Lord Deepdale's return from the Continent was not, however, so immediate as had been expected: he still lingered in Italy, assigning indisposition as the reason for his stay. At any other moment this delay would have chafed Mrs. Scrope, but under existing circumstances, she was well enough pleased at his continued absence, as it afforded more time for Edith's repentance.

"A winter at Scargill," she thought, "will bring her to her senses;" and-satisfied with this conclusion-Mrs. Scrope resumed her ambitious schemes, as if they ran no further risk of being thwarted, and, hasty in all things, began at the same time to occupy herself with a project of marriage for her youngest daughter. When she heard that Lord Deepdale was not likely to be in England just then, she went with Agatha to Brighton for the season, and from amongst the large circle of her wealthy and titled acquaintance soon fixed upon an eligible parti; but of this feature of Mrs. Serope's domestic history we will speak presently.

Though not absolutely alone, Edith was left to many an hour of painful solitude. She had now full opportunity for considering the nature of the step which she had so rashly taken, but while haunted by an undefinable apprehension she saw not all its possible consequences. There must come a day, she feared, when she should have again to brave her mother's anger, for she knew how persistent she was in the prosecution of her plans, and of all the plans Mrs. Scrope had ever formed the marriage of Edith with Lord Deepdale was the one nearest her heart. Edith foresaw much misery to herself in the opposition which, henceforward, became an inevitable necessity no less than an act of inclination; but her foreboding went no further, and it was, perhaps, as well.

What, on the other hand, was Edith's consolation-for there is no sorrow without something to compensate? It was an object slight enough in itself-a mere sheet of paper-all of us have had such treasures, keeping them, sometimes, till they are out of date:-it was a letter from Walter, the only one she had received since her mar riage. It was written when he was on the point of embarkation-indeed, there was a postscript added after he had gone on board the transport, the latest news being always the most precious in the eyes of lovers→→→ and the pilot to whom it was entrusted conscientiously earned his guinea by posting it directly his boat retouched the shore. All that endearment could conceive or hope devise was contained in that letter, and not once, nor twice, nor twelve times a day, did Edith read it over: it was perpetually before her eyes, though not for the purpose of engrafting it on her memory: a single perusal had sufficed for that. But coming from him, and with no other memorial of her husband, Edith looked upon the letter as part of herself, and its resting-place was in her bosom, the bird of promise nestling in the ark.

Rather mistakenly, as it happened, Mrs. Scrope had placed Rachel Loring with her daughter more as a surveillante than an attendant, but at Scargill Hall she soon became her constant companion. The great secret of Edith's life was known to Rachel; to her she could unreservedly speak of Walter; with her picture a time of unexampled happiness. How that happiness was to be achieved was not very clearly laid down,

but to cheat oneself thus is a delusion not altogether monopolised by the young and inexperienced.

On this speculative subject Rachel also had certain day-dreams, which, with the freedom inspired by kindness and confidence, she one day imparted to Edith. As may readily be supposed, they concerned Monsieur Perrotin, that moonlight walk at Catterick having borne fruit after its kind. When the Teacher of Languages should have realised enough by his profession to justify a double ménage, Rachel had agreed to assume his honoured name; but, she said, it must be a very long while yet before that could come to pass. Not so long, perhaps, Edith replied-for it should be her care, the moment she had it in her power, to reward Rachel's fidelity and affection. When Walter returned then both would be free!

If, then, Edith's present position were fairly weighed, she had sources of happiness, alike in hope and memory, which turned the scale in her favour. She was so newly a wife, and had seen so little of her husband, that separation from him was more a sentiment than a reality, and his absence-though it caused her deep sorrow-could not, of necessity, create that void which those experience, when parted, who have lived even for a few months together; it was a heavy grief to lose him, but Edith reckoned it a great gain to have him to lose; she was supported, moreover, by the earnest and oft-repeated assurance in his letter that he would return to claim her before a year was over. Her mother's unkindness was a constant pain, but what she had brought upon herself -deservedly or not-Edith believed she had strength to bear. She was not disquieted by the dark shadow that fell across her path at moments when her visions were brightest, but against this feeling she strove with all the energy of youthful hope, and not always without

success.

