and scratching against the window of loosened branches of the rose which covered the front of the cottage.

The earlier part of the day had been fine and warm; but late in the afternoon, with a suddenness which seemed almost frightening, the heavens had gathered blackness and the wind had arisen -roaring in the chimneys, slamming the doors, driving through the garden, bending down trees and shrubs, whirling along twigs and leaves, tearing away from their fastenings long sprays of rose and ivy, and swinging them wildly backward and forward. For some three hours the gale had lasted, and when the wind lulled -altogether cease it did not-then down came the rain, and in that determined manner, without cessation or abatement, which brings a nervous feeling, as if it might rain on thus for ever, and never stop at all.

Mrs. Weatherill had purposed this evening some visits to invalids, but that was quite out of the question; to have reached even the chapel, had it been service-night, would have been somewhat of an adventure. So she had employed part of her time in hearing the young servant stumble over a page in an easy lessonbook, and in making her write a copy; and wonderful was it to see of what varieties of strange misformation the letter A was capable ! Scrabbing, washing, digging potatoes, seemed to Martha light labour in comparison with reading and writing; and Mrs. Weatherill, seeing her weary look, had hastened supper and prayers somewhat, that the sleepy girl might the sooner go to bed.

Clarissa was generally the last of her little household to seek repose. Since her trouble she had slept but imperfectly; the evil was aggravated by very early retiring, but she was far too unselfish to desire, on that account, to keep waking younger and less troubled eyes. And, as a rule, she rather enjoyed this half-hour of perfect, assured quietness. It had not been so to-night. The drawn-down blind shut out the sight of the darkness and the rain, and the lighted lamp tried to give cheerfulness to the room; but the dismal sounds could not be shut ont, nor had she been able to forget them nor give her full attention to the book she was endeavouring to read.

She had just laid it aside, had wound up her watch, and was about to seek her bedroom, when she heard what, in the daytime, she would have said to be the roll of a vehicle on the road, and a sudden stopping near her gate. That was most unlikely at this time of night, and in such weather; it was only some new freak of the restless wind. Yet she listened. There again! like the roll of the vehicle moving off. That was a step on the gravel, surely! Her heart beat. Then a knock. What was it? Could it be Edward-Alice?

Prudence might have dictated an inquiry before the chain was removed, but she thought not of that; with eager, trembling haste she undid the fastenings and opened the door. Not Edward, not her child-a tall, slender woman, a light shawl thrown over her head, stood in the darkness.

"Mrs. Weatherill ?"

Then she knew the voice. "Irene! You! What is the matter?

Come in. How wet you are. Such a night, and so late! Why did you not write, dear? Has anything happened?"

Irene threw off her wet shawl, her hat and scarf in the passage, and came into the parlour. Her light dress looked ill-suited to this wild wet night, her curls were disordered, her face flushed, her eyes looked large and strange, but wonderfully lustrous and beautiful.

"I am come to you to take care of me, Mrs. Weatherill; to save me from myself. O, I am so unhappy, so very miserable!" And she threw herself into the motherly arms which embraced her tenderly.

"Dear, you are cold. Come to the kitchen, the fire is not out, and the servants are in bed." And she took her in, ascertained that she was not really wet, only having been exposed in coming up the garden, placed her in a low chair on the rug near the fire (for Mrs. Weatherill's kitchen was provided with means of comfort as well as her parlour); and then again she asked, "But tell me, dear, why are you unhappy? What is the matter?

"I hate him! I scorn him!" she said, a fierce lurid light flashing from her eyes. "And—and—I loved him," she said in a low voice. "Who, Irene? What has happened? Try and tell me," Clarissa entreated.

"I don't feel as if I could," she said, covering her face with her hands; and her friend waited in dreadful suspense. Suddenly she looked up. "I have had murder in my soul to-day, I have been a murderer in intent; but I did not do it. You will let me stay until I can forgive? No, that I never will; but can let vengeance alone-leave it to God, who will recompense!"

"Vengeance! for what? Oh, Irene; you must try and tell me, whatever it is." Clarissa was pale, trembling, sick with fear.

"Mrs. Weatherill, he professed to love me, and I loved himtrusted him fully. I felt myself not wholly unworthy of him, nor my parentage inferior to his. Genius-the fame which would have been-was, in my thoughts, as real a distinction as wealth and title. I never dreamed he thought otherwise; he never told me so. But-marriage was not his meaning. I found it out in time. To have had such thoughts of me, such thoughts of my father'smy mother's daughter! O, it was crael, horrible! He deserved

death at my hands, as in the first moment I purposed; but I did not do it, I came to you."

Safely; without the shadow of a stain ?

came to Clarissa's eyes.

And tears of relief

"Only a shadow; otherwise, assuredly, I should never have come at all," she said proudly; "a shadow there may be; people may talk. I did what I could. I telegraphed to John that I was come on to you, and I had a witness that I started straight for Hillsbridge, and alone. John will believe me if no one else does; and so will Mrs. Walton. But O! I am very, very miserable;" and she covered her face again, bowed it low and moaned.

"Dear, you are worn out; come to bed, and I will bring you something to take, and you can tell me all to-morrow."

"Please, no,” said Irene, "if you would not mind staying up I would rather tell you all to-night. I could not eat, but I am very thirsty."

A large jug of milk stood in the larder, not cold, having been scalded by Susan just before going to bed; Clarissa poured out a large tumblerful, and Irene drank eagerly.

"I want to tell you all now, and then never speak of it for evermore. To-morrow I shall write to John and to Mrs. Walton, and tell them all the truth, and then-silence for ever! But, of course, I can never be happy again."

