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speakably bitter, fell from his lips. Then, slowly, and in an opposite direction, he rode away to the Fields.

The house had been thrown open, and the servants were making a holiday. Who among them dared question their dark stern master? He went directly to his room, and locked the door after him. Once the bell rang for Pierre, and wine was carried up, but that was all.

The day crept on apace. Nature, congenial with all existing circumstances, began to frown in sullen clouds as night drew on. The wind rose up with a warning cry along the sea. It was after the sunset hour that St. Maur came out from his room, and took the path to the shore.

Perhaps it was the chance of meeting Calvert there that impelled him. The sea fowl were screaming among the rocks; a few fishers' boats were coming in from across the bay, and the songs of the boatmen were borne fitfully to his ear. O, the dreary night-sky, and the cruel winds, and the unspeakable desolation of that sea!

St. Maur paused upon the sands, and looked out upon the angry surf-lines. His face was haggard and worn; the teeth were set, the brows knit darkly. Who can tell what thoughts stirred him in that hourhow that dark fierce soul rebelled against its destiny of ruin and disgrace? He had lost all-love, honor, fortune and fair fame. To-morrow meant exposure, degradation and the penalty of the law.

The thought of Calvert and of revenge died, somehow, away. Nathalie Lermond's beautiful eyes, with the look that he had last seen in them, rose up one moment between him and that black heaving waste of sea, and then faded into its gathering darkness. A fisherman was mooring his boat a few feet distant from where St. Maur stood. He turned abruptly, and went towards him.

"Andrew," he said, "what shall I give you for this boat to go to Coltonsleigh ?"

The man looked up, and seeing who it was, touched his tarry cap deferentially.

"To Coltonsleigh, sir? Not to-night?” "Yes."

"There's a storm brewing sir-a nor' easter."

"That does not matter," gloomily.

"Well, I'm sure you're welcome to the boat, sir; but I'd advise you not to venture on the bay to-night."

"Good advice, Andrew; but quite thrown away. I, too, am an old sailor." The man unmoored the boat again, wondering what could send the master of the fields to Coltonsleigh that night; and he watched him as he pushed off from the shore, wondering still.

A wild sharp sheet of rain, stabbing like spears as it struck, drove Andrew into shelter. His boat and its single occupant were just then across the white bar. Stern and unmoved, St. Maur sat looking straight into the storm before him, fearing its dangers far less than those he was leaving behind, his dark curls blown away from his haggard face, his dark eyes filled with an unutterable despair.

Once only he looked back. Some vision of his wasted youth, his ruined manhood, his lost life, must have stirred him then -of all that might have been, that could never be. Vague pictures danced on the pitch-black night setting grimly in-Hagar's golden hair; Nathalie Lermond's eyes; Ruby Hendee's fair young face. He saw the lights twinkling on the distant shore. Evening fires were burning there, and happy groups were gathered around them. The wind howled like a demon. Higher and wilder rolled the white and ravenous sea; a lighthouse lamp mocked him from a distant point. What had he to do with peace, and love, and home-light more? He looked out into the storm, and darkness, and swift hurrying waves. They were all that were left him.

Andrew, the old fisherman, saw the little cockleshell of a boat when it crossed the bar; he saw it even beyond. Then the blinding rain beat down like a veil between. Midway to his door, he turned again, sweeping the low dark line of the stormy sea, with some whispered words rising to his lips. Nothing could he see now but black sky blended in with blacker sea. Again and again he strained his keen eyes to catch but a sign or signal, listened -to hear but the thunder of the surf.. A night had settled too deep for his sight to pierce, and the boat was seen no more.

CHAPTER XIII.

AND how fared it the while with Nathalic? While St. Maur was tossing in his boat on the stormy bay, gazing back so hopelessly at the shore from which he was

speeding, Marie had closed the shutters, and drawn the curtains of her mistress's dressing-room, and departed therefrom on tiptoe, so afraid was she of disturbing the reclining figure on a low sofa by the fire, with closed eyes and drooping lashes.

But Nathalie did not sleep-far from it. She rose up after Marie had gone, and went to the window, sat down there, resting her head on her folded hands, and listening to the wind and rain outside. The events of the day had been so startling, and so strange withal, that, as yet, she could hardly comprehend them, only as a tired child knows that it has found rest; only as we think of some whirlpool escaped. A few grateful tears forced their way from under the drooping eyelids, a newborn thrill of youth, and hope, and thanksgiving had stirred her numbed heart into life again-that was all.