With respect to her external life, she experienced none of the privations which Mrs. Scrope had anticipated. Solitude was no punishment to Edith at any time: it was less so now than ever, and the very loneliness of her place of abode had an inexpressible charm in her present state of mind. As no restriction had been placed on her personal movements, Edith was able to roam at will amid the wild but picturesque scenery by which she was surrounded; within doors there were books, and thus between exercise and reading her time was chiefly occupied, and the days went by-not cheerfully, for there were too many causes for regret, but less unhappily than might have been imagined.

Mrs. Scrope's communications with her daughter were very infrequent and always indirect, Rachel Loring being made the medium of them; but one day, towards the close of January, a letter arrived at Scargill Hall addressed to Edith.

It was in her mother's handwriting, and as she broke the seal the same old dread came over her with which she had been so often shadowed. Nor was she wrong in her presentiment of coming evil.

The letter, with no introductory word of endearment, ran as

follows:

"I write to you sooner than I intended, circumstances having occurred the knowledge of which I prefer should be conveyed to you only by myself. Your sister Agatha, who understands the duties of a daughter

towards her mother, has freely and joyfully accepted for her future husband the person whom I have chosen. I do not, however, intend that her marriage shall take place before your own, that is to say, until the middle or end of August; but understand me, Edith: I have not, in any way, delayed my purpose on your account. It has arisen solely from family considerations-partly owing to Agatha's age, partly because of the health of your cousin, Deepdale, which, he writes me word from Florence, where he now is, will not admit of his travelling earlier than the spring. You have by this time, I trust, repented of your wicked and ungrateful conduct. On receiving a full and complete avowal of contrition for the past, with an unconditional promise of obedience in the matter of your marriage, I may again receive you into the favour which you so justly forfeited; only bear this in mind-my forgiveness depends entirely on your unqualified submission. I expect an immediate reply. "M. S."

What sudden emotion was it that made Edith tremble so violently while these words were yet swimming before her eyes? Why did she rise so quickly and press her heart with convulsive effort? What was the meaning of the strange joy that gleamed for a moment in her eyes, to be instantly succeeded by a look of such blank despair? Why did she strive to hide her burning face? and why-when her hands dropped listlessly beside her-why was her face pale as the sculptor's marble?

That cold, unfeeling letter-every line of which she might have predicted-could scarcely have moved her so!

Neither had it: the cause was deeper far. The unknown fear was realised.

A new life, while she read, had stirred in Edith's bosom.

"Oh, Walter !" she exclaimed, God has decreed against my mother's will. Henceforth her desire is impossible."

But how was this startling truth to be revealed? Shut up by herself throughout that day, awake all night, Edith pondered over the words in which to tell her story. At length it shaped itself thus :

"I do ask your forgiveness," she wrote, "but I will not deceive you. Sooner than I supposed the hour has come for avowing all I have concealed. Mother, bear with me; be not merciless in your judgment, but listen to me. Had your severity been less on that fatal night of our dispute, all the consequences that followed might have been prevented. I now deplore the weakness which kept me from uttering the real motive of my refusal to marry my cousin. I was, even then, secretly engaged to another. You sent me from your presence without affording me a moment for confession. The step I afterwards took was not premeditated. Heaven is my witness that I had resolved to part with him of whom I have spoken. But it was otherwise ordained. What prayers I resisted you will not believe when I add that I resisted them in vain. Read on mother! Do not, in anger, destroy this witness to the truth! I am a wedded wife! Lawfully, honestly wedded! It is for this I ask your forgiveness: I ask it also for those who were about me, but who could not prevent the act, for it was accomplished without their know

ledge. Its subsequent concealment arose from the hope that it might remain a secret till your angry feeling had undergone a change. That hope was extinguished yesterday. For the sake of my own fair fame, for the sake of my unborn child, for the sake of my absent husband, I break the silence I should else have kept. Mother, mother, you will not turn away from your sorrowing Edith!

