gravely, "and I heard her vow that she would be revenged. Then, at Luttrell, when she thought he cared for me, she told me that I should never be his wife—no woman should be but herself."
"Rather cool that," says George; "but a jealous woman will say anything. And so you have put yourself into this state, Nell, because of a few spiteful words?"
"No, it was the dream. It was so real—so vivid———"
"As mine have often been," says George, "when I dreamt I was falling down a bottomless well, for instance."
"Nonsense! Do you never have bad, ugly, haunting dreams?"
"The realities of life are about enough for me," says the young man, with a quiver in his voice that pierces through my selfish, complaining sorrow, and reminds me that all this while he has been soothing and listening to me when his own heart is heavier even than mine. These ten weeks of absence that have sped so gaily with me have left their mark on his face. Neither heart-broken, nor complaining, nor preoccupied does he look, but something has gone out of it that will never come back in this life, though he bears his lot like a man, and never speaks of the past—never gives a sign that he remembers, save when a chance break in his voice betrays him.
"George," I say, wistfully, "if you only knew how much happier you have made me! When I met you I was so wretched."
"Whenever you are in trouble, dear," he says, "I hope you will always let me be of use to you. Try and think that I am Jack."
"You are better than Jack," I say, heartily, "for he never gave me much sympathy; he would not understand———"
"Sister Nell's hitched up with young Mr. Tempest!" says Larry, thrusting his head out of the school-room window as we pass. "I say, Geoff, what would the other one say if he could see them?"
The hours go by very slowly; and now George is gone by fore-
