it was with an effort that I sustained my part in our conversation, and he probably felt that it was so, little as he could guess the cause of my distraction, and as the conversation flagged he lifted the book, and looking at it with some attention he made some passing remark on one of the sketches that it contained.

As he spoke, I suddenly recollected that there was a sketch of the cottage in the Manor - House Park in that book. At the time of Mary Leslie's death her sad story had deeply impressed me. The stern mother-the dying girl-the gloom with which that sad death-bed had been surrounded-all had seemed to me so wretched, and so utterly unlike any trouble that had ever hitherto come before me, that the story had made a deep impression on me, and I had asked Maud to make a sketch of the cottage for me as a memento of the sad tale. A sudden impulse seized me now to mention Mary Leslie's name to Lord Hilton. I had no real doubt of his being the poor girl's betrayer, I had seen his letters to her, and I could not doubt it. But I vividly realised, as that evening drew to a close, that a terrible task awaited me on the following morning; and ere I encountered it, it seemed as if I might thus ascertain without doubt whether there could be a ray of hope for

Violet. Strange mistakes in identity sometimes occurred-accidental resemblances in handwriting are common enough. I would put the matter beyond a doubt before I parted from Lord Hilton on that night.

I easily drew his attention to the little sketch, and with equal ease introduced the subject of its interest for me; and having gained his attention, I described my first accidental visit to the cottage with some detail, and passed on to the day when the mother had revealed her child's story to me. At first, Lord Hilton had heard me with a courteous interest that found its natural expression in trifling questions and remarks, but as I proceeded to give the outline of Mary Leslie's story, he became silent. I bent over the sketch as I spoke, I felt that when I next looked up at him I must read Violet's fate in his face, and I dreaded the moment, I finished the story, but I had not spoken a name. The decisive moment had come, and I summoned all my courage to meet it.

"Poor Mary Leslie!" I said, "Her betrayer was her murderer."

I looked up, and our eyes met. I knew that Lord Hilton was Mary Leslie's destroyer, and Lord Hilton knew that I knew it !

CHAPTER

THE fatal events of the following day may be rapidly told. No length of years, no subsequent sorrow or suffering, can deaden the deep anguish with which each hour of that day comes back to my memory. I never hear the Christmas chimes without the chimes of that Christmas Day seeming to ring once more for me, calling up the scenes in which I heard them with startling distinctness. Their echoes are strangely mingled with the overwhelming

XXXIII.

that autumn her evident delicacy had roused Lord Hilton's anxiety sufficiently to make him decide on taking her immediately after their marriage to the south of France, and I had looked forward hopefully to the beneficial effects that the change of climate was likely to have. When I sought her on that Christmas morning she was not surprised to find that I positively interdicted her going to church, as she had intended. The snow-storm continued, and I would not hear of her leaving the house. But she listened with some surprise when I told her that I wished to make an invalid of her that morning, and that we should pass it, tête-à-tête, in my dressingroom. She told me smilingly that Lord Hilton was coming to accompany her to church, and that I must make her excuses to him if she were to be kept prisoner in my dressingroom. I had decided that she must not meet him again until I had told her all. I did not wish to meet him myself; and at my request Violet sent him a hasty note of excuse, begging that he would not come until the afternoon.

I remember that she told me after she came to my dressing-room; that she was very willing to be an invalid on that morning; she was suffering as she had too frequently done lately from cough and the fatigue of a restless night. She had not dressed-she wore a white peignoir, and as I persuaded her to lay herself down on a couch which was drawn near the fire, and she leant her head somewhat languidly on its cushions, I thought as I looked at her that she looked as fragile as she was fair. We were alone, and the book that contained the sketch of the cottage in the Manor-House Park lay on my knees as I sate by Violet's sofa.

"Violet," I said, "I am going to tell you a sorrowful tale. I have been looking over this old album this morning, and there is a sketch

of a cottage in it which has recalled a sad tale to my mind, and I feel an inclination to tell it to you this morning. Look at the cottage."

