After Kate has answered her letters and partaken of her dinner, she is startled by seeing a carriage and pair hastily dash round the gravel sweep-so hastily, that her scraper executes a pas seul, and several wallflowers are hurled from their mother earth. The horses' bits are white and flecked with foam, as though hard driven, and the coachman's expression bears the flushed aspect of a man who may lose his place if he fail to gain a certain distance in a given time.

Kate forgets whether her hair is becomingly arranged, or if her lace ruffle and neck-ribbon are smooth. Poor child she takes little pride or care now in dressing well; but beauty in rags and wretchedness is always eloquent and irresistible. Kate is not yet in rags; she wears a black-alpaca dress, neatly trimmed with a faint adornment of pure white lace about her throat. Her hair is rough and tumbled from her quick walk; the breeze, her dinner, and a mild siesta have not improved its tidiness; for Kate was, in reality, fast asleep when the noise of the wheels aroused her to the miseries of existence.

Flushed and startled from slumber, her large eyes droop and fall, then open wider than ever at this sudden encounter of Laurence by her side. Some women look very hideous when they first awake; the stolidity of their intellects is then truly startling. But Kate looks the incarnation of queenly and immortal youth; the flush burns deeper on her cheek, the warm blood riots madly in every vein. He has not forgotten her!

'You must be surprised to see me here, Mrs. Hamilton,' says Laurence excitedly, a desperate resolve underlying his agitation and tremor. I feared I should arrive too late, and that you might

'Friends' repeats Kate, sitting upright on her couch and straightening her ruffle and cuffs. This is certainly taking her at a disadvantage, she thinks, and, womanlike, feels straightway a little vexed. 'I am not overburdened with that very dubious human blessing; I— I haven't one.'

Laurence starts, leaves his seat, and leans over her. Deep emotion blanches his features to deadly pallor; the old sensuous worship of her flower-like beauty beams in his gaze; the man's whole soul is expended on her in burning love and admiration.

'No friends, Kate!' he murmurs rapidly. It is the second time he has addressed her by her Christian name. 'O yes, you have-one at least, anxious to save and shield you from want and care for ever. May I not be your friend-your slave! Tell me how I can help you.'

Kate breathes a low piteous sigh; the temptation is almost beyond her strength, and masters her. Laurence continues in an outpouring of reckless love. has struggled in vain against this fatal affinity-this delirious passion, that now seeks to carry all before it.

He

'You?' repeats Kate, speaking as one in a dream; 'and at this moment! What shall I do? how can I-'

'Believe in my love, dearest. I know the shadow of poverty overhanging this roof; I can foresee a future of insult, humiliation, and despair for you, if you refuse to listen to me. I love you, I think, as no man ever loved before. I have wealth, and my life, if hitherto cold and wintry, has been stainless, consecrated to art alone. You will never repent this step, beloved. I am no idle

cynic or contemptuous worldling; I respect as much as I love you. I can give you all that makes life bearable-luxury, peace, comfort, and repose; and to a woman of your temperament, Kate, comfort is indispensable. Coarse contact, dull monotony, pitiless want, would send you to your grave in a few months. Does companionship count for nothing? Have we not the same tastes, hopes, and aspirations? Do we not see heaven in each other's eyes?'

'Laurence, spare me!' cries Kate, in broken-hearted tones. Remember, it cannot be; but I am weak, and you make my duty so terribly hard.'

'Pity me,' he implores. 'What will my life be worth without you

- your gracious presence, your brightness, your beauty, your genius? I can gratify your every wish ; I can give you every pleasure. Come with me. Be my love; later on, my wife, sacred in the eyes of Heaven.'

'I cannot forsake a trust,' says Kate more steadily; she has conquered inclination, and mild Reason is regaining her sway. 'Could I live to think you might despise me?'

'Will you ruin two lives, then? For what?-an empty form, a mocking symbol, a dissolute husband, already faithless and steeped in every profligacy. The struggle will kill you. You fancy you are strong and fearless; but, forsaken and alone, good God! what will become of you?'

'I mean to work,' says Kate quietly now. She has fought out her inner battle, and overcome. There had been a moment when, with all her old impetuosity, she longed to throw herself on his breast, and say, 'See, love is victor after all;' but that temptation past, she is strong, almost cold. 'I can colour photographs, I believe and so keep body and soul together

in that way. I leave Surbiton tomorrow; next week the sale of the furniture takes place.'

'And when your eyes are open to your position-you poor, pale, adorable martyr!—I shall be away, never, perhaps, to return. But promise me you will remember me; give me one word of love ere leaving-some sweet promise of affection. O child, why do you fascinate me so !'

But now Kate rises, pain in her eyes, her voice tremulous with suppressed emotion.

'If you knew what it costs me to say farewell, you would spare me,' she murmurs.

