and girl-never dreaming of deceit which we could not comprehend. And although the glory of that morn of love has been succeeded by a sudden long dark night, it never faded to the light of common day-was never ruined by mean doubts, nor fretted by everyday cares and follies; but has remained a pure, sweet memory through all these years of sorrow.

"Do you remember our first meeting, love?—our first confession, and the innocent kiss which sealed the mutual tender of our hearts each to the other? Do you remember the long summer days of our journey to be married in Prussia? I was your wife by the left hand-that was all, you told me, that you could give me; and I believed you, and was content, since you were a great noble, and I the daughter of a poor French émigré, an artist. I knew I had your heart. I knew the vows I offered up to God were true. I trusted that He would

accept them.

"If we sinned—and the deep punishment of after-days will make us read in it God's judgment of our love, my Philip, which was too tenderly and too exclusively our own; too human, warm, and joyous of this life-we sinned at least in love, not hate; from generous impulse, not from sordid desires and faithless love of the world. But this we knew not then. You lifted me from a life of trial and of care to one of comfort and of plenty, in its modest way.. You enabled me to aid my father in his years of want, disease, and old age; and to lay my poor mother in an honoured grave. Το you the retirement of our little house at Passy-with its tiny garden where the sweet birds sang, and where the violets grew, and the sun came, it seemed to me, earlier and lingered later than in Paris streets-might have seemed but poverty. To me it was a fairy palace. I remember now the paper on the walls of our little salon, which gave its windows to our garden; our little bed-room, fitted in the English style; our kitchen, where our servant-a grave, honest, pious Norman-sat and told our beads, and wondered at our love-which rejoiced her heart and seemed to her, as she said, like some sweet fairy tale, which she read all day and dreamed of in the night.

"I remember, too, almost every word you said: your noble sentiments, your generous disregard of self, your every action;

not one angry word, not one clouded look in all those days of love; not one expression of being tired or wearied of my fond love ;-not one sentence but that which an English gentleman might use to a lady far above him! Can you wonder that I loved you?

"You were of that generous people which-when at war with my country, and suffering grievous wrong from herreceived my father, and thousands like him, and aided him in all his struggles, and gave him life and hope.

In

"And I, a girl, had an hereditary love for our noble enemies, and yet our friends, the English. I loved their language, their stately poems, and their calm yet warm manners. you I found my ideal-no slave of passion, yet so full of life and love; no empty braggart, but so strong in action; no dreamer, yet so generous in thought. Oh, my Philip! you were my all, and you were worthy-ay, in spite of untruth, wrong, and fate."

Here the poor lady paused awhile, and the doctor gave her some more wine and water.

"Let her speak," he said, softly-and his two bright, hard, and scientific brown eyes were brighter for the moisture that was in them,-"Let her speak as long as she will. This has been long upon her poor heart; it will do her good to say her say, poor woman."

Winifred had crept nearer to the sufferer, and had caught one hand, and fondled it and kissed it. In the picture of the father she recognised the traits of her own Philip; and had not Eugenie been full of sorrow and ill-health, which was quite a sufficient reason to attract this young lady's love, she would have loved her for the sad sweet voice and the full-hearted memory of her own young love. The good little nurse, looking up with saintly eyes from under the cold shade of her white cornette, told her beads with fervour, and, it may be, thanked God that she had escaped this trial and this sorrow caused by human passions. Was she right? I hardly know. Is the soldier better who has not joined the fight? It may be but surely the thankfulness which arises from past trial and trouble is better than that which boasts an isolated safety. The same sweet smile again flickered upon the thin, pale fea

so;

tures, as if some pleasant memory had lit up a lantern which had long been dark.

"Do you remember, Philip," she said, "how we wandered in the Louvre, and in Versailles, and how you made each picture memorable by describing it to me, telling me of the story of my country, and never using one hard word against us: pointing out how we had fought at Fontenoy and Ivry, your face glowing with admiration for the gallant deeds of knights, or your eyes dimming with moisture as you recounted some heroic deed which led to death?

"Sooner or later, all paths lead to death, my Philip! The world we reck so much of is death's antechamber; and long have I waited in it. I am now near the door, and would bid you good-bye."

The face was more solemn, but still hopeful, as she spoke. Then the tone changed.

