mental or bodily effort-great, considering his exhaustion and childlike weakness.

It

About noon, when Honor has given him a little soup, he says again, quietly—" I have a favour to ask you. Will you be so good as to dress, take a cab, and go into the city for me?" Then he names certain banks and certain business he needs effected there. is business of a private nature, such as shows the utmost faith and confidence in his delegate. "I should not like to send Maltby," he continues, "and Mr. Minehead will not be in town yet for some days."

She assents willingly, though feeling weak and ill. At once she dresses and prepares to go. Going in to receive her master's final instructions, he adds just at the last :

"When Maltby has seen you into the cab, tell him to come up to me."

She obeys, and the old gardener goes gently into his master's room.

"I am right glad to see you, sir, out of bed once more. I ain't had a bit o' pleasure warming my heart like it for many a day. "Thank you, Maltby. Now I have a small duty for you, which you must effect quietly and quickly before Mrs. Honor returns. Lift down my daughter's portrait here, and take it up stairs, or into the adjacent room, and unnail the cover which is over it. Do this quietly, so that Ruth may not hear what you are about; and be sure you cause no dust, or any disarrangement of Mrs. Honor's furniture or carpets. When done, come quietly, and hang the portrait up again."

Brings it in, upon it the When thus

Maltby obeys to the letter. hangs it up, so that there falls fading light of the autumn day. it hangs, Dr. Oliver says quickly, and in a husky voice, "Go now, Maltby, and say nothing to any one."

Never once, till he is alone, does the father lift up his face from the pillow in which he has hidden it, to look at the likeness of his erring child. Then, by a great effort then with a cry of pain-that shows how thoroughly the depths of his whole being are moved, he turns his longing, eager gaze upon the likeness of her he loved with such passionate tenderness. The sight moves him deeply--more deeply than it is well that he should be moved; he covers his face with his hands, and moans in his extremity of anguish. Then he strives for calmness, to crush regrets for the past, to let what the present holds for him-what devoted faith

has preserved for him-comfort him, and shine like a light upon this face of the beloved dead!

The portrait-which is the size of lifehas been painted by a master-hand. It represents Dr. Oliver's daughter on her eighteenth birthday, which was likewise her wedding-day. She wears her bridal dress-a very simple one-but her extreme beauty needs no aid from art. Still, whilst nature has thus perfection, it has imperfection. There are signs of pride and rashness, a want of depth and fixity-there are to be seen the passions on which a life will be wrecked!

So he gazes till the daylight fades-till his grief fades with it-till his cheerfulness, in a degree, returns.

Presently Honor comes in. She has stayed no longer below than to take off her cloak and bonnet-for no kindness lessens her reverence for her master. Her hands are full of papers and money.

"Put down the papers, Honor," says Dr. Oliver, in a moved and husky voice, "and just stir the fire-I need some light."

She obeys instantly. The fire has been piled up with coal, and now, being stirred, bursts into a blaze which floods the room. Then she comes near the couch, and her master, moving his wasted hand upwards, says, "Look there!"

She looks up, and sees that the portrait has been uncovered, and that there is the image of the dead!

She does not wait to hear what he has to say, or to see in his fine face another mood than that of iron sternness, but falls upon her knees, stricken by the terror which his years of austerity in regard to this forbidden subject has engendered.

"Oh! master-master-if you know the truth, forgive me. I was with your daughter when she died. I have tried to be somewhat of a mother to her child. Oh! even for their sakes, do not drive me in anger from your doors!"

She is convulsed with grief and terror; her tears fall like winter rain; her poor, coarse hands are clasped as rigidly as those of some effigy in stone.

"Do you think you deserve this, Honor?" Still she mistakes the voice-still she does not see the divine look of gratitude and mingled contrition which beams upon her like some heavenly sun.

"Oh! master-master-I could but be

tender to her who was your child. Oh! in your charity, forgive your servant; for who may lift up a stricken woman so gently as a humble woman, such as I. She was your daughter, sir-pardon me for my presumption."

"Look up, Honor. Look at me once, and you will not mistake me further. It is I who have to humbly crave your forgiveness for unmerited harshness, for mistaken austerity. Forgive me, and say how I can reward you."

She does look up-she does perceive there is no cause for terror; she is convinced that here is gratitude instead of anything like repulsion; she does know now her great reward is come, and that the wishes of the dead will be fulfilled. This sudden revulsion from terror to joy is almost more than she can bear-she still kneels-still weeps; this time, gentle tears!

