new duties, as I had learned to consider them, he soon knew all my poor people as well almost as I did myself, and was always ready to suggest something for their help or comfort. But I was in such a morbid state of mind, that after a time I began to fancy it a sinful indulgence even to enjoy this friend's society; I began to imagine the work I was doing could not be so acceptable a service unless it was a painful sacrifice; that it was a weak turning aside from the thorny path of self-denial, which I had determined henceforth to tread unflinchingly. Inspired by this idea, I began to treat my kind, longsuffering friend very badly and unjustly, as I see now. I would go out just before I knew he was coming ; or, when he came, say I was engaged and could not walk that day. He was always kind and tender in his manner to me, but soon began to look sorrowfully and almost reproachfully at me. I saw it, and felt it, but went on in my self-imposed penance, deliberately wounding a noble heart for what end?-the good of my own soul!

At last the good German left off coming at all in the daytime, and only called occasionally in the evening to smoke a pipe with my father. During these visits he would often lapse into long silences; and if I looked up from my work, wondering what strange

change had come over him, I would see his eyes fixed sorrowfully upon me; then he would rouse himself, as with an effort, and talk, but evidently without much interest in what he was saying. To me he seldom spoke now.

About that time Madame Kaufmann died, so her son's evident dejection was put down to his grief at her loss.

THINGS went on in the same way for a long timemonths, or it may have been a year,-I living a life of unnatural excitement. It was my good mother that kept me at all straight. I never doubted that love and duty pointed the same way in her case; and strangely enough, as I drew away from Herr Kaufmann, I seemed to draw nearer to her. Perhaps she might have been a little jealous of his influence over me, and pleased to see it waning. Tom had declared his wish to become a clergyman, and my father decided that, by being a little more economical at home, we could afford to send him to Oxford. I was proud and delighted, and ready to make any sacrifice for my brother. But that having to be a little more economical told frightfully on my dear mother, for she was not very strong: she wanted

more indulgence and comfort instead of less. Men do not know how hard this constant anxiety about small expenses is to women, how it wears out both body and mind; how often it lowers them, and crowds out all thought of higher, nobler things.

"Can we do without this? Can we afford that?" seemed now the prevailing topic of our conversation. I chafed and fumed, but gradually gave way. Even my daily visits to the poor had to be given up now. There was so much to be done in the house, for we had dismissed one of our two servants, and my mother and I did her work; then there was the never-ending stitching, the eking out of our old clothes, so as to avoid the expense of buying new ones. Bitterly did I then repent of having driven my poor friend away, for the dreary monotony of my life felt at times almost unbearable. Of course Tom had no idea what his college expenses entailed on us, or he would never have allowed it. I never had appreciated my mother's character till then. I saw now how utterly unselfish she was; the idea never seemed to dawn upon her that she was giving up too much for her son.

Tom had been at Oxford about a year when a terrible thing happened.

It was a gloomy day. We had been working so hard

that I felt as though I must have a breath of fresh air, and went out about dusk to see a sick child. I had felt a strange depression on my spirits all day that I could not shake off. On my way home, I had to cross a crowded street, where omnibuses were standing at the corner. I had to wait a few seconds before I could cross, and I remember, so vividly, a ragged little boy thrusting an evening paper into my face and shouting out among other items of news, "Frightful railway accident!" I remember, too, how his words pierced through my head and made me shudder.

I hurried home and found my mother sitting alone over the fire: the tea was ready on the table.

"You are late, dear," she said.

"Yes, I was kept longer than I expected. Is papa come in?"

"No, not yet."

What made me keep shuddering so?

I sat down by the fire and said it was cold.

At last mother said, "I suppose your papa has been detained. Let us have tea-I feel faint."

So we went to the table, and I tried to talk composedly, and to prevent my mother from noticing that I could not eat.

I tried to reason with myself that my fears were