"DORIS,"

Waikato Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2331, 18 June 1887, Page 5 (Supplement)

"DORIS,"

By A. B. DUNCAN.

(Author of " Mistress Dorothy, " Two Chuistmas Evbs," "Lisesse"). (Concluded from last week). Part 11. Down by the golden beach, with the waves breaking on the low rocks, and flinging their soft white foam around, sat Doris and Chris. Mr Tenson had been right when he called the girl pretty; although it was hardly the term to use. She was beautiful, with her golden hair toucried with bronze and curling over her low white brow, and round her small, well-shaped ears. He blue eyes, with their long lashes, had darkened, arid her full, well-developed figure was free and graceful—thankH to her ignorance of fashion aud its cruel demands. But.if the years Had changed Doris, none the less had they altered Chris. The dark'eyes were hot expressive, the lines tif chin and brow firmer arid more characteristic. He was tall, dark ' and hatidsomc--she, fair, sweet and womanly. ' I shall be, gone before you come down to-morrow, Doris,' Chris was saying; ' but I shall be homa early in the evening.' 'Don't be late, Chris. Talways miss you,' said Dorin, wifh a little smile/ Chris" bent eagerly forward. His dark face flushed, as only dark' eyes do'—his eyes were ; speaking as plainly as eyes could speak;'' but there was a ''< certain something iu the girl's face that stopped him,'and he stayed the words that Had so often trembled on his lips. He would wait for a few days longer, then the appointment at the lighthouse would be his, and he would Have a horne worthy of Doris; His love for Her was part of himself—it had grown and strengthened with each passing year. His was the love that never dies or changes; but it was the love that brings with it the most pain. They walked Home . together—Chris helping' the girl, with a firrn, strong, hand-clasp over' the 'rocks, and up the 'steep cliffs. She gathered a spray : of Heather, and'piit it in his coat, smiling as he' said, " Yon will be' too early' for a 'button-hole' to-morrow, so you must, keep this fresh.' 1 Chris never parted with that little sprig of heather—to him it was always fresh,, always sweet—rbut he accepted it silently. ' He never said very much when he felt deeply ; words; so often spoil that which they should convey. . 'Doris !'he said, rather suddenly, as they paused on trip of the hill, .'I feel to-night as:ifrsomething:-:is goiug to Happen to us.. I suppose it is .foolish of me, but it makes;me feel:sad.'. - ' Yes, you are.very foolish,'.said.Doris, cheerfully, though she vowed to herself that the also, had the same.feeling, 'you are meeting your troubles more than Half way. Why, what can happen to us?' As she spoke a tall, refined-looKingman passed them ; He looked intently at Doris and Chris returned the look with angry fierceness. ' • I wonder who that is,' said Doris, when they had passed. 'Some visitor, I expept,' said Chris curtly, feeling suddenly anxious to get Doris safely home. ' He had no right to stare at you so ' 'I didn't notice that he stared at all,' said the girl/smiling up at him. 'But if he did, you need not mind!' Chris kicked a large pebble over the : cliff, and they heard it fall with a sudden splash into the sea. 'Now I feel better!' he said, laughing. ' Come along, Doris, father will be waiting for us.' * * * * On the following day the vicar went up to Reuben's cottage, and,, after a long talk with him, rose to go. He felt deeply sorry for the old man, ■ who, with a dazed bewildered look on his face, and trembling hands, seemed- quite unnerved by the shock. The vicar gave him. his hand. 'It is very hard, Reuben, but I really sec no help for you.' The old mau

was silent;: .he merely looked up and stared vacantly. ■•■■■■. ; < -The task,the good clergyman had just fulfilled had. been a difficult one, and it iwa3!'sdme; time before the old man had understood his meaning— ihad under* stood that Doris and he must at once part.; !'This arter-noon—this very day,' he said to himself. 'An' Chris awayj too ; it is very suddent like.' . 'My wifehas explained everything to Doris,' replied Mr Tenson. 'And when I return Ii shall, send her back to you.? Reuben turned his head away, and said not a wordi : . The 1 >,vicar waited for a few minutes, and then went soon after Doris entered the cottage. She went straight up to old man, who sat in his arm-chair by the.'fire, flung .herself down beside ■him', and burstiinto tears. ' I wont'igo,' she sobbed. Til never leave you grandGhris. Don't send me away from you.' . ' Nay, lass ; there ! there ! maybe ' It was no good. Old Reuben's self-con-; trol quite gave way, and there .was only the sound of weeping to be heard; ; Atlast he spoke-*— .'