being of value perhaps to the child-which of course I shall be very willing to leave them with you, ma'am-for being no scholard, as I says before-"

As Mrs. Cray stands there, repeating the same sentences again and again, and fumbling the dirty packet about in her hands, a light breaks in upon Irene. The letters are to be paid for. And she is quite ready to pay for them, for her interest and curiosity are alike aroused by what the laundress has told her, and she hopes the papers may prove of use in tracing the parentage of her adopted child.

"O, certainly, I quite understand!" she exclaims, eagerly, as her hand dives into her pocket for her purse; " and I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Mrs. Cray, for the trouble you have taken in bringing them up to me." And thereupon she seizes on the letters, and transfers instead a sovereign to the woman's palm—an exchange which so entirely meets Mrs. Cray's views of justice, that it is several minutes before Irene can stop her torrent of thanks, and get her well out of the room again.

It is dusk now, for the autumn evenings close in fast, and she rings for candles, and, full of expectation, sits down to inspect the contents of the packet she has bought. She is so deeply interested in this case-so sentimentally regretful still over the memory of poor Myra-so anxious that her child should not be left entirely dependent on herself for a friend. So she draws her chair close in to the table, and leans both her arms upon it, and bends her head down to the light, as people do who are about to enter on a task that engrosses all their minds. When she has cast away the dirty string, and still dirtier outside paper, she comes upon a small bundle of letters, or rather notes, in number about six, and which, to judge from two or three specimens selected at random, do not appear at first sight likely to prove worth a sovereign vested in the interests of Tommy:

"DEAR MYRA,-Don't expect me tomorrow. It is impossible I can come. The bill shall be paid next week.

When Irene has deciphered these and a few others, very similar in character, she pauses for a moment's thought.

What do they tell her? Positively nothing but what she knew before. It is evident that the writer was not a passing acquaintance of the dead girl's, but some one who considered her home as his, and held himself responsible for her expenditure; without doubt, the father of her child, the Hamilton of whom Myra had spoken to her.

Irene thrusts the letters to one side indignantly, almost with disgust. She fancies she can trace the selfish nature of the writer in every line; she thinks she would not care to stand in that man's place at the present moment, and only wishes she could find some clue by which to trace him, and make him aware of the mischief and misery he has wrought.

Having disposed of the letters, she next takes up the glove-a gentleman's glove, as the laundress had observed, but of no value in tracing the identity of its owner-and the envelop that contains the lock of hair.

It is a soft wavy piece of dark brown hair, the counterpart of that which grows on Tommy's head, and Irene experiences a strange sensation of mingled admiration and dislike as she takes it in her hand. Besides these, the packet contains nothing but a gold locket, broken and empty; a heap of withered flowers, chiefly violets, and one of those highly ornamental and strictly useless ivory-backed prayer-books, which are manufactured for young gentlemen to present to young ladies, and which Myra was very unlikely to have received from any friend in her own class of life. Irene opens the prayer-book to see if there is any inscription in it, but the title-page is guiltless of the indiscretion of revealing its donor's name. It is blank, and silent, and inscrutable as the past appears likely to be upon the subject of her adopted child. She turns over the leaves mechanically and with an air of disappointment. At the service for the solemnization of marriage the page is folded down. Poor Myra! how

often may she not have glanced at the holy words, which bore no sweet memories for her, with longing tears! As Irene's hand shakes, the little volume shakes, and something-an oval piece of cardboard apparently-falls loosely from it on the table. She seizes and turns it uppermost. It is a photographed face, cut from an ordinary carte de visite, which, from its size and appearance, has evidently once been encased in the broken locket-the face of a man, which she holds forward eagerly to the light.

"God in heaven, it is that of Eric Keir!”

In her anxiety to examine the portrait, Irene has risen to her feet, and now stands, quivering in every limb, and gazing at it as though she were spellbound. There can be no mistake; he appears younger here than when she knew him, there is less hair about the face, less thought upon the brow, a look of more insouciance about the mouth. But the eyes, the nose, the contour of the countenance, are the same; there can be no doubt but that it was taken from himself.