"Oh! master-master-I need no reward saving your kindness and the liberty to serve you as long as power be mine."

This noble master does not insult her by any offer of money, or place, or advance; he well knows that there are deeds in this life that nothing of this world, or in this world, can ever give a recompense.

So he soothes her-speaks gently to her— makes her sit down near him, and tell him all. Many, many tears are wept by either before her little narrative is done. Then she goes and fetches a long-kept letter for her master, in which, as in the previous one she gave the husband, rests a tress of ebon hair.

It is not for her to witness the throes of the deepest of all mortal love-that of a parent for a child. So she steals from the room with the lightest step she may.

Her master seems waiting for her when she returns, and is calmer than she expected. His first question is a curious one.

"My pillow was taken, then, for that poor head?"

“Yes, master; and your own lies on it now."

from her errand to the city, breaks a bloodvessel, and is for a fortnight confined to her bed-indeed, there is need for much alarm respecting her state-though the worst is hidden from her master. But as soon as she can leave her room, Dr. Hastings urges, rather than forbids, her little journey, provided she goes well protected from coldwhich she does-for she travels first class, and is warmly clad in furs and wrappers. Before she starts, Dr. Oliver has mended much, though still confined to his chamber, and he has been made acquainted with Mr. Minehead's forthcoming marriage with Alice Charnwood. This latter point pleases him inexpressibly; and Honor conveys charming messages and an exceedingly rich present to her whom he is so good as to call " my new daughter."

As

The tenderest care awaits Honor in her rustic home, though all her friends are saddened at the sight of her wasted form and altered looks. Yet the change seems to do her temporary good, and she rallies. soon as this is the case, she spends a day with Alice and the darling children, and then prepares to go and speak to Benjamin. Hitherto she has not seen him; for, though she has been a week at home-and he must have certainly heard of her being here, and of her broken health-he has neither made one inquiry after her nor presented himself.

She chooses a day when she knows his housekeeper will be gone to market, and he, probably alone in the house-place. To the intent of finding him thus, she sets off in the early afternoon-her father driving her slowly in his old-fashioned cart. It has been a very bright November day-though the sun now begins to wane upon the russet tints and falling leaves of the thick woodlands. They drive by lonely lanes that are beautiful, though autumn is so sere. By-andbye they come to a glade, which opens through the woods.

"We will stay here, father, if you please," says Honor; "the path across is short, and I shall get at once into the garden, and so to the door, which I would rather do, than drive with ceremony into the courtway. I can take your arm, and you can help me to the garden gate."

After some little demur as to her weakness and the roughness of the path, the old man lets her rest upon his arm, and leads her on. The day is fading quickly around them, the sun casts reddened strips athwart the wood

land gloom, the russet leaves come shaken from the boughs above their head-the wind blows fitfully and with a wintry sound. When they reach the garden gate, she will let the old man come no further.

"There is fire-light in the kitchen," she says, "and Benjamin is, doubtless, there. Let me go in alone; what I have to say to him I would say without others being by.”

So she goes on feebly to the door, taps at it, lifts up the latch, and enters the old house-place. It looks differently to when she saw it last. It is clean, cheerful, has an air of home, and a great fire sparkles in the wide old grate. Before this Benjamin sits, alone-neither pot nor pipe is to be seen, but a book lies open on his knee, though he does not read it, but is gazing abstractedly into the fire. His face is hard-very repulsive in its sternness-and age and sorrow have left their visible impression.

For a moment he does not seem to be cognizant that any one is present-then looking sharply round, he sees the intruder, and evidently not recognizing her, asks sternly who it is, and what they need.

"It is me, Benjamin Southam-it is Honor Freeland."

66

Well, why hast thou come here?" His manner is appalling in its iron hardness.

"To tell you with my own lips who was the mother of the child. I owe it to you to tell you, Benjamin; this is why I trouble you."

"I do not need to know," he says, hoarsely, "That time be past-I wish no words with thee."

“Nor do I wish to press them on you— only so far as to say that little Dora's mother was Dr. Oliver-my master's daughter. The poor lady did badly-left her husband; and master would, in consequence, never hear her name mentioned; indeed, threatened such of his household as spoke of her to turn them from his doors. When the poor dying lady, therefore, sent for me, and intrusted the babe to my care-it being her child by her second husband-I thought it right to keep the secret. Now, farewell, Benjamin; I have been ill, and I do not think that the world, or any of its joys and sorrows, are long for me. But I shall live as well as die the easier for having told you what is solemn truth."

