"Surely Aunt Hester cannot think that I would be doing right to go contrary to the wish of my mother—yes, and all."

"She does, indeed. She says that you are to obey your parents only when their motives are honest and right, not otherwise, and you know well, Madge, that your father, were he in possession of all his senses, would never sanction such a course; and furthermore, Madge, I firmly believe that the very thought of it is consuming the few drops of blood that vainly try to give warmth to the broken heart."

"Jennie Montgomery, if you have one spark of pity, forbear. It is cruel to upbraid me with being my father's murderess, when I would willingly give my life to save him. Oh! Jennie, you cannot mean what you say. Oh! my poor father."

Marguerite was now an object of pity. Her hands were clasped above her head, and in that half-prostrate position she seemed a living representation of some Grecian maid who, more than two thousand years in the past, with like struggles, had climbed the marble steps leading to the Acropolis and with lips pallid as the ivory temple near, wailed out her woes to the myriads of deities that met her despairing gaze.

But for the nonce Jennie Montgomery had steeled her heart and looked as indifferent as a Zeno.

"It will do her good. There is more work on hand yet"—these and other remarks of a like nature escaped the daring girl as she rose to her feet and glanced at the angry clouds trooping along the grey November sky like hordes of insatiable warriors bent upon further deeds of prowess.

"Cousin Jennie!"

"Yes, Madge," said the latter going toward her cousin with as much composure as if their conversation had been of the most common place.

"Cousin Jennie," said Marguerite raising herself with an air of determination, "I thank you for your harsh but wholesome words. They have given rise to a train of thoughts which I shall soon put to the test and you, my dear, must await the result."

"What now, coz? If it be anything that will relieve you from such disgraceful bonds, I will enter into it body and soul."

* * * * *

"Better to-day, dearest papa? I am so glad," and Marguerite rained kisses upon the emaciated cheeks.

"And cousin Jennie is here to congratulate you upon looking so well," Marguerite now motioned her cousin to the bedside.

"Uncle Stephen," said the girl taking the trembling hands between her own, "you must hurry and get well for I'm not going to leave here until you do."

Marguerite having supplanted the nurse for the entire afternoon and having taken the precaution to learn from the good old doctor that her cheerful presence would do good turned the occasion to the best possible account.

Side by side sat the two maidens in striking but happy contrast. Cousin Jennie's neatly fitting frock of wine-colored serge was relieved by point lace collar and cuffs, the work of her own deft fingers, while a cluster of white geranium served to complete the toilet and give a subdued tone to the highly brilliant complexion.

Marguerite's plain black cashmere with bodice of rich velvet harmonized most exquisitely with her soft spirituelle beauty and set off the purity of the purely transparent complexion.

How many have gazed with tearful eye upon that most bewitching of portraits, that of Mary Queen of Scots in costume of black velvet, time-honored ruff, and as reminder of her belief, the massive jet crucifix was suspended from the most perfect neck that was ever fashioned by the hand of the Divine Craftsman.

It is while gazing upon Marguerite Verne that our thoughts carry us back to the ill-fated queen and as we note the striking personal resemblance, thank a kind Providence that the maiden's lot has been cast in happier days and in a land not blighted by the harrowing associations of those stormy times.

But to our subject. The dutiful daughter goes softly toward the bed and raising the shrivelled hand from the snowy coverlid looks into the languid eyes as if she would read the thoughts which she now longed to hear.

"Papa I want to say something. Will you promise me that you will not get excited. You know I am under orders."

"Nothing will excite me now my child. Excitement is only fit for the people of the earth, and I am now already on the verge of another and I trust a better world."

Marguerite would fain have urged her father to forbear, but she knew full well that it was the truth.

"Well, papa, we are all in the hands of God. He will do what he thinks is best for us."

The quivering lips and tremulous tones gave expression to the overflowing heart, but the girl bore up bravely.

"Papa, here is my accuser," said she, grasping Cousin Jennie by the hand and drawing her forcibly to his side. "Now, dearest, tell papa what you told me in the library."

Cousin Jennie trembled somewhat. She was alarmed lest her words might add to the grief of the dying man. But she must not waver now, and in measured tones she repeated almost word for word the same conversation which had so deeply affected the sensitive Marguerite.

Mr. Verne listened, and as the girl proceeded his eye kindled and his lips moved as if in deep gratitude.

Cousin Jennie's eyes now flashed upon Marguerite, and as if by intuition Mr. Verne's also sought his daughter.

"My child, this may be the last question I shall ever ask you! Answer me truly! Do you love Hubert Tracy with a deep and tender love—such a love as a true woman gives to her husband?"

There was silence deep as death, then a sweet voice, murmured: "Papa, I know it is sinful, but I cannot! Oh! I cannot love him!"

"God be praised for these comforting words. Come close my child."

Marguerite had her face down upon the pillow, calmly awaiting the loved voice—the voice that ere long would be silent forever!

Mr. Verne had been tenderly raised to a sitting position, and supported by pillows, he was comfortable and easy. A smile lighted up his countenance and he looked calm and happy.

"Marguerite, my child, in presence of God and his holy angels, I ask you now to make me a solemn promise—I can ask you now, thank God, with a feeling of delight—promise me that you will from this hour renounce that bad and unprincipled man—Hubert Tracy."

Marguerite was bewildered. What knowledge had of late been imparted to her father? But it matters not. She is not to question, and with firm voice, exclaimed: "As Heaven is my witness I hereby break the bonds that bind me to Hubert Tracy," and as if some invisible aid had been wafted from that upper world the costly solitaire, diamond dropped upon the floor and rolled into a darkened recess, where for the time it was safe from human eyes!



CHAPTER XXXIX.

A TURNING POINT.

What a change a few moments often make! They seem of small note and yet to many lives they have wrought wondrous things.

Marguerite Verne sought her father's presence with a heart sad as it were possible to be, and left it some time later with a new light dawning upon her. A ray of hope had given warmth to her whole being, and in the inaudible "Thank God" what a world of gratitude was conveyed.

But it must not be inferred that the girl had no misgiving. The picture of the disappointed lover hung before her as a reminder that her release was purchased at the expense of another's happiness. Marguerite reasoned with herself. She was of a deep argumentative turn of mind, though her actions did not always endorse the statement.

"How shall I ever have courage to write Hubert!" thought she! "How shall I pen the words inflicting such a blow! Poor fellow! Whatever his faults are, and papa must know of some, I am certain he loved me, and would try to do better. Indeed, the only consoling thought I had was being the means of making him a better man, but then, it is dreadful to think of him as having committed some crime! Poor fellow! he has been led into it," and heaving a deep sigh of relief Marguerite once more felt truly grateful that she had been rescued from a fate which now to her seemed terrible.

"Papa does not seem inclined to explain matters and perhaps is as well," said she, taking a small portrait from a cabinet putting it away in a drawer which she seldom opened. "I will not destroy it. Poor Hubert! some day I may feel even more sympathy than I do now;" and Hubert Tracy in miniature was consigned to its solitary resting place.

Marguerite Verne's words were prophetic indeed.

She had remained some moments in utter abstraction when Cousin Jennie hastily entered telling her that Mr. Lawson had just left and that her father wished to see her.

"What an early call for Mr. Lawson," thought the girl as she went in answer to the message.

Mr. Verne's face caused Marguerite to clutch the chair beside her for support.

"Is he dying!" thought she, "dying, and our clergyman from home. Oh, if he were here to give us comfort."

But Marguerite was mistaken. Her father's voice was stronger than usual and his eye kindled with something of the old fervor, then drawing from beneath his pillow a slip of paper raised it to Marguerite.

The latter did not faint or indulge in any hysterical outbreaks as is fashionable on such occasions but quietly read the lines and with calm composure stood for a moment as if waiting for some one to speak.

"May God have mercy upon his soul! Poor fellow, he had passed away ere the letter could have reached its destination."

Mr. Verne spoke these words in a deep reverential air. They were sacred to the memory of Hubert Tracy.

Poor misguided young man. He had gone out one bright Sunday afternoon flashed with the anticipation of his fondest hopes and as he stepped gaily on board the saucy-looking yacht that awaited him at the pier a boisterous shout went up from merry-making companions.