'But tell me, darling,' cries Laurence, clasping her hand, 'what is a woman without a home or protector but an object of contempt and ridicule to the world at large, a slighted misprized being, exposed to insult and contempt-the by-word, mockery, and scorn of every lip! You are strong, but you will be conquered and slain. O Kate! once more I entreat you, trust to me, or you will wake to the bitter consciousness that your youth has fled in following a vain delusion, a mere fantasy of honour, and that all your grand courage has been of no avail. Be a woman, a heroine, fulfil your destiny-revive my spring-time, restore my youth; be my muse, my second self-the embodiment of every joy, the inspiration of every thought! I am rich; I can give you all your position, your tastes require. Be my love, later on my wife-guardian of my heart, goddess of my home and destiny!'

Supreme moment of suspense, when temptation comes laden with angelic forms, sweet phantoms of joy we dare not clasp and call our own; when the tempted wrestles against weakness amid the force of mingled anguish and rapture!

Kate's principles were as noble,

as sound, and simple as a perfect education, careful study, and highclass training can fashion them; the native nobility of her mind had been strengthened by judicious culture. She saw her duty, and elected to follow it. Her pride, her self-respect, her rigid moral sense, now freed from the tumultuous chains of passion, all arose and fought a cool slow battle against the voices that sought to vanquish and lead her captive. True to the purity of her nature, bruised and shaken, yet too noble to forsake, torn in that fierce conflict with a thousand throes in her tempestuous love-stricken breast, she rises above her weakness, to conquer still.

Resolute, pale, her hands locked together as in the vice of death, lips yearning to kiss, but mute and pallid, she turns from her lover and half waves him away-away to silence and woe, to the pitiless shades of memory, to consuming flames, to the despair of midnight ravings; and only the shadows of a sweet Past to rememberdead and withered as last June's

roses.

It is hard for Kate. Wretched as she feels, she knows she must be firm; but who knew better than she the truth of his words? Who could shrink more from the horrible struggle of the future? She could picture poverty's abjectness its carking cares, its vile self-contempt, its disillusions, cruelties, and dead-levelness-with all the force of a brilliant imagination. And this man could give her all her wildest ambition desired; but she loves him too well to sink in his estimation; a proud woman, she dreads Laurence's contempt more than anything in the world.

Kate, you are dreaming still,' he says, in a fond, stricken voice -he is resolved to appeal to her

now from a higher and a loftier point of view, and tempt her through the medium of art-' but the awakening must come, and then you will learn the withering reality of days and nights passing over your fair young head like pale and stricken ghosts, mocking you with the cries of "what might have been." I know you, dearest, better than you do yourself. God help you when you find out what your position is too late! How can you bear the trial of circumstances, of poverty, bereft of love's sweetness ?'

'In choosing this austere doom,' Kate cries, in a low tense voice, 'I do not expect comfort, amusement, or any of the luxuries for which women sell their souls. The path is, however, simple, clear, and straight to me. I can follow no other beckoning.'

'Then you will actually sink into a mere cipher, a drudge, fulfilling the duties of a nursery-maid without wages and there are plenty of idiots to play that part; your loveliness, your genius expiring for an idea, a quibble, a delusion, your rich and delicate organisation a prey to despair.'

'There is nothing very wonderful in a woman loving and tending her child, I suppose,' says Kate, 'or in trying to do her duty. To me it seems one of the most commonplace and natural acts in the world. Even the ignorant are often above the meanness of desertion.'

Laurence is staggered at her coldness; but he respects her infinitely. The force of his appeal finds vent in rapid and impassioned utterance. He speaks of the art which he hoped had bound them in eternal union.

Kate leans her head on the table; heavy sobs convulse her frame, and exhaust her by their

vehemence.

'O, wretched eyes, that will never more gaze on your beauty!' cries Laurence, his arm encircling her, and his breath on her cheek. 'What is left me on earth without you? Can I make you re-live in art? Can I steep my soul and senses in that spurious ecstasy, that divine madness, knowing all the time you are some cold and abstract form, lifeless as a statue, that will never lie on my heart or feed on my lips? I want you, Kate, to give life to my work, to be the muse of my dreams, the angel of my dwelling, to inspire me with lofty ambition. Your image will be ever at my side, haunting every thought. Without you my aims will be cold, my work valueless, my life ruined. With you, my darling, a home near arctic seas, a cot mid desert plains, will be a paradise!'

Kate still only sobs for answer; she is tossed, terror-stricken, vacillating. He sees his advantage, and man-like pursues it.

'I, that dared to dream our names might be woven in one indissoluble chain, one fair memory, to descend perchance to history, to fame; radiant, crowned with immortal art-you and I, Kate, as much one in thought and feeling as Eloïse and Abelard, as Alcæus and Sappho.'

