he could not bear to meet her gaze, and she catches up the child and sets him on the embrasured window-sill before her, and looks into his eyes with her own brimming over with tears. Each has spoken to the other; the pentup cry of their burdened hearts has broken forth at length; and they stand silent and ashamed, and overwhelmed in the presence of Nature. Tommy is the first to recall them to a sense of their equivocal position. “Mamma is crying," he observes, pointedly. "Naughty gentleman." His shrill little voice attracts the attention of Mrs. Quekett, who is loitering in the hall (a favorite occupation of hers during that season of the year when the sittingroom doors stand open), and she immediately commences noiselessly to rearrange the pieces of old china that ornament the shelves of a carved oak buffet outside the dining-room. At the sound of the child's words, Muiraven quits his place, and advancing to Irene, takes her hand. "Forgive me," he says, earnestly, "for all that I have brought upon you. Say that you forgive me!'' Mrs. Quekett pricks up her ears like a hunter when the dogs give tongue. "You wrong me by the request," Irene' answers. "I cannot think how I forgot myself so far as to say what I did; but I' trust you never to take advantage of my words." "Except in letting their memory lighten my existence, I never will. And 1 thank you so much for permitting me to have a mutual interest in this child. I see that he is very dear to you." "He is indeed! I don't think any mother could love a child more than I do him." 66 And you will let me love him too. He shall be the link between us; the common ground on which we may meet-the memory left, to whichever goes first, of the affection of the other. Henceforward Tommy shall have a father as well as a mother." "I will be sure and leave the letter that I spoke of." "And you will not write to me-not one line to cheer me in any way." "I must not; and it would be impossible if I could. When you return-perhaps-" "If you say that, I shall return tomerrow." At that moment the carriage-wheels are heard grating on the gravel drive. "Here is the colonel, Mrs. Mordaunt !'' Irene starts-flushes-and withdraws her hand quickly from that of Lord Muiraven. Mrs. Quekett, duster in hand, is looking in at the open door. "The colonel!" cries Muiraven, looking at his watch to cover their confusion; "how time flies! it is nearly eleven. Well, goodby, Mrs. Mordaunt. I shall have shot a real Bengal tiger before we meet again.” "Tiger will eat you," interpolates Tommy, sententiously. "O, take care of yourself," says Irene, with quick alarm. "I will-believe me! since you ask it! How big is the lum-a-lum to be, Tommy? Ten feet high?" "As tall as the house," replies Tommy. "Are your traps brought down stairs yet, Muiraven?" demands Colonel Mordaunt, as he enters the room. "We haven't much time to spare, if you're to catch the one o'clock train. That fellow William is shirking his work again, Irene; I found the gray filly with her roller off. I declare there's no getting one's servants to do anything unless one is constantly at their heels." "Look what gentleman given me!" says Tommy, who has been occupied with Lord Muiraven at the window. "Your watch and chain!" exclaims Irene. "O no, Lord Muiraven, indeed you you must not. Think how young the child is. You are too generous." "Generous!" says the colonel; "it's d-d foolish, Muiraven, if you'll excuse my saying so. The boy will never be in a position to use it, and it will be smashed in an hour." "No! that it shall not be, Philip. I will take care Lord Muiraven's kindness is not abused-only a toy would have been so much better." "Pray let him keep it, Mrs. Mordaunt. It will be rather a relief to get rid of it. I so much prefer to wear dear old Bob's, that was sent home to me last autumn." "You certainly must have more watches than you know what to do with," grumbles the colonel. "Put Lord Muiraven's portmanteaus in the carriage, James;-wait a minute. Let me speak to the coachman." Irene has taken the watch from the child's hand, and is holding it in her own. "It is so kind of you," she murmurs. Irene takes an opportunity during the succeeding day to examine her behaviour and its motives very searchingly, but she thinks that, on the whole, she has acted right. What could Muiraven have done with a young child just as he was starting for a place like India? He could not have taken Tommy with him; he would have been compelled to leave him in England under the care of strangers; who, in the event of his father dying abroad, would have had him reared and educated without any reference to herself. Yes, she believes she has done what is best for all parties. When Muiraven returns she will tell him