Who among the lookers-on, glancing at the calm sky, would have then predicted the approaching storm.

Sad to relate none who went out ever returned to tell the sad story.

Some waterman who afterwards passed the spot brought back the tidings that the trim little craft was a complete wreck and that so far the bodies had not been recovered.

Strange as it may seem Montague Arnold suddenly aroused himself from his semi-brutal state and sent a lengthy cablegram to none other than Phillip Lawson.

We will not question the motives which prompted this sense of duty. Let us charitably hope that the impression left by the Divine Architect was not entirely obliterated, that his last generous act was due to that source.

It was the evening of the same day that Marguerite Verne had received the news of Hubert Tracy's sad end.

She was in her own chamber, locking perplexed and troubled. "Am I to blame for his death? Heaven forbid! Did I wish it! Ah no!" then she thought of Cousin Jennie's prophetic speech and a chill seized her as of ague. "It is indeed hard to decide between right and wrong. Will I ever feel real happiness again! Will not the bitter past come up and taunt me with cruel heartlessness. Would it not have been better if he had lived! then I would have had an opportunity to know myself better than now!"

What causes the girl to start? A well known step is heard on the stairway, and a voice that has power to thrill every nerve, is heard in conversation with Cousin Jennie.

"I cannot see him," murmured Marguerite, "I must not let him think that I am glad of my release."

The cosey reception-room was directly underneath, and much of the conversation within could be distinctly heard.

Mrs. Verne having sufficiently recovered to make her appearance now formed one of the company.

Her manner towards the young solicitor was warmth itself. It was painfully embarrassing to the sensitive girl to hear the labored speeches addressed to the guest.

"It is better that I remain in ignorance, for such knowledge will only make me act more ridiculous, in fact, I would not be myself when I was prejudiced to such an extent."

Marguerite then arose, and stole quietly along the upper hall until she sought the curious-looking apartment already described in a preceding chapter.

Master Charlie and several of his chums were seated around an old table and were having some fun over that highly intellectual game known as "old maid" or "old bachelor."

With an air of gallantry the young gentlemen arose and each had an impromptu seat for the fair visitor.

"We are not very presentable to ladies, Miss Verne," remarked a rather handsome boy of thirteen, possessed with that I-am-a-man look so amusing and comical.

"Oh, Madge, what good luck brought you to our den? Come let us make 'old maid' of you, I've been 'old bachelor' six times."

"And he is afraid that it will turn out so in reality one of these days!" said out the lad who had not hitherto spoken.

"I might as well be diverting these children as brooding over real and imaginary woes. It cannot be wrong. If papa could only look in upon us now as he often did."

"I can stay a few moments boys—that is if you will be quick." And suiting the action to the words Marguerite wedged in between two curly-headed urchins brimful of fun and mischief and ready for anything that might honestly be termed a good time.

"I thought so," exclaimed the jubilant Charlie, clapping his hands in wild delight, "Madge is old maid."

A round of applause greeted Charlie's speech and amid the general confusion Marguerite made a hasty retreat.

Mrs. Verne's voice could still be heard but with increasing distinctness and her marked flattery was painfully distressing, but the girl was careful to avoid the trying ordeal.

"Eve's letter must be written before I sleep," and instantly Marguerite was seated in Cousin Jennie's room, where a bright fire glowed in the grate and everything looked bright and cheerful as the maiden herself.

"No gloom can come in here," said the girl in a manner that showed that she was trying to fortify herself against intruding thoughts.

"Hubert was kind to Eve, she will surely mourn for him. He was more attentive than Montague, and I believe had more sympathy."

It was well for Marguerite that she was ignorant of her sister's sadly altered condition. As she pens the lines she fervently prays that Montague Arnold may take warning from his friend's sad fate and that Evelyn may feel more interested in her husband and give less concern to the fogies and recklessness of fashionable society.

Mr. Verne's condition now appeared more favorable. Marguerite was buoyed up by the thought that it was almost impossible that her father could be taken away from her. "A kind Providence sees fit to restore him to us," murmured she as the door closed upon the venerable benign countenance of their much endeared physician. But the latter did not hold out false hope. When questioned as to his opinion he spoke kindly and said that he was doing all that could be done.

Another week had flown, and Saturday night was ushered in with a quiet that was inspiring, reminding one most forcibly of the lines:

"The cheerfu sapper down, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle form a circle wide, The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace The big ha' Bible, once his father's pride."

Though Saturday night at "Sunnybank" presented a different scene the faithful picture was often presented to Mr. Verne in a way that filled his soul with a deep religious fervour and inspired him with a filial reverence for the time-honored custom of his worthy ancestors.

But of the present. Marguerite had been reading from the Church Witness, and having finished her task or rather pleasure, sat down upon a low stool beside the grate, gazing upon the red hot coals with a far off look in her violet eyes!

"Has Phillip been here to-day, my dear?" asked Mr. Verne arousing Marguerite from her reverie.

"Not to-day, papa."

"I would like to see him this evening."

"James can go for him if you wish, papa."

"Very well, dear, just say that I wish to see him, if at all possible."

Marguerite glanced at the tiny alarm clock that stood on the table. It was nearly eight o'clock, and in all probability Mr. Lawson might not be found at home, but she gave the message to the trusty errand boy, and once more was installed as watcher in the sick room, having an uncomfortable dread of meeting the expectant visitor.

"James has indeed been successful, papa," cried the girl as she heard the well-known footsteps in the corridor, then hastily added, "I shall be in the library, papa. You can ring when I am needed."

Marguerite had not gone many steps when she stood face to face with Phillip Lawson.

Despite her efforts to appear calm the flushed cheeks were a sad tell tale.

She reached out her hand in a friendly way but seemed nervous and embarrassing, a circumstance which might easily be ascribed to the painful anxiety that at times possessed her.

"Papa seemed so anxious that I proposed sending for you," said Marguerite in her winning gentle way.

"I am glad that you did, Miss Verne; I was just leaving the house as the message arrived."

Mr. Lawson was soon seated beside his old friend.

The latter, within the last few moments, had become much excited and the young man felt uneasy.

Mr. Verne, having divined the latter's thoughts, exclaimed, "Don't be alarmed Phillip, I have much to say before we are through. This may be the last opportunity—the very last."

"Never mind sir, you're worth a dozen dead men yet," said Mr. Lawson in a cheerful voice.

But the effect was lost upon the dying man.

"Phillip Lawson," said he, his voice calm and distinct, "I have asked God to give me strength to-night and I have not asked in vain. He has been good and merciful to me through it all and on this bed of affliction I have made my peace with Him."

A tear shone in the listener's eye and fell upon the floor.

"God has indeed been good to me. He has revealed Himself in a number of ways. Not once has He withheld His hand. The plots of the wicked have been frustrated. When their hands were lifted against me He laid them low in the dust. Ah Phillip, I have much to be grateful for."

Mr. Verne then pointed to a small box which Phillip brought to his bedside, when a small key was produced.

"Take this," said he, "and on opening the lower drawer on the right side of my desk you will see a miniature Japanese cabinet. Bring it to me."

Mr. Lawson did as requested, and with trembling hands Mr. Verne drew forth a paper which he passed to the young lawyer.

"There is a document, which doubtless you have seen before, at least I always thought so," said Mr. Verne, eyeing his friend with eager look.

"I have indeed, sir, but never would have thought of it being in your possession."

It is needless to add the explanation that followed, the reader being well acquainted with the facts, but we can try to imagine the joy that leaped into Phillip Lawson's heart.

Never within so short a time was realized more true happiness.

"Mr. Lawson," said Mr. Verne, "I want to say a few more words. I feel that my days are nearly numbered, and that soon my voice will be silent. It is, indeed, a painful subject, but duty demands it. Ah! Phillip, what man would have acted towards that unfortunate youth as you have done. Yours is a generosity that is seldom met with."

Mr. Verne seemed for a moment lost in deep thought, then exclaimed: "Ah! Phillip, God's ways are wonderful. Let us thank Him that the barriers are broken down—that ere long you may possess the rarest treasure that this earth can give."

Mr. Verne's voice sank into a deep whisper as he uttered the solemn invocation:

"And now may the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, rest upon thee forever my son."

