troubles you, Blanche?" she said. "Surely nothing connected with days so long gone by; sorrows that have so long ceased?"

"Then she was sorrowful; she was miserable," exclaimed Blanche, rising impetuously. "Oh, Maude, in pity tell me what you know."

"Sorrowful, miserable," repeated Maude slowly. "One must always fear it in such cases; but it may have been better than we think.'

Blanche grasped her cousin's hand, and the brightness of her eye was terrible in its eagerness.

“There are sadder moments of sanity than of delusion," continued Maude, gently; and Blanche's fingers relaxed their grasp, and she fell back in her chair nearly fainting. Maude was not in the least hurried out of her usual steadiness of manner; she sprinkled some water on her cousin's forehead from a flower-glass near, and when Blanche a little revived, and uttered mournfully the word "delusion," answered, without any reference to her transient weakness, "I thought you knew it, dear." But tell me

No, no; they kept it from me.

now, quickly."

"Only delusion," answered Maude; "nothing more. Nothing to distress you, Blanche. Pray believe me," she added, as Blanche's eyes again filled with tears.

"But what delusion? of what kind?" asked Blanche, faintly.

"Quiet melancholy; only that, I assure you; nothing really hereditary to frighten you."

Blanche scarcely seemed to hear this comfort; she only said in reply, "Was she alone?"

Yes, sometimes, when it could not be helped," replied Maude, with evident hesitation.

"Quite alone; sorrowful, miserable," murmured

Blanche, and she leant her head upon her hand, and cried bitterly.

"She

"I will tell you all I know," said Maude. was not strong naturally, mamma says; and she was a great deal by herself; and she must have been like you, Blanche, fond of brooding over her own fancies, for they never could persuade her to see people and go out, except occasionally, when Lord Rutherford was here."

"And she went out then? she was happy then?" exclaimed Blanche, raising her head quickly.

Yes, she went out a little to please him," continued Maude. "But you know he was absent a great deal, especially at last."

Blanche's head sunk despondingly. Maude's quick eye remarked the change, but she went on- I do not think there was really anything to distress you so much; of course, she had every comfort, and her mind"-she stopped, considering how to approach the subject in the way least likely to give pain; but Blanche made a slight motion of the hand, and said, "I can bear it," and Maude continued, in a rather hurried voice, "It was not so very dreadful; not common insanity. She was very quiet, and gentle, and good. Mamma used to come and see her very often, and for a long time people said it was only melancholy, it came on so gradually. She used to write a great deal, I believe; but almost all her papers were destroyed when Lord Rutherford came back from abroad."

"But he was with her; quite at the last?" said Blanche, in a low voice.

"No; he was not here in time. It was very unfortunate; for the longing to see him was so great, it was worse than anything. But Blanche, my dear, I am doing you harm," she said, observing her cousin's look of intense suffering.

No, no; go on ;" was all that Blanche ventured

to utter.

"There is not much besides to tell," answered Maude. "But indeed, Blanche, I am very anxious you should not think it at all worse than it really was. She was ill and depressed very long before it was thought necessary to have any one with her; a companion," she added, as Blanche slightly shuddered. "And, even to the very last, there were intervals when she knew everything and everybody quite well; and the only way in which they discovered when the attacks were coming on worse, was that she would then kneel for hours together in her room, repeating portions of the Burial Service."

Blanche put her hand before her eyes to hide the light of the glorious sun. Many moments elapsed before she spoke. Then she rose from her seat, and kissed Maude, and said, "Thank you; you have been very kind; you must not say that you have told me," and walked slowly out of the room.

CHAPTER XXIV.

MRS. WENTWORTH was sitting alone in her little room the post was just come in, and she was busied in answering her letters. She looked particularly old that morning; perhaps her dress was unbecoming—perhaps her letters had been annoying; at any rate, her care-worn expression was sufficient to attract observation; and as Dr. Wentworth passed the window, and stopped to say a few cheerful words, it made him delay the business he was bent upon, and re-enter the house. "There is nothing amiss in them; is there, my love?" he inquired, taking up the letters on the table. "I did not read them through."

66

Oh, no! nothing: they are mere chit-chat; not of any consequence. Why should you ask?"

66

You seemed uncomfortable-that is all; but if there is nothing the matter, well and good. It must be the cap, I think, which makes you look different. I think I told you I was going to the Union this morning."

66 Yes: you will be back to dinner, I six o'clock."

66

suppose, at

Say half-past; we shall be more punctual. Goodb'ye;" and Dr. Wentworth departed.

Mrs. Wentworth leant back in her chair, in a reverie, a strange and painful one. It carried her back many years, to that early romance of first love-that entire sympathy of thought and feeling, which she had imagined was to last undiminished for ever. Dr. Wentworth was a good man, an earnest man his heart was given to his duties, first; his

T

As

family afterwards. His wife did not wish it should be otherwise; but she did not resemble him. The romance of her early years had not, like his, been extinguished by the constant pressure of parochial cares. She was poetical, enthusiastic still, in secret. She had, as it were, two characters—the one of great imagination, the other of strong common sense. Her husband's affections had been won by the former; they were retained by the latter. Imagination, with him, had been the amusement of boyhood; with her, it was the present beauty of life: and if Mrs. Wentworth had been endued with a less portion of right feeling and self-command, the discovery of this essential difference in their characters might have been made at the risk of the happiness of both. it was, it only served to throw her back into herself, to chill the outward show of enthusiasm, and to concentrate all the intensity of her hopes and interests upon her children. Perfect respect, and a true, though unimpassioned, love, were still her husband's; but she had learnt to live her inward life without him: and whilst sharing his pleasures, and sympathising in his sorrows, she concealed, as by a natural instinct, those keener, more sensitive feelings, which he would not have understood. There were times when this sense of uncongeniality was very oppressive. When Mrs. Wentworth thought of her children, she most felt the absence of that perfect sympathy, which would have supported and soothed her under the anxieties they occasioned. It was a fear for them which was now pressing heavily upon her spirits; that boding, shadowy fear which cannot be combated, because it assumes no tangible form. She indulged the reverie of the past for a few moments only. It was dangerous to her peace, and contrary to her strict conscientiousness; but, as it faded away, there rose up the long vista of futurity, and who can blame