"But how-how can his photograph have found its way amongst Myra's poor possessions? Why should it be mixed up with these relics of the base and selfish lover who betrayed her innocence ?

The deadly sickness that rises to her heart makes answer to the question.

The initials E. H. stand for Eric Hamilton; he is the man at whose door all the suffering she has witnessed must be laid; his child, whom she has adopted as her own, lies sleeping at this moment under her protection.

As the reality of the thought strikes home to her, Irene lets the photograph fall from her hands, and sinks back upon the chair which she had quitted.

Eric Hamilton Keir and Myra Cray. For a few moments all that she does or thinks of doing is to repeat those two names conjunctively over and over again, until the syllables lose all significance for her.

The effect is to harden her heart and cause it to feel quite dead and cold. Presently she hears a sound outside in the hall, and, springing up, pushes all the sad mementos of poor Myra's disgrace together in one heap, and thrusting them into the writing-table drawer, turns the key upon them. And then she leaves the room, al

most as though she were in a dream, and still dreaming, encounters her sister-in-law upon the stairs.

"Are you not coming down into the drawing-room?" says Isabella. "I think-that is, I am not sure, of course-but I believe that my brother is expecting you. Coffee has been in for half an hour."

"Don't wait for me," Irene replies, in a low voice, as she toils in a languid purposeless manner up the staircase.

As she gains her bedroom door, Phoebe appears upon the landing from her own apartment.

"O please, ma'am, would you just step in and look at Master Tommy? He do look so beautiful in his sleep."

"No, no, I can't! I don't wish to see him. I don't care about seeing him," replies her mistress, in tones so unusually sharp and decisive, that Phoebe, bewildered, retreats to her nursery again, feeling that somehow she has made a mistake.

Irene enters her own room and paces up and down in the dark, not fast, but restlessly.

"Myra Cray!" so run her thoughts, "a lowborn uneducated girl, whom he was base enough to betray and desert, and then he came to me-to ME-and dared to trifle with my affections, too!"

The knowledge of the similarity between their cases should make her soften towards Myra's memory, but it does not; the shock of the discovery has occurred too lately. As yet she can only think of her as of one who (however briefly) held the heart she was unable to secure. And she is impotently weak to cope with a feeling which she knows to be unworthy of her; and the whole world loses favor in her eyes in consequence of her own defalcation.

As she is still walking up and down the room, trying hard to stamp down the demons of envy, and jealousy, and revenge, that are struggling for supremacy in her bosom, Colonel Mordaunt's deferential tap for admittance is heard against the door. It is an unfortunate moment for him in which to appear before her; we are best left to conduct these mental warfares by ourselves, and there are moments in life in which the attentions of our best and dearest friends irritate instead of soothing us. And all Colonel Mordaunt's attentions, however kindly meant, are conducted on that soothing stroke-you-down-gently

us say no more about it, but go down to Isabella." And for the remainder of the evening she is, to all outward appearance, much like her usual self. She goes to bed, however, sleeps brokenly, and rises in the morning unrefreshed. The revelation of the night before has made no difference in her future prospects, nor can it influence in any way her present actions; but it has revived all her bitterest feelings with regard to Eric Keir's behaviour to herselffeelings which she had hoped were long since laid to rest, because the tame existence which she is leading affords no opportunity of arousing them. But the dull leaden weight which, alternated with fierce moods of scorn and irony, once rendered life a torture to her has settled down upon her heart again, and disposes her to feel

Only that I feel a little-a little hipped to-night, and would rather remain by myself."

"Hipped! Why, what on earth can you have to make you feel hipped? Has anything gone wrong?"

"I have already said no to that question. But is it absolutely necessary, in order to feel low, that we should be suffering in the present? Have we no past to return at times upon us ?"

Irene forgets, as she says this sentence, how much confidence she reposed in her husband before marriage; and as it escapes her, and the remembrance returns, she grows still more impatient with herself and him.