•'•• ■■'•'■ ■ 'It's all for th.''ibest, your good, my pretty. he do say: that'you'll' be very • happy where your goin'j Aii' never-—-'Oli don't,' she ; said. .'How can I ba happy ivhen T am leaving all I love ?' ' You mustn't think o'ine an'' Chris,' said Reuben, gently, and then he sat ■ without speaking niuch for some time.' Ndw and again he fnade some trivial remark that had nothing to do with the girl's departure. And thus the hours 'fled swiftly by, and the time for the last parting came. Doris, almost broken-hearted, had for a long while refused to leave old Reuben ; but the vicar having explained that until she was one-and-twenty she had no choice in the matter, she had been compelled to yield. Now she was kneeling by old Reuben's side. He sat in-his armchair by the fire vainly struggling to.keep calm for his little gal's sake. Poor Reuben ! his efforts were all in vain. 'Good-bye! good-bye!' sobbed Doris' clinging to him'with one arm roiind his, 'neck. T shall think 'of you always— every day and'each night—arid I .will come back as soon as'l can.' But now the 'vicar's wife had come to 1 take her to Sir John, and old. Reuben spoke'his last words. 'God bless yoti, ray little gal; think of me an' th' lad now an' agin, an' make mention o' us in your prayers, my pretty.' He turned his head away,so that she.should not see the tears in his eyes. She clung to. him in a close embrace, then, without another word, they parted. She stood for a moment at the cottage door, then swiftly entered' the little churchyard, .only to gather one or two heather-bells that grew near her mother's grave —only to take one long, last look at the blue. At- j lantic and the. breezy heather slopes. But the. last gaze, was- for a little winding path that' led down to the pcebly. beaoh. Doris and Chris had wandered down.the narrow curving path when last; they had been . together, and the tears .gathered afresh in the girl's eyes as.she looked. Then she turned, sadly and regretfully away to where. Mrs Tensou awaited her.

A pale, self-possessed girl, in a plain grey gown, made with perfect simplicity, was presented to Sir John 'Ferris as his cousiu. She said very little, and seemed tired and weary. She bade the vicar and his wife ' good-bye' with calmness and outward co.nposure, thereby winning an inward feeling of respect from Sir John, Luke Conuibear, silent and subdued, drove them to the station, and nothing occurred to break the quietness of the long drive for some time. Suddenly Doris spoke to Luke, who drew up at once and stopped. Without a word of explanation she sprang lightly from the coach. Sir John, in great surprise, rose from his seat. 'Bide, still, sir,' said Luke, almost sternly; 'it's th' lad—he's mighty fond o' r Doris—'let 'em say 'good-bye,' poor things I'. . Sir John fumbled about for his pinccnez; he could not find tbem at first, and when he succeeded in getting them on he saw a sight that made him turn hot with shame and disgust. Doris, his -cousin; was in the arms of a tall, dark young man, who waslrissing her and she him. The horses turned so suddenly restive that Sir John could not dismount. 'T'won't last- long, sir,' said Luke, soothingly. 'Let 'em have it out, they'll both be'better afterwards.' 'A few, minutes later, .and Doris returned.' Sir John was too angry to help her into the coach ; he sat in stiff displeasure, but, his dignity, and his anger were alike lost on Doris, who bent forward to see the last of Chris, who stood, still and rigid, where she had left him. He. did not understand orie half she said to him, but he still felt her. kisses, and he dimly kne.w' that the tall stranger they had met had taken her from him. Soon the little village was left; in the far distance, and Sir John and his silent young cousiii drew nearer arid nearer to the station. Doris' simple village life was ended, and a new spere of existence lay 1 before her. Poor Doris !.',', Sir JoTin made a few remarks' ; one was, ''I trust, my dear cousiu. you will be happy in'your new home. You will bo : surrounded with every comfort that taste and true refinement can provide." He might have added, "And where you will learri'that in life there are more, shams 'than reality, ■ more; gilt than gold, and that to be aU fait hi the'world's code 'of : laws is '- better 'than to be good." Again, poor Doris;! Lady'Ferris ftad ah ,"At Home," and her rooms wore as usual crowded. . Her daughter Beatrice was by her side as she; stood' near the staircase receiving her, guests; near her was her brother GodYoung Ferris was . a fair type of the generality of young men of the preterit day. ; Nothing . decidedly good, nothing . decidedly bad—medium. One knew pretty .well beforehand the kind of things he would say. ' He was amiable and g'ood : looking,: young, and 'always most irreproachably dressed, but he gave ; one the impression that the greater part \ of his.'time and thought was spent upon ' himself. '' The'reception rooms were flooded with rosy light, and full of tho scent of roses ; and lilies. Outwardly everything '.was bright and attractive, the rest. did not matter.' Those who had anxiety and misery in their' Hearts before they came j out that night had adjusted the mask of control and self-possession that society bestows, and mixed with their friends calm and shilling. After all thero is not a iriorc exacting