ma'am ; only Mrs. Wimple said she didn't | in any outlines that had been left a little want me," remarked Jane. "Then go in immediately and make a fire," answered Mrs. North imperiously; "and if there are no coals get some instantly, from your mother's cottage or anywhere 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." 66 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 In fact, you ought never to have You only got into mischief, and sooner. left me. so did I." "Yes, my dear," said Aunt Anne feebly, we both did." 66 Mrs. North's lips quivered for a mo ment. vague. We know each other so well now, I don't think I ought to call you Mrs. Baines any longer. I want to call you something else." "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." "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 indulging 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. 66 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. "It shows that we ought to have stayed together," she said, half crying. "PerMrs. North knelt down beside her like haps I should have been better if you had a girl. "Suffered," she said. "Oh, dear not gone. Oh, I shall never forget all you old lady, if you only knew what I have suftold me this morning." For Aunt Anne, fered the loneliness of my girlhood, the in sheer desperation, as well as in penitent misery of my marriage, the perpetual hunlove and gratitude, had poured out the ger for happiness, the struggle to get it. whole history of her life since she left And oh! the longing to be loved, and the Cornwall Gardens, and Mrs. North's keen madness when love came, and then - then perception and quick sympathy had filled but you know," she whispered passion ately — "I need not go over it; the shame, and the publicity, and the relief I dared not to acknowledge even to myself, when I was set free. And then the awful dread that even he, the man for whom I did it all, would perhaps despise me as the rest of the world did. I am not wicked naturally, I am not, indeed I don't think any woman on this green earth has loved beautiful things and longed to do righteous things, more than I have, or felt the misery of failure more bitterly." "It will come right now, my love," Aunt Anne said gently. "You are young; it will all come right. You said you had a telegram, and that he was coming back?" | "Yes, he is coming back," Mrs. North answered, in a low voice; "but I do not want him to set it right because I did the wrong for him, or just to make reparation from a sense of honor. I do not want to spoil his life; for some people will cut him if he marries me; it is only - only if he loves me still, and more than all the world, as I do him - that is the only chance of it all coming right. It is time I had a letter But here is your beef-tea. Let us try and forget all our troubles, and get a little peace together." She looked up with an April-day smile, took the beeftea from Clarke, and, holding it before Aunt Anne, watched with satisfaction every mouthful she took. "I fear I give you a great deal of trouble," the old lady said gratefully. "It isn't trouble"- and the tears came to her eyes; "it is blessedness. I never had any one before to serve and wait on whom I loved; even my hands are sensible of the happiness of everything they do for you. It is new life. But now we have talked too much, and you must go to sleep." "Yes, my love”—and Aunt Anne put her head back on the pillow; "I will do as you desire, but you are very autocratic." "Of course." Mrs. North laughed at hearing the familiar word, and then went to the dining-room for a little spell of quietness. 'Clarke," she said to the maid who had been waiting there, "go in and watch by Mrs. Baines; she must not be left alone." Mrs. North sat down on the chair that Aunt Anne had pulled out for Alfred Wimple after her return from London. "Oh, I wonder if it will come right?" she said to herself. "If it does if it does -if it does! But I ought to have had a letter by this time; it is long enough since the telegram from Bombay. Something tells me that it will come right; I think that is the meaning of the happiness that has forced itself upon me lately. It is no use trying to be miserable any longer. Happiness seems to be coming nearer and nearer. I have a sense of forgiveness in my heart; surely I know what it means? Perhaps, as Aunt Anne says, all I have suffered has been an atonement for the wrong. One little letter, and I shall be content. The dear old lady shall never go away from me; she shall just be made as happy as possible." She got up and went to the window, and leaned out towards the garden. "Those trees at the end," she said to herself, "surely must hide the way down to the dip, where she listened. It is very lovely to-day "-and she looked up at the sky; "but I wish the doctor would come, I should feel more satisfied." There was a footstep. "Yes, Clarke; is