the truth, and let him do as he thinks fit; but until that event occurs, she shall keep the child to herself. And as the blankness of the knowledge of his departure returns upon her every now and then during that afternoon, she catches up Tommy in her arms and smothers him with kisses, as she reflects with secret joy that she has something of Muiraven left her still. How surprised she would be to compare her present feelings with those with which she first learned the news of the boy's paternity. The sin and shame of that past folly are not less shocking than they were; but the sting has been withdrawn from them. Eric loves her. He was not base and cruel and deceitful; it was fate that kept them separate; and on the strength of his own word, he is forgiven for everything-past, present, and to come! What is there woman will not forgive to the man she loves? Irene almost believes this afternoon, that if she is but permitted to bring up Tommy to be worthy of his father, so that when he is a man, and Eric is still lonely and unmarried, she may present them to each other and say, "Here is a son to bless and comfort your old age," she will desire nothiug more to make life happy. And feeling more light-hearted and content than she has done for many a day-although Muiraven has put miles between them-goes singing about the garden in the evening, like a blithesome bird. Her carolling rather disturbs Colonel Mordaunt who (with his study window open) is busy with his farm accounts; and making small way as it is, with Mrs. Quekett standing at his right hand, and putting in her oar at every second figure. "Not oats, colonel; it was barley Clayton brought in last week; and if an eye's anything to go by, ten sacks short, as I'm a living woman." "How can you tell, Quekett ?" replies the colonel, fretfully; "did you see them counted ?" "Counted! Is it my business to watch your stable-men do their work?" "Of course not; but I suppose Barnes was there; he is generally sharp enough upon Clayton." "Well, there it is in the granary-easy It seems short enough enough to look at it. measure to me. Perhaps some has been taken since it was unloaded." "It's very unpleasant to have those doubts. I hate suspecting any one, especially my own servants. Why should they rob me? They have everything that they want." "Bless you, colonel! as if that made any difference. Of course they have everything they want; and it's generally those who are closest to us who play us the dirtiest tricks. A man would get through life easy enough if it weren't for his friends. That's a handsome watch his lordship gave to that brat of Cray's (I hope your lady isn't within earshot), isn't it now?" "It must have cost fifty pounds if it cost five. I can't imagine any one being so simple as to part with his property in that lavish manner, Quekett!" "Nor I-if he don't know to whom he's parting with it. But Lord Muiraven knows, as sure as my name's Rebecca. He's not such a fool as he looks." "You are so mysterious, Quekett, with your hints and innuendoes," replies her master, peevishly. 'Why can't you speak out, if you have anything to say?" 66 "Would you be any the better pleased if I were to speak out?" "Muiraven's private affairs cannot affect me much, either one way or the other." You "I don't know that, colonel. wouldn't care to keep the child hanging about here if you thonght it was his, I reckon." "Of course not; but what proofs have you that it belongs to him?" "Well, he's stamped his signature pretty plainly on the boy's face. All the world can see that; and whether the child is his own or not, he's safe to get the credit of him." "A very uncertain proof, Quekett. I should have thought you had had too much experience to accept it. Now look at the matter sensibly. Is it likely Lord Muiraven could have been to Priestley and courted Myra Cray without our hearing of it?" 66 Myra Cray has not always lived at Priestley, colonel. But putting that aside, how can we be sure the child did belong to Cray ?" "But—I have always understood so," exclaims Colonel Mordaunt as he pushes his chair away from the table and confronts the housekeeper. 