Of John Calvert's share in her deliverance, she thought incessantly. Why had he thus come to save her from her fate? Why had he pursued the mystery and the wrong to the root for her sake? What could she now be to him? O weak heart! Nothing, nothing-she repeated to herself a thousand times. Had he not deceived her? Was he not the betrothed-the wedded husband, perhaps, of Rose Galbraith? She had that in her hand even then which could convict him; she reread it again with a flushed cheek and curling lip that false letter to Felix Carleton.

The door of the dressing-room opened softly, and Ruby Hendee came in a poor pale little shape, with all the life and color faded out of the small pinched face. She knelt at Nathalie's side, and looked wistfully, tearlessly into her face.

"Are you glad, Nathalie ?" in a whisper. "Glad!-glad that I have escaped such a doom?"

"What will they do with him?"

"I do not know."

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Lulled by the sound of the ocean's wind on the shutters, Nathalie threw herself on her bed, still dressed, and, in spite of a dull gnawing pain, born perhaps of Ruby's sorrow, she fell asleep.

She slept an hour. What was it that aroused her? Not the wind, surely; not the storm beating against the casement? Nathalie started up with a piercing cry, gasping for breath. The lamp had gone out, and the room was full of a dense darkness, surging thick around her, like waves of the sea-choking her, stifling her breath on her lips!

She flew to the door, and threw it wide open. What a sight was there! The whole dark length of the gallery, with its rare tapestry, its paintings, its black oak panelling, was wrapped in a sheet of blood-red crackling flame. Along the broad winding stairway a thousand forked and red-hot tongues of fire were licking up the carving and gilding, and creeping with hisses along the wall, cutting off all hope of escape down those broad stairs. Somewhere beyond that surging sea, over its roar, as in a dream, Nathalie heard the sound of voices and of shouting; then the black smoke, lifted for a moment by some gust of wind, closed slowly in once more, and the hot fire leaped after, and thrusting forth their hands at Nathalie, they drove her, shuddering, back into her chamber, slowly licking up her footsteps as she went.

In that terrible hour there was not a thought of self in the girl's brave heart. Its first cry was for Ruby, for the servants, and, more than all these, for the maniac Hagar. Were they all aroused? Could they be saved? She sprung to the window and threw it wide open. O that dizzy descent! With the hot flame at her shoulder, pursuing her with not an instant's reprieve, how could she ever make it? Yet it was hard to die so. She was young, and life to the young is always beautiful. The door of her dressing-room stood open-there was a refuge for a moment more, she flew through it, closing it behind her, and met Marie in her nightdress on the threshold, white with terror.

"O mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" she shrieked, "the house is on fire! Mademoiselle, we are lost!'

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"Ah, how can we cross the gallery ?" sighed the poor little French maid. See, mademoiselle, see what I bave found!"

She thrust into Nathalie's hand something small, and round, and glittering. Even in that moment of deadly peril, Nathalie recognized it with a cry. It was John Calvert's lost engagement ring.

"Marie, where did you find this?" "I moved a drawer yonder by the window, mademoiselle, after you fell asleep. It lay beneath it. Ah, we can never escape! We can never cross the gallery-we must die."

Not then. Unconscious of what she did, in the terror and bewilderment of the moment, Nathalie slipped John Calvert's ring to its lost place on her finger, and fairly dragging Marie after her, rushed out into the burning gallery. It was her last hope of escape.

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How far she had proceeded-how many steps she had gained in the thick smoke she never knew. No staircase could be found. Groping blindly with her white hands-hearing Marie's shrill cries on all sides, as it seemed, and the roaring of the fire, Nathalie grew bewildered. She was stifled by the hot air, terrified by the smoke and flame girding her closer and closer in. Light and sense reeled.

"Marie! Marie!" she cried aloud in anguish.

Swift as a flash of thought, something leaped forward, cleaving the cloud in which they stood enveloped. She was lifted from her feet. Some heavy garinent was thrown about her, and an arm, strong and stout as iron, hurried her breathlessly forward.

