Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

'Elsewhere things might be better for you.'

'For us,' he said, correcting her. 'What is better for you is better for me,' she replied. 'I heard today that George Naldret-'

'God bless him!'

'Amen! God bless him! I heard to-day that he was going away sooner than was expected.'

'I heard so too, Jane; and I went round to Mrs. Naldret's tonight to see him if I could. But he had not come home.'

'Saul,' she said, hiding her face on his shoulder, and pressing him in her arms, as one might do who was about to lose what she loved best in this world, 'we have suffered much together; our love for each other seems to keep us down.'

'It is I-I only who am to blame. I commenced life badly, and went from bad to worse.'

She placed her hand upon his lips, and stopped farther self-accusation.

'It is a blessing for many,' she said, 'that those new lands have been discovered. A man can commence a new life there without being crushed by the misfortunes or faults of the past, if he be earnest enough to acquire strength. It might be a blessing to you.'

'It might,' he assented, 'if you were with me.'

'You, with your gifts, with your talent for many things, might do so well there. Saul, turn that lamp down; the light glares, and hurts my eyes.'

He turned down the lamp; the sullen wick flickered, once, twice, thrice, and the room was in darkness.

'Let it be, Saul; don't light it. I love to talk to you in the dark. It reminds me of a time-do you remember?'

Did he remember? There came to him, in the gloom of the mean room, the memory of the time, years ago, when he first told her that he loved her. In the few brief moments that followed, after the light had gone out, the entire scene was presented to him; every word that was uttered by him and by her came to him. It was in the dark that he had told her; it was in the dark that he vowed to be faithful to her, and she to him. It seemed as if it might have been yesterday, for he held her in his arms now, as he had held her then, and he felt her heart beating against his. But the misery of the present time was too pressing to forget for more than a brief space, and he raised his head from her breast, and faced the gleams of the clear bright cold night, as they shone through the garret-window.

'If I were to tell you,' she resumed, 'that I have felt no sorrow because of the position we are in-not as regards money, though that cannot be worse, but as regards our living together, not being married-I should tell you what is not true. I have felt bitter, bitter sorrow-bitter, bitter shame. When friends fell off from me, I suffered much-when the dearest one I had, a girl of my own age, said, "Father forbids me to speak to you because you are leading a wrong life; when you are married, perhaps father will not be so hard upon you, and we may be friends again, – though never as we were, Jane! never as we were!" I turned sick, Saul, because I loved her.'

She paused a moment, and he, with a full sense of his own unworthiness, drew a little away from her. What she was saying now was all the more bitter because hitherto no word of implied reproach had passed her lips. She knew his thoughts, and in her tenderness for him, put forth her hand to draw him closer to her; but withdrew it immediately without fulfilling her purpose, as though it might make her waver.

'I said to myself, Saul knows what is right; when he is in a position he will say to me, Come, Jane; and I pictured to myself our going to some quiet church one morning, without any one knowing it but ourselves, and coming back married. But it was not to be; the part you took in the strike crushed you and kept you down. The masters were against you naturally; and I knew that as my friends had fallen off from me, so your friends and fellow workmen had fallen off from you. I blamed myself for it, for it was my counsel that caused you to desert the men as you had deserted the masters. I did not see the consequences when I spoke; I should have held my tongue.'

'Jane,' said Saul gloomily, 'you were right; I had my doubts that very night, after I had made the speech that inflamed me in the making as much as it inflamed the men in the hearing. I lost my head; no wonder they turned against me afterwards. I should have done the same by them. But in acting as I did, I acted conscientiously. What, then, did I do, when I began to feel the consequences of my own act? Sought for consolation in drink, and but for your steady, unwavering faith-but for your patient endurance, and your untiring efforts to bring me back to reason-might have found a lower depth even than that. But patient love prevailed. Death will overtake me, or I will overtake it, when I break the promise I gave you not long ago!'

'I know it,' she said, with a bright look which he could not see, her back being towards the light, 'and that is why I can trust you now; that is why I have courage to say what I am about to say. There is no fear between us of misapprehension of each other's words, of each other's acts; and therefore I do not hesitate. Saul, if I have done my duty by you-and I have striven to do it, with all my heart and soul-it remains for you to do your duty by me.'

He had no word to say in reply; that he had failed in his duty to her, that upon her had fallen the greater part of the misery, and all the shame, of their lot, he was fully conscious. But he had never heard her speak like this before; her voice was firm, though tender, and he held his breath, waiting for her next words.

'It remains for you to do your duty by me.' As she repeated these words it required the strongest effort of her will to keep the beating of her heart and her inward suffering from affecting her voice. She was successful in her effort; for knowing what would occur within the next few hours, the imminence of the coming crisis gave her strength, and her voice was clear and steady.

'How-in what way?' he asked, in an agitated tone.

'Be sure of one thing, Saul,' she cried, turned aside for an instant only by the agitation in his voice; 'be sure that I love you, wholly, heartfully!'

'I am sure of it. Teach me my duty. I will do it.'

She steadied herself again.

'Saul, we cannot go on as we are. We have come low-very low; but worse is before us, if we are content to let it come, without an effort to avoid it. Listen. The greatest happiness that can fall to my lot is to be your wife.'

'I believe it,' he said.

