“God forbid that anything should come between them and happiness,” said Wesley. “'Tis all unlikely,” said his host. “He must see that her love for him must be in proportion to her gratitude to you for having done all that you have done for him. If she did not love him dearly she would have no need to be half so grateful to you.” Wesley said nothing more on this point. He had not forgotten what Nelly had confided to him and the counsel which he had given her just before the hurricane had cut short their conversation on the cliffs. She had told him her story, confessing that the man to whom she had given her promise was less dear to her now that she was in daily expectation of meeting him after the lapse of a year than he had been when they had parted; and he had defined, in no doubtful language, the direction in which her duty lay. For the rest of the time that they were together neither he nor she had made any reference to this matter; but he had not ceased to think upon it. After what Mr. Hartwell had said he felt reassured. He had brought himself to feel that he could only be happy if the girl's happiness were assured; and he believed that this could only be accomplished by her keeping the promise which she had given to a man who was worthy of her. However she might have fancied that her love had waned or turned in another direction during the year they had been parted, he was convinced that it would return, as true and as fresh as before, with the return of Captain Snowdon. All that Hartwell had said bore him out in this view which he was disposed to take of the way of this maid with the man. Hartwell was a man of judgment and observation, and if there had been any division between the two people in whom they were interested, he would undoubtedly have noticed it. He had described the grievance of which Snowdon had complained in a humorous way; and Wesley knew that if the man felt that he had a grievance of the most grievous sort that can fall upon a man, he would not have referred to it in such a spirit. And then the day came when Wesley was able to talk, without being hushed by his hospitable friend, of mounting his horse and resuming his-journey in the west. He had many engagements, and was getting daily more anxious to fulfil them before the summer should be over. “If it rested with me, sir,” said Hartwell, “I would keep you here for another month and feel that I was the most favoured of men; but in this-matter I dare not be selfish. I know what, with God's blessing, you seek to accomplish, and I feel that to stay you from your journey would be an offence.” “You have been more than good to me, my brother,” said Wesley. “And now in parting from, you, I do not feel as did the Apostle Paul when leaving those friends of his who sorrowed knowing that they should see his face no more. I know that your sorrow is sincere, because I know how sincere is my own, but if God is good to us we shall all meet again after a season.”