Violet looked at it. There was nothing about it to arrest her attention, and she made no remark upon it. She raised her soft loving eyes to my face, and silently awaited the promised story.

"When you were a little child, Violet, a young girl lay dying in that cottage of a broken heart. It is her story that I am going to tell you."

The Christmas chimes rung out as I spoke. They rung on during the short time that it took me to tell the tale. They were ringing still when Violet's soft eyes filled with tears of sympathy for the sad fate of Mary Leslie.

"How can there be such wickedness in the world?" she said sadly. "Have you ever heard of her mother again, mamma ?"

"I have seen her once since that sad time, Violet. Poor Mrs. Leslie ! There was no possible drop of happiness left in her earthly lot."

"She was hard and cruel to her poor child, mamma," said Violet. "She should surely have cherished her more fondly, more tenderly, when she knew that her heart was broken by such wicked cruelty."

"We must not judge her too hardly, Violet. She thought that she was doing her duty, and she suffered agonies in doing it. Remember, also, that poor Mary Leslie's undutiful conduct killed her father, desolated her home; and the poor mother's very nature might possibly be changed by such a fiery trial."

"But her child-her own child, mamma!" pleaded Violet. "How the poor girl must have longed for one loving word! and how strange to long vainly for loving words from a mother!"

I bent over the fair face, and kissed her fondly.

"You think that poor Mary's

grave fault should have been forgiven, Violet? You would have forgiven her ?"

"She was dying, mamma-and she had been so cruelly treated. I would have cherished her to the last, and forgiven her everything. Mrs Leslie must have been hard and unnatural.”

"And what of the third person in the story, Violet? You do not ask what became of him ?”

Her cheek flushed quickly. "I could not pity him, mamma, whatever his fate might be. Do you know what became of him ?" "He lives, honoured and happy, Violet."

He can

"Not happy, mamma. not possibly be happy with such a memory to haunt him. Do you know him ?"

I passed over her question. I longed to hear her speak one word of pardon. I felt that she was unconsciously pronouncing her own doom.

"What if he has deeply, bitterly repented that early crime, Violet? Could you find no forgiveness for him if its memory embittered his life, and shadowed his brightest joys?"

"I could never forgive such a crime, mamma," she answered slowly. "His must be a cruel and pitiless nature. There should be no joy for him in this world."

I felt that I was pleading for my poor child against herself. I made one more effort, although my heart told me that it was in vain.

"Violet-if I knew him-if I knew that his repentance was deep and lasting-if he pled with you himself for pardon-would you still say that there was no pardon for that crime ?"

side her, a startled expression came into her eyes, and a sudden terror seemed to seize her.

"Mother," she whispered, "why have you told me this tale? Do I know him? Tell me if I know him ?"

I threw my arms round her-my child, my gentle child-I called her fond names. I caressed her-I implored her to be calm. Her suspicion grew to certainty ere I could find words to confirm it. She trembled; her face became deadly pale; but she was the first to name her lover.

"Did Lord Hilton do this thing?"

And the Christmas chimes rung on as the terrible words which sealed her fate were uttered by her own mother's lips. She sunk back on her cushions and covered her face. It was too soon to speak to her. I knelt by her in silence-and the Christmas chimes rung on as she lay in death-like stillness before me. In death-like stillness-and the rustling of the dark wings might have been audible in the silent. chamber even then-but I heard no sound but the Christmas chimes. I spoke to her at length. I could not endure her stillness.

My darling," I said, "do not decide in haste. He must plead his own cause with you."

She rose as I spoke. I can see her stand before me now, with her pure white dress, her shining hair, and her mournful eyes.

"May God forgive him, mamma ; I cannot !"

The words had scarcely left her white lips-I had not had time to answer her- when she suddenly stretched out her arms to me; she uttered a low, stifled cry, and as I caught her in my arms, the pure white dress was stainless no longer. Oh! that crimson stream-that low cry! My child, my child! how did your mother survive that awful hour?