'But not as you are, Saul! Tear yourself from your present surroundings-tear yourself from this place, where there is no hope for you nor for me! If we were at opposite ends of the world, there is a tie that binds us which neither of us can ever forget. If she were in her grave, her lips would seek my breast, her little hands would stretch themselves out to you, to caress your face! What kind of happiness would it be for you to be able to say, Come, Jane; I have a home for you, for her?'

He repeated, with his lips, 'What kind of happiness!' but uttered no sound.

'Make the effort! – away from here. If you succeed-never mind how humble it is, never mind how poor-I will be your wife, loving you no more than I love you now, and you will repay me for all that I have suffered. If you fail- But you will not fail, Saul. I know it! I feel it! Make the effort; for the sake of my love for you, for the sake of yours for me. I think, if it were placed before me that you should make the effort, and, failing, die, or that we should remain as we are, I should choose to lose you, and never look upon your face again- Here! We are near the end of this sad year. Christmas is coming, Saul. Let it be the turning over of a new leaf for us. Nerve yourself-I will not say for your own sake, for I know how poor an incentive that would be to you-but for mine, and with the dawning of a new year, begin a new life!'

'And this is the duty that remains for me to do, Jane?'

'This is the duty.'

Not from any doubt of her, or of the task she set before him, did he pause, but because he was for a while overpowered by the goodness of the woman who had sacrificed all for him-who loved him, believed in him, and saw still some capacity for good in him. When he had conquered his emotion, he said in a broken tone,

'And then, should such a happy time ever come, you will let me make the poor reparation-you will marry me?'

'How gladly!' she exclaimed, 'O, how gladly!'

'No more words are needed than that I promise, Jane?'

'No more, Saul.'

'I promise. With all my strength I will try.'

He knelt before her, and, with his head in her lap, shed tears there, and prayed for strength, prayed with trustfulness, though the road was dark before him. Lifting his head, he saw the light of the clear cold sky shining through the window at her back. With her arms clasped round his neck, she leant forward and kissed him, and as he folded her in his embrace, he felt that there were tears also on her face.

'The world would be dark without you, dear woman,' he said.

Again she kissed him, and asked if it was not time for him to go.

He answered. Yes; and yet was loth to go.

'Good-night, Jane.'

'Good-night, dear Saul.'

With the handle of the door in his hand, he turned towards her, and saw her standing with the light shining upon her.

DEAR LOVE, GOOD-BYE

It was three o'clock in the morning before Saul Fielding came home. The bell of Westminster proclaimed the hour with deep-sounding tongue. Saul ascended the stairs quietly. He did not wish to disturb any one in the house-least of all, Jane, if she were asleep. 'Although,' he thought, dwelling in love upon her, 'the dear woman wakes at my lightest footfall.' He crept into the room softly, and paused, with hand upraised and listening ear. 'She is asleep,' he whispered gladly. He stepped gently to the bedside and laid his hand lightly upon the pillow; it was cold. 'Jane!' he cried, with a sudden fear upon him. His hand travelled over the bed; it was empty. So strong a trembling took possession of him that he could not stand, and he sank, almost powerless, on the bed. 'What is this? he asked of himself. 'Why is she not abed? Jane! Jane! Where are you?' Although he spoke in a tone scarcely above a whisper, every word he uttered sounded in the dark room like a knell, and seemed to come back to him charged with terrible meaning-as though some one else were speaking. 'Let me think,' he muttered vaguely. 'How did I leave her? She was not angry with me. Her words were full of hope. She kissed me, and stood-there!' He looked towards the window, and saw the outlines of her face in the light-saw her eyes gazing tenderly, lovingly, upon him. He knew that what he saw was but a trick of the imagination; but he moved towards the light, and clasped a shadow in his arms. 'The world is dark without you, dear woman!' he sobbed, with closed eyes, repeating almost the last words he had said to her. 'The world is dark without you! Where are you? Have you left me?' The table shook beneath his hand, as he rested upon it to steady himself. But he could not control his agitation; it mastered him. With trembling hands he struck a match and lit the lamp; then saw with certainty that Jane was not in the room. Mechanically he took from the table a sheet of paper with writing upon it, which the light disclosed. 'Jane's writing,' he muttered, and then read:

'Dear Love, – I have left you for your good-for mine. I had this in my mind when I spoke to you to-night. I have had it in my mind for a long time. It is the only secret I have ever had which you did not share. We have been so unfortunate in the past, and so clear a duty remains before us, that we should be undeserving of better fortune if we did not strive ourselves to better it. I rely implicitly upon your promise. Tear yourself away from this place, and begin a new life. As long as I live, not a day will pass without my praying for a better fortune for you and for me to Him who sees all things, and who my heart tells me approves of what I am doing now. Pray to Him also, dear Love. He will hear you, and pity. Remember what is the greatest happiness that can fall to my lot, and remember that I shall not be unhappy-loving you and having you always in my thoughts-while I think that you are working towards a happier end. I have no fears in leaving you. I know how you will keep your promise-and you have said so much to-night to comfort me! I treasure your words. They are balm to my heart.

I have taken service with a respectable family, who live a long way from here, and I have adopted an assumed name. The address I enclose is where you can write to me. You will not, I know, seek to turn me from my purpose. I shall write to you to the care of Mrs. Naldret; for the sake of George's friendship for you she will receive the letters. Tell George.

Pear Love, good-bye! All my prayers are with you. Let them and the memory of me sustain your heart; as the consciousness of your love for me, and my faith in God's goodness, will sustain mine.