The Kearneys saw them coming, and many smiling faces appeared at the door; but the smiles soon faded away into looks of sorrow and amazement. Who had seen Bid cry since she buried her last child?

Mrs. Kearney went out full of sympathy to meet her weeping friend.

Bid and Mary were together weeping in the cabin, and the gossoons were on their knees comforting their mother. Con had been an eager listener to all that passed between Nan and Tibbie, his shifting gaze becoming every moment more pitiful when turned on the one, and more lowering when directed towards the other. Nan's sharp cry seemed to madden his simple brain. He turned into the cabin and seized a creepie stool, heavy enough to break a human skull. Tibbie saw him flying out of the doorway, with face of fury, and the stool swung above his head. She cried out loudly, and fled a few paces, then had just time to stoop before the "creepie" whizzed over her shoulders. Death had been very near her; she retreated hastily, and disappeared behind the rocks; while Nan laid hold of Con and dragged him into the cabin.

Tibbie now played her part and announced the miser's will.

"It's none o' my fault," she added, sulkily, as she met the frantic eyes of the mother of many children. Mrs. Kearney threw her apron over her face and retreated into the cabin; but Nan stepped up and spoke to the bearer of evil tidings; her blue eyes flashed and she tossed her yellow locks.

"Don't come here again," she said, "or ye'll have cause to rue the day. What do we care for Simon when the Lord has give us Paul ?"

"Paul, inagh!" sneered Tibbie. "It's much he cares for the likes o' you! He's dancing 'an singin' at Camlough, an' ye'll all be out o' the country afore he comes back."

"We'll not be out o' the country," said Nan. "We'll walk, if it was on our knees, till we find him an' tell our story."

"Ye needn't walk on yer knees, nor on yer head neither," said Tibbie, "for he wouldn't lift a hand for ye if he was here this very day. An' what's more, if he would, he has no more power nor you have. Simon has cast him off, an' is doin' the work hissel'."

Nan bent her fair head, and a cry went out from her lips. If Paul was taken from them, then, indeed, their case was desperate.

Bid took up her staff, and set out with a heavy heart. She arrived at the little gate, and walked up through the pretty rose-garden, and round the back way to the kitchen.

"Yer welcome!" said Nanny, with her fingers on her lips; "but ye'll plase to make no noise, for our young misthress is sick."

This was bad news to Bid, but she came in as invited. She was far too discreet to speak to the servants about Paul, but asked to see Miss Martha; and Bridget went to tell the old lady, who was sitting in May's room. The chamber was very silent, the blinds were all drawn down, and the figure in the bed lay with its face turned to the wall.

"It's Bid the thraveller, ma'am," whispered Bridget; "an' she wanted Misther Finiston. An' whin she couldn't see him, she's axin now for Miss May."

"You needn't have come in," said Miss Martha; "Miss May is too ill"Let her come in, Aunty," said May, sitting up in her bed.

Bid was brought into the bedroom. Miss Martha warned her not to stay too long, and went away to give some orders to Nanny.

Bid coming in, leaning on her staff, saw two hollow eyes bent on her out of a white eager face.

"You are good to come to visit me, Bid. Have you got any news for me ?" "Ill news, honey-nothin' but ill news. There's cattle comin' till the mountain, an' the poor'll have to go. For Simon's taken to mind the lan' hissel'. But it's cruel o' me to be tellin' ye this, and yer cheeks the colour they are."

"Never mind my cheeks, Bid; tell me all about it."

Bid told her the whole: how thirty families, for the first instalment, were to be turned out of house and home; how the very huts they had built of the mud, and hollowed out of the sandy cliffs, were priced so high above their heads that they could not hope to pay for them, even if they were able to live like the flowers-on air, and the dews from heaven. How some that had paid heavily for many a long year were to go now at last, no matter what they might promise. This one was bound to go, and that one was going too. At the Kearneys, Bid broke down. There was no hope for the Kearneys, and the old woman could tell no more.

66

'Your own little house, Bid. That will be safe enough?"

