"Facilis descensus Averni."—It is wonderful how easy the descent really is, when once the first false step is taken. As the avalanche, which at first becomes slowly loosened from its lofty position, gradually descends with greater and greater rapidity till it is dashed into the abyss, so does the frail mortal, who at first shudders at the bare thought of an immoral act, rush headlong into sin till her desperate career is suddenly checked, often in a manner fearful to contemplate. Mrs. Clarkson had now all that any woman could reasonably be expected to desire. She had triumphed over her sister-in-law and those of her husband's relatives who had circulated rumors detrimental to her character, and had become the possessor of a comfortable home, without the incubus of an impotent husband. But she was not content; Randolph Thomson, turning his back on her and his boy, had married a young lady of fortune; so vowing vengeance against men in general for their falseness and inconstancy. Mrs. Clarkson laid herself out to entrap and ensnare every man who came in her way, and in this manner to revenge herself (as she by some strange mental process led herself to imagine) on her false lover.

The deceased Mr. Clarkson had a brother named William, a bachelor, whose farm was adjacent to that now possessed by the widow. William was nearly twenty years younger than his brother, and was considered rather a good-looking man by his acquaintances. It is possible that, but for her liaison with Thomson, Mrs. Clarkson would, long ere this, have fascinated him with her beauty and blandishments; but, he had hitherto escaped unscathed, though openly admiring his brother's wife, and taking her part against the scandal-mongers when speculation was rife as to the cause which detained her in Montreal. In looking round for some one to entrap and ensnare, Mrs. Clarkson's eye naturally fell upon William, as the most eligible party in her immediate vicinity; and she was the more anxious to secure him, because, with a woman's far-seeing eye and long-reaching vengeance, she wished to circumvent her sister-in-law, who, being unmarried (and likely to remain so), had undertaken to keep house for her younger brother, and would, as matters at that moment stood, have likely outlived him and inherited his property. Opportunity was not long wanting for her to effect her object; William was the sole executor to his brother's estate, and, as business often brought them together at the late Mr. Clarkson's lawyer's office in Montreal, it was not strange that the widow should almost immediately have opened the campaign, which she did on the first occasion of their meeting in the city, beginning, as most great generals do, with a little skirmishing, in order to draw out her opponent. It was a beautiful spring morning, and, as they had appointed to meet in Montreal at eleven o'clock, Mr. Clarkson called to drive his sister-in-law to the depot to meet the train. To his surprise, that lady declined to accompany him, reminding him that she was now alone in the world, and that if during her husband's life-time the tongue of scandal was directed against her reputation, how much the more would it be so now that her natural protector was no more. William, being little of a gossip himself, urged her to be above such petty pandering to public opinion, and to follow her inclinations, but she replied naively.—"A woman has nothing to depend on but her reputation, and she cannot be too careful, you know." "Perhaps you are right," William replied, laughing, and so he permitted the widow to order her own buggy round, and follow him a few minutes later to the depot. But even this precaution did not satisfy the wily Mrs. Clarkson. She knew that many Sherbrooke people would be on the trains both going and coming, and that inquisitive eyes would watch, and gossiping tongues would relate all that passed during the journey, so she induced Miss Cuthbert, a neighbor of hers, to accompany her, promising her a pleasant day in Montreal.

The train had not arrived when the ladies alighted at the depot, but the ever-acute widow instructed her servant man not to drive away, but to wait and see if any parcels had been sent from Portland. She did not expect any parcels from Portland, but she wished all the neighbors who might be going on the train to see her man with the buggy, in case they might imagine she had come in the carriage with William. When they got on board the train, of course, her brother-in-law took a seat with her and Miss Cuthbert, but the widow pretended to be engrossed in a novel, leaving the younger lady to carry on the conversation. A boy approached with "prize packages" of candies, and William, buying two, handed them to the ladies, requesting them to see what fortune had in store for them. Miss Cuthbert opened hers eagerly, and, amidst the almonds and lozenges, discovered a gilt brooch, which she laughingly fastened on her breast. William offered to open the widow's for her, but she interrupted him, saying:

"My fortune has been told already, give it to Miss Cuthbert."

