counted all that she had done - but in reality they were but signs of the illness and starvation that were contending for the mastery of her. She put a little water on to boil over the blazing sticks, and watched it greedily. She made some tea, with trembling eagerness, and found a new excitement in the strength it gave her; but when the fire had died away, and an hour had passed, she was prostrate again. Gradually she became so ill that she could scarcely drag herself from the drawingroom to the kitchen; the sense of being unfit to stay in the world grew upon hera dread of seeing people, a haunting fear of some one coming to the door. But no one came through all those terrible days except, once or twice, Jane Mitchell, only to be told that "her services were not required."

could bear it no longer, and dared not see | the darkness that seemed to be growing white with their faces. But when she closed her eyes it was no better; they came a little closer and touched her with their hands as if they would push her a little farther into space; she was not fit to be among them. The friends of her girlhood, with whom she had played and shared her little secrets, came from the strange world into which they had carried the memory of their own blameless lives. They looked at her reproachfully, and went away; she would never be one of them now, even in eternity. And there was one more; she could see him coming softly through the shadows. He stood beside her, and she cowered and hid her face. Then she knew that he was sorry and understood that, in some grotesque manner, it had been done half for love of She thought of Walter and Florence him. It comforted her a little to think sometimes, and was afraid of their coming this, while she turned her face down to the back. She could never look them in the cushion, and sobbed, "Forgive me, I am face again, or dare to speak to them, or so ashamed-so ashamed." At last, per- see the children. Just as before she had haps, she would ache with fever and cold, exaggerated her own importance in the and the sharp pains went through her world and her own virtue, now she exagagain. She welcomed these almost lov-gerated her own disgrace. She knew ingly, thinking that perhaps they meant the coming of the end; and gradually, as the morning broke, she would doze off into a weary sleep.

Sometimes a ghastly fear would seize her that Alfred Wimple was coming back. She could hear his footsteps going round the house; she fancied he was creeping beneath the veranda, that he was trying the window. He wanted to come in and strangle her. She could feel his long hands closing round her throat, and put up her own to draw them, finger by finger, away. It was not the killing she would mind, but the pollution of his touch.

what the women she had once despised
felt like "I was never lenient," she said
to herself. "I was very harsh, as if they
had gone out of their way to do wrong.
I ought to have shown them more clem-
ency" and as she said this, there came
before her the face of Mrs. North. She
sat and looked at it.
"She was young,
and there was excuse for her; and I am
old, yet could not forgive her. I will
make atonement now. I will write and
tell her." Her fingers were so weak she
could hardly hold the pen, but she man-
aged to put down a little entreaty for for-
giveness. "I ought to have been more
gentle to you," she wrote. "I know that
now, for I have been as frail" she
stopped and gave a sad little wink at the
I know what your suf-
as you.
ferings have been by my own, and can
pity your humiliation." The letter re-
mained on the table-she almost forgot
it; fever and blackness filled her life-
she could scarcely walk across the room.

66

The morning brought the postman, with

Through the day she wandered from room to room-now looking at the table at which he had sat the last night of all; or seeing him, with his back to the buttery-wordhatch, eating the sole and the chicken she had brought from London; or standing in the doorway, when he came afterwards and asked her for the evening paper. She went to the window and looked at the garden, and the pathway down to the dip; but this was more than she could bear, and she would turn away and sit down by the empty fireplace again. She grew hungry once; a terrible craving for food came over her. She gathered some sticks together, and made a fire, all the time seeing strange visions and grinning fiends that mocked her. She took them to be the punishment of her sin - for sin she

a letter from Walter and Florence. "Would you put a postage-stamp on this for me?" she said, giving him the one for Mrs. North. "I will repay you the next time you come; I have no change for the moment."

She put the letter with the Monte Carlo post-mark on the mantelpiece, and stood looking at the familiar handwriting, and

you?"

