lavish luxuriance reigned. It angered me to think of the scanty pittance she had doled out to me, while she rioted in abundance. I do not seek to justify myself, but I said, then, I was only taking my own, when I took a fifty pound note from a little private box of hers, which I remembered at first sight, for it used to be our mother's. I also took some papers, and among them an old letter bearing the superscription of Sir Frederic Livingston. That night my steps were dogged, and in a little alley leading off Water street, I was sprung upon by a large, powerful man, and dealt a blow on the temple, which must have rendered me senseless, assisted probably by some powerful drug which I think must have been administered to me in my unconsciousness; for when I recovered, I found myself in a dark, close room, near the roof of a building. I knew this from the faint light that came in through the cracks where the scuttle had been boarded up. The money and letter were gone, and in trying to move my arm, I discovered it to be broken. It was, I think, two days before any one came to me. Then a tall, heavy-limbed man, with stooping shoulders and iron-gray hair, and the wickedest pair of eyes looking out from a black, lowering brow, came and brought me some food, and immediately left. I do not think he left the house, however, for I heard voices, and once I am very sure I heard the low, pitiful wail of a woman's voice. There was one chair in the apartment, by which I climbed to the scuttle. To my joy I found the board loose. I worked all one night with my hand in prying it up; the only instrument I had being an old but stout iron hook which I drew from the wall. At last I succeeded in effecting my escape; how, I cannot tell myself. I know that I crawled out on the roof, and slid down to the eaves; but how I got from story to story I cannot tell, only that I remember holding to the windows which, strangely enough, were all broken, by my hands and feet. I slipped and fell just as I was putting my foot on the lower story window, and in that way dislocated my ankle; but I managed to drag myself to the cemetery, and took refuge in the old tomb where you found me. It was a wretched life, little one, that you saved-perhaps hardly worth saving -but if I can only live to see him, and right the wrong which has triumphed so long, I shall feel that it was not saved in vain."

CHAPTER XIII.

LINDENWOLD, with all its rare adorning and elegant furniture, was to be sold at auction. Miss Livingston had declared her immediate return to England, as soon as the sale was concluded. Perhaps the Wallaces were not sorry. Since her darling's mysterious disappearance, the old light had faded from Mary Wallace's eyes, washed away by her bitter tears. Arthur had come home to stay, going back and forth to his business. But never since that night had he been to Lindenwold. He met Miss Livingston quite often, but she never saw him, that is, apparently, though there was sometimes a sudden flushing of her haughty cheek, and Paul Russel, who was generally her companion, found her replies a trifle at random. It was whispered about that the parish of St. James's would lose their rector when Miss Livingston went to England. That he was very much infatuated with the fascinating beauty, was quite apparent; but some, among them Mrs. Vanstone, stoutly insisted that it was fascination-nothing more.

It was the day before the sale of Lindenwold, that Mr. Wayne returned to St. John from an unsatisfactory tour through Canada, on his, as he himself began to regard it, visionary search for his lost cousin. He had never chanced to see Miss Livingston until that day, when she passed out of the office just as he was coming in. He gave a sudden start, turned a little pale, and with staring eyes watched her till she had entered her carriage and disappeared round the corner. Then he drew a long breath, exclaiming:

"Good heavens! Vanstone, do you have ghosts for clients? I went to that woman's funeral, in England, ten months ago!"

"That woman's funeral! What are you talking about?" ejaculated the bewildered lawyer.

"Mademoiselle Olivia, a star actress that played several seasons at the Royal, but who died very suddenly in the midst of her engagement."

"Nonsense, Wayne; you are wild. That lady was the Miss Livingston of whom you have heard us speak so often, but whom I believe you have never met before."

"Never met before! I tell you, Vanstone, I should know that woman among ten thousand. I shouldn't be afraid to stakebut what is that?" suddenly pausing in his vehement speech, and pointing to a crowd which had gathered round two men who

seemed to be bearing some sort of a burden between them.

Mr. Vanstone came to the window and looked out.

"It's Daley, one of the harbor pilots; and, bless me! the other one is St. Orme. What can they have that is attracting such a crowd? I shouldn't wonder if somebody had got drowned. It can't be that it's Wallace's girl!" he exclaimed, seizing his hat and starting swiftly down the street, closely followed by Wayne.

"What is it?" he shouted, to a boy on the outskirts of the crowd.

St. Orme stood looking thoughtfully at the pocket-book.

"Yes," he said, with a sudden start, "I have heard the name. I remember it distinctly as being in some way unpleasant. I think it must have been a great while ago-it must have been when I was very young."

"Well, you can dry the papers-by the way, we might as well go up to the house, we can be of no further service here-and perhaps you can find something in them to aid your memory."

The papers were worn in the creases, and it was some time before Arthur succeeded in

"Who is it ?"

"Don't know, only it's a Yankee."

Mr. Vanstone pushed his way through the rapi∙lly accumulating crowd, and saw a large, heavy-limbed man, the water dripping from his iron-gray hair, and a look of terror in the staring, wide-open gray eyes.

