"Indeed!" said Paul, becoming interested, and forgetting for the moment his own secret sorrow.

"Yes; I am almost sure he is.”

"And wherefore? His name is Evans."

"It is assumed. Her husband was a carpenter. Do you not remember how he started when he inadvertently told us that he put the window-sashes into Denby Rise?"

"But he is not the kind of man who would desert a woman," said Paul.

"I should say he is one who would have been an affectionate and good husband," said Anna. "There must have been some foul play; some cruel slander. The poor woman never knew why he left her; but she said he would return, and I am sure she loved him with all her heart. He was led to believe some wicked libel upon her. The fact that he left behind him, as I remember she told me, all the money he had, showed that the man was not unkind by nature. Paul-I am almost sure of it."

"And suppose it is?" said Paul.

"We must be sure before we act, love.”

"And when we are sure?"

"Mrs. Grey must be communicated with."

"Where is Mrs. Grey? Still in Maryport?"

66

It must be he,

Yes, with her two sons-the eldest I am told a very fine fellow in every respect. Poor Harry Thornhill introduced him into his business house."

Paul winced at the well-known name and remained silent.

"I must talk to him about Mrs. Grey, Paul. What do you think?” "I will not advise you," said Paul; "whatever your heart dictates will be right."

A week had not elapsed ere Mrs. Massey, after repeated attempts, succeeded in bringing Mr. Evans to talk more of Helswick, and Helswick people.

Paul, who had been unwell during the day, was walking in the garden, smoking, and answering the curious questions of his daughter, who was growing more and more like her mamma.

Anthony Evans was in the dining-room talking to Mrs. Massey. "And when do you think of going to Helswick?" said Mrs. Massey. "I have not decided," said Anthony mournfully; "I sometimes think I will not go at all."

Anna was almost timidly anxious not to hurt their visitor's feelings; but she was fully bent upon satisfying herself as to his relationship to Mrs. Grey, feeling assured in her own mind that a mutual explanation would settle the long estrangement.

"Did you know?" began Anna, her heart beating quickly, "did you know a person named Grey, at Helswick ?"

Anthony's dark face flushed, and he hesitated.

"Sarah Grey," said Anna, looking earnestly at him. "Yes," said Anthony faintly, "I did.”

Anna was sure that yes came from George Grey.

"She was such a good creature," Mrs. Massey went on—“such a kind soul."

Anthony moved nervously in his chair.

"I knew her for many years. There was a sad story connected with her earlier life."

Anthony trembled, and said nothing.

"Through some unexplained cause-through some base calumny, no doubt her husband deserted her. Poor thing! it was a dreadful grief to her; and yet, like a woman, she went on loving him and praying that he would come back."

"She was false to him!-False!" exclaimed Anthony.

"Then you knew her," said Anna quickly.

"Pardon me, madam-it is a painful subject," said Anthony calmer for his passionate exclamation.

"I am sure she was a true good woman; I dare be sworn she was," said Anna, not heeding Anthony's agitation. "I saw her every day for years; a more conscientious kind creature did not exist; nor a more affectionate mother."

"Mrs. Massey, Mrs. Massey, pray, say no more—your words are like daggers," said Anthony with quivering lips.

"Then you are not Anthony Evans," said Anna, rising, "but-" "George Grey," said the wretched man, covering his face with his hands.

"Oh, dear, dear," exclaimed Kate, running into the room, "Pa is so ill."

Mrs. Massey was in the garden in a moment. She found her husband leaning against a tree, pale and speechless.

"Paul! Paul!" she exclaimed in agony, taking him by the arm.

But there was no response.

moved, and he attempted to waik.

In another moment, however, Paul's lips

"Paul, my husband!" exclaimed Anna.

"Don't be alarmed," said Paul with difficulty, "I shall be better presently."

"Heaven send he may !" said Anna fervently.

"Dear papa," said Kate, taking his other hand and kissing it.

"Let us go into the house," said Paul faintly, and he walked with tottering steps between his wife and daughter.

Anthony Evans, or George Grey, as we had better now call him, only partially recovered from his sudden surprise and emotion, met them at the door, and assisted Mr. Massey to a chair.

By and bye Paul recovered and was quite himself again, with the

exception of being a shade paler. He did not know what had seized him; how he came to be so suddenly ill: it happened all in a moment. "I am all right again," he said after a while, in answer to his visitor. "No, thank you, I will not trouble the doctor-there is no need." "Can I do anything for you, anything at all," said the newly discovered Grey.

"No, thank you," said Paul.