goddess than the one at whose shrine so many worship, and there are'no cla'ss of : devotees more slavishly afraid and submissive than its many misguided votaries. Someone had. been singing a little pathetic love song with nothing much in it, only it happened that its very simplicity and truth had brought such a wave of remembrance to Doris Lester that she had turned from the brilliant lights and the moss of moving, smiling faces, and now stood in the shelter of a deep-cur-tained recess. Poor girl! Una felt lonely, and uncared for in this crowd. No one had spoken to her excepting one gentleman her cousin had introduced, a Mr Paul Randall. She rather liked him. There had been something in his quiet face and kindly smile that had attracted Doris,towards him. She was thinking of

I him now, when she heard someone speaking— • ; " Miss Lester, I, too, am tired of all ; this gaiety and chatter. May I share 1 your retreat ?" Doris smiled with pleasure, and Paul i Randall, moving back the curtain, took 1 the vacant window-seat beside her and began talkiug. Aft9E this the timo sped quickly by. Paul Randall possessed t,6 i perfection the art of drawing out the best part of one's character. 'He knew how to listen and when to talk.; Doris, to whom everything was now, forgot all else but the enjoyment of listening to his pleasant low-toned voice, and watching the quiet, rather grave face light up and completely change, as a smile passed over it. They spoke of many things, and before they joined the others Paul had drawn from Doris the story of her life. She had spoken of Chris and of Reuben, of tho church and the grave in tho churchyard ; and in. watching the girl's ever-varying countenance, her sweet smile and unaffected simplicity, Paul Randall experienced a new charm and pleasure. Beatrice arid 'Godfrey Ferris had noticed the two in the .curtained window, and, when the evening was over, were not slow.to remark upon it. It was but the commencement of a series! of refined torments, such as.lonly a finely sensitive nature.would have noticed and writhed under. . •■>.■■ Paul Randall came very often to Lady Ferris' during those summer days. He went with them to concerts, balls, and garden parties, but obviously Doris was the sole attraction, and, unknown to Herself, the girl was learning what was new to her—life's sweetest, most bitter lesson. To Paul Randall the lesson was not >o' new. He had met so many pretty and attractive girls before, but, as he so often acknowledged to Himself, none so beautiful, none so sweet and womanly, as Doris. And so these two—one teaching and one learning the lesson that was to mean so much to both—passed away the long summer days; the beautiful summer that could never come back again. But when . one is living, in these happy dreams—for often they are only dreams—the awakening always comes sooner or later, and when the dream, has been a sweet one, then the awakening must be bitter. One afternoon they all went to a drawing-room concert. A young girl, a debutante, was to sing. She was a sad, pale girl, who looked rather, unhappy, and as she stood up alone, facing the throng of criticising, unsympathetic listeners, Doris felt a little thrill of pity for her. For a momeut the girl hesitated with, her song iu her hand, then she spoke to the accompanist, and put down her music. Her face changed, and she seemed to forget the crowded room.; her thoughts wore going swiftly, back to the past, until the remembrance! of that .past was so strong that it drove away the fear of the present. Then she sang ".Home, Sweet Home." Every note was tuie and ringing, but the undertone of sadness was so strong and real that only, one who had loved and lost a home could have given those simple well-known words that marvellous f-'ree and reality. Doris listened—lost to all around. The little village and the church, Chris and old Reuben, all ruse vividly before her, contrasting so strongly with the coldness and formality that closed like prisons walls around her, that it was almost more than she could bear. When the last words came, "There's no place like home," the large teais filled her eyes, and only by a great effort did she keep them from falling. After that there was more singing and music, but Dnris heard none of it. An intense longing for her simple village home filled her heart, and shadowed her face and eyes. When they reached home Lady Ferris was exceedingly angry with her for her want of self-control, and after a stormy scene Doris crept away to the garden feeling crushed and miserable. Paul Randall had not been there for the last two days. After something he had said when last they had met, Doris had expected him, and the keenness of her disappointment showed her how much she had grown to care for him. Paul Randall had done his best to make this girl love him—he had been only too successful. Alas! poor Doris had very little pride, but a great deal of love, in her nature ; and so, because of this, she had now to suffer. To win a pure-hearted girl's love entails some amount