"How did it happen?" he asked. "Well, I expect he'd been drinkin'. He's been hangin' round town for a month. Nobody knew who he was, but he looked like one of Satan's own. I've seen him scores of times, but I always gave him a wide berth; there was a look in his eyes that I didn't like. But, poor fellow! he's gone now. Goin' to take him up to the station-house, sir." And the crowd fell back, and the two men moved on with their strange burden.

Mr. Vanstone and Arthur remained while the clothing was removed from the drowned man. There were a few scraps of paper of no importance, and an old wallet in his pocket, the latter containing quite a sum of money. Under all his clothing was discovered a small leather pouch, buckled about his waist with a strap. It was much worn, and thoroughly saturated with water, and was found, upon opening, to contain a folded package of papers. The writing was much faded, and so wet as to be nearly illegible.

"Here, Yanstone, you take the papers," said Daley; "maybe you can make something out of them when they are dry.”

"Isn't that Allen ?" said Arthur, pointing to a few faint characters scrawled on the dingy red lining of the pocket-book.

Mr. Vanstone took it to the light, and replied, promptly, "Mark Allen."

"Do you know him, sir?" said Daley. "I? No indeed. Never heard the name that I recollect. Did you, St. Orme ?"

falling to pieces. He sat before the fire, turning them mechanically round, and wondering if, anywhere, there was anybody who would sorrow if they knew of the shrouded form in the station-house. He glanced down at the faded writing, growing slowly more distinct, when a name caught and held his glance, "St. Orme!" He read it over with dilating eyes. Suddenly he sprang up, trembling in every nerve. "Mr. Vanstone!" he cried, clutching the papers in his nervous grasp, "what do you think this is? Who do you suppose I am? God knows! Am I awake or dreaming?" "Sit down, Arthur, sit down," said Mr. Vanstone, soothingly. "You are terribly excited, my dear boy. Try to tell me calmly what you mean ?"

The cold sweat stood in great drops on his forehead, and he swayed to and fro like a drunken man. Mrs. Vanstone opened the door and looked in.

"A man at the door wishes to see St. Orme."

"He can't come now," was the sharp reply of her husband.

Mrs. Vanstone went away, but returned, saying, that the gentleman said he must see St. Orme.

"Who is he?" said her husband, shortly. "I don't know, unless it is a ghost; he is white enough for one, and he carries his arm. in a sling."

"Do ghosts generally carry their arms in slings ?" Mr. Vanstone asked, recovering his usual good humor.

"This one does. Come, Arthur." And Arthur crushed the papers in his pocket, and suffered himself to be half led and half pushed to the door.

He glanced hastily at the man, and said, rather impatiently:

"Well, sir ?"

"I have a surprise for you-can you bear it ?" At the same time leading him toward a close carriage, upon the box of which sat Timmy Bryne, trying to look seriously indifferent, but his jolly face breaking out all over in the queerest of little quips and crinkles, which threatened every instant to run together into one broad, expansive laugh.

The carriage door was opened by the stranger, and the pleasant face of Amy Clair looked out. But looking beyond that, Arthur's quick eye caught sight of a slight, girlish figure, with blue eyes swimming in tears, and apple-blossomy cheeks grown sadly thin and blanched.

"O Annie! my love! my darling!" And springing past Miss Clair with a bound, he caught the little figure in his arms, and almost smothered it with passionate kisses.

His joyful cry brought Mrs. Vanstone to the door. The pretty brown eyes of Amy Clair, running over with happy tears, looked out at her.

"My dear Miss Clair!" she said, coming cordially forward; when, happening to glance past her, she saw Arthur, and lying on his shoulder was the fair face, grown suddenly rosy again, of pretty Annie Wallace.

In a few moments the entire party were seated in Mrs. Vanstone's pleasant parlor, and Amy Clair took on herself the office of spokeswoman.

She began by introducing Mr. Geoffry Livingston, brother of Miss Livingston of Lindenwold. Then she gave a brief outline of his history, imprisonment and subsequent illness, ending by stating that when he had told her of hearing a woman's voice in the deserted house, a sudden thought of Annie Wallace came into her mind. It haunted her night and day, and she resolved, as soon as he was able to ride, to go out there and see if any trace of another prisoner could be found. To-day they had been, and, after a tedious search had found Miss Wallace in a dark, damp basement, where she had been confined nearly six weeks. For two days she had had no food, and was nearly dead with fright and despair. They had taken her to Mrs. Bryne's, fed and clothed her-she having had no change of clothing in all that time-and she, knowing that St. Orme was there, thought it better to come there first, before taking her home.

"O my poor little girl, my pretty pet!" said St. Orme, tenderly, drawing the blushing face

to his bosom, regardless of every other presence save hers.

"But Miss Wallace has not told us how she came there," Mrs. Vanstone said, presently.

"It is very strange," Annie replied, lifting her face from its willing imprisonment. “I came to town for Miss Livingston. I went, as directed, for some worsteds. A tall, darkbrowed man stood by the door as I entered. When I came out, he asked me if I knew Arthur St. Orme. Upon my replying in the affirmative, he said St. Orme had been taken violently ill, and Mr. Vanstone, seeing me go down street a little while before, had sent him after me. He had a close carriage a few blocks off, and I followed him to it, and he put me in, and that is all that I can remember distinctly, until I found myself incarcerated in that terrible prison-house. I have never seen a human face since I went there, until to-day. Every night a plate of coarse food was slipped through a sliding panel in the wall, but it was always done in the darkness."