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where behind them, sent out a terrible warning. Leaping at a bound, a narrow chasm of fire which intervened betwixt them and a door just fallen from its redhot hinges, Nathalie saw that they stood in Hagar St. Maur's chamber, in the black and gold room, on which she was looking her last forever. John Calvert shivered at a blow the glass door opening upon the balcony. Wind and rain dashed in.

"Quick!" he cried, holding out his arms towards her, with a face that was terrible; the walls are falling!"

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One wild cry that might have pierced the heavens, as to and fro swayed the huge framework of the burning roof and wall; then, blindly into the black space, sprang Nathalie towards those arms; close as death they clasped her; then, a crash, a pall, like midnight, settling slowly down, and Nathalie knew no more.

The prophecy of Hendee was fulfilled!

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In a low room, with whitewashed walls and bright chintz curtains, Nathalie Lermond next opened her brown eyes to the light of day. There was morning sunshine on the floor, and a pleasant sound of bees humming in some vines outside, and through the parted chintz curtains she saw the blue glimmer of the sea, rippling and dancing in the sun, as calmly as if no storm had ever swept it. Ruby Hendee rose up from the foot of the couch on which she was lying, and came to her side. There were traces of tears on the pale cheeks and round violet eyes.

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"You were stunned by some portion of the falling wall, just as John Calvert leaped with you from the balcony. His arin was terribly crushed."

Nathalie raised herself up. "Where is he?" she said. "Here-with us all, waiting to see you." "And Hagar, and Mrs. Roberts, and Marie ?"

"Safe. Marie is mourning for nothing but the loss of her black curls. Mrs. Roberts has gone to the Fields. Nathalie, St. Maur is dead!"'

"Dead! When-how did he die ?"

"He was drowned," the poor pained little voice went on, hurriedly. "They found

the body this morning on the shore. He started for Coltonsleigh last night, and the boat was upset in the storm. O Nathalie, we can all forgive him now!"

Neither spoke for a long time. Nathalie's lashes were heavy with tears; that which he might have craved in vain while living, out of her divine woman's pity she gave him freely now. Ruby came at last, and knelt down beside her, and laid her curly golden head in her lap.

"Ah, Nathalie, the old Hall is gone! Do you remember that I used to ask you to build a villa like St. Maur's? You will, now. Darling, do you think you have quite forgiven him?"

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"But if you knew he had wronged you as you had never dreamed-that he had stooped to falsehood and treachery; could you forgive him then? I have been talking with poor Calvert this morning, and I think he wrote you letters, and sent the ring, and not one knew of it but St. Maur, Nathalie." "But Rose Galbraith-" gasped Nathalie, in wild bewilderment.

"Rose married Felix Carleton long ago, and went abroad," said Ruby, quickly.

Was Nathalie awake or dreaming? She clutched at the darkest of all the skeletons in her closet.

"That letter to Felix Carleton-did he not write that?" she cried.

Ruby's face was half smile half tears.

"I am afraid not, Nathalie. He says it is a forgery. Some one must have slipped it into the cabinet unperceived. Darling, if you had only read the letter he sent by Alsie !''

O, the regret, the rapture, the penitence, mingled together in that moment! How the scales fell from her eyes! How blind she had been! How recreant to her trust! The royal head fell down on Ruby's shoulder.

"And I owe him my life now!" she murmured. "O, will he ever forgive me?" "Yes," said Ruby, tearfully, "he will forgive you, and you will be happy!"

So, by-and-by, Nathalie went down to him, with white lids adroop, and tremulous red lips proudly penitent, and on her hand his ring.

He was sitting in a low easy-chair, in the little cottage whither they had been carried; his eyes closed, the pale face, strong even in its suffering, turned to the

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mities cease with that which is mortal. Death cancels all this side of the grave! and looking up through tears, into John Calvert's true eyes that hour, with the sunshine falling over them, Nathalie read there a shadowy prophecy of-light born out of darkness-a love, a truth, a devotion, that, in all the years before her, was never, never to fail!

Long before the summer flowers faded there were orange blossoms tangled again in Nathalie's tresses. A new Hall stands to-day on the site of the old one. Sometimes you may see there, if you will, a pale golden-haired woman, old beyond her years, walking its terraces, perhaps, with the little dark-eyed heir-one whom all little children love, one who goes upon her daily way alone, patient, and sad, and still. That is Ruby Hendee.

