corded-but I was careful not to let him see that I could be amused at so serious a thing, and when breath and courage permitted, I replied with a gravity equal to his own

"You have made the task of answering you, Mr. Seymour, about as difficult as such a task could well be, and before I attempt it even, I must beg you to reply to a question of mine, namely, whether you would have any satisfaction in accepting a hand without a heart, or justify a wcman in giving one and withholding the other." "Miss Heathcott," he said, almost sternly, at least I fancied so, 66 you have not now to deal with a sentimental youth, whose notions of love are confined to moonlight rambles, sickly poetry, and vows of eternal devotion to every pretty woman he may meet. In asking you to be my wife you have a right to assume that I prefer you to all others, and whatever my heart may be, warm or cold, good or bad, that I take you at once and for ever into its innermost shrine;

when you accept ine, as you will do in the end, I shall assume the same of you, and without asking a single question expect neither more nor less than this."

Original in all things, Mr. Seymour had certainly abated nothing of his originality in his mode of making an offer.

"Then if I refuse you now," I said, “as I intend doing, with all due thanks for the great compliment you have paid me, am I to understand that you will still persist in the strange notion you have expressed, and that my refusal will count for nothing."

"Pardon, me, Miss Heathcott. It will count for so much that I shall consider that we stand in the same relations as before this conversation took place. You will be troubled with no extra attentions or gallantry from me (he smiled queerly in saying this), but I reserve to myself the liberty of retaining my own conviction as to what the future will bring."

"But you know I am going away from England after Christmas, and it may be years and years before I return."

I tried to speak independently, for my woman's spirit was up in arms at his apparently ridiculous confidence, but in spite of myself my voice faltered at the thought of the long exile before me, and I really wished I could love the man who was offering me a home and a position. in my own country.

"Well, go, if it pleases you," he said, catching I doubt not, the sudden lowering of my voice, "but you will come back again ere long, and fulfil the destiny prepared for you."

"Really, Mr. Seymour, you must forgive me if I say―"

Say nothing more to-night," he interrupted authoritatively, "for if you have no love in your heart to warm you, it is time to come in out of the cold."

CHAPTER VIII.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

IF I slept little that night, I was by no means disposed to allow the next morning Mr. Seymour had anything to do with it. Of course I could not help thinking a good deal, since I happened to lie awake, of our singular interview, and the natural result of all my thoughts was, increasing wonder both as to his proposal itself and his manner of making it. I did not believe for a moment that the man really loved me-the idea

was too preposterous-but he had found me useful, judged me to be quiet and harmless, and dreaded the utter solitude to which he should be reduced when his poor Effie was gone.

Truly,

under these circumstances I had little to thank him for, and when to all this was added the fact of his strange presumption in assuming the certainty of my eventually accepting him, I felt that I stood rather in the position of an injured party than of one who is weighed down with an unexpected honour.

But even admitting by way of argument, nothing more, than that the Reverend Philip Seymour had suddenly discovered that he had a heart to bestow, and had forthwith bestowed it on me, what great difference in the aspect of affairs would exist? Could I ever be brought to love him in return? Could I pass my life with a man who neither smiled, nor wept, nor enjoyed, nor suffered like his fellow mortals, but seemed