of responsibility, and a very great responsibility rested upon Paul Randall; for the love that he had won was of that kind that Does not alter when it alteration finds. Beatrice Ferris and her brother were in the garden, and saw Doris enter the rosewalk, but she did not see them. Si.e only.heard her name mentioned by someone on the other side of the i - ose-lane. That arrested her attention, and, before she had time to collect her thoughts, came words that changed the blue sky to darkness, and the soft twitter of the birds m little cries of pain. Always after that day the scent of roses brought a thrill of unhappiness to Doris. This is what she heard—"Doris is making herself a.perfect little fool with Randall; he no more cares for her than J do— " . That was Godfrey's voice. And then Beatrice laughed, and added distinctly,. " I heard to day that he is at Richmond again, with the Gascoignes— Clarice is a nice girl, he has admired her from the very first—but then he has liked so many "They passed on, leaving Doris white and cold; She crept back to. the house, avoiding her cousins or any visitors, aud no one saw her again until the evening, when she came into the drawing-room just as dinner was aunounced. She was more carefully dressed than usual, and there was a little pink flush on her cheeks that did not escape her cousin's notice. She wore black, with a cluster of pale pink roses at her neck and in her hair. Lady Ferris looked at her as she stood.talking", aud wondeivd at the sudden change in her altogether. All that evening Doris laughed and talked gaily. She sang several times after dinner—gay, cheerful songs, that no one had ever heard hersiug until now. Godfrey felt secretly relieved, them on the whole, men are not quite so spiteful over little things as women are, and he had been feeling rather uneasy since the afternoon. " She's quite right," he whispered to his sister later on ;" I don't think she cares for him after all." But Beatrice—true to Her feminine instincts—gave a smile of superior knowledge. "It's just because she cares awfully thatshe is trying to hide it, - ' she answered, then she left him with a shrug of her. white shoulders. , Beatrice, in spite of her English birth and breeding, affected everything foreign. songs included. Godfrey remained by the watching Doris. He wondered if : his sister after all was right. The next morning early a closely veiled and cloaked figure left Sir John Ferris's house, and when at breakfast, and no Doris appeared, a servant was sent to call i her. They found her room empty. On i the table was a slip of paper : — * "lamffoiie home, and I toill never come i back aaain ! —Doris." * * * * * * * ] Old Reuben aud Chris sat by the fire talkiug. It was cold in tho early autumn days at Morthoe, when the strong wind : came sweeping across the ocean, driving the foam-crested, waves in huge billows to the shore, and the fire was burning brightly.. The two men were talking of Doris. It was not often that they mentioned her. Their grief at losing her was

too deep for words. And so silently they had borne their trouble, and only very, oc- [ casioually they said anything about her. s "Ther's somethink th' matter wi' her lad, o' that I'm quite convinced ; more nor a week an' not a word, an' her last hitter was kind o' different to th' others." Chris had risen and was walking up and down the little room. He was so changed now, so much sterner and older looking than when Doris had left them.; " If we don't hear by next week I shall His words wereinterrupted. Without knocking, someone opened the door and stood on the threshold. Someone who paused without speaking, with the latch in one hand, looking J at the two before her. Chris sprang forward.." almost shouted. "Isit you, Doris?" " Yes! I've come home," she said with a little sob in her voice, "home to. you and grandfather." (She came and knelt between them, in front of the fire, apd spread out her little hands to the cheerful blaze. Her face was pale and her eyes were sad, with dark shadows beneath them. At fh'st but few words were spoken ; then by degrees, Doris told them how she had run away from her cousins; how unhappy she had been in London ; • and how she had longed for the little village home on the cliffs. She never mentioned Paul Randall's name, but with a keen perception—love . gives such an insight into the hearts of those we love—Chris noticed that every now and again she seemed to forget what she was saying, and then a look of pain darkened her face. He clasped his hands firmly together, and kept back the question that rose to his lip* While they sat talking, a low booming sound, getting louder and louder, broke oh the still evening air. At the same moment a strong blast of wind came sweeping over the cliffs, almost forcing open the low cottage door, Reuben rose, aud looked out of the window. " There's a storm comin' on," he said. "An" its goin' to be one we shan't forget." Just then someone came to the door and knocked. It was one of the men from the Bull Point lighthouse, and