"Or for you, Mrs. Massey?" he asked in a more subdued tone. "No, thank you," said Anna, "you must hear what I have to say another day."

"I will," said the man. "Good night, mam; good night, sir;" said Mr. Grey; "and good night, Miss Kate-take care of papa."

It was a beautiful July evening. The moon was just rising over the quiet thatched town. The chestnut trees and the limes on the outskirts of the moss-grown old place, were in full flower; and the scent of the new blossoms mingled with the odour of garden flowers. It was only nine o'clock and yet the people were nearly all abed. George Grey wandered down the quiet streets, and thought of the events of the night, and of days long long ago. He had loved his wife fervently; but, like many another, not sufficiently to believe in her above everybody else and to defy calumny and scandal.

A doubt of the truth of her shame had never occurred to him until this night. For a moment it had wrung his heart; but only for a moment. He set down the good religious life which Mrs. Massey had described to penitence and remorse. But he could not help feeling as he passed along the quiet streets, what a terrible loss was his; what a broken wretched life. Money he had in abundance. What was money to him? One of those poor thatched cottages with a true, kind wife, and with children to love, would to George have been greater happiness than anything in the world. Like the best of his order he yearned for the domestic sweets of the English hearth; but better solitude, better misery, better death, than a home with the blight of dishonour upon it.

(To be continued.)

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

BY LEILA.

DIFFERENT Seasons awaken different feelings within us. About them linger a variety of associations, as with many other things. A song, some fragment of poetry, a simple remark, a piece of scenery, often recals some old recollection, touches a chord within our hearts that had for long rested mute and quiet, and brings back again, a forgotten scene, a lost remembrance, something that now we can only gaze upon through the dim vista of our tears, for

"This is truth the poet sings,

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."

So have seasons of the year their own peculiar and individual associations, and of these seasons none are so suggestive of thought, none speak so forcibly to us, as New Year's Day. Solemn thoughts must have arisen, even in the heart of the trifler, as on the still and silent air of midnight, the church bells rung the New Year in. When he felt that another year was gone-gone with its pleasures and sorrows; another come, into whose dim shadows we cannot penetrate. The present only can we call our own; the past is not-and the future, alas! who shall dare to call the future theirs?

Peace echoed from the silvery clarion tongues of the church-bells, as they wafted over earth the birth of another year. Into the world it came unsullied by sin, unclouded by sorrow; but, alas! soon it was tainted by the touch of a sin-stained earth. It awakens resolutions of a better life, and suggests a holier walk to many, who have wandered in the paths of sin. Ah! there is something sad and solemn, as one by one the last minutes of the old year wane away; even though the new one holds the promise of a brighter, happier time, still there may have been days of gladness, hours of sunshine, in the year that is past, which perchance we may never, never have again. Old familiar faces, dear remembered forms belong to it, and seem further away from us with the new year; the new year which they have never known. Yet we must bid it a long fare-well; with new resolves we must begin again— begin, as it were, a new life, a fresh existence.

Life is indeed a marvel, when we consider it. As we gaze around, how incapable we feel of analyzing any one individual's existence, made up of incidents which appear to our human judgment mere trifles, and yet they are the very links that join and make the chain of life. The old we

see, with tottering steps and dim sight, perchance alone; all they have loved may have gone, and so alone they still wander in a wide, wide world. What is life to them?-a dreary existence ?-can pleasure or happiness be theirs any longer now ?—wherefore do they live ?—are the thoughts of those younger who behold them. Wisely, and for good, they are kept in the world; the work for which they were sent is not accomplished: that work we do not know, but hereafter we shall. The young, with youth and hope and life still bright before them, are taken from the earth, and when we mourn their loss, we wonder why and wherefore they were taken. Such are the buds, the unopened buds, that shall bloom in full and lovely radiance in the celestial gardens of Paradise. No! life we cannot understand. Wise philosophers have never penetrated, and never will, the unseen working of God's all-wise providence. We cannot even understand the many events of our own life, and how should we comprehend that of others. Yet, when we look back, how wonderfully the little events of our life are the foundations of the greater ones, which occur afterwards.

New Year's Day! Let us not think of it as a mere ordinary day, for it is more important than others. It is given us that we may begin a better life. If we have been wandering downward, it is to recal us to a sense of our position. In this light we should consider it; and endeavour to make it a new day of a wiser life. Learning from its lessons wise instructions; and not only learning, but acting them. Vain and useless are idle regrets, we can never recal the past, we can only improve the present; and this let us earnestly endeavour to do, and then when this year becomes old, it will yet be a new year to us.