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"I had hoped," he observes (and the observation alone, in her present condition, carries offence with it), that your past was done away with forever, Irene." "I never gave you cause to hope so," she retorts, sharply. And he turns away in silence to leave the room. In a moment she has seen her error and sprung after him.

"Forgive me, Philip; I am in a horrid temper! But when you talk of my past as gone forever, you forget that I have lost my father and mother, and-and-"

66

There, there, darling! It is I who should ask your forgiveness; I was a brute to say what I did. But I have been hoping I had made you happy, Irene."

"And so you have-very happy!" she returns, with a sort of hysterical gasp. "Let

she is dressing, a certain chubby hand knocks uncertainly upon her bedroom door. She knows well the faint broken sound his dimpled knuckles make, and generally flies to the door to open it herself. But to-day her brows contract, and she shrinks backward as though the mere knowledge of his presence there could give her pain.

"If you please, ma'am, it's Master Tommy," says Phoebe's voice from the outside.

"I can't see him this morning, Phoebe. Let him run in the garden until we come down."

"I want oo-I want oo!" says Tommy, as he kicks at the bedroom door.

"Are you going to let that child kick all the paint off the panelling?" shouts her husband from his dressing-room.

"If you please, ma'am, he's been in the garden already, and he's got a most beautiful rose for you-haven't you, Tommy ?"

"Let me in! I want oo""" repeats the protege.

Then she advances slowly and unlocks the door, and admits the child before Phoebe can follow him, and finds herself standing in the centre of the room, gazing with her large hungry eyes at the atom of humanity whose existence vexes her so sorely.

"What do you want, Tommy?" she commences, coldly.

"A rose for Tommy mamma-a booful rose," he lisps, as he presents the flower.

She does not offer to accept it; on the contrary, she turns away.

"Don't call me mamma," she says, quickly.

The urchin looks astonished, and then pouts his lips. Children are ready judges; he recognizes the injustice and waywardness of her new mood at once.

"I go, Phoebe," he utters, plaintively, in remonstrance to the change. Irene looks round-sees the dewy mouth drooping at both corners-catches the deprecating glance of the violet eyes-becomes aware of her barbarity in a moment, and flies to fold the friendless fatherless little creature in her arms.

"As if 'twas your fault," she murmurs, pressing her lips upon his curly head. "Poor lamb-poor, unhappy, deserted little child! O Tommy, he has left us both-he has left us both-we will be all the world to one another ""

The mistress of Fen Court is very thoughtful for some days after this little episode, and only like herself by fits and starts, though, strange to say, no one notices the change, except it be Oliver Ralston. But our most intimate friends are often the last to read what is passing in our inmost minds. We are suffering perhaps so keenly that we scarcely dare to raise our eyes lest they should blurt out our secret, and imagine every one we meet must read it written on our brow in characters of fire; and yet those with whom we live go on consulting us day after day with reference to the weekly expenditure, or the servants' peccadilloes, or the children's spring dresses, as if, for the time being, such matters had not lost their significance for us almost as much as though we had passed beyond them. Yet it is not so with strangers, unless, indeed, we happen to be actors and actresses of the first rank. They meet us, and observe to one another afterwards, "What is that man's perplexity? What cause can that woman have for weeping?" And so Oliver Ralston discovers that Irene is not so cheerful as before, and taxes her with it in his rough hearty way.

"Dreaming again, Irene! What is up?" "When you can explain to me, Oliver, how much is comprehended in that mystical term, perhaps I may be able to tell you." "You know what I mean. Why are you so down in the mouth ?"

"The natural reaction after so much dissipation."

"Fiddle-de-dee! Excuse my rudeness, but you know fiddle-de-dee is the only word to suit your explanation. Seriously, though, is it anything in which I can help you?"

"Not at all, Oliver; thanks, all the same except, indeed, by not commenting upon what you are pleased to call my being 'down in the mouth.'"

"But may I tell you to what I think it's due ?"

"Certainly, if you can-which I know you can't."

"You are sorry you ever adopted that little brat Tommy ?"

She grows scarlet.

"Indeed I'm not. What should make you think so? Has your uncle been saying anything against him?"