"There is no one here. I am not fit to have any one with me. I am all alone." "All alone!"

"Yes," — and she shook her head.

imagining them together beneath the blue | North said, stroking the scanty grey hair; sky, Walter in high spirits, and Florence "I can't bear to see you cry - you mustn't with her pretty hair plaited round her do it; you are ill. Who is here with head. "Dear children!" she said. "He is growing more and more like his father." She closed her eyes for a moment; her limbs swayed and gave way beneath her; and she fell from sheer weakness, and could make no effort to rise. Presently she pulled the cushion down, and lay on the rug again as she had on the night of Alfred Wimple's departure. She did not know how the day passed - probably most of it went in forgetfulness. The next afternoon came, and she had not no-ity," Aunt Anne said ruefully. ticed the hours.

"Then I shall stay and take care of you, and nurse you, and make you quite well again. You know I always cared for you, dear old lady," - and Mrs. North kissed her tenderly.

"And I treated you with so much sever

"It was very good for me. And now,” The click of the gate, and footsteps Mrs. North said, in her sweet, coaxing coming towards the house-Aunt Anne voice, "put your feet up on the sofa; you struggled up, panting, and listened-a are trembling and shaking with cold. quick knock at the door. She hesitated, Why, you have no fire; let us go into raised herself to her feet by the armchair, another room where there is one." and went out, but could not gather courage to undo the lock.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Let me in," cried a voice that was familiar enough, though she could not identify it. She bowed her head - she was about to be looked at in all her humiliation — and, with trembling hands, opened the door.

Mrs. North walked in, with a happy laugh. She was perfectly dressed, as usual, and carried a white basket.

"My dear old lady," she said, "what is the matter? Your letter frightened me out of my senses. I came off the moment it arrived. You poor old darling, what is the matter? Why, you can't stand I must carry you." She supported the old lady back into the drawing-room- - cheerless and cold enough it looked; that was the first impression Mrs. North had of it - and sat down beside her on the sofa.

"My love," the old lady said, "I wrote to ask your forgiveness; it was due to you that I should, for I am worse than you. If I was harsh to you once, you may be harsh to me now."

Mrs. North pressed her hand. "But you are ill, dear Mrs. Wimple," she said.

Aunt Anne looked up with a start of horror.

"I must ask you never to call me by that name again; it is not mine. It is the symbol of my disgrace. It is my greatest punishment to remember that I ever for a single moment bore it." And then she broke down, and, dropping her head on Mrs. North's shoulder, sobbed as if her heart would break.

"You dear- you poor old dear," Mrs.

"There is no fire in the house," Aunt Anne answered. "The weather is very mild; moreover, the coal-cellar needs replenishing. I have not been sufficiently well to do it."

"No fire! and you evidently suffering from bronchitis ! Oh, you do indeed need to be looked after. Have you no servant here?" Mrs. North was rapidly taking in the whole situation.

"No, my dear. I wished to be alone." "But this is terrible. We must set everything to rights. You appear to be killing yourself. I don't believe you have anything to eat and drink in the house."

"No. I have been too ill to require nourishment; I regret that I cannot ask you to stay."

Mrs. North looked at her almost in despair. Then she took off her hat and gloves, and stood for a moment, a lovely picture in the midst of the dreary room, before she knelt down by Aunt Anne.

"Let me stay with you," she pleaded, taking the two thin hands in hers; "you were always so good to me. I know that something terrible has happened to you; you shall tell me what it is by and by, when you are better. Now I want to take care of you; and you will let me, won't you?"

"You shall do anything you like, my dear," Aunt Anne gasped, too weak to offer resistance.

Then Mrs. North went out to the fly, which was still waiting at the gate, and found Jane Mitchell, who, attracted by the unusual sight, was talking to the driver.

"I want some coals sent at once, and a servant."

"I was the servant, if you please,

ma'am ; only Mrs. Wimple said she didn't | in any outlines that had been left a little want me," remarked Jane. vague.