She expected him to be cold, perhaps austere, but not to evince iron hardness such as this. Inexpressibly wounded by his

VOL. VII. N. S.

manner, she turns to go-feebly and painfully-for she is very weak. He lets her go till her hand is upon the latch, then, at a stride, he follows her, and puts his arm about her.

"Is it the truth, eh? Is the child another's? Hast thou been true to the love thou said thou hadst for me?"

She turns her face, and looks at him with a steady earnestness which touches and convinces him, though appalling him by the signs written there. Then, with an inexpressible tenderness-quite her own-quite worthy of the woman- -she steals her arms about his neck, and rests there as she says, "Had you married me, Benjamin, at the time you'd settled, had 1 lived with you ever since as your wife, I could not be purer or more truthful to you than I am at this hour. As to Dr. Oliver, he has never been more to me than a noble master and a most reverenced gentleman. I can say no If these solemn words do not convince you, nothing will."

more.

He is convinced; he does believe at last; in his manner-a revulsion as it is from such austerity-there is much which is frantic and idolatrous. He bears her to the fire-for he sees how weak she is-and there cleaves to her with a passion it is most touching to behold.

"I do believe thee-I do; I was a fool not to see it all. But what makes thee ill and thus changed, eh? Why art thou thus so thin, so weak, so altered? But I will nurse thee, soon have thee better; aye, that I will. For thou shalt not leave this, but stop with Peg for to-night, and to-morrow I'll get a license, and we'll marry at once. Our years have been too sorrowful to let us add another day to them."

She sees it is necessary to check this vehemence ere it goes further. So, freeing herself from his passionate detention, she makes him sit down. Then, drawing a stool to his feet, she nestles down beside him, as a child to its mother's knee.

"No, Benjamin, it is best for you to know the truth, and what are my wishes: which, if you love me, you will accede to. I am in a dangerous state, and it would be unwise to marry me for so brief a time as mine must be. Besides I could be of no utility to you as a housewife, but a burden on you from day to day."

For that I dunna care," he says, passionately; "I have been saving money, and

Ꮓ

thou shalt be waited on and tended like a lady; nay, thou shalt have every advice and all sorts o' medicine likely to mend thee, till the last shilling's gone; and then, if there be need, I'll turn out to common labour rather than thou shalt miss a comfort. Aye, lass, I can do all this, and more for thee."

"I know it, Benjamin, and I bless you for your love and goodness; but I would rather it be otherwise. Indeed, you must accede to my request, for I make it very earnestly."

A little of his old gloomy irritability comes back again, and he asks, rather fiercely, the length and cause of this new sorrow, when hope and joy might be his. She hesitates to

tell him.

Come, tell me ; it is just as well to know the worst of all the misery that be mine. Who led to thy being ill?"

She hesitates yet to tell him; but, seeing he will know, she says, gently-willing to soften a bitter and necessary truth-" You, Benjamin-you-my death-blow came from you. That same night you sent the cruel message about not marrying me, and I was even putting in the last stitches to my wedding gown when it came, I broke a bloodvessel. From that time I was never well again, though I hid the matter, till years after, I told master's noble physican, Dr. Hastings. Seeing, therefore, that you were the cause of our present grief, you will, if you love me, patiently bear it. Marriage would be no remedy; and I would rather die as I now so long have lived, in Dr. Oliver's noble service. I like the quiet life amidst his books, though only his servant, and not over well taught. I like the dear old home -the things within it. I like to be near one I so respect as my beloved master. shall like to serve him to the end, if only in mere fancy. Benjamin, it is best for both of us; purer, more right, more preparative for heaven. Benjamin, we are not the only man and woman in the world whose deep and solemn love has been of the spirit merely, whose hopes rest on some future in eternity. Now, you must promise me, for my wish is most solemn."

I

He bows acquiescently and resignedly. His grief is too great for words, his pity too profound, his love too mighty, his repentance too sincere, to refuse her a wish so earnestly expressed.

For many minutes neither speak. Then he says, very quietly, "Thou must let me

be kind to thee, Honor; let me show how I respect and love thee. And let us, when the end come, mingle our dust in one grave down in the churchyard here; for thy life and mine, lass, will be separated by no broad span."

Honor does not answer; but he knows by her manner that she consents.

Presently, she rises to go, and he assists her tenderly. When they get out together, and leave the warm and cheerful house-place, the wintry night has come, the wind blows chill and drear, the dead and russet leaves come dropping, dropping from the boughs; their summer and their greenness is over.

