CHAPTER VIII.

WE close our eyes in peace, and we re-open them to sorrow and care. It is the lot, sooner or later, of all; the fulfilment of the earthly curse denounced upon our first parents, and from it there is no escape. We may, perhaps, have felt, upon lying down to rest, -the anxieties of the day at an end, the weariness of exhausted nature inviting us to repose, and the heart calmed by repentance, and the blessed trust in forgiveness and protection,—that if it were then permitted for the Angel of Death to call us to our long, last sleep; the summons, awful though it must ever be, would be hailed rather as a visitation of mercy, than as an event to be shrunk from in alarm. But God "seeth not as man seeth." He views the sins dormant but not destroyed; the passions lulled but not extinguished. He beholds us unfit for the kingdom of His holiness, and knows the warfare which must be endured, before the powers of a regenerate nature can fully triumph over the temptations of Satan. And if, at times, He does in mercy make us "to lie down in green pastures, and lead us beside the still waters," it is only that by such seasons of refreshment we may gather strength for the battle, which is to "bring every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ."

When Blanche entered Rutherford church, the ensuing day, she felt but little of the peace which had been with her when she lay down to rest at night. A breakfast tête-à-tête with the earl, and a few remarks during their short walk from the castle to the

village, had again aroused her distrust. Many such remarks had been made before, but they had fallen on an unheeding ear, or rather on one which did not understand, because it would not suspect evil. Now, the petty indications of motives and feeling, which it is not in the power of the most practised art to conceal, were as daggers to her heart, for they struck upon the points on which alone her earthly happiness was then vulnerable.

At any time a doubt which affected her father's principles must have been poignantly felt; but on no other occasion could it have caused so much suffering. For Blanche had striven humbly and earnestly to realise the awfulness of that most holy service in which she was then, for the first time, to be permitted to join. She had prayed and watched against the entrance of every unhallowed or worldly thought, and had dedicated herself to her Saviour with all the warmth and sincerity of youthful devotedness. At such a moment, even the purest of earthly affections might have been deemed intrusive; and yet, when she knelt in the temple of God, and bowed her head in reverence, and opened her lips in prayer, there arose in her heart, not feelings of faith and hope, but of sadness and fear. The words of confession were repeated, but the earl's voice at her side pronounced the same language in a tone of proud indifference, and Blanche forgot the repentance necessary for her own sins, in anguish lest he should be insensible to his. And praises, and thanksgivings, and intercessions, were uttered with a wandering mind; and the solemn declarations of Scripture received but a half attention; whilst she caught, as if by fascination, her father's restless eye and listless posture, and then turned in wretchedness to herself, to discover that she also, though not in like manner, was sinning against God. There was

a painful struggle in her heart whilst going through the usual service. To be distracted then, seemed a miserable evidence of weakness and insincerity; and to present herself before God with thoughts clinging to earth, a fearful presumption. Once it seemed easier and better to delay,-to wait for another opportunity, to risk anything rather than offer a divided heart; but at that moment the voice of the preacher spoke of Him, who "in that He Himself hath suffered, being tempted, is able to succour them that are tempted ;" and, instead of giving way to despondency, Blanche prayed the more fervently to be pardoned and assisted, whilst she strove again to recall her scattered thoughts. The last words of the sermon were ended; the concluding prayers were said; there was a solemn stillness in the church, followed by the rush of movement and departing footsteps. No tones of joy or praise were heard whilst one by one they, who were unwilling or unable to remain, left the congregation; but silently and hastily they poured forth into the open air,some, it might be, to grieve for the blessing of which they felt themselves unfitted to partake; but too many to stifle the reproaches of conscience in the cares and follies of the world.

Blanche looked at her father, as he seated himself by her side, and her heart bounded with joy ; but, as the church became more empty, the earl rose, and stood for a few instants with his hat in his hand, and when the way of retreat was at last opened without fear of mixing himself with the crowd, he, too, followed the common example.

And the door was closed.

It was a moment of bitter, most bitter sorrow; -beyond it we may not look; but when Blanche left the church she no longer felt that she was alone.

CHAPTER IX.

"LADY BLANCHE is late in coming to you this morning; is she not, Eleanor?" said Mrs. Wentworth, as the luncheon-bell rang, and little Susan ran away to prepare for what was to be her dinner. Rather, I think," was the reply; "but Blanche is never quite mistress of her own time. Her father is so uncertain, and will make her do the very things she has determined not to do. He may have taken her for a ride, as likely as not."

66

Strange, certainly," said Mrs. Wentworth, musingly, "that when a man like Lord Rutherford devotes himself to the happiness of his daughter, he should manage to do just the very things she does not like."

"Oh! indeed, mamma!" exclaimed Eleanor; "I do think you are wrong there. Blanche does like most things which her father proposes; the only worry is, that they come at the wrong time."

"And does she like, then, the prospect of having the castle filled with visitors, and of gaieties going on continually?" inquired Mrs. Wentworth, with a slight tone of asperity, which suited but little with her usual gentleness.

"Yes, very much," replied Eleanor. "Lady Charlton is a delightful person, so every one declares. And it will be very nice for me, too."

Mrs. Wentworth seemed rather discomposed. "You must remember, my dear," she said, "that what suits Lady Blanche will not suit you. Your line of duties will be totally different."

"Oh! yes, of course, mamma," and Eleanor coloured, and endeavoured to assume an indifferent air: "but you know there is no one whom Blanche loves as she does me; and she never will enjoy anything if I am not with her."

"Then I am afraid she will pass a very unhappy life; for you can be with her but seldom at the best."

"It is not exactly the being together, but the feeling that we are near, and understand each other, and can compare opinions, which is the pleasure ;and-"

"Well," interrupted Mrs. Wentworth," compare opinions if you like it, and sympathise with and love each other; I should be very sorry if you did not: but that does not imply the necessity of meeting every day, especially now."

You are afraid for me, mamma," said Eleanor, laughing. "You think I shall become dissipated, and forget Susan, and the school, and old Nanny Marshall, and the almshouse women."

"I have no cause to doubt you, my love," replied Mrs. Wentworth affectionately; "but it is scarcely strange that I should have some misgivings about every society of which Lord Rutherford is the head."

Mrs. Wentworth spoke quickly, and Eleanor looked up in surprise. But her mother's face betrayed no particular feeling; it was even more placid than before, as she added, "You can scarcely have failed to discover that he is not the most fitting person for the guardianship of a young, enthusiastic, interesting girl like Lady Blanche."

"He would spoil her, if she could be spoilt," said Eleanor carelessly.

"Yes; he would spoil her," repeated Mrs. Wentworth. "He would infuse into her mind low worldly