to rush to his side, but the moment had been enough. The contents of the pistol were lodged in his brain before Hubert reached him. He fell-and he never moved again.

How that tale wrung my heart as Hubert told me some of the details which followed that fearful moment. He fulfilled his pledge, and that day he sought the father. Hubert never spoke much of that interview, but he said enough to make me feel as if I had seen the strong man bowed down by grief too terrible for endu rance; and ere the first horror of his communication had past away the door was thrown open, and the mother, the frantic mother, who had heard whispers of dread import in the house, entered the room, and fell as suddenly as her boy had fallen when she saw Hubert standing there. But alas! her insensibility was not of long duration, and ere he could leave the mourning house he had witnessed a scene of harrowing sorrow that might never be forgotten, in the mother's awakening to the truth.

Hubert told me that many days afterwards, when by the father's desire he assisted him in opening his dead son's papers, they found in his desk a packet of letters, marked, in the dead son's writing, "From my parents," and the father lowered his head, whitened in those few weeks, and wept aloud. He saw at a glance that the most recent letters had been placed there, letters which must have been received when the hapless boy was nearing the end of his fatal career. Surrounded by vicious companions, witnessing scenes nightly from which his nature recoiled, yet held there by the fatal passion to which he had yielded himself—and still perhaps clinging fondly to those home letters as the one tie that bound him to the purer life of the past - who might tell with what emotions these last letters had been placed there by the hand which lay cold and still now? the

hand which had been raised in selfdestruction? Who could tell the childish memories recalled by his mother's written words of love, and the anguish which they would bring with them into his feverish, sinful life?

I have often thought of that unhappy youth until I have fancied that I could see him in his struggles between those letters and the gambling-table. I have said that this was the first tale of such misery in real life that I had ever heard. It had occurred very shortly before I knew Hubert. It had impressed him deeply at the time, and it drew many tears from me as he spoke of it. I had often thought of that boy's fate as I gazed on my little Lionel. I had thought that even so had his mother watched and tended him, weaving a bright future for him as he lay in his cradle, feeling her life bound more closely to his as each year past away sending him forth into the world with prayers, and hopes, and fond pride. And then the endthe horror, the fearful horror of the end.

Hubert never knew how that story haunted my mind after I became a mother. How often I thought, as I watched Lionel, that Harry Godolphin was once as innocent, his slumber as peaceful, his mother as anxious, as tender as I could be. And what had it all availed? Was not the remembrance of each childish hour an additional suffering for her now? Must she not lament the fatal moment that gave her a living child? Should I also live to regret my son's birth?

"Harry Godolphin's fate had inspired me with a great dread of the passion for play, and it was with painful anxiety that I now saw that my husband spent many hours of the day and night at the billiardtable, and I soon saw that the two new acquaintances, of whom I have spoken, were his most constant com

panions there. The time was gone by when I might speak to Hubert of my fears and anxieties. I could not venture to approach the subject. I soon saw that when our other guests had quitted the billiard-table or card-room, Hubert would remain there for hours with M. de Beaulieu, and Mr. Trevor. I saw that some of our older acquaintances shunned even the occasional play to which they had been accustomed; and I saw that Arthur Vivian, whom I greatly liked and respected, very evidently avoided Hubert's new friends, and seemed to watch Hubert himself with a grave anxiety, which he could not conceal from my observa

tion.

"I could do nothing but suffer in silence. This was the commencement of a new sorrow. It increased with each succeeding year, and insensibly, but surely, widened the gulf between Hubert and myself to. an impassable breadth.

"These two gentlemen remained at Earlscourt for many weeks; and, when they left us, which they did, together, I knew that Hubert had promised to meet them in Germany, before Christmas. After their departure my anxiety was lessened for the time, and my interest was. soon claimed by an unexpected event which took place in our circle,

IT has been said that sorrow has a softening influence on the human heart; that those who have suffered much themselves yield the most sympathy to others. It may be so with some sorrows-it may be so with some natures; but it was not so with me and with my sorrow. There are pleasant places under the blue sky, where spring showers fall, and summer sunshine rests, and the shower and the sunshine have each a kindly influence to tempt forth the flowers, and brighten the verdure amidst which they bloom; but the same gentle showers, the same bril liant sunshine, may fall vainly on a barren rock-the rock remains hard and barren as before. My suffering must have made me selfish-my nature may have been hard and selfish-I know not now; I only know that whilst I watched my children, with a love which knew more of trembling than rejoicing, I had become insensible to the joys and sorrows of all others around me, or I might have seen signs of sorrow in one whom I dearly loved; and though I might have been powerless to turn aside her sorrow, powerless to change the current of

events that were passing around me, I have sometimes thought, in later years, when those events had long ripened and borne bitter fruit, that if I had not been indifferent to others, —if I had seen more clearly at first. what I only saw when it was too late -life might have been very different to Maud Courtenaye.