"Oh, yes! give it to me," said the sprightly girl, and hastily opening it, she poked amongst the candies and pulled out a small article rolled in tissue paper; unrolling the paper eagerly she disclosed a plain gilt ring.

"Put that on, also," said Mrs. Clarkson.

"Oh, no!" answered Miss Cuthbert, "I will try to get some one to put it on for me."

With this careless banter the time passed away till they reached Montreal, Mrs. Clarkson playing the shy widow to perfection, and, as may naturally be supposed, not only raising herself in the estimation of her brother-in-law, but drawing him in a strange manner within the radius of her fascinating influences.

On arriving in the city they entered a carriage, and were driven to St. James street, where Mr. St. Jerome, the lawyer, had his office. In about an hour their business was transacted, and William invited the ladies to Alexander's to partake of luncheon, but this the widow discreetly declined, being aware that the pastry-cook's in question was a celebrated rendezvous for all country-folk. Pleading as an excuse that she wanted, to do some shopping, she advised William not to trouble about them, as they would prefer shopping alone, and that, if fatigued, they could easily drop in for an ice at some respectable confectioner's. "Besides," added Mrs. Clarkson, "I have promised to take Miss Cuthbert up the mountain this afternoon, as she has never been to the summit of Mount Royal, though living so near the city bearing its name."

"If you are going up the mountain, I pray you will allow me to accompany you. I never visit Montreal without ascending it at least once," said Mr. Clarkson. "If you do not wish me to go shopping, I will not intrude, but I will feel myself slighted if you compel me to ascend the mountain alone."

The widow feigned to give a reluctant consent, and accordingly they arranged to meet on Place d'Armes at two o'clock, and to drive to the base of the mountain together. At that time the beautiful mountain from which Montreal derives its name, and most of its beauty, had not been acquired by the city. It was private property, and there were no elegant roads by which to drive to its summit; indeed, it was only by the courtesy of the proprietors that persons were allowed to ascend the famous hill, and enjoy the beautiful scenery and bracing air: even then the task of ascending was no easy one, and ladies were generally glad of the company of one or more of the hardier sex, if only to assist them in clambering up the steep ascent.

Mr. Clarkson went to lunch, and then to the Corn Exchange to transact some business, arriving in Place d'Armes precisely at two o'clock. Shortly afterward she saw the ladies emerge from the French Church of Notre Dame, and cross the square to meet him. Miss Cuthbert was delighted with the church. Although a Protestant, she admired it as an architectural art-work, the elaborate adornment, too, of the interior pleased her, and accorded with her womanly tastes. Mrs. Clarkson had seen both inside and outside so often that neither had now any more effect on her; indeed, not only was her heart steeled to the refining influences of the building, but also to the doctrines inculcated within it; she had started on the downward path, and never once dared to look up again, even for a moment.

"Well, you are sharp on time," said Miss Cuthbert, addressing Mr. Clarkson.

"Yes, indeed, I have been walking the streets for nearly an hour, wondering if the hands on the Seminary clock would ever indicate the hour of two. I had almost persuaded myself that the public clocks had all stopped, but my watch, which was ticking, told me that they were going on with methodical regularity." He addressed himself to Miss Cuthbert, but his eyes were turned slightly towards Mrs. Clarkson, who, blushing slightly (she could blush at pleasure), turned away her head, and appeared to be quite confused.