"He never mentions the subject to me. But I have seen you looking at the child scores of times lately, and I can read it in your face."

"Acute observer! but wrong, for once in his life. I wouldn't part with Tommy for anything in the world."

"Not if I found his relations for you?" "He has no relations," hurriedly-"he belongs to me entirely-he will never be taken away. But please let us talk of something else, Oliver. Have you seen Dr. Robertson again ?"

"How artfully you change the subject! Yes, I saw Robertson this morning, and it's all but settled."

"With Philip's consent?"

"Certainly. He has come round to think it will be the best thing in the world for me. And so it will. I have still sense enough to see that. There will not be much temptation for me to dissipate in Fenton. The only drawback is that I am afraid I shall not get so much practice as I ought to have."

"O, never mind the practice! To lead a quiet life is the most important thing. And I promise you shall operate on me whenever occasion calls for it."

"What an opening! I'll have both your legs off before the year's out. But really, Irene, it will be a great thing for me to live so near you."

"It will be perfectly delightful; for, entre nous, though poor Isabella is extremely good, she is a very stupid companion. And you must come over and dine with us every day. Now, wont you ?"

"And leave Robertson to look after his five parishes alone? I'm afraid he wont consent to that. But I must keep a horse, and dare say I shall often be able to take Fen Court in my rounds."

"Are you going to live with Dr. Robertson ?"

"No; he has a wife and large family, so I should prefer not to do so. But I can have two rooms in a farmhouse close byvery nice ones."

"And we will furnish them for you; that will be charming. You have no idea how pretty I shall make them. I shall send you over table-linen, and crockery, and everything from the Court. We have much more than we can use. It will be the greatest fun in the world getting your rooms ready."

"You are much too good to me."

"And when you have taken possession you shall give a housewarming. Isabella and I will go over in the pony-chaise, and Tommy shall ride his donkey. (By-theway, do you know that I've bought a donkey for Tommy, and he sticks on like a little brick?")-here Irene interrupts her rapid delivery with a deep-drawn sigh. "Why that sigh, Irene ?" "What sigh ?"

"At Tommy's name again. Ali, you can't deceive me! All the low spirits of the last week are attributable to the existence of that wretched child."

"How you do tease me, Oliver! And it's very rude to break off the conversation in that way. Where was I? O yes; the upshot is that we'll all go and have afternoon tea at your Fenton apartments-that is, if you'll have us."

"How can you doubt it? Only your proposals are so delightful, I'm afraid they are too good to come true. What will Uncle Philip say to them ?"

"Just what I do. But I will go and sound him at once." And off runs Irene in search of her husband. She finds Colonel Mordaunt in a beaming humor, and everything goes right. He considers the offered appointment as good an opening as a young man in Oliver's position could expect to obtain; acknowledges he should like to have him near Fen Court; agrees heartily to every suggestion with respect to furnishing the apartments, and even mentions a certain strong hunting cob now standing in his stables as very likely to be his own

particular contribution to his nephew's new establishment.

"And so, you see, Oliver, that's all right," is Irene's comfortable conclusion as the last clause has been discussed and provided for. And then follows a merrier evening than they have spent for some days past; for Irene catches the infection of her husband's good-humor and Oliver's content, and miraculously recovering her voice, which has been hors de combat for at least a week, sits up to a much later hour than usual, singing snatches of old ballads that were famous before she was born, and interrupting herself every second minute to twist round on the music-stool and make some little harmless joke at the expense of Oliver's future menage.

So they all go to bed pretty well tired out, and my heroine does not wake until her accustomed hour on the following morning. The first thing of which she is conscious is that Colonel Mordaunt is already up and dressed.

"Yes; scraping over the gravel. I fancied I heard them; or perhaps I dreamt it. I was very sleepy. Are you going away?" "I shall be back in a minute," says her husband, hastily; but several minutes elapse, and he does not return, so Irene rises and proceeds to dress herself. She is just about to ring for Phoebe to assist in the completion of her toilet when she is attracted by a loud roar from somewhere below stairs. Tommy has evidently come to grief.