'Most people would think that a very good reason for getting away from it," said Anne. "And then it is time my father had done with work; and there is the little one. Blue skies and daisy-covered fields seem made for the little ones."

Anne was standing at the window looking out on anything but blue skies and daisy-covered fields. She was looking on sloppy streets and a sky, as far as it could be seen, to match them. "There is Patricia gone out," she exclaimed. "I did not know she had anywhere particular to go this morning. Did she say anything to you, Nelly?”

"No," replied Nelly; "but I think I can guess. I think she has gone to see Horace."

"What makes you think so? It is the last thing she would do."

turn back and make no sign-to let him die. And again she wrestled with herself, torn in twain, striving to kill torture with torture.

A clock clanged the hour somewhere above her head; half of the time was gone. She passed within the guarded gate and made inquiry. One of the prison officers stood pointing to a pile of building across the quadrangle, directing her to the infirmary, when the chaplain passed. He was on his way thither for his daily visit to the sick. He glanced at the lady—unmistakably a lady—and asked if he could show her the way.

"I wish to see Horace Eden," she said. "Eden, No. 120,” repeated the officer. The chaplain's tone assumed a deeper respect than that accorded to her as a lady-respect for her as a

'No. I think you must leave her to herself and to God, who will deal mercifully with her. I am glad she has gone."

Nelly had guessed rightly. It was to the prison that Patricia had bent her steps. She was dressed in black, and with a thick veil over her face. Not that she dreaded notice, her great sorrow had purified her of all self-consciousness; indeed, she had never had much. The mourning was but the outward sign of her darkened life, the veil but the symbol that she would fain shut out the light from eyes from which the very light of life had departed. She would have walked into that gateway with the gaze of all the world fixed upon her, without giving | it a single thought. And yet she walked up and down as before, under that screen of wall, unable to enter. It was not courage she wanted. She did not feel the shrinking, from the pain of it, which Anne would have felt, and which Anne did feel for her. Courage! Patricia, in a good cause, would have mounted the scaffold with a smile. It was the will to enter. She had made up her mind to go against her will. She had driven herself, as it were, up to that gate, and strong within her rose the desire to

him, and he would lead her to the one whom she sought.

"My husband," said Patricia, above all disguise, but forcing herself to say the hateful words.

The chaplain led her on in silence. Up a flight of steps and into a long room, fresh and full of light, with a long row of beds, a bed between each window, and forms stretched on the beds or sitting up in them, and a few moving figures here and there. That was the impression made on Patricia All. detail was lost on her absorbed and strained attention. She was, indeed, hardly conscious of anything around her, when the chaplain stopped before one of the beds. She was only conscious of the cessation of her mental struggle. It had ceased, as when two opposing forces of equal power meet together and are still.

"How are you to-day, Eden ?" said the chaplain. But Horace neither heard nor heeded. He was seized with a sudden trembling, and became so faint, that he lay back on the pillow with closed eyes on the verge of unconsciousness.

Patricia had not raised her veil, but he had seen her the moment she entered the room, and it had been too much for his exhausted frame. The chaplain made a sign for one of the nurses, who came and bathed his forehead and hands with vinegar. Then addressing Patricia, who was standing like a statue, he said—“I will leave you now. He will be better after a little."

She bent her head and stood still while the nurse did her duty.

"He's coming round," said the woman, and she, too, left the bed, not without a curious look at the visitor.

He came round, and opened his eyes again on that veiled figure. Why did she not speak or move? Surely, surely, she had not come there to reproach him. She was looking at him through her veil, looking fixedly. In his half-swoon, she had been looking at him with a kind of awe. At that face so strangely purified that she only knew now what it had been by

Then she rose and passed out. His eyes following her, and meeting hers as she reached the door, where she turned again. He tried to smile, but failed. The faint light only served to make visible the utter anguish. With one last look she was gone.

CHAPTER LII.

A MISTAKE.

How Patricia reached home that day she knew not. She would gladly have cast herself down at the foot of that dismal wall, and let all end there; but she must walk forth into the world, and leave him to die; and she must move and speak and eat and live very much as if she was like any other living woman, all the while her heart was dead within her.