The icy fingers which had lain within those of the other, now relaxed their hold.

Mr. Lawson seeing that the man was growing weaker, made an excuse to leave.

"Phillip," said Mr. Verne in a hoarse tone, "When I have laid in my grave for three months I want you to show my child that document. Then plead your suit, and if from my home above it be possible that it is granted me to witness the scene, I shall pray for you both. Yes, Phillip, the prayer of an invisible presence shall light upon you and crown you with a happiness, that will have no end."



CHAPTER XL.

TIME'S CHANGES—MONTAGUE ARNOLD.

Gloomy scenes are not agreeable to the general reader we will now pass over the period when death and its inevitable sorrow overshadowed the once festive halls of "Sunnybank."

A great change had taken place, yet when settlements had been made the estate was in a better condition than was at first supposed. The trustees were men of the strictest integrity, who made ample provision for the afflicted family.

With feelings of relief and gratitude Marguerite learned that "Sunnybank" was to be sold for the benefit of the creditors and that a cosey little home had been provided instead.

With Mrs. Verne it was otherwise.

She went from room to room bemoaning her sad lot and wondering if any other mortal ever had such a cross to bear. Poor woman! It was hard to teach submission to such a spirit.

Phillip Lawson was a true comforter. He was not officious, nor was he remiss, but had a happy faculty of being near when he was most needed.

Marguerite was daily losing part of the disagreeable restraint which had hitherto placed such an inseparable barrier between them, and if at times she appeared forced and formal it was from a sense of shame at her mother's undisguised patronage.

None could now execute Mrs. Verne's slightest wish in a manner like Mr. Lawson, none could give such friendly advice, in fact none could do anything but Mr. Lawson.

The pretty suburban cottage into which Mrs. Verne and Marguerite were now removed was indeed worthy the name of home.

Its surroundings alone were sufficient proof. In summer its neat garden front, vine-clad porch and graceful elms guarding the gateway! But it was when one entered the inviting hall and glanced through the several cosey rooms that the home feeling was realized. A tasteful parlor looking out upon the garden is the spot where we now care to linger, for seated in a familiar looking arm-chair is Marguerite.

She is busy over a piece of Kensington work which has to be ready for the approaching bazaar.

"It is well that I am of some service," thought the girl as she stitched away upon the pretty designs, admiring the artistic groups of lilies and fern leaves.

Clad in deep mourning Marguerite was striking in appearance and the man must be a stoic indeed who could look upon her without feelings of tender interest.

Such were Phillip Lawson's sentiments as he was ushered into her presence.

"Miss Verne," said the latter on being seated, "I have called this evening to convey a message from Mr. Spriggins."

"Was he in the city to-day—and gone back without calling? Well that is too bad, for I had a message to send to Melindy; there now, that reminds me of the Christmas cards."

"He bade me tell you that it was impossible for him to call to-day, but that he would bring Melindy in on next Tuesday, and I suppose from that you may expect guests for dinner."

Christmas was drawing nigh, and the "Sprigginses" were not forgotten. Marguerite had knitted a handsome scarf to gladden the large heart of Moses, while a pretty tidy had just been completed for the new easy chair in Melindy's best room.

Mr. Spriggins had become a general favorite with the Vernes, and also with Mr. Lawson. He had dined with the latter a fortnight previous, and left brimful of gratitude and good wishes.

Mr. Lawson with all his integrity had been somewhat evasive, but bear in mind the fact that he is doing so from a sense of duty—a solemn obligation.

He did not inform his fair companion that Moses Spriggins had been detained in his office for more than an hour, and that a serious compact was entered into between the lawyer and his former client.

We will not relate the conversation that passed, but let the reader imagine the look upon Moses' rubicund face when Mr. Lawson presented the missing document, and made the necessary explanation as to the means by which it came into his possession.

"It is a miracle, nuthin' more nor less," exclaimed Moses, his eyes dancing with delight.

"Things are a-turnin' out jest as I expected. Wal, I do believe I'll beat that ere Dr. Wiggins yet! Pity he wa'nt a Kings County feller too!"

"But Queens is a pretentious county. She must not be set aside, Moses," said the solicitor laughing.

"Wal, there's another subject I have to prophesy on, but I s'pose as your a modest sort o' chap will hold my tongue. (It was no later'n last night Melindy was a-tellin' mother I was too long tongued), and I was only sayin' a word or two about some little family matters. Wal, I'll keep dark a little bit longer," while Mr. Spriggins gave a very significant glance towards Mr. Lawson, and enveloping himself in his home-made ulster went forth to "bide his time."

And now, while Marguerite is striving to be happy and make others happy, attending to the wants of the needy and awaiting with anxious solicitude the arrival of the English mail, we turn to a darker and sadder picture.

* * * * *

"For God's sake don't let them carry me off body and soul! Ah, they hiss at me with their venomous tongues! Yes! yes, they are crawling over me! They are sucking the blood in my brain! Evelyn, come to me! I will not send you away again. Oh, take me out of this fire! I'm burning! Oh God, I'm burning to death!"

Such were the incoherent ravings of the shabbily clad creature who had been found lying in a gutter at the end of a street leading to an alley in which were several notorious gambling dens.

Like the parable of the Levite and Samaritan many "had passed by on the other side," but there are good Samaritans at the present day and one came in the form of an elderly gentleman with locks of hoary hair and a benign yet sad expression of countenance. He is accompanied by a sweet-faced woman and a delicate looking child with flaxen curls and eyes of heavenly blue.

"Stay Clarice, we must see who he is, or why he is here," said the old gentleman putting the child in the care of a friend and hastening to the scene with the agility of youth.

"That man was thrown out of that farthest tavern there, sir," said a raw-boned youth, who was standing with his eyes and month open awaiting further developments of the case then before him.

"The same old story, father. They encouraged him until the last farthing is gone, and then he is turned out to die. Oh! how horrible," and the woman laid her hand upon her father's arm as if wishing to get away from the sad and cruel sight.

"He was once a gentleman, sir," said the youth with the air of one who knew much of the affairs of the neighborhood, and was anxious to impress the bystanders.

The old gentleman beckoned to a couple of policemen, and thus armed made his way to the infamous den.

The grey hairs and reverential mien pleaded more than the most honeyed words, and within a short time all necessary information was obtained. Amid shrieks and groans, Montague Arnold was placed in a cab and conveyed to a public hospital, and the good, old Samaritan went on his way happy in the thought of having done his duty.

Nor did he rest here.

On the following day, after having made inquires as to the unfortunate man's condition, he set forth to find the destitute and unhappy wife. Five or six hours search in a wretched tenement habitation, and a sad scene presented itself.

After climbing the third flight of rickety stairs the old gentleman sees a shabbily dressed woman, and as he glances at the surroundings his soul sickens. All is drear and desolate. The apartment is cold, and a few coals seem trying to keep a little glow that the poor creature may not succumb to the pitiless element.

Some coarse shirts are lying upon the rude table—it is the same old song which Hood made immortal:—

"Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread A shroud as well as a shirt."

"Do not fear madam, I am no bailiff. I have come to bring you to your husband," said the old gentleman in trembling accents. "Oh spare me, dear sir! I never wish to see his face again! His brutal treatment has left me as you now see—this wretched hole and these dry morsels! Oh God! did I ever think this would be my sad fate!"

Who could recognize in this wretched-looking creature any semblance to the peerless proud beauty—Evelyn Verne.

Ah, surely the proud soul must have passed through the waters of much tribulation—surely she is humbled in the very dust.

"I cannot go, sir. Oh no, I cannot go!" exclaimed the woman in piteous accents, covering her face as if to shut out the sight of human sympathy.

"Listen to me, madam," said the old gentleman in his soft touching way, and then the humiliated woman heard a tale of woe that entered deeply into her soul.

What a change those words had wrought—such a change as mortal can scarcely dream of!

"I will go with you, sir," said Evelyn with tears streaming, down her cheeks.

As she glanced at her threadbare garments a feeling of embarrassment was visible upon her emaciated face, but it was momentary.

The good old man led the way and Evelyn followed, but at respectful distance, and as the frowning edifice rose above them what mortal could have withheld pity for the almost demented creature!

