sufferings have been as

nothing to mine in

knowing that she suffered.

Tell her not to sully

her prayers with my name; she would not, if she knew all.'

"He turned and passed out at the door.

"The next instant, Margaret, he came in again, and clutched me by the arms.

"Will you let me see her?' he said, hoarsely; 'will you let me see her, for the last time?'

"His hands had a strong tremble, so that they made me shake all over.

66 6

'You know she is not here,' said I, half bewildered.

66 6

'But she will be,' he said. Will you let me see her, then, without her knowing? May I look at her face one morning when she's asleep? I'll not stir nor speak to wake her.'

"It went to my heart, I cannot deny, Mar-. garet," said Elizabeth, "to have the man abegging and a-praying, for mercy's sake, I'd give him a sight of your face; but you are sick,

child; let me raise the window-there, turn your face so."

The window was open, the curtain undrawn, the candle lighted and placed on the table beside Margaret's chair.

Margaret noticed all these things, noticed them, with strange agitation.

She turned her swimming eyes on the widow, who, for the first time, took pains to avoid them.

Then Margaret laid back her head, and turned as white as death.

"I know what you have done," said she to Elizabeth. "He is there; he sees me now!"

CHAPTER XI.

THE NIGHT.

WHEN Margaret said, "He is there; he sees me now!" the widow Vandereck kept back in the shadow, and maintained a guilty silence.

The ragged fringe of fishing-nets, with bits of cork dangling, hangs down over the window, and sways to and fro in the damp, sleepy gusts of night air. The high tide roars in the darkness without; the children breathe placidly within. Elizabeth Vandereck stands at her little altar, her finger on her lips, her great moist eyes looking upwards.

"Cruel!" cries poor Margaret, and falls prone upon the floor.

Then comes a fumbling at the door-latch.

Elizabeth, in a tumult of joy, fear, and bewilderment, runs to it, then to Margaret, then back again to the door, and lets in a poor craven creature, with his hair hanging over his haggard face.

The widow snatches at one of his hard, cold hands, and drags him to where Margaret lies faint unto death, but conscious still. They raise her between them.

She gives a great shiver when she sees him, and clings fast to Elizabeth, and Hector staggers back-sits heavily down in a chair, and looks at his great hands as he clasps them before him, as though he thought Margaret has seen Kennedy's blood upon them.

"Hector," says the widow, standing before him, with Margaret's face upon her shoulder, "why do you shrink from this woman, who has no kith or kin in the world to own her, save you? Why do you not take your wife to your bosom? She is as good as gold-as gold tried seven times

in the fire. I will tell you, Hector, what she came to tell you on that night."

"You lie!"

"As I am a poor woman, trusting to God's mercy for my daily bread, I speak the truth. She came to tell you the good and blessed truth, man. As how she was met that day by the man she'd loved so dear. How he'd met her to punish her for being untrue to him, and so good to you, by proving to her he 'd all along been faithful to her, poor girl as she was, and out of all sight of his station."

"And she believed that tale," said Hector with a fierce laugh.

'Believed it, yes," answered Elizabeth; "but as it's a tale as takes a right down good heart to believe, no wonder if you doubt it, Hector Browne. So he showed her the marriage-lines, all in black and white, I say, and she-why think of it yourself, Hector—how you'd all scared her very heart. You sailors are a rough set, remember. Ah, but