Reuben, after speaking to him, put on his rough , pilot coat and went out. Scarcely had he ,gone, l and the door closed, when Chris turned to Doris. " Doris," he said, looking straight at her, "you can't hide anything from me, dear, and there's something more than what you've been telling us that made you come home. What is it?" A vivid flush came to her'face, and she bent lower over the fire, but she did not answer. . ',' 'Is it anyone bin' unkind to yon, Doris ?' again said Chris. , ,' Someone you've met, I mean.' Oh ! No—no—he was not unkind. He was always good to me, said the girl suddenly, and then she burst, into tears ' - A dark, deep fhish'spread over Chris's .face, and a dangerous light sprang into his eyes. ' Doris,' lie said fiercely, imperatively, and he. seized her hand, ' has he marie, love to yon when iic didn't mean to marry you ? ' There came no answer, only he could hear her sobbing as she turned her face away so that lie could not see. ' Doris,' he asked asrain—aud she never knew the agony and intensity of the question that was coining, or what it meant to him —' do yon love him ?' From across the ocean came the raging, wailing wind ; the cry of the low circling sea-gulls reached them by the now low burning fire, and in the sudden silence that succeeded the storm, she answered gently— ' Yes, Chris, I'm afraid I do I' He did not answer, but he stood beside her with a fierce fire of rage aud jealousy burning within him. All the love of his life in vain ; when he would have sheltered her and cherished her more than all the world beside, she had given her love to someone who did not care for her ! He could not bear it—he would not. He knelt down on the sanded floor by her side ; there where the firelight fell on her golden head and her tearful eyes ; there where, fifteen years ago, when she was cold and motherless, he had fed and warmed her and hushed her to sleep. He knelt beside her and almost took her in his arms. ' Doris, I love you. Give up this other, who does not care for you, for i love you as no one else ever can love you. I will give my life for yours. Oh, Doris! " His words, his look, the intensity of his p+ssiou, amazed and bewildered her; but she could not, did not understand him. ' I have always loved you, Chris!'' she said softly; and when she spoke Chris, who had^toppedbecause his feelings were too deep, too much for utterance, looked up at hrr. Then he knew that she spoke the simple truth ; love and likinjr, where she was concerned, meant the same thing ; Doris would never love him ; henceforth his life would he alone. Asrain on ths night air came the booming danger signal, meaning life or death for many. Again the storm fiend seemed ri?inj£ in all its fury, and the waves dashed with a deafening roar on the rocks beneath. Someone called his name. There was the sound of hurrying footsteps outside the door as the men from the village passed down to the beach, and Chris rose and stood in front of Doris. The calmness of despair had fallen wfKm him, and the absolute certainty made him quiet. ' Dear ?' he said, bending low, over her. His voice trembled, aud his hands as he took both of hers, were cold as in death. ' They are calling for me—they are manning the life-boat—l must go.' The solemnity of his voice and look struck a thrill of terror into her heart. .'Don't go, Chris",' she said, lifting her face to his. ' You will he killed—you will be drowned. Oh ! I wish . I had never come here to bring all thisunhappiness to those I love.' " From the church tower pealed the bell, calling the crew for the lifeboat. Above the sound of the waves and the wind came the voices of the men shouting to each other, and Chris spoke again : there was a tremble in his voice which was very low. ' Good-bye, Doris !' he almost whispered. ' Kiss mo once, dear, before I go !' She put her arms round his neck and kissed him : there was something so quiet and calm about his manner and look that she could not speak, although, poor child, her heart was full. He clasped her to him aud kissed her once, twice, then turned and went. Once at the door he glanced back. She was looking at him with her eyos so full of tears that she could scarcely ppa. With head bent low to meet the raging wind, he -went from the cottage, almost knocking over someone who stood outside the door. Down to the beach, where all the villagers were gathered, he went with quick, firm step, ready to meet whatever was before him, caring not whether he lived or died, siuce Doris could never be his down he went to the beach, with only one face before him, shining like a star out of the blackness of that stormy night —the face of. Doris Lester, as she had looked when lie had bidden her goodbye. Down in the bay the lifeboat was ready, and tbe men came forward to take their places. Among those who were gathered together ready to start stood Reuben Baines and his son Chris—Reuben an' th' lad. The signals from the ship near Morte Point had almost ceased. The wind was raging furiously, and tj 1Q