"If Marguerite could see me now! And Phil Lawson whom I once despised. Ah, now he is a prince indeed. I honor him above men!"

What sentiments for Evelyn Verne! Why such sentiments? One of God's messengers has at last struck the missing chord and awakened a flood of divine melody more acceptable to the quiring hosts than the lays of measured song.

"This way, my child," says a benign matron in a kind and sympathetic voice, and Mrs. Arnold stands gazing upon the sadly bloated face of her husband.

"Eve, you have come! I am not deserving of such kindness—but it is nearly over now, I shall trouble you no longer. Oh, if I could undo the dreadful past what a different life I would lead!"

"Hush, Montague! we have both been to blame. Not more than an hour ago I could have cursed you with my whole heart, but now I trust in God that I am a different being."

The old gentleman had remained in the hall but was now summoned to the bedside where he learned the sad story of the wreck of two human lives.

"I was selfish and wayward; heartless and cruel. Many wrongs have been encouraged because it was all right in the eyes of the hollow-hearted fashionable world. Oh! society! you have much to answer for!"

Mrs. Arnold broke down completely, and gave way to heart-rending sobs.

"Let her weep," thought the old man, "It will do her good."

Montague Arnold now raised himself upon the pillow, but the effort was too much, and he sank back exhausted, murmuring, "It will not be long."

"Oh! Montague! my husband," exclaimed the woman, rushing wildly to his bedside, and putting her arm around his neck, "Oh! my husband, you must not die. We will began life anew, and each hour atone for the past."

"Let us thank a merciful Saviour that atonement has been made both for you and me, Evelyn."

"How came my husband to realize such a change," asked the grief-smitten wife, gazing sadly into the old man's face.

"The good Chaplain remained with him nearly all night, and on passing my house this morning came to tell us that the dying man had indeed become truly penitent."

"Thank God!" was the fervent reply.

Evelyn was now left alone with her husband, and she knew that it was impossible for him to live many days. She strove to smooth his dying pillow, and give all the consolation that lay within her power.

It was indeed a sad but tender sight to notice the wistful gaze of the still lustrous eyes, the hectic flush of the wan cheek, and to listen to the spasmodic cough which spoke too plainly that hasty consumption had sought out its victim with unerring aim.

The physician on going his daily round now entered the ward with a look of sympathy in his kindly face, and as he glanced at the careworn creature seated in a corner, felt a sudden pang shoot through his generous heart.

Another day dawned and Montague Arnold was yet on this side of the grave.

Evelyn went to and from the old lodging, with a firmer step yet with an aching void at her heart.

Why did I not see my folly ere it was too late? Ah! mothers, why not educate your daughters to be sensible beings? But why do I speak now? It is too late! and drawing her shawl close to keep out the winter's wind the woman pressed on amid the surging tide of humanity, pressing against hearts, perhaps, heavy, as her own!

"Is it an apparition," thought Mrs. Arnold, as she stood for a moment to gaze upon a lovely child, standing besides her husband's cot.

It was surely an angel in disguise sent to cheer his last moments.

A bouquet of choice flowers shed a delightful fragrance. They are the gift of the child.

"This is too sad a place for such innocence," murmurs the invalid, taking the bouquet and pressing it to his lips.

"Lalia is accustomed to such scenes, Mr. Arnold, I take her with me on my daily rounds, that she may see the sorrows of humanity, and I trust she will never grow so selfish as not to feel for them too."

"May you receive the greatest reward," cried the wretched Evelyn. "Ah! much promise is in store for your child."

The little one glided toward the speaker, and putting the tiny white arms around her neck, impressed a warm kiss upon the quivering lips.

"Good-bye, Lalia! When you grow to be a woman wear this for my sake," and Montague Arnold took from his finger an old-fashioned ring—the gift of his dying mother.

The child looked at the precious relic, as if it were too sacred to touch. Then spoke her thanks through the soft dreamy eyes— beautiful as an Italian sky.

"Good-bye, Lalia," and the child went forth with a sadness prophetic that from these icy lips those words were the last she would ever hear.

And the child was right. On the following day as the sun was sinking in the west, Montague Arnold was sinking into his last slumber.

Respiration became difficult, and his words were almost inaudible. As his wife knelt beside him, and clasped the cold hands within her own, she tried hard to appear calm.

"You forgive all, Eve?"

A kiss upon the rigid lips was the silent but expressive answer.

A fervent "God Almighty bless you," a faint sigh and Montague Arnold had sought another and we trust a better home.

Mrs. Arnold is truly a widow in a strange land, yet He who is the husband of the widow has not forsaken her. The aged gentleman, his dutiful daughter and the lovely Lalia have given her the warmest sympathy, and taken her to their snug and cosey home.

Only a few weeks had passed away since Evelyn had written Marguerite, but how much had transpired in that time? It was when she had received a second letter that the thought occurred that she had been remiss.

"Marguerite, sweet girl! she will never knew what I have suffered," and with these words upon her lips Mrs. Arnold sat down and penned as much of her sad story as she then thought fit to confide.

"That is all," murmured the writer folding up the blurred page and addressing the letter. Then for the first time since the days of her happy, sunny childhood Evelyn Arnold took up a neatly bound Testament. She had an indistinct remembrance of something concerning the prodigal son and now wished to know for herself.

The sad, pathetic picture soon possessed a charm and the story was read over many times ere the volume was laid aside.

"Thank God," mused the reader and the words were wafted aloft until they reached the

——"Kingly palace gate; With frontispiece of diamond and of gold Embellished."



CHAPTER XLI.

THE LIVING PRESENT.

The bitter, cold days of winter are nearly at an end. The forces of nature are now exhausted and the elements have settled down into quiet rest.

"How time flies!" exclaimed the solicitor glancing at the calendar opposite his desk. "Three months to-day since I made that promise."

Phillip Lawson looked happy. His office had a cheerful aspect, and his surroundings seemed to indicate that the young man was contented and happy.

"Four o'clock and the fellow is not here! Well, I can afford to be disappointed to-day. It matters not." And putting on his great coat Phillip Lawson made his way down town and as he strode along at a rapid gate we were not surprised to hear one of the "oldest inhabitants" remark "Gracious! what a fine strapping fellow that young Lawson has got to be. I bet he'd turn the scales at one hundred and eighty."

The evening of the same day another scene is before us.

A graceful figure is seated beside the grate of the neat, cosey parlor which we have hitherto admired.

A deep blush rises upon the maiden's cheek as she turns over the leaves of the handsome volume lying in her lap. What causes that blush? What latent property lies hid in a withered moss rose? What beauty to arrest a maiden's eye?

These are questions to be decided by the fair ones who perhaps in like manner have treasured away, far from human eyes, a few, petals of a withered rose or perhaps "only a pansy blossom."

Ah, the tell tale crimson that will betray Marguerite in spite of all her grand theories of will power!

"It is Phillip!" and the rapid beat of that uncontrollable organ sends the crimson flood surging over the marble brow with redoubled force.

"Pardon my coming to-night, Miss Verne. It is on a sacred mission—a solemn obligation to the dead."

Phillip Lawson's voice was husky, and his muscular frame vibrated with the depth of emotion.

Marguerite grew pale, but the young man's reassuring words brought relief.

"It is nothing to grieve for. It is somewhat unpleasant for us all, but we must not consider our feelings."

A familiar face greets the young man with a pleasing smile.

Mrs. Arnold is indeed a changed woman. She is now a true friend an honorable and honest friend.

The once peerless beauty is no longer a silly, heartless nobody, but a being with feelings, and aspirations of a higher kind; and as she stands before us much altered in appearance, with much of the former beauty gone, we can indeed rejoice that in its place is a happy, soft subdued expression that makes even the plainest face comely and fair to look upon.

"I am glad that you have come Mr. Lawson, I have been thinking of you the whole evening. I have so much to ask you about papa. It seems that I never can get him out of my mind. I can see him now looking so interested, just as he did when you happened to come to 'Sunnybank.' Oh! Mr. Lawson, will I ever cease to feel the deep remorse that is almost killing me."

"That is just the way she goes on from morning till night," exclaimed Mrs. Verne, who now entered, and extended her hand to her guest in a quiet and kindly way.