After being nursed a few days at home, Honor returns with Bella and Dora to London, whither Alice will, in a week or two, follow. She reaches her master's house just at the close of the winter's day. Her first thought is of him, and, as soon as her cloak and bonnet are off, she goes gently up-stairs He is in the drawing-room, on the couch, but has dropped into a doze.

She regards him for some moments with respectful affection, then places a stool just within sight of him, and near him, then steals away again. ▾

Returning down stairs, she restrains Bella's impatience to see her grandpapa, unpacks a trunk, dresses Dora in the little gray duffle coat made so long ago from her mas ter's dressing-gown, and puts the big, flaxenheaded doll in her arms.

"Now," she says, earnestly to the child, 'you must go up-stairs with me and Bella; and whilst we wait a little while outside the door, you must go in softly with Miss Doll, and sit down on the stool I have put, till the poor sick gentleman awake. Then, when he speaks to you, you must answer kindly, call him grandpa, put your arms about his neck, and kiss him tenderly. You must do this because your mamma and I wish it, and because the gentleman is really your grandpapa, and the father of your poor mamma who is gone to God."

She promises readily; for her nature is loving and docile.

So they go up-stairs gently, and the little child creeps lightly into the room, Miss Doll in her arms. Sitting down on the little stool, she looks wistfully at the gentleman, for his pale and shrunken face awes her much. She sits thus some time-Miss Doll quite forgotten.

Then Dr. Oliver slowly opens his eyes,

thinks at first he dreams, presently recognizes the marvellous likeness to the dead, the flaxen-headed doll, the little duffle coat made from his old study-gown. He sees at once this little stratagem suggested by the divine heart of his servant. Nature, pity, love, tenderness, strive together in him for mastery. But, suppressing, by an effort, any emotion which might terrify the child, he says gently, "Come here, my darling."

She obeys, going on tiptoe, with Miss Doll. "Will you kiss me?"

She puts her arm at once about his neck, for his voice and manner win her, and says, in her pretty baby tongue, "Yes, grandpa." "Will you love me, darling, as Bella loves me?"

Yes, for you sent me Miss Doll."

His heart can contain no more; he needs her of whose mercy this is the fruit, so he calls, "Honor, Honor."

As he fancies, she is near. She comes in with Bella, who rushes forward, and, with Dora, is in her grandpapa's arms. Saying nothing more than "Master-master," she draws his arms yet closer around the twain. Her sublime and holy duty is done!

*

Mr. Minehead marries Alice. Dr. Oliver recovers, though left a valetudinarian for evermore; and Honor, sometimes better and sometimes worse, approaches the end of her service. Still she lingers; lingers in that long, slow way that consumptive people often do, where great aids and care are theirs. For no cost is too large that would save her to the honouring master. Accompanied by his grandchildren, he bears her to the south

of England, there, for a time sets up his home. When better, she comes back to London, there to officiate in a few light duties that give her still the happy sense of service to her master. But, whether here in town, or in a distant part of England, Benjamin often visits her, becoming enfranchised, as time wears on, from his gloomy views of this life and the life to come.

Finally, Dr. Oliver takes his grandchildren and his servant to the south of France, and there settles for a time. One day, even when to outward eyes Honor seems better, she tells her master that the end is very near, and she would like to return.

"It is my wish, sir," she says, "to die in the home sanctified by my ten years' service to such a master."

He obeys; her lightest wish is law, and she is brought slowly back to the dear home, which dutiful Ruth has ready for them.

Some days after, just as the chill autumnal day is on the wane, the beloved master goes up to visit, as usual, the honoured servant; Bella accompanies him. They find, as they often do, Dora on the bed beside Honor, her arms about the tender creature's neck. At first they think the latter sleeps, as Dora does, lightly, till awakened. But, looking at length nearer, Dr. Oliver sees how it is.

"Children," he says, solemnly, as a ray of the setting sun falls on his servant's peaceful face, "she will never awaken more. Honor is gone to God !”

And, for the first and last time, he presses his lips upon the folded hands which have served him so truthfully and so well.

I AM an elderly gentleman of sedate, meditative habit, loving to pursue the even tenor of my way methodically, on the quiet side of the street, the better to cogitate unmolested a crotchetty theory, or pile up a fantastic speculation. One of my choicest pleasures is to pace leisurely about my business, in this thoughtful mood, keeping sufficiently alert, nevertheless, to take note of noteworthy matters, and often seduced from my road to rummage a book-stall, or feast upon the dusky beauties of an old painting