66

Oh, throth!" cried Bid, tossing her head, "it's little matther about a body like me. I was thrampin' long enough, an' I can take to the thramp again. But I thought if Mr. Paul was to the fore, sich business couldn't go on.'

"I think he would try to prevent it, but you know he is not here. Mr. Paul is gone to Camlough and we do not see him now."

Bid looked at the strained fevered eyes, and at the little wasted hands, that were locked so tight together; and she knew how things were going here, and that there was no hope at all.

why it should be. Who it is that'll come after him there's no one now can tell, since he has cut off Misther Paul.

"Cut him off, did you say, Bid ?" "That's what I said, an' sure it's little ye need vex. On'y the poor need fret, that doesn't know who'll come over them."

"Are you sure that it is true? Then I thank Heaven. Do you think, Bid, that when the property is gone to another, and he ceases to be the heir, do you think then that the curse will let him go?"

"I'm thinkin' that it will, honey; I'm thinkin' that it will. An' sure it's betther to be a poor body wid the blessin' o' the Lord, nor be rich an' have the divil playin' thricks on ye all yer life." Can I put a great,

"Listen to me, Bid. great trust in you ?" "God sees if ye do ye'll not put it to the

bad."

"I want you to go to Camlough." “I'll go, avourneen. "I want you to go to Camlough, and to see Mr. Paul Finiston. You will notice what he is doing, how he looks, and how he speaks. You see, Bid, it is not natural, this that has happened to him; he is not the man to go away and forget his friends. I don't understand the curse, nor how it works, but it seems to me that it puts his mind astray, so that his enemies have got power over him. He believed this himself, and I promised that I would save him. But now he is far away, and I am too weak to move. There is only one who can help me, and that is you.' "Tell me what to do," said Bid, drawing her cloak about her, and grasping her staff.

"Nothing," said May, "except to go to Camlough upon some errand of your own. Observe all you can, and come back to me with news.'

Then Miss Martha returned to the room, and the old woman went away.

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shoulder and the whistle shrieks, and then she bends forward and he holds her for a moment in his outspread arms and kisses

CHAPTER IV. PAULINE.

THE cold grey morning light, shining through the little window of a small bedroom in a second-rate hotel at Lymington, made its way through the aperture between the common dimity curtains, which had been purposely separated overnight, and fell upon the slumbering figure of Pauline. The poor and scanty furniture of the room, with its dingy bed-hangings, its wooden washstand, two rush-bottomed chairs, and rickety one-sided chest of drawers, all painted a pale stone-colour, were in strong contrast with the richness of colouring observable in the sleeper; observable in her jet black hair, now taken from off her face and gathered into one large coil at the back of her head, in her olive complexion, sun-embrowned indeed, but yet showing distinctly the ebb and flow of her southern blood, and in the deep orange-hued handkerchief, daintily knotted round her neck. See, now, how troubled are her slumbers, how from between her parted lips comes a long though scarcely audible moan, how the strong thin hand lying outside the coverlet clutches convulsively at nothing, and how she seems in her unrest to be struggling to free herself from the thraldom of the troublous dream, under the influence of which part of the torture suffered by her during the previous day is again pressing upon her.

Yes! the woman with the pale tearblurred face is there once again. Once again Tom Durham stands at the carriage door, whispering to her with evident earnestness, until the guard touches him on the

is pulled aside by the porter coming to shut the door of the already moving carriage, and she falls back in an agony of grief. There is a moisture in his eyes too, such as she, Pauline, with all her experience of him, has never seen there. He is the lover of this palefaced woman without a doubt, and therefore he must die! She will kill him herself! She will kill him with the pearl-handled knife which Gaetano, the mate of the Italian ship, gave her, telling her that all the Lombard girls wore such daggers in their garters ready for the heart of any Tedesco who might insult them, or any other girl who might prove their rival. The dagger is up-stairs, in the little bedroom at the top of the house, overlooking the Cannebière, which she shares with Mademoiselle Mathilde. She will fetch it at once, and after it has served its purpose she will carry it to the chapel of Notre Dame de la Garde, and hang it up among the votive offerings: the pictures of shipwrecks, storms, seafights, and surgical operations; the models of vessels, the ostrich eggs, the crutches left by cripples no longer lame, and the ends of the ropes by which men have been saved from drowning. How clearly she can see the place, and all its contents, before her now! She will leave the dagger there; as the weapon by which a traitor and an Englishman has been slain, it will not be out of place, though Père Gasselin shake his head and lift his monitory finger. She will fetch it at once! Ah, how delicious and yet how strange seem to her the smell of the pot-au-feu, and the warm aroma of the chocolate! How steep the stairs seem to have become: she will never