66 Ay, perhaps you have; but that's no proof either. Mrs. Cray always said the boy was a nurse-child of hers; and it was not until Myra's death that Mrs. Mordaunt told you she was his mother." "Mrs. Mordaunt repeated what the dying woman confided to her." "Perhaps so," remarks Mrs. Quekett, dryly, "but the fact remains, colonel. And your lady took so kindly to the child from the very first, that I always suspected she knew more of his history than we did." "Do you mean to insinuate that my wife took this boy under her protection, knowing him to be a son of Lord Muiraven ?" "I don't wish to insinuate-I mean to say I believe it; and if you'll take the trouble to put two and two together, colonel, you'll believe it too." "Good God! it is impossible. I tell you Mrs. Mordaunt never saw Lord Muiraven till she met him at the Glottonbury ball." "I think there must be a mistake somewhere, colonel; for they've been seen together at Lady Baldwin's parties more than once; I had it from her own lips.". "I can't understand it. I am sure Irene told me she did not know him." "Some things are best kept to ourselves, colonel. Perhaps your lady did it to save you. But if they'd never met before, they got very intimate with one another whilst he was here." "How do you mean ?" "In arranging plans for the child's future, and so forth. I heard Mrs. Mordaunt tell his lordship this very morning, just as he was going away, that she should write to him concerning it. And his giving the child that watch looks very much, to my mind, as though he took a special interest in him." Colonel Mordaunt frowns and turns away from her. "I cannot believe it; and if it's true I wish to God you had never told me, Quekett. Go on with the accounts!-Where is the baker's memorandum for flour?" Didn't I order it to be sent in every week?" "There it is, colonel, right on the top of the others. One would think you had lost your head." "Lost my head; and isn't it enough to make a man lose his head to hear all the scandal you retail to me? Do you want to make me believe that there is a secret understanding between my wife and Muiraven concerning that child ?" "I don't want you to believe any further than you can see for yourself. If you like to be blind, be blind! It's no matter of mine." "Is it likely," continues the colonel, shooting beyond the mark in his anxiety to ascertain the truth," that had she been preacquainted with that man, and preferred his company to mine, she would have been so distant in her manner towards him and so low-spirited during his visit here ?" "I am sure I can't say, colonel; women are riddles to me, as to most. Perhaps your lady didn't care to have his lordship located here for fear of something coming out. Any way, she seems light-hearted enough now he's gone," as the sound of Irene's voice comes gayly through the open casement. "I don't believe a word of it, Quekett," says the colonel, loyally, though he wipes the perspiration off his brow as he speaks; "you are hatching up lies for some infernal purpose of your own. This is no business of yours, and I'll listen to no more of it. Go back to your own room, and leave me to settle my accounts by myself." "Thank you, colonel! Those are rather hard words to use to an old friend who has served you and yours faithfully for the last thirty years; and you can hardly suppose I shall stand them quietly. I may have means of revenging myself, and I may not, but no one offended me yet without repenting of it, and you should know that as well as most. I wish you a very good night, round the window-frame, is singing a colonel." "Stop, Quekett. If I have been hasty, you must forgive me. Think how wretched the doubt you have instilled in my breast will make me. I love my wife better than myself. I would lay down my life to preserve her integrity. And the idea that she may have deceived me is utter misery. I shall brood over it until it eats my heart away. I would rather know the worst at once." While he is speaking, the housekeeper has drawn a torn sheet of paper from the leather bag she carries on her arm, and is smoothing it carefully between her palms. "Well, colonel, you had better know the worst," she replies, as she lays the paper on the desk before him; "you will believe your own eyes, perhaps, if you wont believe me; and you may live to be sorry for the words you've spoken. But you shall be deceived no longer, if I can help it." "Quekett! what is this?" "Read it, and judge for yourself! It came down in your lady's waste-paper basket, which she aint half so careful of as she needs to be. And when you have read it, you'll understand, perhaps, why I've taken upon myself to speak as I have done." He glances at the first few characters and turns as white as a sheet. drowsy song amongst its blossoms; the cows in the meadow beyond the lawn, restored to their calves after milking, are lowing with maternal satisfaction; the nestlings, making, beneath their mother's guidance, the first trial of their half-grown wings, are chirping plaintively amongst the lilac bushes; and above all is heard Irene's cheerful voice as she chases Tommy round and round the garden flower-beds. Everything seems happy and at peace, as he sits down to scan the words which are destined to blot all peace and happiness from his life forevermore. He glances rapidly at the familiar writing, reads it oncetwice-three times, and then falls forward on the study table with a groan. [TO BE CONTINUED.] THE DIFFICULTY OF REFORM.