The faintest smile was on Mrs. Weatherill's lips, but she would not say to the suffering girl that the wound would heal. In the first moments of anguish, such attempts at consolation are oftener irritating than comforting. So she seated herself patiently in an arm chair; she was feeling much shaken by the shock and agitation, but she tried to conceal all sign of this, and Irene brought her low seat and placed it close to her friend, yet so that her own face might be turned away as she told the tale.

"It was one day in January," she commenced, trying to speak in a quiet voice, "and near its close, that it all began. A beautiful day it was, though cold; the clear white light was delightful for painting, and I was hard at work in Mr. Claude Durant's studio. Visitors were there frequently, but, when thoroughly engaged, I scarcely noticed who went and came. That morning I had been working with absorbing eagerness, so had been only dimly conscious that one or two were in the room, until, having secured the effect desired, I paused for a few moments, and, looking up, I saw a gentleman standing not far from me and observing my canvass carefully.

"Almost instantly I knew who it was the same gentleman I had seen that day at the Exhibition, who secured that my father's name should be placed on his picture, that day, when I first

resolved to be a painter myself! Mrs. Weatherill, I never once thought that it could be otherwise than the right thing to do to rise and go to him, and tell him who I was, and to thank him for the kindness shown to the living and to the dead. And I told him that the sudden resolve that day made had been in a measure fulfilled. He replied that he saw that it had, and in no mean degree; and he scrutinised and praised my work, and was, as I called it then, so kind.' Oh!" and she groaned, and was silent a little.

6

Presently she recommenced, "After that we met often. He came to the studio almost daily, because, so he said, he liked to watch the progress of a picture being executed for him, but I knew it was to see me, and we met at the Cathedral, and he took me to a concert, and to the opera. It was like a wonderful bright dream, being with him; he was so different from any one I had ever known-so handsome, graceful, fascinating, his voice and manner of speaking so polished and refined; and he was clever and cultivated-educated at Harrow and at Oxford. He had travelled, too. We could speak together of Rome, Venice, Florence, and he could tell me of the Alps and of the Rhine, of Norway and of Sweden.

"But in three weeks he was going from Clifhampton; it was not his home, although he spent much time there, and the day before he left he told me plainly that he loved me, and I owned that I loved him. Oh, it was a happy day; for I did love him. Yes, this very morning, this very noon. How all is changed now!" and again she was silent, and the sound of the wind and the rain filled up these pauses. Then suddenly she turned round and looked up pleadingly into Clarissa's face. "Mrs. Weatherill, need I tell you his name? I would so much rather not. I wish never to speak it again-never, even to myself. Need I tell?"

"No, dear; do not, if you would rather not do so."

"Thank you, you are kind. And," she went on, "then I told him that I must write and tell you, and tell my other friends. But he begged me not; he said he should be returning to Clifhampton in a few weeks, that would be quite time enough; and he asked me to promise to say nothing, and I promised, for though I could not see the reason why, I trusted him fully, and thought it must be right, as he said it. And while he was away he wrote to me often, and I to him. Oh, Mrs. Weatherill!" she cried, with a sudden shock of recollection, "there are all those letters at home, locked up in my drawer, so carefully, so lovingly, I was so proud of them. I'll not touch them," she went on, passionately, "I'll not so pollute my hand; the tongs are too good for thrusting them into the fire! Presently he came back, and then again I said that I must write to you, and he must let me introduce to him Mrs.

Walton and the family of my friend Emily Arnold. But still he said no, it might lead-once he said, must lead-to our being separated for ever. He could not endure that; could I? And I said, 'No,' that would be inexpressibly dreadful to me; and though I could not understand, I kept silence. How blind I was! There were things that I remember now which ought to have opened my eyes, but they never did. The only reason I could think of was, that he thought you would object to an unequal union— think, perhaps, that I, 'not being to the manner born,' should die, like that weak-minded maiden, wedded to the Lord of Burleigh.

"For, Mrs. Weatherill, he was high-born, of a noble family, though only a younger son. When I asked, he told me of the ancestral home, a noble mansion standing in a wide park, and with abundance of deer under the great trees. That was not very likely ever to come to him; but five miles distant from this seat stood a fine old manor-house, with gabled roof and oriel windows, and oak-floored and panelled rooms, and high carved fireplaces; and around, a quaint garden, with cut yew hedges, and behind tall elms where was a rookery; and that he held in his own right. I asked-I do not think of his own accord he would have spoken much of these things; he spoke more often of abundant means, and of a beautiful cottage near Keswick, in the midst of the lovely lake scenery, furnished with every luxury and pleasantness. Now I understand it! I thought of it then as a sweet retreat from more stately surroundings. What dreams I had! Of subduing any objections his noble relations might have felt ;-subduing them by my beauty and talent, and by what I could tell of a genius of which my aptitude is only a faint shadow; of visits, now and again, to the lordly mansion; of dwelling with him in the fine old Manor House, reigning its mistress; retreating with him to the sweet cottage among the mountains; being his companion in travel; revisiting sunny Italy; sailing up the Rhine-beholding the Alps-it might be the Pyramids, and even Jerusalem. I had vainer, more foolish thoughts still, of shining in London society a recognised beauty, a leader of fashion, being presented at Court, and so on. I did not forget my love of Art, although it had lost its foremost place. I though of painting for mere joynever more for money, and with the fresh inspiration given by a new and wider life. And we would be art patrons-discriminating and generous; covering our walls with pictures; encouraging rising genius. And I thought how nice it would be to ask you and Mrs. Walton to visit me, and Lettie; I feared John would not be willing to come. What a fool, what an utter child I have been!" and she laughed a bitter laugh, that ended in a burst of weeping and a low sobbing; while the wind without sobbed as if in sympathy.

And