but I am quite resigned. I was not worthy to be your wife. And yet, Mordaunt dear, I loved you very, very much. You will, I think, sometimes miss your poor little Jenny."

Mordaunt could not answer. His heart was too full. He walked aside amongst the shrubs to hide an irrepressible burst of anguish. It was some moments before he could recover himself and return to her.

"Mordaunt, dear, promise me-that when I dieyou will be with me-and Mr Musgrave. Now, carry me in, dear; I am so tired."

It was the last occasion on which she left the house. She became too weak to be moved; but her bed was wheeled to the window, in order that she might look her last upon the sea and sky she loved so well, She did not speak much, and she often dozed. Once or twice Mordaunt heard her murmur, softly, "How beautiful! how beautiful it all is! I suppose in heaven".

The room was very
Once or twice she

The end came. As she had wished, Mordaunt and Musgrave were with her. It was just after sunset. They knew that she was dying. still. She was tired and sleepy. looked at her husband, and tried to wind her weak arms fondly round him. He kissed her, passionately, amid his silent weeping. She sank back and seemed. very, very still. He murmured, "Jenny!" and her eyes opened and looked smilingly at him. She made a sort of appealing gesture, and Mordaunt lifted her up and rested her little head upon his breast. She seemed very happy; too weak to be fully conscious; but very calm and happy. Her worn hand felt for that of Mordaunt. The shadows deepened in the silent chamber. Musgrave knelt down by the bed and prayed fervently, aloud: She seemed to hear,

and smiled happily. Suddenly Mordaunt cried out in sharp anguish, "Jenny !" and this time there was no answer, no response. Musgrave laid his hand. upon Mordaunt's shoulder, and said, "Come away, Mordaunt, all is over. Your dear wife is now with God." She was nineteen when she died.

Mordaunt's grief was terrible. No one who had known him in old days would then have believed that this man had such strength of love and depth of

sorrow.

But for Musgrave, who never left his friend, and who could comfort and console, Mordaunt would perhaps have lost his reason,

Mordaunt

They laid her in the cemetery at Nice. waited until a stone was raised to the memory of "Jenny, the beloved wife of Mordaunt Langley ;" and then he left for England with Musgrave: but his heart was in that grave, and his joy was buried in it too.

He returned a sadder and a wiser man. He set himself to find out every detail of his wife's birth and parentage. Mrs Simcox was so far affected by the news of Jenny's marriage and her early death, that she exuded a few grubby tears. She was, however, easily consoled. She gave Mordaunt all the help she could, but that was not of much value. Nineteen years had elapsed, all the principals were dead, the secondary evidence was not trustworthy. He could not find the church at which her parents had been married, or indeed, any proof of a marriage. He found that her father was a man of very good family, an officer who, just before Jenny's birth, went to India, and there fell in "wild Mahratta battle." Of the mother he could learn nothing positive. He could not discover, with certainty, whether there had been a stolen marriage, which had never been avowed during the

lives of the pair; or whether they had loved well rather than wisely. No efforts of his could quite clear up the mystery which hung over this part of the subject; and he had to leave the doubt as he found it. After a time, Mordaunt ceased to care about the facts which surrounded the birth of his lost, his darling wife. During their early lovemaking, he had once taken Jenny to a photographer; not thinking, at the time, how infinitely precious a photograph of her would soon become to him. He had a portrait painted from the photograph, and this cherished emblem of his lost love hangs always in Mordaunt's bedroom.

The Providence that shapes our ends had decreed that a connection rough-hewn in sin should end in sadness—and in blessing. Mordaunt had done no ultimate harm to the poor little girl whom he had thoughtlessly led astray; and she, if she left him with a saddened life, had also left him with a purified, ennobled soul.

Some years have passed since her sad, early death. Mordaunt will never marry again. He has regained calm, but has lost for ever the old careless happiness. One tender memory is threaded through his whole web of life. I think he loved his Jenny even more after he had lost her, than he did while she still was with him here below. He fancies, and believes, that their souls are united, and he is happy in that imagination. Her grave is never without fresh flowers, and once a year Mordaunt makes a pilgrimage to Nice. When away from the place, his thoughts are ever in that far, foreign cemetery; and his mournful memory sees continually a simple stone sacred to the cherished memory of JENNY, THE BELOVED WIFE OF

T

DINING:

A CONVERSATION PIECE.

(Scene A CLUB SMOKING-ROOM.)

RE look;

EGINALD.-My dear fellow, how dull you what is the matter?-is it heart or stomach? I half suspect that you are suffering from depraved dining; if so, confess, and avoid.

Alured.-Too true, too true; I have been dining

badly.

Reginald. Then the verdict must be-Serve him right.

Alured.-I am depressed, I own. sadly, but not through my own fault. in your guess, but your verdict is victim-I cannot reproach myself.

I have suffered

You are correct unjust. I am a

Reginald.-Where have you been dining badly ?— not at the club, surely? By the way, our new man at the "Mausoleum" does very well.

Alured.-No; it was not at the club that I have dined badly. In fact, I have not been there much of late. I have been injured "in society." I was driven from the "Minerva" in consequence of the bad dinners there. We have an imbecile committee, and an imbecile committee always means a bad cook. Our committee is most imbecile. The late Mr Bland could not more ably burlesque a monarch than our vile body

makes committee rule ridiculous. But non ragionam di lor;-let them pass. I am suffering under bad society and bad dinners-for the two go together. As the husband is, the wife is: as a man's dinners are, so is the man.

Reginald.-Well, I find you not guilty, and caution you never to do so again. Why, my dear fellow, you ought never to dine badly. You have no excuse. Take another cigar; they are good, and will tend to soothe and brace your mind. Your organisation is so fine that you positively cannot stand bad dining. It shows upon you as distinctly as a white shirt collar on a negro. You must be just to yourself, my Alured. You must really, if merely for your friends' sake, take care to dine only in a manner which will not deprave your organs, cloud your spirits, or dim your imagination. For my sake, Alured-if only for my sakepray, pray be conscientious in your dining.

Alured. Thank you, dear boy, thank you; yes, you are right. But your eagle-eyed insight and tender concern for your unhappy friend have transported you beyond the ignorant present, beyond this humble. individual, and have led you to touch upon a tremendous subject—on one which, I own, affects me deeply. I allude, my dear Reginald, to the great philosophy of dining.

Reginald.-Ah, a tremendous subject; a transcendental philosophy-a philosophy which, I fear, transcends merely human faculties. Still, let us humbly pick up shells on the shore of that mighty ocean of science. But I see the afflatus seize you; I mark how the great theme distends you. Speak, my blessed Glendoveer; 'tis thine to speak, 'tis mine to hear. Sometimes, Alured, your thoughts, like a balloon in a cloud, are high, but obscure; that is,