waves, like huge walls of foam, fell crashing on the beach with a deafening roar. The villagers, with intense excitement, were crowding around the lifeboat men with parting words of advice. Then, amid the storm and the noise,, the vicar, who had come-down, spoke. , /: J'/,, _/ 'My men,'h ! o said, 'his £ voice ; ringing out loud and clear, " you are going where earthly help mayJajl you... Let,us.pray.' ~—They- knelt down on the beach, these rough village men—the women were sobbing hysterically, but the men were and subdued. The. vicar .stood up among them, with his grey, head X bared, and for a moment paused. His eyes fell upon old Reuben and Chris, and in some nnexplainablo I way he'thought of ' the old man's words, 'When th' Captain " calls moan' Chris we'll bo ready.' Father "and son Were both together now—both with their eyes fixed upon him—waiting. -','...'• ' Thou, 0 Lord, that stillest the raging; " of the sea, hear us and save iis, that we perish not. 0 blessed Saviour, that didst save Thy disciples ready to ! perish in a storm, hear us arid save us we .beseech •'Thee- ' ." ."" ' ; ; '" ',- And above the last booming signal from the ship rose front the kneeling riieri the sound of one deep ' Amen.' * * •* * * It was nearly ended, the struggle' for life amid the raging storm. Wave after wive broke over the lifeboat crew, and 'weaker and weaker grew, their efforts ; suddenly old Reuben spoke, to Chris. r They sat side by side, pulling together. :i, Lad !', he said, 'it's coming'; another "wave like'th' last, an' it's all over wi' us.' 'Aye, I knowj' said Chris, and a fierce joy sprang up iri his heart,''as he thought perhaps this night would bring an end to his trouble. : '" : ' A few : more / minutes, and still they '. pulled on. A huge foaming billow was : Tolling nearer and nearer—higher arid 'higTier it grew with its overwhelming strength and ' crushing power. For;a isecond the men paused : y almost a panic seized them.' Old Reuben called aloud, hisvoice rising clear above the'| storm, ' Pull, lads ! pull! be doin' your duty when th' Captain calls !' Too late ! A mighty sea struck the lifeboat, and she quivered from stem to stern with the shock. Chris grasped his father's arm. Old Reuben turned a brave face towards him. ' 'Tis th' ' Kingdom Come,' Chris,' he paid, 'You an' me together, lad——" These were his last words. The next sea that broke over them swept part of the crew overboard. Some regained the boat, and were safe when she righted herself. But for Reuben Bains and Chris it had been the "Captain's call," and together they went out to answer it, as the waves closed over them. ** • * Does this conclusion seem unsatisfactory? Are those endings the truest and the best that leave us with the imsio'n that life is all sunshine, tinged slightly here and there with clouds by way of contrast? I think not.. Life as a rule is sad, flecked more or less with sunshine, according to our temperaments ard circumstances. Chris would, not have been happy had he married Doris. His nature was too strong, too deep for her. ' He would ever have been waiting for an expecting something from her that she would be incapable of giving, and so they would neither of them have been happy. * * * Three days after the death of Reuben and Chris, Paul Randall—who after all had not been at Richmond atjall—and Sir John Ferris came to Morthoe. Doris had gone across the rabbit warren to Morte Point, and there Paul Randall found her. They were together all the afternoon, Paul talking and Doris listening. The girl's face grew almost happy as the time passed, and when at last Paul took her hand in his and asked for an answer to his question, she lifted her eyes to his, and, in their clear, trusting depths, he read his reply. Sir John had nothing to say against their immediate marriage. Lady Ferris had refused to resume her charge of Doris; so it really relieved her husband of a great anxiety. A few months later in the little church, that had sheltered the mother and child so many years ago, Paul and Doris were quietly married from the vicarage, and scon afterwards they went abroad. For some time Doris remained saddened and subdued by the shock she had received on hearing of the sad fate of Reuben and Chris; but her husband's untiring love and devotion had its reward, and at last he saw, with thankfulness, that his wife's' sweet face was beginning to look happy again. When they returned to England they went to Movthoe. It was a calm autumn day. The trees were turning golden and russet brown, and the lanes were rich with berries and trails of glowing foliage, instead of their summer wealth of fragrant, sweet' roses and white major convolvuli. The'sun was setting in the west, and its'rays of gold lingered on the church, with its richly tinted windows, its soft shadows, and quiet sleeping dead. One ray of pure gold streamed over a grave by the eastern window, making the letters on the stone gleam and shine : ' Reuben Baines and CnKisro- ' ther, his Son. ' "' "And so' He bringcth them unto the Haven'where they would be."