-Perhaps nothing is more effectual in preventing people from reforming their habits in any direction than an attempt to deny or ignore the real difficulties that stand in their way. This is a common mistake with those who wish to use their influence to good purpose. In urging the performance of a duty, or the abandonment of a fault, they declare that nothing is easier. "You have only to cease drinking, to forsake bad company, to desist from selfish or quarrelsome conduct," as "Leave me, Quekett," he utters in a faint the case may be. They fail to recognize voice. "Keep up, colonel," she says encouragingly as she retreats. "There's as good fish in the sea, remember, as ever came out of it." But his only answer is to thrust her quietly from the door and turn the key upon her exit. The air is full of all the sweet scents and sounds of early summer. A humble bee, attracted by the honeysuckle that clusters the intense efforts, the numerous obstacles, the thorny paths involved in this word only. If, however, instead of ignoring them, they hasten to admit, and to present fairly the difficulties that lie in the road of reform, at the same time exhibiting the benefits that must accrue from the effort to overcome them, and thus, by hope and encouragement, strengthening the will to brave endeavors, they will often be themselves astonished at the success of their enterprise. NOTICE TO THE PUBLIC.-BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR A SWINDLER.-One B. F. Turner, who is soliciting subscriptions for BALLOU'S MAGAZINE in Illinois, is a fraud, and we request the public whom he is cheating to arrest the scamp and punish him for his crimes. We have advertised the fellow for months past, but he is still at work at his infamous business. One of his victims recently sent us a receipt, printed in due form, with the exception that the publishers were represented as Thomas & Talbot, instead of Thomes & Talbot, the fellow falling into a mistake which many make who do not stop to take a second glance at a name. Will the people of Illinois please pass around the name of B. F. Turner, and kick him as he deserves, when he asks for subscriptions? We do not employ travelling agents, and we wish the public understood it a little better than they do. "THIRTY-SIX years old to-day!" And I looked bravely at the face the mirror reflected. It was a face that bore a mark for every year it had bidden adieu to; aye, and for more, too! The lines around the mouth were deeper, and the silver threads in the hair thicker, than the few drops in the bucket of eternity called for. I smiled at the face as I gave the last smooth to the frost-sprinkled hair, and pinned on the plain linen collar, for I was at my afternoon toilet; and then, instead of going down to the sitting-room, as usual, I seated myself by the window, and looked down the vista of the past. Twelve years ago I had come to this house, lonely, bruised and bleeding; hoping nothing, asking nothing but to hide away and die. Ah! those black terrible days! Days when heaven itself seemed closed, and my burning, aching eyes could see no faintly shining star of hope, so blinded were they by the false splendor of my lost idol, before whose shrine I had bowed and worshipped with all a woman's strength. But stop! I must not think of this. "Let the dead past bury its dead." Rest came at last, thank God! His blessed light broke through the clouds, and shed its peace upon me; and to-day, one looking into this quiet old maid's face, would smile at the thought of love's ever thrilling her heart, and that it was once called beautiful. Ah me! what puppets we are in the hands of fate. "Come in!" I said this aloud, in reply to a knock on the door, which opened, and my maid-of-all-work entered. "Well, Mary, what is it?" "If you please, Miss Margaret, Mrs. Bucket has sent for you. Johnnie is tuck with fits agin." In an instant all sentimental regrets were gone, and I was myself again; the especial nurse and Esculapius of all afflicted babyhood of the neighborhood. I rose at once. "Poor child! Do up a large package of mustard for me, Mary. How long since he was taken ?" "I don't know, miss. Jim brought the word, and he be as stupid as a mule; stand in the kitchen suckin' his finger." "Give him a piece of bread, Mary. I think he can suck that to a better advantage. Hurry with the mustard. I am ready to start." Mary left to obey; and in a few moments, with Jim and his bread by iny side, I was on my way to the home of the afflicted Mrs. Bucket. I found the poor babe very bad indeed. He was a delicate child who had |