William hailed a cab, and they drove up University street, as far as the carriage road permitted them. Dismissing the "carter," they entered the adjacent field, and ascended by a winding path which at that time ran through the property of Mr. (now Sir Hugh) Allan. Miss Cuthbert, although she lived faraway from all mountains or hills of any kind, was remarkably active, and bounded up the steep ascent like a deer. Mrs. Clarkson was a dear of another kind, and she was obliged to cling to her brother-in-law for support, which latter he was by no means adverse to giving, after about twenty minutes climbing they arrived at the "view point" immediately over Sir Hugh Allan's residence, when everything was immediately forgotten in the inspeakable emotion excited by the magnificent panorama before them. At their feet lay the beautiful city, the rows of shade trees, clothed with verdure, lending a gorgeous setting to the elegant limestone buildings. In front rolled the mighty St. Lawrence, nearly two miles wide, the vast expanse being relieved by St. Helen's Island, with its luxuriant foliage. On the right the Victoria Bridge, that monument of engineering skill, stretched across the mighty river towards the picturesque village of St. Lambert; while further to the westward might be seen Nun's Island with its shady groves, at the head of which rushed the boiling waters of the famous rapids of Lachine. I have in my youth travelled through both Germany and Switzerland and, later, through the beautiful scenery of New Hampshire and Vermont, but nowhere do I remember having seen a view so grand, or a panorama so picturesque, as that to be seen from the brow of Mount Royal.

For a while the entire party gazed in speechless admiration at the scene before them, when Miss Cuthbert exclaimed:

"I can say, with the apostle of old, 'It is good for us to be here.'"

"And build three tabernacles? queried Mrs. Clarkson.

"Oh, no, two would do. One for me, and another for you and Mr. Clarkson."

At this rejoinder Mrs. Clarkson bit her lips, and changed the conversation immediately.

When they had surveyed the city, the river, and the country on the opposite shore, they prepared to ascend to the highest part of the mountain, where the observatory stands, imbedded in trees. Here they sat down for a time to rest, and partake of some light refreshment which they had brought with them; they then proceeded to descend on the other side, passing through the Protestant and Catholic cemeteries, both elaborately laid out, and looking like beautiful flower gardens, rather than burial grounds. As they neared Cote des Neiges Miss Cuthbert commenced to scamper along like a child, and at one short declivity, she started off at a run, calling on the others to follow. Clarkson took his companion's hand and invited her to descend in like manner, but, almost at the first step, his sister-in-law uttered a sharp scream and fell forward on the grass, informing them that her foot had turned under her, and that she had sprained her ankle.

William was almost beside himself. He felt that he had foolishly induced her to forget herself so far as to indulge in a wild romp and thus injure her ankle. He wished Miss Cuthbert at the bottom of the sea, and wondered how they were to get the beautiful cripple home, as they were removed from residences or conveyances of any kind, and Mrs. Clarkson was no small weight. There being nothing else for it, however, the sturdy farmer lifted her in his arms and carried her to the house of the caretaker of the cemetery; then, leaving her gently on a sofa, he started for the inn at Cote des Neiges, thinking he might obtain the means of conveyance to Montreal.

On his arrival at the inn he was informed that there was no livery stable of any kind for miles around, and that the private buggy of the proprietor was at the moment in Montreal, whither the landlady had driven for provisions. Just then a team was driven at a rapid speed from the direction of St. Laurent; it contained two young gentlemen from Montreal, who had driven round the mountain attended by a groom. On hearing the particulars of the accident they at once, with great gallantry, gave up their vehicle, a mail phaeton, for the use of the disabled lady, cheerfully undertaking to walk the remainder of the way (about four miles), and enjoining Mr. Clarkson to bring the carriage to their stable so soon as he had deposited his fair companions in a place of safety.

On reaching the cemetery, William found the widow looking wretched, indeed, and apparently suffering great pain. Her face brightened, however, as she saw the carriage and was convinced that they would be able to get to Montreal in time for the night train for Sherbrooke. William assisted Miss Cuthbert into the trap, and placed Mrs. Clarkson carefully beside her; then, mounting the box, he thanked the caretaker for his kind offices and drove, via Cote des Neiges hill, to Montreal. He suggested to Mrs. Clarkson that it would be better for her to take a room at the St. Lawrence Hall for a few days, and enjoy perfect rest till her ankle got better, but she, remembering her past experiences, preferred to travel at once to her home, and so avoid all scandal.