66

More than a year had elapsed, since the day on which Maud and I had spoken together of her rejection of Arthur Vivian, and from that day the subject had never been renewed between us. I believe that I had almost forgotten the circumstance, Maud and Mr. Vivian met constantly at Earlscourt, and therenever was any embarrassment on her part, any renewal of attentions. on his. They were old friends, and as such they met, and Maud's determination not to marry had become in my mind a fixed and settled matter, suiting well with her calm and somewhat cold demeanour, which seemed to me little calculated to encourage anyone to try and gain her affection. If I had not been so self-centred, should I not have seen and known that Maud was not so passionless as she seemed, and as

the only friend whom she had ever even partly admitted to her confidence, should I not have tried, whilst it was yet time, to end her mistaken struggle?

I saw no struggle. I was blind to the deepening sadness on her brow; and when she came over to Earlscourt, one day during that autumn, and told me that she was Lady Edith's messenger to announce her intended marriage to us, the surprise with which I heard that Edith was to be Arthur Vivian's wife was quite unmingled with any thought of Maud's feelings, any idea that the marriage was interesting to her, except so far as it affected Edith's happiness.

Maud said that she did not share my surprise. She told me that she had expected this announcement for some time. Short as Lady Edith's acquaintance with Mr. Vivian had been, Maud thought that they had been mutually attracted almost from the first day that they had met.

The marriage was to take place immediately. Maud told me that there had been some difficulties in the way, some rough places to be made smooth; but that Edith had refused to listen to advice or remonstrance from anyone, and that during the discussions, there had been enough that was unpleasant between Mr. Courtenaye and Edith to make all parties agree now that the sooner the marriage was over, and Edith removed from the Priory, the better. Edith was, as I have said, very young. Mr. Courtenaye and Lady Anne had both thought that she was too young even to enter on an engagement with Mr. Vivian. Edith had appealed to her brother, who never knew how to oppose her. She was his darling, and as self-willed as he was yielding. Lord Effingham was living in Paris, and Edith's appeal to him had been made by letter. She knew that he was her only guardian, and that his consent alone was necessary to her marrying whilst

she was so young. Mr. Vivian had been his own messenger to Lord Effingham, and had gone to Paris to make his appeal to the indulgent brother in person; and the result had been that after vainly and feebly advising a little delay, Lord Effingham had written to Lady Anne Courtenaye giving his consent to the marriage taking place at once, wishing that Edith had not been quite so young, but adding that he believed that an early marriage was better than a long engagement.

When Lord Effingham's consent was given, neither Mr. Courtenaye nor Lady Anne had power to offer any more opposition. Their opposition had been very much grounded on Edith's extreme youth and inexperience. Mr. Vivian's fortune was, as I have said, very moderate, and Edith had been so accustomed all her life to a luxurious home that Lady Anne wisely and naturally thought that she ought not too hastily to decide on a marriage which must make it necessary for her to exercise a care and self-denial to which she was wholly unaccustomed.

Edith had answered her sister's remonstrances coaxingly, but Mr. Courtenaye's more matter-of-fact objections had been treated scornfully by the wayward girl; and it had been Maud's part to make peace when she could, to still Edith's angry replies, and to persuade her father that, as Edith would certainly take her own way, it was needless to oppose her. And so the discussion was ended, and in three short weeks from the day on which Maud came to announce the marriage to me, Mr. Vivian was to take his young bride to Ashleigh.

The three weeks soon passed away. There were congratulatory visits to receive, farewell visits to pay, and many arrangements to be made. Maud was constantly occupied, and I saw very little of her. brilliant and happy. Mr. Vivian seemed devoted to her, and whilst

Edith was

they enjoyed those few bright hours -amongst the brightest which earth offers-Lady Anne busied herself in attending to Edith's trousseau; and Maud, the bridesmaid, gave advice and assistance where either was wanted, and no one knew or guessed what lay in Maud's aching heart.

It was the evening before the marriage. We had gone on that day to the Priory. There were not to be many guests at the ceremony; and most of those who were to be present had assembled on this day, as the marriage was to take place at an early hour on the following morning.

I had taken a quantity of flowers with me from Earlscourt, at Maud's request, as the conservatories there were rich in beauty even at that late season; and, late in the evening, Maud asked me to assist her in making up bouquets, as it was a fancy of Edith's that each guest should receive and wear a bouquet instead of the ordinary white favour. The flowers had been placed in Maud's dressing-room, and we repaired there together, declining Edith's offered help, and leaving her, radiant as usual, and delighting the guests with her singing, whilst Mr. Vivian stood near her, an entranced listener.