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be able to reach the top! What is this Pierre and Jean are saying? The sea has swept away the breakwater at La Joliette, and is rapidly rushing into the town! It is here, it is in the street below! Fighting madly with the boiling waters is one man-she can catch a glimpse of his face now. Grand Dieu, it is Tom! She will save him-no, too late, he is borne swiftly past, he is

And with a short suppressed scream she woke.

It was probably the rapping of the chambermaid at the bedroom door which dissipated Pauline's dream, and recalled her to herself, and it is certain that the chambermaid, whose quick ears caught the scream, went down-stairs more than ever impressed with terror at the"foreign person" whom she had scarcely had sufficient courage to conduct to her room on the previous evening. Notwithstanding the bizarre shape which they had assumed, these reminiscences of a portion of Pauline's past life had been so vivid, that it was with great difficulty she could clear her brain, and arrive at an idea of why she found herself in the dingy bedroom of a country inn, and of what lay before her. Sitting upon the edge of her bed with her arms crossed upon her bosom, she gradually recalled the occurrences of the previous day, and came to comprehend what had been the key-note of her dream, and who was the pale-faced woman whose presence had so disturbed her. There was, however, no time for reflection at that moment; she had been aroused in accordance with instructions given on the previous night, and there was but little time for her to dress herself and to make her way to the station, where she was to await the arrival of her husband. Her toilet completed, she hurried downstairs, and declining to taste any of the substantial breakfast which the hearty Hampshire landlady was then engaged in discussing, and to which she invited her visitor, issued out into the broad street of the quiet old town.

Past the low-windowed shops, where the sleepy 'prentice boys were taking down the shutters, and indulging in such fragmentary conversation as could be carried on under the eyes of their masters, which they knew were bent upon them from the upper rooms; past the neat little postoffice, where the click of the telegraph needles was already audible, and whence were issuing the sturdy country postmen, each with his huge well-filled leathern

wallet on his back; past the yacht builder's yard, where the air was redolent of pitch and tar, and newly chipped wood, where, through the half-opened gates, could be seen the slender, tapering masts of many yachts already laid up for the season in the creek, and where a vast amount of hammering and sawing and planing was, as the neighbours thought, interminably going on. Not but what the yacht-building yard is one of the great features of the place, for were it not for the yacht owners, who first come down to give orders about the building of their vessels, then pay a visit to see how their instructions are being carried out, and finally, finding the place comfortable, tolerably accessible, and not too dear, bring their wives and families, and make it their head-quarters for the yachting season, what stranger would ever come to Lymington, what occupants would be found for its lodging-houses and hotels?

The clock struck seven as Pauline passed through the booking-office at the railway station, and stepped out on to the platform. She looked hastily round her in search for Tom Durham, but did not see him. A sudden chill fell upon her as the remembrance of her dream flashed across her mind. The next instant she was chiding herself for imagining that he would be there. There was yet half an hour before the arrival of the train by which they were to proceed to Weymouth; he would be tired by his long swim from the ship to the shore, his clothes would of course be saturated, and he would have to dry them; he would, doubtless, rest as long as he could in the place where he had found shelter, and only join her just in time to start. There was no doubt about his finding shelter somewhere, he was too clever not to do that; he was the cleverest man in all the world; it was for his talent she had chosen him from all the others years ago, it was for-and then Pauline's face fell, remembering that Tom Durham was as unscrupulous as he was clever, and that if this pale-faced woman were really anything to him he would occupy his talent in arranging how and when to meet her in secret, in planning how to obtain further sums of money from the old man whose messenger she had been.