William drove straight to the Grand Trunk terminus in St. Bonaventure street; and, placing the ladies in a Pullman car, drove up to Sherbrooke street with the team, which he left, as directed, at the young gentleman's residence. He proceeded along to St. Lawrence Main street, where he hailed a cab, and drove back to the terminus. Shortly after his return to the depot the train started, and in a few hours they reached Sherbrooke.

It was considerably past midnight when they got to Mrs. Clarkson's residence, so Miss Cuthbert remained with her till morning, doing all she could to alleviate her pain. Shortly after breakfast William called; and as his sister-in-law was confined to her room, he considerately kept her company till Miss Cuthbert had gone home and obtained permission to remain a while longer with the disabled lady. There is nothing that tries a man's heart so much as to see a woman (particularly a beautiful woman) in pain. The widow was aware of this, and so, although the sprain was purely accidental, and was not included in her programme, turned it to such good account that the poor bachelor was fairly hooked, and began to think seriously that he had got into an awkward fix.

Marriage with a deceased brother's wife was illegal, and no clergyman could perform the marriage ceremony without violating the laws of both Church and State; even if one could be prevailed on to follow the dictates of his conscience, and to stretch a point in their favor (as was sometimes done) society would not recognize their union, and would shun them as open adulterers. In vain did his sister-in-law urge on him that the law was absurd, and that, as there was no blood-relationship between them, there could be nothing criminal in their living together; he had not the moral courage to face the cold criticism of a narrow-minded and bigoted community, and, though mad with passionate love, he hesitated to take the fatal plunge.

Mrs. Clarkson, however, having carried the outposts and principal barriers successfully, was not to be thwarted by a mere matter of sentiment. She expressed her intention of departing forthwith for Detroit, assuring him that she would no longer remain in a country where such intolerant bigotry existed, and instructed him, if he loved her as he pretended, to sell his property in Canada and follow her thither.

Clarkson was both to leave his relations and the home of his childhood, but the temptress lured him gradually on, refusing at times even to see a man who valued his narrow-minded friends' opinion rather than her love, and at length he consented to sell his farm for whatever it would bring, and to rejoin her in Detroit. This was another piece of generalship on the part of the widow, as, did they remain in Canada, she could not, in the event of her husband's death hold the property which would revert to her hated sister-in-law; but that being now converted into cash she was at liberty to squander it during her husband's life-time, retaining the fortune left by her first husband for the future use of herself and children.

For a time Mr. Clarkson lived with his sister-in-law in a princely style in Detroit. They entertained largely and handsomely, and most of their guests neither cared nor enquired who they were, or whence they came. They had not been there more than six weeks when Mrs. Clarkson made the acquaintance of Count Von Alba, who for some time had been the lion of fashionable circles in Detroit. Von Alba was a Russian, who (for political reasons said his friends, for criminal reasons said his enemies) had emigrated to America and lived on his fortune (his friends insisted)—his wits, said his enemies again.

Whichever surmise was correct, Von Alba was undoubtedly good-looking. He stood five feet eleven inches in his stockings, and was powerfully built; his complexion, like most Russians was dark, and his lofty forehead was surmounted with curls of the darkest brown. At the time of the Clarksons residence, the Count was about five-and-thirty years old; he had naturally a genial manner and a good-humored expression of countenance, and a scar on his forehead (obtained, he said, when a lad, at Inkerman) made him an object of feminine admiration, while he was at the same time greatly envied by the opposite sex.