'Love is strong as death,' murmurs Kate, lifting her head. ‘I shall be for ever sacred to you.'

'Would that I were some pale and voiceless spirit ever at your side, to soothe you with tenderest care and impalpable peace; to comfort and to suffer for you, and watch you unseen, viewless but fond, and breathe the deep joy your presence ever imparts! Must those hours of rapture fade for ever, and find no renewal in another sweet July's warmth and fragrance? I can feel the soft air stealing through the casement of that room

in which we worked together; you earnest, fervid, rapt in the marvellous charm of colour-and, believe me, Kate, you have the capacity to achieve great things, even fame-I lingering near you, quaffing too freely the fatal cup that poisons as it enchants; while July's breeze, laden with the sweetness of the heliotrope and mignonette, caressed and fanned us both, and brought the breath of the flowers into the room, to speak of grace and freedom. Take your liberty now-be mine, for ever mine.'

Kate's sobs are less violent, she speaks with less difficulty; there is almost a smile on her lips, as she says, tending her hand to him,

'Dear Laurence, you do not quite understand me. I shall live alone, but my life will not be cursed with any of the anxieties and horrors of dependence; it will be honest, not abject-tedious, but pure.'

'Then at least let me assist you ; my purse is at your disposal. O Kate, let me have the pleasure of—'

'No, thank you,' says Kate firmly. 'We must always endeavour to preserve our self-respect, for when that goes, good-bye to everything; and although the humiliation of receiving money from you would be less poisonous than from others, there is at present no need to take any. I have paid everybody; Ernest's creditors will clear the house, and to-morrow we leave.'

'So young, Kate, to be banished from luxury, society, pleasure, protection; cheated out of everything women hold dearest and most sacred; your strong defiant will carrying all before it, at the mercy of a heartless world, alone in health and sickness, cursing your poverty and solitude.'

'Thousands live without joy,' says Kate, with a sudden gesture of affection towards him, that even yet he misinterprets. I shall earn

enough to live; if not, sooner than starve, I will appeal to you: but in the mean time don't seek to turn me from my purpose, or even attempt to learn my destination. I am not a soulless martyr-a cold automaton; this continual struggle breaks my heart,' cries Kate wearily.

But I should hate the thought of feeling we had ever desecrated the holiness of our love. Virtue is the only happiness, and believe me, Laurence, godliness is profitable. I respect you too well to allow you to despise yourself, or think lightly of me. A little patience and forbearance: who knows whether happiness may not dawn for us, without a spec to darken the glory of its crystal purity?'

'Kate, you are divine,' he murmurs, awed by her tone into the reverence we give to any one superior to ourselves, and so I obey you; you are strong-I have been weak; there now only remains for us to say farewell.'

He presses his lips once to her brow; it is like the peace that is found in shrines.

'Say you will remember me,' he repeats, as he softly glides away. Kate feebly smiles one last adieu. It is all over. The axe has fallen

-life is suspended.

Kate's sentiments were as noble as they were glowing, her tenderness was replete with a purity that must have commanded respect from the most consummate voluptuary.

CHAPTER X.

CONQUERED.

'Dès demain, vous serez moins belle.' HAVING elected to bear her fate in loneliness and silence, Mrs. Hamilton gives way to no useless repining, but acts with calmness and promptitude. Has she chosen well? Will this half-fanatical ex

clusion from life and its joys-this submission to a rigorous destiny and surrender to Virtue-bring her the rich reward it assuredly merits ?

Virtue has somehow an ugly knack of paying her slaves a very niggardly stipend in this world. She frequently leaves them to face death and agony alone in some garret, bearing an unjust share of odium and suspicion; or the struggle against want and discomfort robs them of hope, and, bereft of every sign of human kindness or sympathy, their mental faculties are overthrown.

'A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is;

For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees.'

Kate's was essentially an affectionate nature, clinging to those with whom she was thrown into daily contact, longing to be near them, dependent on their love and approval for her happiness. So this Spartan resolve to bury herself out of sight of the world, and far beyond the reach of the arms of Love, came to her in her young inexperience as the only possible safe solution of the difficulties surrounding her path.

A hard life for a woman longing to breathe an atmosphere of beauty, luxury, pleasure, an artist revolting against the mean and petty wretchedness of poverty; a life oppressive as the cold and icy breath of the North to a child of the South, fond of variety and excitement, colour and brightness; a life that seemed one perpetual wail, half-monotony, half-despair, that preyed upon her blooming health, and half crushed her iron will.

Such was the blow inexorable Fate dealt Mrs. Hamilton, chaining her to dull lodgings, forcing her to slave at miserable photographic portraits to earn enough to live; with the memory of a beloved and distant voice to torture her still more