"One word more: this revelation would be incomplete if I left you in ignorance of my husband's name. It is Walter Cobham, a lieutenant in the Rifle Brigade, now in Canada: he is not unknown to you. He has only his profession to depend upon, but he is by birth and education a gentleman.

"E. C."

For ten days after this letter was sent Edith remained a prey to the most torturing suspense; no answer came from Mrs. Scrope, though even at that date, when the post was so much less rapid, there had been ample time for communicating twice over. On the eleventh morning, however, while Edith was at a window which commanded a very long avenue that led up to the Hall, she perceived a carriage approaching as fast as the horses could gallop. At once she guessed whom it brought, and again the instinctive terror returned, but with a great effort she overcame it, and steadily awaited the arrival of her mother. Mrs. Scrope was alone in the carriage, but two other persons, a man and a woman— strangers to Edith-sat outside, behind. The man was on foot to open the carriage directly it stopped, and Mrs. Scrope swiftly descended; so swiftly that in what seemed to Edith the same moment of time she heard her voice in the hall below.

"Which is my daughter's room?" she asked, and a gesture rather than speech must have replied, for her words had barely reached Edith's ear when her chamber-door was violently thrown open and her mother stood before her. An open letter was in her hand.

"Wretched girl!" she exclaimed, "is this a lie and a lure, or have you really dared to degrade yourself to the depths of infamy avowed in this precious scrawl ?"

"Mother!" replied Edith, endeavouring to be calm, "infamy is a stranger to my name no less than to yours. Every syllable of that letter is true!"

Enough!" said Mrs. Scrope, trembling with passion; "my course, then, is clear."

She turned towards the door, which was still open.

"Yates!" she called, "come here, with your wife!"

The man and woman whom Edith had noticed made their appearance immediately. Hard-featured, and of sullen aspect, the man square-built, the woman gaunt and strong, they might have passed for brother and

sister.

"This," said Mrs. Scrope, pointing to her daughter-"this is the unfortunate person of whom you will have charge. She needs all your care She is as cunning as she is violent."

"Who are these people ?" cried Edith, rushing towards her mother. Mrs. Scrope grasped her daughter's arm, and, leaning forward, hissed in her ear:

"YOUR KEEPERS!"

"My God!" exclaimed Edith, and fell senseless on the floor.

*

Five months went by-dark, cheerless, miserable. How Edith escaped the madness imputed to her is one of the inscrutabilities of human existence. Yates and his wife were skilled attendants, who knew how to better their instructions; their moral power was great, and so was their physical strength: each of these qualities was used in turn, and Edith became in their hands all that they chose to make her-except an absolute lunatic. Walter's letter was unaccountably lost: somebody must have taken it from her bosom ! But Mrs. Yates had given her an admirable substitute-a newspaper. What is that paragraph which Edith has read till her eyes have become tearless-from which she rarely turns them?

"Total wreck of the transport Fortune, off the coast of Newfoundland -loss of a hundred and seventy officers and men of the Rifle Brigade."

Whether lost amid the besetting ice, or starved to death in the barren woods, the account did not say; but amongst the names of those who perished in the wreck was that of Lieutenant Walter Cobham!

Midsummer had come with all its leafy beauty, with all its joyous sunshine.

Mrs. Scrope was again on a solitary visit to Scargill Hall. She stood now, on the Baptist's night, beside her daughter's bed, watching eagerly. A low sigh might have been heard, and then-but not till then-a voice

which said:

"Take away that dead child!"

The sigh was repeated, but so faintly, that she who listened for it was obliged to lay her face close to the sufferer's pillow.