tes of Moor ter I liked t I could sit up all day, and  sometimes. I could join ions; converse ercourse, of a kind noasted by me for t time-t congeniality of tastes, sentiments, and principles.

    I liked to read o read: ed me; ered oo, in tique structure, s los latticed casements, its mouldering s avenue of aged firs—all gro under tress of mountain s garden, dark  of t species  and permanent. to to to , and t a fe little pasture- fields t ever bordered a o a flock of grey moorland stle mossy-faced lambs:- to t enttac. I could compres strengtrution of ty. I felt tion of its loneliness: my eye feasted on tline of sed to ridge and dell by moss, by urf, by brilliant bracken, and melloe crag. tails  to me o t sources of pleasure. trong blast and t breeze; t; t and t, developed for me, in ttraction as for ties t entranced theirs.

    Indoors ter read t rodden before me. I devoured t me: t isfaction to discuss  I  fitted t; opinion met opinion: ly.

    If in our trio t ainty of flo gusy and fluency gone, I o sit on a stool at Diana’s feet, to rest my en alternately to opic on ouco teaco learn of  of instructress pleased and suited  of sced me no less. Our natures dovetailed: mutual affection—of trongest kind—. tely at my service. My skill, greater in t t and cogetake lessons; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil sually entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks like days.

    As to Mr. St Joimacy  extend to ance yet observed bet ively seldom at ion of ime appeared devoted to visiting ttered population of his parish.

    No o oral excursions: rain or fair, udy ake , and, follo on y—I scarcely knoimes, ulate. han cheerful—

    “And if I let a gust of urn me aside from tasks, ion o myself?”

    Diana and Mary’s general anso tion ly mournful meditation.

    But besides  absences, to friendsracted, and even of a brooding nature. Zealous in erial labours, blameless in s,  did not appear to enjoy t mental serenity, t inent, ical p. Often, of an evening,  ting, rest o I kno ; but t it urbed and exciting mig flasion of his eye.

    I t Nature  to  treasury of delig o ers.  once in my rong sense of tion for t tone and  ed; and never did o roam t or ds they could yield.

    Incommunicative as ime elapsed before I unity of gauging  got an idea of its calibre on. I  it is past my po even render fait it produced on me.

    It began calm—and indeed, as far as delivery and pitc, it o tly felt, yet strictly restrained zeal breatinct accents, and prompted to force—compressed, condensed, controlled. t onisened. t trange bitterness; an absence of consolatory gentleness; stern allusions to Calvinistic doctrines—election, predestination, reprobation—; and eaco ts sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. ead of feeling better, calmer, more enlig seemed to me—I kno  to ment—iate yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I . Joious, zealous as  yet found t peace of God , ts for my broken idol and lost elysium—regrets to  hlessly.

    Meantime a monto leave Moor urn to t life and scene y, ion in families by s, and  te excellences, and appreciated only ts as ted taste of ting-. Joo me yet about t o obtain for me; yet it became urgent t I sion of some kind. One morning, being left alone es in tured to approacable, ced as a kind of study—and I o speak, t very o frame my inquiry—for it is at all times difficult to break tures as rouble by being t to commence a dialogue.

    Looking up as I dreo ask of me?” he said.

    “Yes; I ake?”

    “I found or devised somet as you seemed boters ly become attaco you, and your society gave t inexpedient to break in on your mutual comfort till ture from Marsh End should render yours necessary.”

    “And three days now?” I said.

    “Yes; and o t Morton:  up.”

    I ed a fes, expecting  first broac o ered anotrain of reflection: ed abstraction from me and my business. I o recall o a ty one of close and anxious interest to me.

    “ is t you  y of securing it.”

    “O is in employment o accept.”

    ance to continue. I greient: a restless movement or ting glance fastened on o ually as words could rouble.

    “You need be in no o  me frankly tell you, I able to suggest. Before I explain, recall, if you please, my notice, clearly given, t if I  must be as t, rimony remaining to me crees and . I am obscure: Rivers is an old name; but of ts of t’s crust among strangers, and tive country—not only for life, but in deato deem, , and aspires but after tion from flesies s cant of w members he word, ‘Rise, follow Me!’”

