that,' returned Ned easily. 'Dr. Moorhouse will settle things. I told them both that I was rather a handy person in a sickroom—you will endorse that, won't you, She?--but Brett declared that I did not look the character, and that old Emma would be good enough for the likes of him.'

'Do you mean he was able to joke?' asked Sheila rather abruptly.

'Oh, a man can always do that,' returned Ned. But he entered into no more particulars. Sheila was looking uncommonly tired, he thought, and it was no use piling up the agony. Luke's temperature had been very high and he had looked flushed and feverish.

'I will look in on him directly after breakfast,' he said. And then, as he had evidently finished with the subject, Sheila made her fatigue an excuse for leaving him and going to bed; but it was morning before she closed her eyes.

That night the flimsy veil was torn from Sheila's eyes, and for the first time she realised what Luke Brett was to her. 'My God, has it come to this!' she whispered in her agony has it actually come to this -that if he die the whole world will be blank to me!' And then she lay trembling and ashamed in the darkness, till sleep took pity on her sadness, and the evil hour passed away.

CHAPTER XXXII

'THERE MUST BE SOME ONE ELSE'

For him who aspires, and for him who loves, life may lead through the thorns, but it never stops in the desert.-ANON.

Great efforts from great motives is the best definition of a happy life.-CHANNING.

THE evil hour of despondency and mental distress was over, and Sheila rose the next morning in the wintry darkness to take up the day's burden with her usual courage. Sheila's nature was too sane and healthyminded to be vanquished weakly in a single battle, or to sit down tamely at the foot of the hill of trouble, without using all her efforts to climb out of the low valley. She had too much pride and spirit to play the coward, or to turn her back on the enemy. The very simplicity and straightforwardness which were her chief characteristics helped her to attain a right focus. After all, was she so much to blame? What was the use of being morbid and increasing her unhappiness? Sheila did not deny that she was unhappy, but she saw things under a truer aspect that morning. It was her misfortune that she had grown to love this man, but she would not accuse herself of any sin. She had been blind, that was all. Their intimate and delightful friendship, her veneration for Luke Brett's opinion,

her trustful dependence on his support and sympathy, had all helped to deceive her. She had wandered in pleasant places with the heedlessness of a child picking flowers, and before she knew, she was on the verge of a precipice.

'There is no sin in it,' she whispered, but it hurts -it must always hurt'; for a dull sense of anguish at the bottom of her heart told her that she would never be nearer to him. 'Even if he cares for me, as I sometimes think he does,' she said to herself, ‘I am not sure that he will ever tell me so. With all his goodness, I do not understand him; he is a sealed mystery to me. Sometimes I think that there must be some one else whom he has loved and lost, and that for her dear sake he cannot bring himself to marry. Miss Gillian is always a little mysterious about him; if she knows his secret, she will not tell it.'

Sheila would not have been human if she could have entertained the thought of a possible rival with any degree of equanimity. Not yet had she attained to such heights of unselfishness as to desire Luke's happiness at the expense of her own—such sublime self-abnegation is not to be gained in a day. On the contrary, Sheila was disposed to envy even a dead woman in her supposititious grave, for her abiding sweet life in Luke Brett's memory. Would she not herself be willing to give up years of life just to hear 'I love you, Sheila' from those grave firm lips! It must always hurt,' she had said to herself, and she was right; for to any woman, even the best and purest, unreturned love must be a thorny crown.

It is no use to deny that it is a heavy trouble,' Sheila went on in that sad introspection, ‘and that inwardly I shall never be the old Sheila again.

But

in time, and if nothing occurs to take him from me, I shall hope to grow content and peaceful. And, after all, I have his friendship, and surely that is worth any other man's love.' And when she had arrived at this conviction, Sheila took up her Prayer Book as usual.

It struck her as strangely significant that it opened of its own accord at Psalm xlvi., 'God is our nope and strength: a very present help in trouble.' 'A very present help in trouble,' she whispered; 'that will do for to-day.' And she closed the book.

If Ned noticed Sheila's pale face and heavy eyes, he made no remark. But as soon as breakfast was over he put on his ulster and set out for the vicarage. Sheila saw him as she passed through the hall.

'I shall not go to Martha until you come back,' she said quietly. Please give my love to Miss Gillian, and tell her that I shall be round presently.'

Ned was soon back. His report was fairly favourable; if the invalid was no better, he was certainly no worse. Dr. Moorhouse had paid an early visit, and had told them that there was no need for uneasiness.

'Did you see him, Ned?'

'Well, no. He had just dropped asleep after the doctor's visit, and as he had had a restless night and his cough had been troublesome, Miss Gillian did not wish him to be disturbed. Mrs. Morse is to sit up with him to-night, and Emma will remain with him until she comes. His temperature is still high, and he is very feverish-but of course the influenza must run its course.'

'I am glad Mrs. Morse is to have the night nursing,' returned Sheila, 'she is so experienced and careful.'

And then she went over to the Old Cottage to tell

the sisters the unwelcome news. They were both

much shocked.

'I thought Mr. Brett had a cold yesterday—his voice was so hoarse,' observed Betty; and I remember he coughed in the churchyard.'

'If he only would have let Mr. Ducie read the service,' sighed Martha; 'Betty and I would have understood. It is grievous to think that he is suffering because he was too kind to disappoint us.'

'Of course it was not wise, but it is no use thinking of that now'; for Sheila felt unwilling to dwell on this subject.

Then after a little while she left them and went on to the vicarage.

Miss Gillian had a worried look, but she greeted her favourite affectionately.

'I hope you consider me a true prophet,' she said at once. 'I could scarcely attend to the service properly yesterday, I was so anxious. I knew how it would be when he came in flushed and coughing. I did not waste my time in scolding him; I just sent over for the doctor, and he ordered him to bed at once. But there, I don't believe that I have had much more sleep than Emma had, for I was up and down a dozen times in the night, just to listen at his door.'

'Dear Miss Gillian, you ought to have taken more care of yourself. It was such a bitter night, and that long passage is so draughty,—you will lay yourself up too.'

'Then you will have to come and nurse me, for Emma can't manage the pair of us. But how was I to rest in my warm bed, when my dear boy was so ill? You don't look very fit yourself, Sheila'; and Miss Gillian looked at her with affectionate concern.

Sheila coloured a little painfully. 'It was almost too