anything_the_matter? Why have you come? You look quite pale." "Mrs. Baines is going to die, ma'am ; I am certain of it." "Going to die?" Mrs. North's face turned white, and she went towards the door. "I don't mean this minute, ma'am; but just now she opened her eyes and looked round as if she didn't see, and then she picked at her dress as dying people do at the sheet-it's a sure sign. Besides, she is black round the mouth. I don't believe she will live three days." Mrs. North clasped her hands with fear. "I wish she would stay in bed; the doctor said she ought to do so yesterday; but she seemed better, and begged so hard to come down this morning that I gave way." "It's another sign," said the maid; "they always want to get up towards the last." "The doctor promised he would be here by twelve, and now it is nearly two." He came an hour later. "She must be taken up-stairs at once," he said; so they carried her up, Clarke and the doctor be tween them, while Mrs. North followed anxiously; and all of them knew that Aunt Anne would never walk down the stairs again. Then a telegram was sent to Florence and Walter, at Monte Carlo. But she was a little better in the evening, and Mrs. North brightened up as she saw it. Perhaps Clarke was a foolish croaker, and signs were foolish things to trouble one's self about. The old lady might live, after all, and there would be some happiness yet. "No, Aunt Anne, you are not going to get up yet," she said next morning, in answer to an inquiring look; "you must | tion. That horrid lord mayor, as she wait until the doctor has been; remember mentally called Sir William, had probably it is my turn to be autocratic." "Yes, my love "—and she dozed off. Half her time was spent in sleep. Since Mrs. North's arrival there had stolen over her a gradual contentment, as if a crisis had occurred, and the blackness of the past grown dim. Perhaps it was giving place to all that was in her heart, or the sound of Mrs. North's fresh young voice, or the loving touch of her hand. Be it what it might, Alfred Wimple and the misery that he had caused seemed to have gone farther and farther away, while peacefulness was stealing over her. "It is like being with my dear Florence and Walter," she said to Mrs. North once- -"only perhaps you understand even better than they could, for you have gone through the pain." "Yes, dear Aunt Anne, I have gone through the pain" and Mrs. North sat waiting for the doctor again, not that she was very uneasy to-day, for the old lady was a little better, and hope grows up quickly when youth passes by. CHAPTER XXII. THE Sound of the door-bell, and of some one being shown into the drawing room. told his solicitor all about Alfred Wimple; and the little dried-up gentleman before her, who was (as she had instantly remembered) the uncle, had come to see how the land lay. Mrs. North felt as convinced as Sir William had done that the whole affair was a conspiracy between the uncle and nephew, and she promptly determined to make Mr. Boughton as uncomfortable as possible. "I quite understand the business on which you have come to see Mrs. Baines," she said, with decision, but with a twinkle of mischief she could not help in her eyes. "You have heard, of course, that the conduct of your delightful nephew, Mr. Alfred Wimple, is entirely found out.' "God bless my soul! said Mr. Boughton, astonished out of his senses. "What has he to do with Mrs. Baines?" "You perhaps approved of his romantic marriage?" Mrs. North inquired politely. She was enjoying herself enormously. "His romantic marriage!" exclaimed the lawyer. "I know nothing about it. My dear madam, what do you mean? Is that scoundrel married?" "Most certainly he is married," Mrs. North went on; "and, as far as I can gather particulars from Mrs. Baines, your charming niece is a dressmaker at Lip "At Lipbook!" exclaimed Mr. Boughton, more and more astonished; "whywhy "The doctor has come, Aunt Anne," Mrs. North said. "I will invigorate my-hook." self with a talk before I bring him to you, and tell him that you are much better." But instead of the doctor she found a little dried-up-looking old gentleman standing in the middle of the room, holding his hat and umbrella in one hand. She looked at him inquiringly. "I understood that Mrs. Baines was here," he said. Mrs. North looked up with expectation. "I have come from London expressly to see her on important business. I was solicitor to the late Sir William Rammage," he added. Mrs. North's spirits revived. This looked like a new and exciting phase of the story. "Are you Mr. Boughton?" "I am Mr. Boughton and he made her a formal little bow. "I see you understand "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 possibly 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 "Where she lives with her grandmother," continued Mrs. North, in the most amiable voice. "Her mother, I understand, lets