How the thought of that woman haunted her! How her whole life seemed to have changed since she had witnessed that parting at the railway station yesterday She felt that it would be impossible for her to hide from Tom the fact that she was

labouring under doubt and depression of some kind or other. She knew his tact and determination in quickly learning whatever he thought it behoved him to find out; and she thought it would be better to speak openly to him, to tell him what she had seen, and to ask him for some explanation. Yes, she would do that. The train was then in sight, he would no longer delay putting in an appearance on the platform, and in a few minutes they would be travelling away to soft air and lovely scenery, with more than sufficient money for their present wants, and for a time at least with rest and peace before them. Then she would tell him all, and he would doubtless reassure her, showing her how silly and jealous she had been, but forgiving her because she had suffered solely through her love for him.

By this time a number of passengers had gathered together on the platform, awaiting the arrival of the train, and Pauline passed hastily among them looking eagerly to the right and left, and, retracing her steps through the bookingoffice, opened the door and glanced up the street leading to the station. No sign of Tom Durham anywhere! Perhaps he had found a nearer station to a point at which he had swum ashore, and would be in the train now rapidly approaching.

The train stopped; two or three passengers alighted, and were so soon mixed up with the crowd of sailors, ship-carpenters, and farm-labourers rushing to take their seats, that Pauline could not distinguish them, but she knew Tom was not amongst them; and when she walked quickly down the line of carriages, throwing a rapid but comprehensive glance round each, she saw him not, and the train passed on and she was left once more alone upon the platform.

Then, with frowning brows and set rigid lips, Pauline commenced walking up and down, covering with her long striding footsteps, so different from her usual easy, swimming gait, exactly the same amount of space at every turn, wheeling, apparently unconsciously, at the same point, treading almost in the same prints which she had previously made, keeping her eyes steadfastly fixed on the ground, and being totally unaware of all that was passing around her. She was a clear-headed as well as a strong-willed woman, accustomed to look life and its realities boldly in the face, and, unlike the majority of her countrymen and women, swift to detect shallow

ness of sophistry when propounded by others, and careful never even to attempt to impose upon herself. Throughout her life, so long as she could remember, she had been in the habit of thinking out any project of importance which had arisen in her career while walking to and fro, just as she was doing then. It was, perhaps, the sameness of the action, perhaps some reminiscence of her dream still lingering in her mind, that turned her memory to the last occasion when she had taken such thoughtful exercise, and the scene, exactly as it occurred, rose before her.

The time, early morning, not much after six o'clock; the place, the Prado at Marseilles; the persons, a few belated, bluebloused workmen hurrying to their work, a few soldiers lounging about as only soldiers always seem to lounge when they are not on duty, a limonadière with her temple deposited on the ground by her side, while she washes the sparkling tin cups in a gurgling drinking-fountain. Two or three water-carts pounding along and refreshingly sprinkling the white dusty road, two or three, English grooms exercising horses, and she, Pauline Lunelle, dame du comptoir at the Restaurant du Midi, in the Cannebière, pacing up and down the Prado, and turning over in her mind a proposition, on the acceptance or rejection of which depended her future happiness or misery. That proposition was a proposition of marriage, not by any means the first that she had received. The handsome, black-eyed, black-haired, olive-skinned dame du comptoir was one of the reigning belles of the town, and the Restaurant du Midi was such a popular place of resort, that she never lacked admirers. All the breakfast-eaters, the smokers, the billiardplayers, even the decorated old gentlemen who dropped in as regularly as clockwork every evening for a game of dominoes or tric-trac, paid their court to her, and in several cases this court was something more than the mere conventional hat-doffing or the few words of empty politeness whispered to her as she attended to the settlement of their accounts. Adolphe de Noailles, only a sous-lieutenant of artillery to be sure, but a man of good family, and who, it was said, was looked upon with favour by Mademoiselle Krebs, daughter of old Monsieur Krebs, the German banker, who was so rich, and who gave such splendid parties, had asked Pauline Lunelle to become his wife, had "ah-bah-d" when she talked about the difference in their posi