The young man was at a loss for words, and thinking it best to say nothing just then, suddenly held up the missing document.

"This is the promise I made Mr. Verne," said he, addressing himself to Mrs. Verne, then placing the letter in Marguerite's hand.

The latter glanced at the contents, and trembled violently.

Mrs. Arnold was the first to speak.

"Is it the confession of a murder, Mr. Lawson. It must be something terrible."

"Bead it for yourself," said Marguerite, awaking from her stupor. "Truly God has watched over us from the first. Oh! mamma, think what I have escaped."

"Hush! Marguerite. Let us never refer to the past again," said Mrs. Arnold, with a calm resignation so characteristic of the noble spirit which now actuated her.

"Phillip Lawson, you have proved the truest friend that my father ever had. You have been true to us all, and we little deserved such sacrifice. Many a time I have held you up to ridicule when I knew in my heart that you were honest and good."

Marguerite had noiselessly stolen from their midst. She was deeply overcome and nature must have its way.

"You will pardon me, Mrs. Arnold, if I give you the same advice which you thought fit for your sister—let us forget the past and live only for the present."

Phillip Lawson was somewhat agitated. A clear, steady light shone in the intellectual gray eyes, and a noble resolve was written in relief upon the generous face.

"Mrs. Verne, I have something further to say." And the young man repeated the conversation which took place when the document was brought from its resting place when Mr. Verne had invoked his last blessing upon those whose happiness was so dear to him.

"Mr. Lawson, I will also add my blessing, and may Heaven shower upon you all the happiness that such as you deserve," then taking the young man's hand and pressing it to her lips Mrs. Verne withdrew to her own room.

"Bless you, Phillip. You are all to me that a brother can be," and leaning her head against the stalwart frame Mrs. Arnold gave vent to the pent-up grief and wept like a little child.

Phillip Lawson sat for some moments after they had left the room. His eyes were bent upon the floor and his face was grave indeed.

"Evelyn has told you all, Marguerite?" said the young man rising from his seat and approaching the spot where the girl stood smiling through her tears—like golden sunshine through an April shower.

"And I have come, Phillip."

Who can picture the joy those words gave?

"Marguerite, my own! mine forever!" exclaimed the enraptured lover pressing the maiden to his breast and impressing upon her lips such kisses as only a pure, noble-minded man can give.

Oh, the bliss of that happy betrothal hour, when two souls are forever made one—when two hearts outwardly estranged at last find the realization of their earthly bliss!

Phillip Lawson goes forth from the cosey home as the affianced husband of Marguerite Verne and with him go our heart's best wishes for a life to be crowned with all the happiness that this world can give.

Poor Mrs. Verne. She may at times have felt somewhat disappointed when she thought how surely she could have had a baronet for a son-in-law, but in charity for the woman's weakness we will forbear.

It is really wonderful how quickly news travels. Not a week had passed ere Mr. Spriggins came in with a double share of congratulation from himself and Melindy.

"I tell ye what it is Mr. Lawson, I'm ahead of Wiggins, for I've never failed in one of my prophesies. They're every one a-comin' true jest as I said," and Mr. Spriggins slapped his friend on the shoulder with a force worthy his muscular frame.

"You know I hinted about it at my weddin' and you looked sorter shy and put me off, and you had it in yer head all the time. Wal, I'm beginnin' to think men's as deceivin' as wimin."

Mr. Lawson made a few appropriate remarks and Mr. Spriggins began to think "it was nigh about time for startin'" when suddenly he jumped to his feet exclaiming, "I do believe I'd a-gone off without tellin' you the most thrillin' story that you'd ever heard. That ere thing just put me in mind of it," added he, pointing to a circular of the Dominion Safety Fund.

"I remember Miss Verne a-tellin' me that it was the best consarn in the Dominion and I do believe now she's turned out a prophet too. Now to my story (as they say in love affairs)," and giving his waistcoat a vigorous pull Mr. Spriggins resumed—

"You know them ere Wiggleses that Melindy used to be jealous of? Wal, they had a cousin, Jerushy Cursye, and she married a fellar that used to work up at Deacon Jones's. Wal, to make a long and a short of it, they were spliced and came to live on a new farm out in the backlands. Wal, sir, they had a purty tough time gettin' along for the first year or so, but Jerushy was study as a rock and made things go as far as the next one I kin tell you, and so when they were five years in the log house they began to think of gettin' up a frame house and puttin' on considerable airs; and one day I tackled Bill and says I, look here, Bill, if you want to make a good investment (a purty good word for me, Mr. Lawson)," said Moses with a wink, "I'll put you on the track."

"Good gracious! yes, Moses, says he, it seems I must have had sich a feelin' meself, for I was a-wonderin' yesterday what I could do to make Jerushy and the family sure of a good livin'."

"Safety is the word, says I, and as soon as you could say Jack Robinson, I explained the bisness, and next day Bill made an excuse to go to town and came home $1000 richer."

"That was the man you had in here about a year ago," said Mr. Lawson, with an air of interest.

"The very one. Poor Bill! he had no notion of cheatin' the consarn, for he was hearty as a bear, but he took a cold in the woods, and gettin' bad treatment it turned to consumption, and he died in less than no time.

"Poor Jerushy took it dreadful hard, and the nabers was a wonderin' all the time how she could get along—for you know Mr. Lawson, that a farm ain't much good without a man or hired help. Wal, sir, what do you think—it was no more nor three or four days after the funeral that a letter came to inform the widder that she was to receive $1000 for her late husband's policy.

"Well, sir," exclaimed Moses, with a twinkle of the big blue eyes, "It was equal to a circus to see how the folks flocked from all parts to hear if the story was true, and I believe there was a good many of the wimin folks jealous of Jerushy's streak of luck."

The lawyer burst into a genuine and hearty laugh, then exclaimed, "Moses I am afraid that you are rather uncharitable towards the fair sex."

"Wal, now sir, because you've happened to fall heir to a terrible nice gal, you needn't think they're all angels, for they ain't by a long chalk."

Mr. Spriggins now made a stride towards the door.

"Bless me if it ain't later'n I thought. The goin' is terrible bad and Melindy will be kinder anxious, so good-bye," and the loquacious Moses made his exit in a style that might not, strictly speaking, be considered "good form."

But the postscript most be attended to in the form of a second appearance.

"I say, Mr. Lawson, when are you a-comin' out? Can't you come some Sunday, and bring Miss Verne and Miss Lottie and be sure and send us word, so as Melindy can have a fire in the best room, and a dinner fit for city folks."

"You may see us all out there some day when you least expect us," said the young man, smiling in his peculiar way.

"All right, sir! Off this time, sure. Don't forget to tell the insurance man about the nine-days' wonder up at the Crossin'," and with this parting injunction, Moses disappeared in good earnest.

An hour later, as the latter is jogging along the king's highway happy as mortal can be, Phillip Lawson is indulging in a quiet reverie beside his bright, cheerful fireside.

Though possessed of much means there is no attempt at display in the pretty tasteful cottage.

The young solicitor had too much good taste, culture, and breeding, to follow in the wake of shoddyism. He was a true gentleman, and as such he cannot take a false movement either to the right or the left.

What glorious day dreams can now be woven from the golden threads of happy thought?

Phillip Lawson is happy, indeed. He thinks of the fair maiden who hourly awaits his coming with the flush of fond expectation mantling the delicate cheek, and as he gazes upon the faithful portrait of his betrothed, murmurs, "Is there aught on earth so pure and true as thee my own—my Marguerite."

"Confiding, frank, without control, Poured mutually from soul to soul, As free from any fear or doubt, As is that light from chill or stain The sun into the stars sheds out, To be by them shed back again."



CHAPTER XLII.

THE NORTHWEST REBELLION.

"The great heart of the nation heaves With pride in work her sons have done well, And with a smile and sigh she weaves A wreath of bays and one of immortelle." —Toronto Mail

It is the spring of 1885—a memorable one to many a bereaved household. The Northwest Rebellion is at its height and our brave-hearted volunteers are starting to the front "to do or die."