    St. Jo, deep voice; ing radiance of glance. he resumed—

    “And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but a service of poverty and obscurity. You may even t degrading— for I see noastes lean to ty  least been amongst ted; but I consider t no service degrades ian labourer’s task of tillage is appointed ier toil brings—tances, is tiny of t pioneers of tles—tain he Redeemer, himself.”

    “ell?” I said, as he again paused—“proceed.”

    me before o read my face, as if its features and lines iny ially expressed in ions.

    “I believe you  t I offer you,” said  for a ly, tly keep tranquil, ry incumbent; for in your nature is an alloy as detrimental to repose as t in mine, t kind.”

    “Do explain,” I urged, wed once more.

    “I ay long at Morton, no my fat I am my oer. I s  myself to tmost for its improvement. Morton,  tage of ttaco it for tress’s y pounds a year:  sufficiently, by ter of tor of a needle- factory and iron-foundry in tion and clotion t sress in suced ion of teac ime to discress?”

    tion rato expect an indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of t knos and feelings, t tell in o me. In trut  ed a safe asylum: it  t of a governess in a ric ; and tude rangers entered my soul like iron: it  ignoble—not un mentally degrading, I made my decision.

    “I t it .”

    “But you compre is a village sctagers’ c t, farmers’ daugting, seing, cipo teac s? ,  portion of your mind— sentiments—tastes?”

    “Save till ted. they will keep.”

    “You knoake, then?”

    “I do.”

    a bitter or a sad smile, but one ified.

    “And wion?”

    “I o my o-morro week.”

    “Very .”

    anding still,  me. he shook his head.

    “ do you disapprove of, Mr. Rivers?” I asked.

    “You  stay at Morton long: no, no!”

    “ is your reason for saying so?”

    “I read it in your eye; it is not of t description enor in life.”

    “I am not ambitious.”

    arted at tious.” ed, “No.  made you tion? ious? I kno  out?”

    “I was speaking of myself.”

    “ell, if you are not ambitious, you are—” he paused.

    “?”

    “I o say, impassioned: but perood t ions and sympat poent to pass your leisure in solitude, and to devote your onous labour ent,” o live  in ains—my nature, t God gave me, contravened; my faculties, o myself. I, ment , and justified tion even of er in God’s service—I, er, almost rave in my restlessness. ell, propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.”

    t more of  still he puzzled me.

    Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as tried to appear as usual; bat to struggle against  could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated t t parting from any t kno . Joing for years: it miging for life.

    “o ural affection and feelings more potent still. St. Jo, Jane; but als. You le, yet in some t of it is, my conscience o dissuade ainly, I cannot for a moment blame . It is rigian: yet it breaks my !” And tears guso  her head low over her work.

    “e are no fat her,” she murmured,

    At t moment a little accident supervened, o prove trut “misfortunes never come singly,” and to add to tresses t. Joter. ered.

    “Our uncle John is dead,” said he.

    Boters seemed struck: not sidings appeared in tous ting.

    “Dead?” repeated Diana.

    “Yes.”

    Sed a searc then?” she demanded, in a low voice.

    “ taining a marble immobility of feature. “ thing. Read.”

    ter into , and  to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to  eachree smiled—a dreary, pensive smile enough.

    “Amen! e can yet live,” said Diana at last.

    “At any rate, it makes us no han we were before,” remarked Mary.

    “Only it forces ratrongly on ture of s it someoo vividly  IS.”

    ter, locked it in  out.

    For some minutes no one spoke. Diana turned to me.

    “Jane, you  us and our mysteries,” sed beings not to be more moved at tion as an uncle; but  of y in tion t ruined ual recrimination passed beted in anger, and erakings: it appears une of ty t ourselves and one ot more closely related t one for o us; t letter informs us t o tion, ion of ty guineas, to be divided bet. Jo, of course, to do as  a momentary damp is cast on ts by t of suceemed ourselves rico St. Jo would o do.”

    tion given, t o it by eiters. t day I left Marson. ter, Diana and Mary quitted it for distant B-. In a he old grange was abandoned.