"Let it be anything you like, my dear." "What does the Madon Mrs. Hibbert call you? But I know; she calls you Aunt Anne. Let me do the same." Yes, dear, you shall call me Aunt Anne."

66

"Then go in immediately and make a "We know each other so well now, I fire," answered Mrs. North imperiously; don't think I ought to call you Mrs. Baines "and if there are no coals get some in- any longer. I want to call you something stantly, from your mother's cottage or any- else." where else. There must be shops in the village. Order tea and sugar, and everything else you can think of. I will send to London for my maid and cook to come and help you. Make haste and light a fire in the drawing-room. Where is my shawl? Here, driver, take this telegram; and order these things from the village, and say they are wanted instantly "-she had written the list on the leaf of a note-book; "and this is for your trouble," she added. "Now, you dear old lady," she said, going back to her, "let me put this shawl over your feet first, for we must make you warm. Consider that I have adopted you." In a moment she ran up-stairs, and searched for a soft pillow to put under Aunt Anne's head, and then produced some grapes and jelly from the basket she had brought with her. Aunt Anne sucked in a little of the jelly almost eagerly, and as she did so Mrs. North realized that she had only just come in time. "We must send for a doctor," she thought; “but I am afraid that everything is too late."

In twenty-four hours the cottage looked like another place. Mrs. North's cook had taken possession of the kitchen; a comfortable-looking, middle-aged maid went up and down the stairs; the windows were open, though there were fires burning in all the grates. There were good things in the larder, and an atmosphere of home was everywhere. Aunt Anne was bewildered, but Mrs. North looked quite happy.

"I have taken possession of you," she explained, the second morning after she came. "You ought to have sent for me sooner. In fact, you ought never to have left me. You only got into mischief, and

so did I."

"Oh, I am so glad to be with you," Mrs. North went on. "I have longed sometimes to put down my head on your lap and cry. I have been just as miserable as you have more, a thousand times more; for my shame "-she liked indulg. ing Aunt Anne in her estimate of her own conduct "has been all my own wicked doing, but yours was only a sad mistake. I don't think we ought to be separated any more, Aunt Anne; we ought to live together, and take care of each other."

My dear," said the old lady, still lying on the sofa, "there will be no living for me; I am going to die."

"Oh no," Mrs. North answered, with a little gasp, "you are going to live and be taken care of, and loved properly. I wish the doctor would come again. Then I should speak on medical authority. Go to sleep a little while; I will sit by you."

An hour passed. Aunt Anne opened her eyes.

"Could you put me by the fire, my dear; I am very cold."

"Yes, of course I can; but wait a moment. Clarke will come and help me. Clarke," she called, "I want you to come and help me to move Mrs. Baines."

"Now you look more comfortable," she said, when it was done. "There is a footstool for your feet, and the peacock beside you to keep you company."

Aunt Anne sat still for a moment, looking at the fire.

"My dear," she said presently, "I have been thinking of what you said; we have both suffered very much; we ought to be together. Only now you have the hope of a new life before you. But we have both suffered," she repeated.

Mrs. North knelt down beside her like a girl. "Suffered," she said. "Oh, dear old lady, if you only knew what I have suffered the loneliness of my girlhood, the misery of my marriage, the perpetual hunger for happiness, the struggle to get it. And oh! the longing to be loved, and the madness when love came, and then - then but you know," she whispered passion

-

answer to an inquiring look; "you must | tion. That horrid lord mayor, as she wait until the doctor has been; remember it is my turn to be autocratic."

"Oh, yes," she said eagerly; “and the ex-lord mayor was the old lady's cousin. I regret to say that she is very ill in bed, and cannot possibiy see you, but I should be happy to deliver any message." Mr. Boughton looked at her with benevolent criticism, and thought her a most beautiful young woman. She, meanwhile, grasped the whole situation to her own satisfac- politely.