On that lovely May morn many a patriotic mother looked on her first-born with a smile of encouragement upon her lips and a dull aching at her heart. And that boy's farewell kiss! It lingers, oh so lovingly, upon the quivering lips and pale cheek! But the brave soul can suffer this much and more if her country needs it. She can send all—husband, son and brother. Ah, yes, the true heroes are oftenest found at the quiet fireside, or in some sequestered spot on a lonely hillside, where, surrounded by the orphaned ones, they struggle on and on—on to the goal where all such deeds are crowned with a crown of victory that is unfading.

We need scarcely speak of that time when our beloved New Brunswick mustered her little band of heroes, when each county gave its share, when each vied in patriotic ardor and enthusiasm. It is well known to all. And who among the countless throng that gathered at the Intercolonial Railway Station of St. John did not feel a thrill of emotion that perhaps he or she would never feel again?

And there were many of our friends—aye, all that could go—were there.

Marguerite Verne, with face of angelic purity, stood bidding adieu to the dear ones. Beside her was Mrs. Arnold draped in her mourning weeds and looking indeed a changed woman—a woman with a heart now ready to sympathize with others and ready to do aught that duty dictated.

"I thought I'd see all the folks here!" exclaimed a voice and Mr. Spriggins is instantly beside them, his honest face beaming with patriotic pride.

"Wal, wal, it is wonderful to see sich a crowd. I wouldn't a-missed it for a good deal," cried he, looking around with an air of bewilderment.

Mr. Spriggins soon became more excited. The York contingent, including the Infantry School Corps, now arrived, and judging from the appearance of the surging mass that formed the escort and moved to the martial strains of the I.S.C. Band, there never was a more genuine expression of Canadian loyalty. And the eulogiums passed upon the worthy little band were heard on every side—"What fine, orderly-looking fellows. They'll compare favorably with any of the regulars." True saying, indeed, New Brunswick has a right to be proud of her volunteers. They are ever ready to respond to the call of duty, and to the end maintain the reputation of the British soldier.

But of our friends. Marguerite felt sad indeed. She had witnessed the parting of an aged mother and her youngest boy, and a mist now shaded the thoughtful eyes.

Phillip Lawson next joined the group.

"I need not ask if you are going, Mr. Spriggins," said he smiling, "as I see you are minus the uniform."

"But I'm true blue all the same, sir. I tell you the Spriggins are never skulkin' when they're wanted. Jim Spriggins goes without any coaxin' and if it w'ant that I can't get away from Melindy I'd go too."

"Your brother volunteered, I suppose," ventured Mrs. Arnold, with an air of interest.

"Indeed he did, ma'am, he and another fellar from the Crossin', and I brought 'em down."

Mr. Spriggins made a flourish with his brawny arm and beckoned to the young men who now were introduced, and received warm congratulations.

As cheer upon cheer rose from the crowd Moses became half frantic with enthusiasm.

"Tell ye what it is, Mr. Lawson, them's the fellars to scare the half-breeds. Bet your life on't, they'll soon make quick work of the Injuns round Frog Pond and Cut Knife Creek."

Marguerite could ill repress a smile as she caught sight of Lottie Lawson's face, so expressive of quaint humor and mischief.

And now the historic air—"The Girl I Left Behind Me," falls on every ear. Those inspiring strains played by the 62nd Fusiliers Band as the train moved off amid deafening cheers and shouts of "God bless you," will ever be remembered as souvenirs of that eventful morn, recalling the enthusiasm which then burst forth from the heart of every true Canadian.

"It seems too bad that they had to go because Riel had to get up such a fuss. Why don't they get him and kill him off before he will have the chance of killing many of our brave fellows."

The girl spoke with considerable force as she finished her speech.

"Bravo! little sister," cried Phillip, patting the flushed cheeks by way of applause.

"And you think the guverment did the square thing by them ere half-breeds, do you?"

"Certainly, Mr. Spriggins. What right had they to sell out their claims and go and settle on any place they wished without making any recompense whatever. How do you think affairs would end if they were allowed to go on without any stop being put to them?"

"Wal now, see here, Miss Lottie, I believe you'd make as good a lawyer as your brother. Spose you've a-learned this from his discourse and sich like. Wal, I b'lieve the guverment is right, and at the nixt 'lection I'll remember every word you've said. I allus thought they was the squarest fellars we've ever had yet—them fellars that got out this ere policy."

"The National Policy; Mr. Spriggins," ventured Marguerite, smilingly. "People may talk to the contrary but it has done much to improve matters. I am not a politician but I must say I like the National Policy and hope it may exist while there is need of it."

"Wal done, Miss Verne, I b'lieve you could lecture better'n some of them fellars that come up lection times. I'm sure they could'nt hold a candle to you."

A general laugh succeeded and Mr. Spriggins was delighted to think he had made such well-timed remarks.

The party had now arrived at the corner of Coburg and Charlotte streets when the latter hastily exclaimed.

"By Jiminey! I must go and see about a tub that a woman was to leave for me in the market. It's a good thing I did'nt forgit; for Melindy would have my head off."

"I don't think Melindy is so dreadful as you seem to say, Mr. Spriggins," ventured Lottie, who had gone a few steps in advance, but now turned face to face with the jubilant Moses.

"Will we wait dinner for you, Mr. Spriggins?" asked Marguerite, looking earnestly at the sturdy son of toil as if she knew the full value of the rough but generous nature.

Marguerite was one of the few who could fully appreciate the lines of Scotland's gifted bard—

"A king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that. But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he maunna fa' that."

She had moral courage to stand up boldly for those whom the fashionable world would sneer at. She was not ashamed to recognize a plainly-dressed acquaintance in the most public thoroughfare, nor did she ever make an excuse to be pre-occupied when approached by some coarse but well-meaning inferior.

Other subjects now crowd upon us.

Aunt Hester once more gladdens the Verne cottage with her cheering presence. Sunshine follows every step of the happy and hearty matron.

"Not a bit older, you say, Evelyn. Now I did'nt come here to be made fun of in that style. It was no later than this morning that your Uncle William told me I was greyer than he! Now there's conflicting opinions enough for one day," and the hearty laugh that followed showed that Mrs. Montgomery was as full of life as ever.

"William was afraid that you might grow conceited in your old age," said Mrs. Verne in a languid manner. To do justice to the latter it must be said that she was more natural than the Mrs. Verne of fashionable "Sunnybank."

"That's just what Jennie told him, Matilda," said Mrs. Montgomery, taking down a pretty panel that Marguerite had just finished.

"It is exquisite," added she viewing the picture from several points, in order to study the most striking effect of light and shade.

"Do tell me, Matilda, have you ever heard of the Lister family? Did they go back to their delightful Parnassus and revel in the music of their delectable Castalian spring?"

The mock gravity of the speech afforded considerable merriment.

"You have surely heard of the grand match which Urania made," said Mrs. Verne. "Why it was announced in most of the leading Canadian papers."

Poor Mrs. Verne! She almost betrayed her besetting sin, but Mrs. Montgomery, good soul, seemed unconcious of the fact.

"Only think," cried Marguerite, "of Urania talking up those sublime theories to Sir George Vandewater of Cornwall."

"A Cornish knight," cried Mrs. Montgomery, clapping her hands with genuine glee.

"And sixty years into the bargain," chimed in Evelyn.

"You are rather severe, my dear," said Mrs. Verne, addressing her daughter in a somewhat petulant tone, then turning to her sister added, "Evelyn wishes to imply that Sir George is sixty. I can't see that he ought to pass for an old man. I've heard that he does not look an hour over forty; and twenty thousand a year Hester."

"He needs it all! poor man! for he will have a sorry time of it," said Mrs. Montgomery in a tone of mock compassion.

"But that's not the best of it, Aunt Hester, I must tell you the biggest joke you ever heard," cried Fred. Verne, now a handsome and intelligent stripling of eighteen, who had just appeared on the scene in time to have his say also. "You know that they went to Ottawa about a year ago, and shortly afterwards I found a copy of the Ottawa Times with an announcement that the Misses DeLister of New Brunswick were the guests of Mrs. Geoffrey Renfrew."

"DeLister," cried Mrs. Montgomery, between fits of laughter. "Well, Fred, that is the best joke, indeed! No wonder they caught the poor Cornish baronet."