But when she did reach home, she allowed Anne to take her into her hands, as passively as if she had been a tired child. She was wet and draggled with that miserable drizzle, which had taken the place of winter storms for days and days, and Anne took her things off and laid them aside for her, and led her to her room, prepared with food and fire, asking no question, forcing no confidence. And Patricia made none. Not then, nor ever after, did she say one word to any human being of that visit to the prison. Both Anne and Nelly respected the sacred reserve.

But before another month was over a letter came to Patricia from her husband, and she opened it in the presence of her sister and Nelly. They were all three at work together in the drawing-room; and when the two latter saw the letter, they felt instinctively that it was from Horace, and turned away that she might read it unobserved.

It was a very brief letter, but it seemed to take a long time to read, for there was silence in the room, save for the tick, tick of the timepiece-a silence which no one cared to break, though each wished that she had not suffered it to commence. It was broken by Patricia saying gently, "He is dead."

Nelly and Anne wept, "for the pity of it." Patricia sat tearless and still. There was nothing to be done nothing to be said. He was dead.

The brief note breathed the same humble resignation and trust as the last words he had uttered, and something of peace and joy besides. It only said, "You will receive this when I am gone. May my death bring peace into your life, as it has brought peace to me a peace and blessedness which I have not deserved. I may speak of love now, beyond the grave. All through my sin I loved you with a love which made my sin hateful; and when I had forfeited that love, and become hateful to myself, there came to me, I think through it, the knowledge of the love of Christ, redeeming me from sin and

for you. Farewell, beloved."

So one day Patricia put on her widow's weeds, and sat with her sisters, calm, patient, and sustained. She wrote again to Horace's friends, and received very brief and guarded replies. She had written at his request before, and only a note of acknowledgment had reached her, with a refusal from his father to acknowledge his son at all. And yet he was a minister of the Gospel. But Patricia would not judge him, or any of them. They were overwhelmed with shame. All they could do was to sustain themselves on their respectability. It needed something nobler to sustain Patricia. His brother had actually changed his name, adding that of a richer relation. His sisters," doubtless, took refuge in the names of their husbands.

"A very good thing," said Miss Macnaughten, when she heard of the death. "He couldn't have done better than die "-a sentiment which was shared in by the whole party.

Mr. Macnaughten, who was too lazy to keep anything to himself, had told his sister that he was convinced, though he had not fully tried, that Anne would refuse him; but she scouted the idea. She was quite ready to condemn him herself, and she had refused point-blank to live with him; but there, even her shrewd common sense failed her, and she thought it was not possible that Anne, or any other woman, might do the same. So she urged her brother to take the final step and decide his fate.

Thus the visits to Hackney went on. But there was one visitor who never came now-Mr. Dalrymple. He was not away on any expedition either. He was in London-"entirely absorbed by reprobates of all sorts," said Jane; "forsaking his friends for the sake of a parcel of thieves."

Anne heard, but said nothing; only every time the Macnaughtens came-either Jane and her father, or they and Miss Macnaughten as well-she was conscious of a keener and keener disappointment.

It was some time after the death of Horace Eden, when the whole three came one morning earlier than usual. They came prepared to carry Anne off with them for another visit-one which was to extend over Easter.

"For you know you can have your boxes sent after you," said Miss Macnaughten, who had planned it all; "and we have taken a pretty place at Richmond for a few weeks, where we want you to come with us. I am to be one of the party, my dear, and you will not grudge me a good deal of your company. All my birds have flown, and I have not yet got another nestful. Mr. Dalrymple is coming for a day or two, away from his beloved reprobates; and even Grace is going to desert her husband in the cause. Come and see the chestnuts bloom in Bushy Park, and go over old Hampton and Kew."

And there was Nelly crying, "Do go!" and a perfect chorus of "Do come!" It was too much for Anne's resolution. She listened, wavered, and was lost. It was all because she had nothing to do; there was nothing to prevent her, as Nelly had said. It certainly should not be so again.

