that you don't care much about these matters which are so interesting to me, and which explains to me as I never heard them explained before; and this is the only reason why I did not speak more to you upon this subject. I didn't want to bore or annoy you," he continued; "but if I had ever dreamt that you could have misunderstood me so far as you have done, I would have taken good care, no matter how I might have pestered you, to have explained all these things to you. I can't afford to lose you, Ambrose," he went on, his voice sinking to a whisper, and his hand trembling more and more as it rested on mine, "I can't afford to lose you. God only knows what the future has in store for me, and I can't afford to lose you-I can't afford to lose you."

He repeated these words so often, 'and in such a sad tone of voice, that, despite my efforts to restrain them, several tears forced their way from my eyes, and one of them rolled down upon his hand. As he felt it, I saw him look with astonishment at the little drop, as it rested where it fell, for it was but seldom that a tear made its way from my eye. I was affectedmore than I liked to admit, even to myself, by his words; and that strange presentiment of evil, which I had first experienced during my visit to Percy Grange, came over me again a thousand times stronger and more powerfully than ever. As soon as I had mastered the emotion which his words had produced in me, I ventured to speak to him of the future at which he had thus hinted. In all the earnestness of my love for him I begged and besought of him to consider whether he was not entering on dangerous paths, whether he was not preparing a future for himself which might be one of misery and of pain, whether it

would not be better for him to stop short at once and make himself contented with things as they were. Most of all, I begged him to consider whether he in whom he trusted so much, and to whom he looked up with such implicit credence, were either a safe or a prudent guide in matters such as those of which we spoke.

When he raised his eyes to mine, ere he answered me, they were all on fire with confidence and trust in me, with enthusiastic feeling and interest in the subject which was so near and dear to him.

"I cannot go back, Ambrose," he said; "God is leading me, I know not whither, and I scarcely know how; but God is surely leading me, and I cannot go back. Neither can I think," he went on, "that is a dangerous or an unsafe guide. I knew nothing. I had no fixed ideas; it was all mist, and darkness, and perplexity till I met him, and I cannot believe that one who has given such definiteness to my belief, one who has taught me so much that is good and holy, can be leading me astray. Where it may end, or what the future may have in store for me I cannot tell, I cannot foresee. The shadow that I told you of," he cried, sinking his voice to a whisper so low that I could scarcely catch its tones, "seems to be drawing nearer, nearer, nearer to me; and, sometimes, it chills me with a dread that freezes me to my very heart; but, oh! Ambrose, Ambrose," he added, trembling till I could scarcely hold him, "whatever that future may be, I cannot go back. God is leading me, and I cannot and I dare not turn back. Oh, anything but that-anything but turning back!"

Again he turned away his head and sobbed a little while; not with sobs, soft and gentle as the

summer's falling rain, but sobs which seemed to force their way out of a heart that was suffering mortal throes, sobs that seemed as if they would choke him, as they rose gurgling in his throat. Presently, however, he came to, and spoke to me once more. "Ambrose," he said, "I have two favours to ask of you. Say that you will grant me my requests." I pressed his hand in silence, and he went on. "Promise me, then," he said, "that you will come to my rooms tonight and meet or else I shall not believe that you have completely banished your jealousy from your heart." It went rather against the grain to do it, but, nevertheless, I promised him at once what he asked of me. At the moment I would have done much more to show my penitence and my remorse for the unworthy doubts which I had so lately entertained of his friendship and truth.

After I had promised him this he rose to his feet, and I instinctively did the same. He came close to me, took both my hands in his, and looked into my eyes with a strangely earnest and imploring look. He gazed at me thus for a moment or two ere he attempted to speak to me. At last he bent his head down to my ear, and whispered to me out of the fulness of his simple heart: "Oh, Ambrose, dear Ambrose, promise me, too, that you will never forsake

me.

Promise me that, whatever the future may have in store for me, it shall never separate me from you. Promise me that you will never think less well of me; tell me that I may reckon for evermore upon your faithful friendship, your faithful neverfailing help. Let me think that I shall have at least one heart to lean upon, if the troubles which I dread so much shall fall upon me. Oh, Ambrose, promise me this-oh, promise me this."

It is not in mere words that promises such as that which I was called upon to make are made; but, nevertheless, I managed to find some with which I promised him what he sought of me; promised him that nothing which might ever happen to him should suffice to separate him from me, to make me love him one whit the less deeply or the less truly. I told him that, whilst the sky was fair and the clouds were bright, he might wander where he listed, and that I would never doubt him again, never again question his fidelity or his truth. But, most of all, I told and bade him remember that, if the clouds should darken and the storms should gather, this was the time he would ever be most dear to the heart whose friendship he so truly prized, prized indeed, far above its worth, the heart which called God to witness with what earnest, hearty, simple faith it was ready to shed the last drop of its blood to shield him, as far as might be, from one moment of sorrow and of pain.

CHAPTER VII.

ON THE BRINK.

was

KEPT my promise to him, and that evening I went to his rooms to meet , whom, as yet, I did not personally know. When Iarrived, I found already assembled not only him whom Eustace had especially asked me to meet, but also several of the heads of that great party of which certainly one of the chiefs. I was introduced to them, for, up to this time, I had never spoken to any of them ; although, of course, I had heard a good deal about them, and the strange and dangerous doctrines which they were already broaching in conversation, and even in their pulpits; and which, later on, they put forward so much more definitely and precisely through the medium of the "British Magazine," the "British Critic," and the famous "Tracts for the Times." They struck me as singularly earnest and sincere men, but, nevertheless, I didn't like them. Perhaps it would be more correct if I said that I was afraid of them, and all the more afraid, because I could as little comprehend and understand, as I could then appreciate and value them. I need scarcely say that nearly the whole conversation of the evening was on religious topics, and, especially, on those subjects which were then agitating the minds of so many other thinking men in Oxford, besides those who