Mrs. Verne did not relish her sister's raillery, but she had gained enough sense to say very little about the Listers and their stroke of good luck.

"I don't know how many letters I commenced with 'Dear Cousin Jennie,' and just as I got the length of the Listers new title something always happened to prevent my finishing."

"You need not try to invent any excuses to Cousin Jennie for your remissness my dear little brother," cried Marguerite, giving the youth a sisterly embrace with her fair arm, and running her fingers through the meshes of clustering curls.

"What a pity we never thought of that dodge before," cried Fred, brimming over with mischief. "I tell you what DeVerne would have stood high at Ottawa."

"Can't you let the poor Listers alone, Fred," exclaimed Evelyn, trying hard to look serious, as she glanced at the life of the house wedged in beside Aunt Hester on the dainty little sofa.

Evelyn now arose to give some orders for tea, Marguerite glanced over the evening paper, and seeing that Aunt Hester and her mother were on the eve of a quiet chat went to her own room. It was in the gloaming and the girl enjoyed that hour more than words can tell. Her thoughts were happy ones. All was now bright and fair, and if at times she took a retrospective glance at the unhappy past it gave her more cause to be thankful. It always brought up a quotation from a sermon which she heard in a church in Fredericton—

"Night shows the stars; affliction shows the man."

And true indeed. Affliction showed the true Christian piety of the lovely Marguerite. It brought out all the inherent beauty of her nature, and when on certain days she prayed for those who had been tempted to destroy the happiness of her betrothed it was always thus: "They are only human! God forgive them!"

Apropos of Hubert Tracy's accomplices, we may say they were allowed to go unpunished.

"Marguerite," exclaimed Phillip Lawson, taking the taper fingers within his own. "We are too happy to wish any ill upon a human creature. Let us trust in God, they may yet to see the great wrong they tried to commit upon a fellow being; and may they feel such remorse as will be productive of true penitence."

And the young man did not pray in vain. Messrs. Sharpley & Connors felt much chagrined as they heard through the medium of the press of the prosperity of the young and talented lawyer and often experienced a feeling of uneasiness when they thought how matters might have terminated. And who will not say that at times there arose before them a great tribunal where they must answer for the projected crime.



CHAPTER XLIII.

THE WEDDING ANNIVERSARY—CONCLUSION.

"Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been— A sound which makes us linger,—yet—farewell." —Byron.

"Gracious, Melindy; one would think the half-breeds were a-comin'. For mercy sake come out and hear the rumpus." Moses Spriggins had rushed into the kitchen, his eyes ready to start from their sockets.

Melindy was busy frying pancakes and setting the table for the evening meal.

"Now, don't bother me; you see the cakes is a-burnin' already,"— but Melindy did not complete the sentence for the toot of a horn near the barnyard proved that her better half had some grounds for his conjecture.

"It's a gang of roughs a-tryin' to git somethin' to steal. By jiminey! we'll settle em' sure as our name is Spriggins," and Moses made a rush for the guns and ammunition with all possible haste.

"Great scott! they're a-comin' round to the front door."

"I say! Mr. Spriggins, this is a nice reception for invited guests; open the door and let us in."

The words had the effect of magic. The door opened and revealed Moses and Melindy armed for fight with a good supply of ammunition in the foreground.

The scene that followed baffles description. The ludicrous expression upon the face of host and hostess is something to be imagined.

The roars of laughter were deafening and it was some time before Phillip Lawson could make an attempt towards explanation.

* * * * *

"A what-do-ye-call-it weddin', Miss Lottie?" cried Moses, now re-appearing on the scene with his best clothes on, plus a flaring red necktie to match Melindy's "peerin out dress."

"A variety wedding, Mr. Spriggins. Now, you are not to blame any of the others for not sending you word because I made each one promise that it would be kept a surprise."

"Wal, I can tell you, it is a nice surprise, but I felt kinder skeered at the fust, eh Melindy!"

The latter looked quite bridish with her maroon dress and lace ruffles and white flowers—the same which she purchased at Manchester three years previous, still as fresh as if bathed in morning dew.

And the number of guests!

It was no wonder that Mr. Moses Spriggins was in a state of dire confusion as he surveyed the smiling throng of intelligence, grace and beauty, and last, but not least, the pretty and becoming costumes of the fair wearers.

Foremost in the group is Marguerite Verne. "She looks too good for anything," says the enthusiastic host as he contemplates the sweet maiden in a neat black satin frock relieved by a spray of forget-me-nots and pansies.

"And Miss Lottie, what shall I call you—a great big doll with a red shiny dress on."

"Moses Spriggins, I'm ashamed of your ignorance; why it's pink veiling Miss Lottie has on, and I'm sure she looks nicer than any of them china-faced dolls in shop winders."

"Wal, wal, Melindy, you wimin folks oughter know mor'n men folks," replied Moses rushing out of the front door to see if the "hosses were all seen to."

The best room never appeared to more advantage than on this festive occasion. The old-fashioned looking glass seemed to take pride in reflecting the pretty faces and sunny smiles, while the cheerful fire on the hearth played hide-and-seek with the brazen andirons, and sent out a glow of warmth that was emblematic of the big warm welcome of the generous family.

Each guest had to receive a share of Mrs. Spriggins' eulogium, and a lively time ensued.

But the crowning event of the evening was a still greater surprise.

Mrs. Spriggins had been summoned to the kitchen for a few moments, and on her return to the best room saw a sight that almost took away her breath.

The tables, chairs, and every inch of available space were crowded with such, a variety of useful and pretty articles that one might imagine himself in Blanchard's.

Poor Moses was for the moment speechless, first looking at one guest and then at another.

Mr. Lawson now came forward, and in a few well-chosen remarks addressed the host and hostess, and on behalf of the company tendered congratulations on the third anniversary of their marriage.

Wreathed in smiles the host arose to reply.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the latter giving his cravat a very artistic touch, "if Mr. Lawson wa'nt a lawyer I'd a-tried to say somethin', but I can't get a word out nohow, only Melindy and me will never forgit your kindness—and the skeare."

The applause that followed was long and loud, and as the good host made a hasty exit from the room, Marguerite did not fail to see the big tear that rolled down the sunburnt cheeks.

"And you noticed it too, my darling," whispered Phillip to his bethrothed, as he gained her side.

"Yes Phillip, I was just thinking that those tears were more precious than pearls—the essence of real gratitude."

"God bless you, my own," said the lover, seizing the little hand, and folding it so tenderly within his own.

But the time is not for love-making scenes, and the pair are aware of the fact.

Marguerite is ready to assist in doing anything that she can, and the guests now begin to make merry in real earnest.

A neighbor who could "perform upon the violin" was despatched for by the enthusiastic Moses, and the light fantastic was in indulged in with a zest, and all is "merry as a marriage bell."

Let us glance at some of the familiar faces as they pass to and fro through the figures of a quadrille.

Mrs. Arnold is opposite us, looking quiet and content. She is happy in the thought that she is trying to do her duty, and by striving to live for others to atone for the past.

"You are doing nicely, Mr. Spriggins," says she to her partner, by way of encouragement. "I believe that you make fewer mistakes than I do."

"Wal, they say one has to creep a-fore they walk, so I spose I can't be a dabster at the bisness yet—but jist look at them folks."

"Them folks" were Miss Lottie and a graceful young man who bore a striking resemblance to the young solicitor. The latter was Mr. Tom Lawson who had grown up an intelligent, manly fellow, and on having shown much ability as a civil engineer, had been appointed to a lucrative government position at Campbelltown.

Lottie hailed with delight her brother's flying visit, and when the two sallied forth to purchase a neat and chaste toilet set her delight was unbounded, and when the said articles occupied a conspicuous place among the wedding presents no guest was happier than this impulsive little maiden.

"But can't that insurance man fling himself in great style," cried the radiant Moses, eyeing a certain official of the Dominion Safety Fund who, at Miss Verne's request, was also a guest.

Mrs. Arnold smiling at her partner's earnestness, cast a glance towards the object of the remark then replied, "It was so kind of Mr. —— to join us as his time is limited."