But all the time she was dressing she was conscious of a flutter of pleasure at her heart, in which not the promise of green meadows, and blossomed gardens, and the gleaming river-fond as she was of them-called forth. She would see him again who had become for her the type of all that was noble and chivalrous-no, not chivalrous; higher than

that-Christian.

Mr.

But she was doomed to disappointment. Dalrymple excused himself, and did not come. She saw the chestnuts hold high over the grass gigantic bouquets of bloom; and underneath, the Easter excursionists banqueting in family parties-all, down to the meagre horse, enjoying a holiday from business (though dragging a stout dame and six or seven children, in addition to the master, was rather harder work than conveying green or other groceries); or she followed much the same family party through the rooms at Hampton-materfamilias, by way of enlightening the young ones, applying diligently to the catalogue. She heard her as she stood before a portrait of Wolsey, reading out complacently from a wrong number, "Cupid and Satyr," and nodding her assent in the face of the outraged cardinal. But, somehow, the fun of the fun, the heart of the holiday, the bloom of the bloom, were missed. Nothing went as anybody had anticipated-for that matter, nothing ever does. Mr. Macnaughten did not seem to get on with Anne. He had particular business on hand. Nobody ever knew better what he wanted than Mr. Macnaughten did, and he had never particularly wanted Anne. But then thousands of men married women whom they did not particularly want, for some reason or other; and thousands of women married men for other reasons, whom they did not want at all.

Be that as it may, Mr. Macnaughten absented himself from Richmond on several occasions, on the pretext of visiting one or two families of AngloIndians recently returned. On one occasion he was absent an entire day without any pretext at all, and on that day neither Bagra Villa nor Chutney House was honoured with his presence, but, all unattended, he found his way to our old house in Hackney. There he encountered Nelly, whose heart bounded at sight of him-poor heart! always anticipating misfortune. His face set that all right, for it was rather more at ease and more gracious than usual. He sat talking commonplaces, telling how he had left the little party at Richmond, and how he had come down there, all by himself and without their knowledge. Could he see Mrs. Eden for half an hour alone?

773

It was very stupid of Nelly not to understand; but she did not. She still thought it was something connected with Anne; and when she hastened away and sent her sister-in-law in her stead, she managed to convey the same impression to her.

Patricia came upon the scene, therefore, with a perfectly unbiassed mind. Surely Anne had never accepted this man! in that case he would have sought her father. She came in grave and calm, and looking, in her deep mourning and widow's cap, more dignified and beautiful than ever. Mr. Macnaughten did not lose time in coming to the object of his visit; it was no other than herself. After the first salutation, he told her this frankly. He was hardly prepared for her reception of his offer. It was unpleasant to him in the last degree. In truth, he had startled and vexed her, as one in a serious mood is vexed and startled by a silly practical joke.

"Pardon me, Mr. Macnaughten, but I thought I was protected by these "-and she looked at the heavily-craped skirts which fell at her feet—" from anything like this."

“Then, you do not listen to me for the present.” "Not now, nor ever," she replied firmly. "I have been too abrupt," he said; "but I thought, under the circumstances—” He did not say what he thought; he ought to have avoided the allusion; he found himself floundering. "You might dispense with ceremony," she added for him.

"

Pardon me, I have every respect for you; I should not have been here if I had not," he said proudly, "every respect and admiration."

"I thank you," she said coldly, "and I am sorry you have entertained a thought of me. I cannot blame myself in any way, for I have seen you but once since it was possible for you to do so."

"Oh no! I do not blame you for a moment. Of course, the disparity of years is a barrier between us."

He interrupted hastily: "In consideration, in everything. You might have your own way in everything." A terrible deception; but he thought he was speaking the truth.

"Mr. Macnaughten, say no more. I was going to tell you that nothing can make up to me for the love of the husband I have lost."

Her listener positively started and stared with astonishment.

"You are astonished," she said. "You think that. I had better make what haste I can to bury his memory and rid myself of his dishonoured name.