lodgings in the Gray's Inn Road, and it was Mr. Wimple's kind intention to pay the amount he owes her out of Mrs. Baines's fortune." "Good gracious! that was the woman who came to me the other day. I never heard of such a thing in my life! How did he get hold of Mrs. Baines?" There was something so genuine in his bewilderment that Mrs. North began to believe in his honesty, but she was determined not to be taken in too easily. "The details are most exciting, and will be exceedingly edifying in a court of justice. Now may I inquire why you so particularly wish to see the old lady?" "I came to see her about the late Sir William Rammage," Mr. Boughton said, finding it difficult to collect his scattered wits after Mrs. North's information. "Is he really dead, then?" she asked politely. "Most certainly; he died on the fifth, | remark now - she said the last words and Mrs. Baines between laughter and tears. "She is much too ill to see anybody; and as I understand he burned his will, and has not left her any money, it is hardly worth while to worry her with particulars of his unlamented death." "Burned his will? Yes, for some extraordinary reason he did so Charles, the manservant, tells me - he did it in her presence. He had no time to make another, for the agitation caused by her visit killed him." "Or perhaps it was the mercy of Prov. idence," remarked Mrs. North. Mr. Boughton did not heed the remark, but asked: "May I inquire if you are in Mrs. Baines's confidence?" "Entirely," she answered decisively. "Then I may tell you that no former will has been found, and she is next of kin. There are no other relations at all, I believe, and she will therefore inherit about three times as much as if the burned will had remained in existence." "Really!" and Mrs. North clapped her hands for joy. And then the tears came into her eyes. "Oh, but it is too late, for she is dying; nothing can save her; she is dying. I have telegraphed to her nephew and niece to come back from Monte Carlo. She has had a terrible shock, from which she will never recover; and besides that she has virtually starved herself and taken a hundred colds. She has not the strength of a fly left. I know she is dying," Mrs. North added, with a sob she could not help. "Don't you think that the good news I bring might save her life?" "No; and I am not sure that it would be good to save it, she has suffered so cruelly. What a wicked old man Sir William Rammage was!" she burst out, and looked up sympathetically at Mr. Boughton. "He was my client," the lawyer urged. "He allowed the poor old lady to starve for want of money, and now that he is dead and she is dying it comes to her." "Yes, it is very unfortunate very unfortunate." 66 66 "My dear madam," Mr. Boughton exclaimed, in rather a shocked voice, “pray don't let us begin a discussion. To go back to Mrs. Baines, I think if I could see her "It is quite impossible; you would remind her of your horrible nephew, and that would kill her." "What on earth has she got to do with my nephew?" and this time his manner convinced Mrs. North that he was not an impostor. "Mr. Boughton," she said gravely, "the old lady is very, very ill. The doctor says she cannot live, and I fear that the sight of you would kill her straight off; but, if you like, I will go and sound her, and find out if she is strong enough to bear a visit from you" and, the lawyer having agreed to this, Mrs. North went up-stairs. - - her girlish voice note in it when she I have some good Do you 66 "Dearest old lady' had always a tender spoke to Aunt Anne. news for you - very good news. think you could bear to hear it?" "Yes, my love," Aunt Anne answered wheezily, "but you must forgive me if I am sceptical as to its goodness." Mrs. North knelt down by the bedside, and stroked the thin hands. "Mr. Boughton is down-stairs; he has come to tell you that Sir William Rammage is dead." "Then it is true," Mrs. Baines said sadly. "Poor William! My dear, we once lay in the same cradle together, while our mothers watched beside it. What does Mr. Boughton say about Alfred ?" "He doesn't appear to know anything about his wickedness." "I felt sure he did not; I never believed in the depravity of human nature." "Then how would you account for Mr. Wimple?" she asked, with much interest. The old lady considered for a moment. "Perhaps he was my punishment for all I did in the past. I have thought that lately, and tried to bear it only it is more than I can bear. It has humiliated me too much. Tell me why Mr. Boughton has come; is it anything about Alfred? "Nothing," was the emphatic answer; and if you see him I advise you not to mention Mr. Wimple's name." "Everything seems to be a point of view," Mrs. North went on, in the eager manner which so often characterized her." Poverty is the point of view from which we look at riches we cannot get; from vice we look at virtue which we cannot