"Wal, one good turn deserves another, Mrs. Arnold, for Miss Verne praised up that consarn so that I went right off and got all I could to join it, so you see all through this life it's give and take?"

"Quite true, Mr. Spriggins, but we don't always live up to that principle," said the other with a shade of sadness in her tone.

Mr. Spriggins had penetration enough to see in what, direction Mrs. Arnold's thoughts were drifting and his discretion came to his aid.

"Wal, this ere affair will be a nine-days wonder among the nabers, the folks will be so jealous that they'll not come to have a squint at the brick-nacks—that's what you call them ere ornaments and sich things ain't it?"

"Bric-a-brac, Mr. Spriggins," replied Mrs. Arnold, in the mildest manner possible; also trying to appear serious.

"Wal, I'll be jist like Melindy. When she's a-puttin on airs before the nabers sometimes she'll tell 'em she ain't out enough now to know sich and sich things!"

The music ceased before Mrs. Arnold had time to reply, and with an air of awkward gallantry Mr. Spriggins led his partner to a seat.

"Never say again that you can't dance, Mr. Spriggins," cried the exuberant Lottie, bounding toward the latter with the grace of a fairy, "and be sure to remember that you are my partner for the next round dance."

"Round dance," said Moses in perplexity.

"A polka for instances, Mr. Spriggins!"

"Oh, yes, when I used ter go to school the gals used to have me a-dancin'—this is the way it goes Miss Lottie," and instantly Mr. Spriggins was performing sundry evolutions to his own accompaniment of "I've got a polka trimmed with blue."

"If that Moses ain't a-makin' a guy of himself a-dancin' I'd like to know," cried Melindy, as she emerged from the kitchen and caught a view of her better half in his inimitable polka feat.

But Mr. Spriggin was unconcious of the fact and nothing happened to mar the effect of the successful attempt.

The brilliant Louise Rutherford might indeed claim more than a passing thought; her striking beauty was never more conspicuous that when surrounded by her most intimate friends and partaking of the hospitality of Mr. Moses Spriggins.

With due respect to host and hostess, the young ladies had appeared in their most bewitching toilets, and in response to Marguerite's playful reminder, "Louise, it is a wedding celebration," the latter had donned a handsomely-trimmed garnet silk relieved by a heavy gold necklace, while a broad band of gold crowned the dusky hair and made a fitting coronet for the dark-eyed Houris.

"I cannot realize that you are going away so soon, Helen. It is selfish to wish that you would remain this winter, but self is my besetting sin."

Helen Rushton put her plump white arm around the speakers waist, and thus they sat for several minutes.

Helen was to start for home on the first of the week following, and her companions could not bear the thought. Louise Rutherford loved the girl as a sister, and though their natures were strongly in contrast there was a firm bond of sympathy between them.

"Just think Louise how many changes have taken place since I came? Who then would have dreamed that Josie Jordan would become a clergyman's wife?"

"Think!" said Louise, with considerable feeling, "I dare not let myself think, each day brings its own thoughts. Life to me is made up of enigmas and puzzling contradictions, and not being endowed with an extra amount of brain power content myself with the comforting words—''tis folly to be wise.'"

"What shall I call you, Louise, a pessimist?"

"For goodness sake! Helen, be moderate. Remember that a successful speaker always adapts himself to the capacity of his hearers."

"What's all this about? preaching I suppose—something about hearers! Jennie Montgomery!" cried both girls in concert.

Cousin Jennie was truly the ruling spirit of the party. She was ready for anything that was proposed and met each difficulty with a happy solution.

Had Louise Rutherford gone further into the subject of changes she might have claimed the bright eyed Jennie as illustration.

A change had come to happy "Gladswood," Leslie Graham had won the esteem of aunt Hester, and in return had gained the heart of her daughter.

The fond mother does not regret her loss for she knows that the young man is possessed of all those traits of character which are truly noble and elevating, and which cannot fail to bring happiness to her whose happiness is his only concern.

Ah! yes, in Jennie Montgomery's face one can read her secret. She loves and is loved in return and that is all we wish to know.

A few minutes later, by a happy coincidence, there is a quartette grouped together in careless but artistic style.

"This reminds me of a morning at 'Sunnybank.' Do you remember it Madge?"

A slight quiver of the pretty lips was followed by a faint blush— Helen Rushton raised her hand as if to gain audience.

"That is intended for me girls. I am the only one who is not engaged. I was at 'Sunnybank' on the morning to which Miss Louise refers, and certainly I was the one who made the remark."

"Helen is mistaken, I think," said Marguerite in her soft, sweet way.

"She is indeed," said Louise, with much earnestness. "It was while we were in the library, and all sitting together Josie Jordan suddenly called out: 'Girls where will we all be two years from now? That two years expired yesterday, and the thought now occurred to me as we became grouped together in the old familiar way."

"Forgive me, Louise, darling, I am too impulsive. Let us now take on two more years and hope that when the time expires we will be as happy then as now."

"Heaven grant it thus," was the fervent prayer of each, though the words were unsaid, and as the merry party returned homeward full of life and gaiety there were none who felt happier than Marguerite Verne and her three companions.

* * * * *

A glorious autumn day in 1886 brings together a joyous and happy group—the old familiar one. The hostess of the luxurious home is the wife of Phillip Lawson. Ah! Marguerite you can never lose your angelic beauty and softness of expression. In the violet eyes there is a light that sheds a radiance over the little household, and imparts a warmth to each suffering heart that has been chilled by contact with the selfish and calculating world.

"Helen you are a darling! you are true blue!" were the words which greeted the smiling visitor as she pounced in upon the fair young matron, with the flush of excitement upon her fair, broad forehead and oval cheeks.

"Girls you look charming! One would think you were expecting your beaux instead of a few old married men! Why I thought when folks got married they did not primp at all."

"I'm glad that you are agreeably mistaken, my dear," said Mrs. Noyes, her charms enhanced by the rich bronze silk de Lyons, that set off her faultless form to advantage.

Mrs. Arnold now entered, followed by Mrs. Verne and a host of hearty congratulations were passed around within a very short time.

Mrs. Phillip Lawson's boudoir was a perfect gem in itself, its pale blue and silver draperies harmonizing with the taste of its mistress, while the delicate and artistic touches of the graceful hand were proof of the labors of love there performed.

"Madge! you old dear, the only thing I envy you is this charming spot," said Helen as she stood admiring the pretty work while the others are reclining upon the inviting ottomans, and cosey chairs of the most unique designs.

"The very words I said when I first entered it," said Cousin Jennie, looking as youthful as when we met her at "Sunnybank."

"The effect of mind upon mind," said Mrs. Noyes, with a sly, roguish smile upon the red pouting lips.

Helen Rushton threw herself into a handsomely carved fauteuil with cushion of pale blue satin, embroidered with a wreath of lily of the valley and soft cream roses.

"How time flies!—two years girls, since we made our promise—and I am the only old maid left in the crowd. What a world of consolation is in that thought!"

"Helen Rushton this is a fit place for your confession, and you shall not stir until you have made it, my precious one."

The speaker was Cousin Jennie, now Mrs. Leslie Graham.

Mrs. Lawson sat for a moment as if buried in earnest thought, and as her companions glanced at the sweet, sympathetic face they were also affected in turn.

The past with all its light and shade was lovingly touched upon, and as the gentle Marguerite's eyes were dimmed with tears her heart was full of gratitude.

Helen Rushton did make a full confession of her love affairs, expressly for Cousin Jennie. What that confession was we will not say, but presume upon the imagination of the reader. It is several hours later. Helen has retired to her own room, and her old friend lingers lovingly beside her. They chat of other scenes and other days, and the hour flies too quickly.

A step is heard coming through the hall. Ah! the magic of that step.

"It is Phillip, Helen," and a gleam of love lights up the angelic face.

"Good night, dearest," exclaimed Marguerite, embracing her friend in the old school-girl fashion.

"Good night, Marguerite, if my life be indeed half as happy as yours; it is all I ask."

"Yes, Helen, I am truly happy," and the young wife went forth to meet the loving embrace of a tender, true and devoted husband.

"Ah! my darling, where is to be found such happiness as ours?"

Phillip Lawson needed no reply—no other language than the depths of those violet eyes.

THE END