How often I have recalled that bright face, that child-like form on which my glance rested on that evening as I left the drawing-room, and the thoughts with which I gazed on her. She seemed so full of hope and happiness, so buoyant, so innocently joyous. She was standing on the threshold of life. Her next step was a momentous one. How would it be with her when she had taken it? What did life promise for her? Hitherto she had revelled in the careless joy of her bright youth. Must a day come when she would look back to this last evening of that youth, with its hopes and ishes, and acknowledge that, these

hopes fulfilled, these wishes carried out, the colours with which her fancy had invested them had quickly faded, and the happiness which she had thought so sure had crumbled to ashes as she strove to grasp it?

My own dark thoughts coloured everything; and as I sat beside Maud, assisting her in her task, it seemed to me that not more surely must the fragrant flowers that we were arranging wither and die, than all that is called happiness must fade away and turn to sorrow. Maud was silent, and I pursued my thoughts undisturbed. Maud must have been thinking deeply also, because she started when I spoke to her.

"Do you think that Edith's future will be happy, Maud? Tell me what you think of this marriage." Every one says that Edith is too young," answered Maud evasively. "I cannot judge. Do you think that she will make him happy, Ellinor ?"

Maud did not raise her eyes as she spoke, and looked at her with some surprise. She did not speak in her usual tone, and it seemed strange to me that her first thought should not be for Edith's happi

ness.

They are certainly very different from each other. Mr. Vivian is so grave, rather stern in his manner. Do you not think so, Maud? Then Edith is very wayward. She would require an indulgent husband. Perhaps she will soften him, and he may guide her well. But doubtless, Maud, a day will come when Edith will look back to those early years that are past, and wish in vain for one hour of the freedom and happiness that they have brought to her.

Maud did not pause in her work as she answered me :

"You always speak as if you thought that there were no trials except in married life, dear Ellinor. Do you know that I think sometimes-and you must forgive me for

saying so that it would be better and happier for you if you would try and think, what is certainly true, that there may be as bitter sorrow in a lonely heart as in any other."

Your

"You cannot know, Maud; you cannot judge. Your only sorrow has been a sacred sorrow. tears for your mother's loss were holy tears. They did not leave you in hopeless anguish. O Maud, how I have sometimes envied you!"

Maud bent her head low over the flowers, and her voice was unsteady when she spoke again.

"Have you envied me because you have thought that I knew no thing of trials and struggles, Ellinor? Would it reconcile you more to your lot-whatever its secret trials may be-if I told you that I know well what a struggle is? that my heart knows an anguish under which I am well-nigh faint and weary ?"

"Your heart filled with anguish, Maud ?" I exclaimed. "Impossible! Tell me what you mean."

And Maud raised her head, dropped the flowers that she held, and looked at me steadily as she spoke. She said very slowly, very calmly :

"I love Arthur Vivian, Ellinor. Is there not a world of anguish in these words, uttered whilst I am wreathing flowers for Arthur Vivian's bride ?"

I was speechless with surprise, and Maud continued:

"You remember the day-little more than a year ago that I refused to be his wife? I loved him then, Ellinor. When you called me cold, I felt as if my heart were breaking. But I never knew what anguish might come from this love until these last few weeks. If his choice had only fallen amongst strangers, where I should not have seen his love surrounding another, I could have borne it better. Do not tell me that I know nothing of struggles. I am struggling not to hate Edith."

Maud covered her face with her hands, and I could not know whether she wept or not. What could I say to her? This was a sorrow of the existence of which I had never dreamed. Day after day had I seen her for several months, and never once suspected the truth. I felt, at that moment, that affection ought to have made me see more clearly. Maud looked up abruptly, before I had found words to answer her.

Perhaps you are despising me, Ellinor. I have sometimes despised myself, that my love should have lasted whilst his passed so soon away. And now, when he has not a thought for me,-when I see all his devotion to Edith,-—is it not terrible that I should love him still-should still look back to the hour in which he said that he loved me as the happiest hour of my life? Do you despise me for this, Ellinor ?"

No, my poor Maud !" I replied; "that would be impossible! and as little will I reproach you now for having trifled with your own happiness. Tell me, Maud, when you refused to marry Arthur Vivian, did you tell him the reason of your refusal ?"

"No, I did not," said Maud. "Then he never knew that you loved him ?"

"Never. I did not wish him to know it."

"Ah, Maud! if you had not been so proud-if you had told him the truth-how differently all this might have ended! His love would not have passed so easily away if he had known that it was returned. He would have persevered, and you would have broken your unnatural determination."

"Was it not a presumptuous determination?" said, Maud, sadly. "I thought that I did what was right in making it, and in keeping to have known that

T

to try and stifle