‘Well said!’ cried Isaac heartily. ‘Well said, Mrs. F.! Now, Richard, my boy, where’s your hand? Just catch hold o’ Mrs. F.’s. That’s it—that’s it! Shake it well!’ Here he thumped the arm of his chair jubilantly. ‘You’ll be the best o’ friends from this day for’ard! Here we be, we three, friends all! Jist as me and poor ’Lias and Mrs. F. was friends—dear heart alive! yes, we was friends too—the best o’ friends! We was three then, and we be three now, bain’t us, Mrs. F.? We three! I do mind a old song as your poor dear mother used to sing, Richard: ‘When shall we three meet agen? In starm, in zunshine, ar in rain!’ Lard, yes, she used to sing it, poor soul! Well, now we be three agen, bain’t us? Three good friends! So, if you’ll mix the usu’l glass, Mrs. F., we’ll drink to the bond o’ good fellowship.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ said Rosalie indistinctly. ‘I forgot all about your glass, Isaac; I’m so sorry; I’ll see to it at once.’ She ran out of the room, glad to make her escape, and Richard sat down near the hearth. Friends! They were to be friends as his uncle, and Elias, and Rosalie had once been friends! He had felt her hand twitch in his as Isaac had spoken; to her the proposition was doubtless as distasteful as to him it was impossible. What was his uncle thinking of? There were some things which flesh and blood—young flesh and blood—could not brook, and this triangular bond was one of them. But he would be patient for a little while; he would choke down his rebellious sense of injury. His secret, thank Heaven! was secure; neither the guileless Isaac nor Rosalie herself had the faintest idea of the miserable passion which he was striving so hard to conquer. What was it she had said? They were to be friends—friends for his uncle’s sake. His uncle, to whom he owed everything—his kind, faithful, generous old benefactor. Well, he would try. That night, in the seclusion of his attic room, he once more drew forth Rosalie’s picture. ‘Sleep on, Beauty,’ he said. ‘Sleep on in peace! I shall not try to wake you. Sleep soundly; do not even dream.’ And, after a last silent look, he held it steadily in the flame of the candle, watching its destruction unflinchingly until the last feathery film dropped from his fingers. CHAPTER VII And times he saith: ‘Why must man aye forego? And why is life a nobler thing through pain?’ And times: ‘Since Love’s sweet apple hangs so low, Shall I not strongly grasp and count it gain?’ ELINOR SWEETMAN.