attain; from hell we look at the heaven we cannot reach. Perhaps Sir William Rammage would appreciate the latter part of the "My dear," Aunt Anne said impressively, "except to yourself, his name will never pass my lips again. I feel that it is desecration to my dear Walter and Florence to mention it in their house. I shall never forgive myself for having brought | niary obligation I shall still remain your him into it. But perhaps all I have suf- debtor. But there are some things I fered is some expiation; you and I have should like to do. I wish Mrs. North to both felt that about our frailty" and have a sum of money; I will tell her my she shook her head. "What is the good wishes in regard to it." news?" "Mr. Boughton brought it, and it is about Sir William's money." Mrs. Baines was silent for a moment; then she looked up, with a little wink, and a smile came to her lips. "I should like to see him," she said. "But will you help me to get up first? I think if I could sit by the open window I should be better." "Perhaps you would, you dear; it's warm enough for summer. Let me help you into your dressing-gown. Stay, you shall wear mine. It is very smart, with lavender bows; quite proper half-mourning for a cousin. There. now-gently" and she helped the old lady into the easy-chair by the window. It was a long business, but at last she was safely there, with the sunshine falling on her, and the soft lace and lavender ribbons of Mrs. North's dressing-gown about her poor old neck. "And are you sure it's good news, my love?" she asked Mrs. North. "I am quite sure," Mrs. North answered, as she tucked an eider-down quilt round Aunt Anne. "He has come from London on purpose to bring it to you." "Has he partaken of any refreshment since he arrived?" "No; but I will have some ready for him when he comes down from his talk with you. Now you shall have your têteà-tête" - and Mrs. North went back to the lawyer. "You must break it to her very, very gently, and you mustn't be more than five or ten minutes with her," she said, as she took him up to the bedroom door. Aunt Anne was so much fatigued with the exertion of getting up that she found it a hard matter to receive Mr. Boughton with all the courtesy she desired to show him. She took the news of her fortune very quietly; it did not even excite her. "It is too late," she said. "Nothing can solace me for what I have lost; but it will enable me to make provision for my dear Walter and Florence." Her eyes closed; her head sank on her breast; she put out her hand towards the window, as if to clutch at something that was not there. Mr. Boughton saw it, and understood. "I cannot repay you for your kindness and consideration," she went on presently. "Even when I have discharged my pecu "Perhaps I had better return in a day or two. You must forgive me for saying, my dear madam, that, with the vast sum that is now at your disposal, you ought to make a will immediately. I could take instructions now if you like." 66 Instructions?" she repeated, with a puzzled air; "I will give them all to Mrs. North, and you can take them from her. You will not think me inhospitable if I ask you to leave me now, Mr. Boughton? I am very tired. Tell me, did they send for you when William Rammage died?" 66 They telegraphed for me immediately, and when I got to the office I found your letter waiting for me the one you wrote before you left London, giving me your address here." She did not hear him; her eyes had closed again, and her chin rested down on the lavender ribbons; the sunshine came in and lighted up her face, and that which Mr. Boughton saw written on it was unmistakable. "You are quite right, my dear madam,” he said to Mrs. North, as he sat partaking of the refreshment Aunt Anne had devised for him; "it has come too late." He looked at his watch when he had finished. "I have only a quarter of an hour to stay," he said. "Before I go, would you give me some explanation of the extraordinary statements you made on my arrival?" "You shall have it," Mrs. North answered eagerly; "but wait one moment, till I have taken this egg and wine to Mrs. Baines and seen that the maid is with her." "That's a remarkably handsome girl," the lawyer thought, when she had disap peared; "I wonder where I have heard her name before, and who she is?" But this speculation was entirely forgotten when he heard the story of his nephew's doings of the last few months. "God bless my soul !" he exclaimed; "why, he might be sent to prison with hard labor and serve him right, the scoundrel!" "I am delighted to hear you say it," Mrs. North answered impulsively. "Please shake hands with me. I am ashamed to say I thought it all a conspiracy, even after you came, and that is why I was so disagreeable." "Conspiracy, my dear madam?- why, the last thing I did to Wimple was to kick him out of my office; and I have been worried by his duns ever since. As for |