Across the budding beechwoods, in the grand villa at the Fields, there is another woman, always closely attended, goldenhaired, too, and gloriously beautiful, watched over by a tall Scotch woman, with a strong face and keen eyes, whom they call Alsie. You will see them in the great rooms, or the garden paths, where, all day long, sometimes, the fair-haired one will wander listlessly, counting the petals of flowers, or staring vacantly into space. That is Hagar St. Maur.

In the yard of that gray stone church upon the hill there is a grave, swept by the. sea winds, with a shaft of marble at its head, a name and a date. It is carefully enclosed. Shrubbery has been planted around it-daisies creep around the stone; and there, silently under the Heaven that avenges and forgives, lies one, heedless alike now of the lives he has blessed or blighted-St. Maur!

Neglect the duty of an hour, and it is an hour irretrievably lost. Crowd this neglected duty into the next hour, and you crowd out of it its own appointed task, and some task out of life. A lost hour is lost beyond recall. Time not only lapses unimproved, but it works changes.

CHAPTER 1.

AUNT DREW'S LEGACY.

BY MARY L. BOLLES BRANCH.

ONE narrow purple-stained window, swung halfway round on its centre to let in the air, looked as if it opened right among boughs and green leaves, for behind the church the tall elms grew. Jean Argyle, raising her head after her first silent prayer, glanced over that way at once for a look out into the treetops. She was earlier than the rest of the choir that morning, although the bell had almost done ringing when she passed up the stairs and through the little side door into the gallery. Only the organist Mr. Siebert was there, and he did not notice her, for his head was resting dreamily on his hand. All the influences from without were holy and quieting as she looked up among the tall columns and arches, and over at the wonderful great chancel window, and then again at her own favorite purple one, with the cool, dark, silent depths of foliage behind.

The people were gathering below, the bell ceased ringing, and the organist began a low sweet voluntary. Jean heard Charlie Thrale, the tenor, come quietly to his place, and a moment after some one stumbled over a footstool; that was Orrin Drew, she was sure, but she never turned her head until a graceful little figure in fluttering muslin knelt for an instant beside her, and then, rising, whispered briskly in her ear:

"See, Jean; see those bonnet-strings! Aren't they lovely? Just the new shade." "Where?" asked Jean, looking over the

rail.

"Those pink ones. Too lovely for anything! Where do you suppose she got

them ?"

"What's the matter, Clem?" inquired Orrin Drew, in a loud whisper.

"Hush! Dr. Rawley is looking up at

us."

The voluntary ceased, and the rector's voice followed:

"The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him."

The color flew into Jean's face. She rose hurriedly with the rest, and opened her prayer-book. Clementina Drew shook out the folds of her lace handkerchief, and

contentedly resumed her examination of bonnets, but Jean felt a little uneasy and abashed, as if she had somehow disturbed the harmony of things.

"And yet I did not whisper very much," she thought to herself; "but it always spoils everything. I'll begin Sunday over again with the Venite, and not look at Clem after that."

Whoever in the congregation had glanced up at the singers during the next chant, might only have noticed how bright and young the faces were of the two girls standing side by side, never guessing how thoughtlessly and lightly the clear soprano ran up the high notes, nor how honestly and earnestly the alto sang.

Clementina Drew and Jean Argyle were cousins, of the same age, with the same pursuits, and interested in the same things, but with a difference. Jean was very sensitive to outer influences; a picture, a tree could set her soul in tune, and a whisper could jar it again, but Clementina was never moved by such things. Jean acted as yet much more from impulse than principle, and so did Clementina, but the latter's impulses were more purely thoughtless.

When Mr. Siebert formed his choir, assisted by the advice of Mrs. Marlowe, the rector's sister, he told that lady he hoped his singers might have souls to interpret music loftily and truly. She comprehended him, and arched her fine eyebrows a little, as she answered:

"They have souls, and they have musical voices, but whether these help each other is more than I can say, Mr. Siebert. Your soprano, I imagine, will airily elude your suggestions, but Jean Argyle's fancy is like morning-glory vines, very easily trained; give it but the least clue to hold by, and you'll find a soul there to interpret, I think."

"And my young men ?" asked Mr. Siebert.

"Unwrought material. Try your hand upon it. You have our four best voices; do what you can with them."

So at the first rehearsal he told them they were to sing the Benedicite, and said

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