse of her, and at a gesture from her she ceases to move. A minute more, and Cecily has reached the foot of the cliff ; but how to get her sister down she hardly knows. She could once climb that cliff herself, and it would be nothing to her to do it again, but how shall she gat Dora down ? She dare not leave to go for help, for she knows that once left to herself, the little girl will try the descent, and with her unsteady footing will be pure to fall on the rocks below. The only thing left for her to do ia to go to Dora, and then try to get her up to the top

of the cliff. A moment before she com- j mences the ascent. Cecily looks hurriedly round her to see if anyone is in sight who can render help, but they are alone. It is not long before she reaches her sister's side, and after trying to soothe the terrified little mischief, Cecily endeavours to get her up the cliff. With a cool head, steady hands tmd feet, this might have been done easily enough, for the cliff is not very steep. But Dora is now too frightened to attempt it, and in spite of her sister's efforts to make her look up she will keep her eyes down. At last Cecily gives it up in despair. There is only one other way— she must take her down Slowly they begin the dangerous descent, Cecily going a few steps in advance of her sister, keeping a firm hold on her hand, and cheering her on with soothing words. Here, a part of the soil slips from beneath Dora's feet, for she treads so much more heavily than Cecily, and she slips, but there is a quick movement of her sister's arm and she is safe again. Now they are passing over the most dangerous part of their perilous journey, and the older girl talks cheerily co the child to prevent her from noticing their danger A moment more and the worst will be over, " There, that is right JNow Dora, put your foot lightly here." The child obeys, and the next minute is standing safely by her sister's side. Cecily pauses on the ledge before commencing the remainder of the descent, and a sigh of relief escapes her as she sees that the worst danger ia past. Only a few feet more, and then they will reach the beach ; slowly they move downwards, step by step ; nearer and nearer they come to the beach, but suucleuly, just as they are within a tew feetcf jumping distance, Dora slips and comes heavily against her sidter. Cecily looses her balance, whe struggles to regain it, then as she teels herself tailing she clasps one arm firmly round Dora, and with her free haud trios to catch at some shrub. But everything gives way, and with one arm bent under her, Cecily falls, striking her head heavily agaiusc a smooth rounded rock. She hears a slight scream from Dora ; then all grows dark around her. And Cecily's blue eyes do not open again, n hen, some few minutes after, Dora, who is quite unhurt, comes back with the first aeip she has been able to get. Cecily does not hear her sister's cry, when on returning, Dora Htill tiudp the heavy white lids clesed ; and the " Cecily, Cecily," which breaks with almost a groan from the lips of her bearer, tails unheeded on her ear, as he carries her slender form in his strong arms cowards the house. In a darkened room she lay ; for weeks the girl's life was despaired of, and those to whom she had grown so dear during the past year, thought she would die without a word, without even a look of recognition. Cecily had been very badly hurt ; tho blow upon her head had brought on concussion of the brain, and in falling her free arm had bent under her and broken. She had worn herself out with long study, and dow it was doubly hard to fight against her illness ; but she was young still, and there was much in Jife to live for. So the days eped on. It was getting towards the eni ot March, when those who watched over the girl saw with fervent thankfulness that there was a slow but sure change for the better. Then there was glad news for Cecily. Her peopb had not dared to tell her whilst she was so ill, but now that she wad recovering there was no need to keep it from her any longer, and Cecily learned that the degree which had cost her so many years of toil, and which had had attendant on it so much pain and sorrow, was hers at last. A lew weeks have passed. Cecily has been out for short walks several tiaiea, and then one day she wants to go to her old seat on the cliff. Dora, who has followed her about like her shadow ever since she haa been up, goes with her. But Cecily, who wants to bo quiet and by herself for a Bbort time, sends Dora to play on the beach, and goes alone to her favourite seat on the cliff. She does not mean to stay long, but she did want a little time to think quietly over everything. She has taken her degree. For a moment a smile plays over the pale features, and the large blue eyes brighten, but the next it dies ay ay, leaving on her usually resolutelooking face that tad look which has been thsre ho ofter during the past year, when she lias been alone. What weary work she has had to gain this degree. Now ifc is her? at list, but the pleasure is so mingled with pain that she hardly knows which is the greater. When she gained this degree, Cecily meant to go further, forlike allearnest students, ehe is unsatisfied with the knowledge she possesses. It is little to her that she has pa^&ed brilliantly this time, she wants fco go on. Bub that is impossible now, for the doctor has positively forbidden any further study, and Cecily is obliged to content herself with her B.A. degree. For a little while longer Cecily stays on the cliff, and then she thinks it is time to go back to Dora. She rises alouly and begins the descent. She has not gone many yaids when suddenly raising hor eyes she seoa someone coming up the path. For a moment Cecily half stons In tho approaching figure ehe recognises at once Wilfred Hamilton ; but tho next ehe throws back her stately head, and drawing her slender furm up to its full hoight, goef on. She must accept tho inevitable, she cannot help meeting him, for there ia only one path down tho cliff; but why need her heart beat so, and nor hand tremble ? Wilfred does not; see her at first, only just as he comes near her, he lifts his eyes, then " Cecily !" bursts from his lipa. She bows haughtily, an,i would have passed on, but he stops, and inquires in a voice which shikes Cecily as being considerably more eager and anxious than thera is : any necessity for, how she is. 1 She replies briefly, but then add's, "I think, Mr Hamilton, I have to thank you for your kindness on the day of the accident " He starts slightly and replies hurriedly. "It was the least I could do. I only wish i I could have helped you more. And your arm, is it recovering ? You broke it badly." " ifc ie, I thank you, Mr Hamilton. Good morning," she replies, coldly. " Cecily," and he is at her side again. " Cecily, do not call me that ; remember if only for the sake ot the happy days we spent together as children, here on this very cliff, that I am Wilfred etill," and as he speaks he takes her hand. Pcor Cecily, she it? very weak and ill yet, and now f-ho is trembling so violently that sho is obliged to lean against a tree for support. But with a trreat effort she recovers herself and says haughtily, " Have the goodnees, Mr Hamilton, to release my hand ; and allow me to pass. You have no rijrht to detain me." Ho lets go her hand at once, saying hurriedly, " You have epoken truly, Miss Cecily, I have no right to detain you. But oh ! Cecily, Cecily, for the sake of our childhood's love, cannot you forgive me, and let me wipe out the memory of ray cruel hasty words ; If you could only believe how often, how d§eply and bitterly they have been repented ! I must not, I will not detain you longer, only can you say you have forgiven me?" he adds eagerly. Cecily does not answer him at once. There is a moment's pause, then suddenly she raises her eyes, and she sees that Wilfred's brown eyes are-bent on her face, witb

a look in them which it is impossible for her to mistake. She trio* to answer him quietly, but there is a, tremor in her voice, •' If you think you need forgiveness you have it, Wilfred." It is all she says, but Wilfred suddenly forgets his promise not to detain her, and again he has taken possession of her hand, and this time Cecily doea not try to regain it, and she is trembling so that she does nob try to resist him as he gently leaeia her to a seat on a fallen teee. What Wilfred says during the next half-hour does not matter in the least. Be is a lover, and Cecily, well, she is a 8.A., but she is a woman also. Only Dora has grown tired of playing at being a hermit iv a ca,ve, and she wonders whatever Cecily is finding to think about all this time.