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How often have I since stood in those pleasant palaces, and recalled those words! Surely, if men knew the love that women bear them, they would never use one harsh phrase towards them. The memory has been a pleasant one, and has kept me alive during a long trial.

"And, alas! what a price we mortals pay for love, for comfort, and for joy! Thirty years!—for thirty years, and the light of my life gone out, leaving me half dead and darkling.

"The blow was too severe for me to attempt to defend myself, or to recover from it. I could only gather what comfort there was in prayer, and in my child—our child, my Philip!"

Winifred listened even more eagerly than before, and pressed the thin hand more closely. The Earl gazed at the dying woman even more intensely; and the doctor, raising her form gently, gave her some more refreshment. After a short pause, the patient, with a sadder tone, and the tears gently dropping one by one from her closed eyes, continued

"The trial had not changed me, my dear sweet love, nor had it broken me. I determined still to endure. I took the punishments, as some good priests tell us to take them, as a recompense for the greater pleasures we had known as a trial and a test, a warning that we should not forget God. Heaven help me life is at best a trial, when we hardly dare be happy

except in the dreamlike illusions of our youth. I trusted your love, Philip, even though you were married to your English wife. I never flinched, nor failed, nor doubted. I was rewarded. But oh, the bitter sweet! You proved your love by urging me to be dishonest to your other child. With all the eloquence which a pent-up, unsatisfied love could give you, you tried to persuade me to do wrong. I resisted for a long time-for a long, long time."

"You did, Eugenie! God knows you did. You were better and wiser than I was. You set before me the folly of the wrong, but I could not be persuaded."

"My dear!" murmured the poor sick lady, "God permits some of us to yield to sin, because we do not trust Him. I was about to yield, when I went to confession, and sought comfort in the words of the good father who directed my prayers. He knew not of you, for I did not tell him all. He showed me a way out of the horrible pit, even if it was for the first and only time in my life "

"The first and only time!" The Earl breathed more quickly, and awaited with anxious ears, as if he divined what was coming.

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Even, then, if I deceived you. You urged me to change the children. You sent to me your Normandy nurse with my little boy, rosy with country air and tanned with sea breezes. He was to be, like you, the great Earl of Chesterton. But then he would have been, like you, tempted, set up high, and born to miserable alliances of family and of pride, never to know the truth. I looked for smaller paths and quieter ways for our child, my Philip. My heart revolted at the trial for my boy. I could not consent. Your nurse-a creature only won by gold-received my bribe as well as yours. You thought that you had succeeded; but my child was kept near me-as I well knew-and did not fill another place! Pardon me, Philip!"

"Thank God!—thank God!" gasped the nobleman, as if a weight had fallen from him; while Winifred, covering the thin, frail hand with grateful kisses, placed it to her own pure heart, saying

"He is Lord Wimpole still!"

"THIS is a very strange case," remarked the doctor.

"I am so thankful you are here, Dr Richards," whispered Winifred, speaking thus for her husband's sake. "You will remember what the poor lady has said?"

The doctor replied by an upward, a surprised but brilliant glance, which plainly said, "Can any one forget it?" The nurse, too, looked up, as if to testify that she also was human.

"Hush!" ejaculated the doctor at length, after a somewhat anxious pause," she will speak again." Then he thought to himself, "The newly-recovered strength will last some timeit is useless to check her. What I dread is, the collapse after this; but if she will aid us-as of course she will, with hope before her I think we shall pull through. Sickness of what we call heart and mind, conscience and feeling!—those are the matters which puzzle the doctor." The same strange, trembling, nervous motion passed over Mrs Wade's form and features as she again spoke, after drinking eagerly and with interest-not mere sufferance-some wine, as if she knew that it did her good, and gave her momentary strength.

"I would not have deceived you, Philip, in that; for I would have done your bidding even in wrong, but that I would not wrong another. I am sure that I have been right. I felt a better and a wiser woman afterwards. I accepted, as you know, my fate. I was not one to struggle against the decrees of Providence. We loved each other too dearly. I loved you to the forgetfulness of all-even of God; and He smote me to remembrance with a bitter blow.

"I know this nurse was true to me and false to you, by a secret knowledge that a mother has. My child remained with her, was brought up by her in his earlier years; and, alas! by that secret way of nature, of which we know so little, imbibed