"But who could have done it?" said Mrs. Vanstone, in a puzzled voice.

"Olive Livingston, or, at least, it was done by her orders," replied the pale stranger, who had not spoken before.

Impossible! What

"Miss Livingston? could have been her object ?"

"Why, don't you know? I saw at a glance. She was in love with St. Orme herself, and took that very clever way of getting rid of a rival."

"There comes Miss Livingston now!" exclaimed Mrs. Vanstone, nervously, dreading some terrible scene.

"And Russel is her cavalier, as usual," laughed Vanstone. "Are you aware, Mr. Livingston, that your sister has captivated the rector?"

Amy Clair's cheek suddenly blanched, and a look of voiceless agony brooded in the soft, brown eyes.

"Not Paul Russel!" cried Livingston, springing excitedly to his feet.

"Paul Russel!" said Mr. Wayne, almost as excitedly.

"Certainly, my good friends. "Why?" gasped Livingston. ens! the man is her brother!" "Her brother!"

Why?" "Good heav

"Yes, her half-brother. I was going from here to find him."

It was a startled group that looked in each

other's faces. Amy Clair, pale as death, hid her head on Mrs. Vanstone's shoulder, while Paul Wayne, grasping Livingston's arm, asked, hoarsely:

"What was her name-his mother's-do you know ?"

to his feet," in mercy's name, hear me! Paul Russel is your brother-your brother and mine!"

"It is false!"

"Thank God! my little Mary's boy." And he sank into a chair, white and trembling with emotion, just as a servant ushered in Miss Livingston and Mr. Russel.

The haughty smile on the beautiful face of Olive Livingston faded into a look of stony terror, as she encountered first the gaze of her brother, and then Miss Wallace. She knew at a glance that all he knew they did. But one secret was yet safe, she thought, exultingly. But her heart failed her when Arthur St. Orme came quietly forward, saying, as he took a bundle of crumpled and faded papers from his pocket:

"Miss Livingston, I have some papers here that reveal a strange story. There was a man drowned to-day in the harbor. He was a tall, dark man, with heavy, gray hair and stooping shoulders. His name-we found it in his pocket-book-was Mark Allen. Perhaps you know him. These papers were

found concealed-"

"I know. Don't trouble yourself to tell me. I have known it for more than six months. "Good folks," turning her brilliant, flashing face full to the light, and dropping a sweeping, mocking courtesy, "allow me to introduce to your notice the heir of Lindenwold, Arthur St. Orme, son of Clarence Livingston, better known in a certain rural town in New England as Charles St. Orme. I meant to win, but death has stepped in and I am defeated. I wish you joy of your good fortune, Cousin Arthur!"

"Bravo, Mademoiselle Olivia!" cried a voice.

What do you mean, sir?" haughtily. "I mean that you never outdid that at your old post at the Royal. You are a superb actress, Miss Livingston; I always said you were," replied Wayne.

She turned and walked toward the door with a queenly air.

“Paul, have you, too, forsaken me?" she said, turning her alluring eyes upon the young rector, and speaking in a tone of exquisite tenderness. "Is not your love equal to the test?"

"Olive," cried Geoffry Livingston, springing

whose heart our father broke by his infidelity.. She died on the passage from England; but the boy lived, and was adopted and educated to the ministry by Mr. Derby of Fredericton." "Very well, I shall doubtless survive the shock. Good-afternoon, ladies and gentleYou are rid of me; you can congratulate each other at your leisure."

men.

"Stop, Olive; let me go with you," cried Geoffry. "I will take care of you, and love you, if you will let me."

"I do not want your care; I will not have your love. I hate you-I always did, and always shall!"

And stepping into her carriage with the air of an empress, she was driven swiftly to Lindenwold, from whence, taking only her clothing and jewels, she went out that night forever, and silence and tender forgetfulness of her errors closed over her memory; and only once, in all the happy years that have fallen between, have they ever heard aught of her. Mr. Vanstone, being in New Orleans on business, was induced, by a friend, to visit the theatre to see the new tragedienne that was setting the city wild with admiration at her marvellous acting. What was his surprise to behold in this beautiful queen of tragedy, this royally-superb woman, his old client, the Lady of Lindenwold!

Under the new regime, Lindenwold has regained all its olden prestige, and more than its olden glory; especially in the proud and partial eyes of happy Mary Wallace.

Arthur would not listen for a moment to Paul's refusal to share the Lindenwold estate; and after he had installed his pretty Annie as chief lady (which was, by the way, his first official act after coming into possession), he could not rest content until Paul was as happy as himself. You all know how kindhearted and forgiving Amy Clair was, and so will not be at all surprised to learn that she forgave Paul his brief infatuation, when with all the impassioned eloquence that peculiarly distinguished the rector of St. James, he pleaded for her pure love to guide, inspire and bless all his future life. And so Lindenwold got another mistress.

Geoffry also calls the old place home; but a