Von Alba was a sort of Admirable Crichton. He rode like Nimrod, danced like Terpsichore, drove like Jehu, shot like William Tell, and sang like Sims Reeves. It was in the latter accomplishment, however, that he chiefly excelled; he would stand up at the end of a crowded drawing-room, and, playing a delicate accompaniment on his guitar, would vocalize one of the passionate love-songs of his native land. Sometimes he sang in English, then his defective pronunciation lent a strange charm to his singing, which, although it could scarcely be accounted for, made itself felt even in the bosoms of the dilettanti.

Strange to say, although courted and run after by nearly all the eligible young ladies, the Count became so fond of Mrs. Clarkson's society that scarcely a day passed but he was found at her house. At the fair lady's "Thursday Evenings," of course, he was one of the principal attractions, added to which he dined and lunched frequently at her house, and escorted her to balls and parties: her husband not caring for the everlasting round of excitement, and, far from feeling jealous of the Count, he was proud to think that his choice of a companion should be endorsed by one who presumably was a competent judge.

It was not long till the lady was at her old tricks again, and what Randolph Thompson had been to her before, Von Alba soon became, the simple husband encouraging these visits, and allowing his wife to squander his money lavishly on her paramour. Mrs. Grundy in the meanwhile began to be suspicious, and rumors, at first vague and indefinite, became almost pointed accusations against Mrs. Clarkson. The poor husband, although not altogether crediting the fact that there was a foundation for these reports, saw the necessity, in the equivocal position in which both he and his wife stood, of putting a stop to all suspicious intercourse with the Count; and, being resolute enough when so disposed, he forbade his wife to meet Von Alba any more in private, or to invite him to her house.

This, as may be supposed, brought matters to a crisis and brought on a terrible quarrel between the abandoned woman and her husband. She saw that the game was up as far as Detroit was concerned, and so, managing to forge her husband's name to a cheque for several thousand dollars, she went the next day with great boldness to the bank where he kept his money and presented it; it was cashed by the clerk without hesitation, and that evening, abandoning both Clarkson and her children, she went, accompanied by her paramour, to the depot and took the train for Montreal, where they went to an hotel, registering their names as Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, of New York. Notwithstanding their false names and altered attire they were traced to the St. Lawrence Hall, Mrs. Clarkson being surprised, on coming from breakfast one morning, to observe her husband busily scanning the register at the office counter. The Count had not seen him, but Mrs. Clarkson hurried him upstairs and told him that their whereabouts was discovered, and that they must take refuge in flight before Clarkson had time to take steps for their apprehension.

Ringing the bell, Von Alba bade the boy to have their bill made out and receipted, and to have their luggage sent to the station in time for the next train for New York.

"There is no New York train till 3.15," said the boy.

"When is there one for Toronto?" asked the Count.

"Not till eight this evening, but the Lachine train, which meets the mail boat, leaves at 11.30."

"That is what I mean," said Von Alba; "we will go by that;" then, packing hastily, the two culprits descended by the ladies staircase, and, entering a carriage, drove off to procure tickets for Toronto.

All this time Mr. Clarkson was quietly seated in the breakfast-room, taking light repast after his long journey. That the persons he sought were in the hotel he felt confident; but there were so many gentlemen with their wives real or pretended, from all parts, that he was puzzled to conjecture which of the names in the register was that assumed by the Count. At length he resolved to take the boy into his confidence; and, handing him a gold piece, he began to question him concerning the guests now quartered in the hotel. When he had described the pair he wanted, the boy said: "W'y these ere must be the pair wat's just gone to the Toronto boat!" Clarkson said not a word; but, handing a card to the cashier, rushed out of the hotel, and, jumping into a cab, bade the driver to go with all speed to the Upper Canada boat. Had he thought for a moment he would have recollected that the boat leaves the wharf early in the morning, and proceeding slowly through the canal, stops to take on passengers at the head of the Lachine Rapids. In his blind haste, however, he had forgotten this; and lost so much time in going to the wharf that, when he eventually learnt the truth and got to the depot, the train was just leaving the platform.

There was nothing for it now but to wait for the train for the west, and to get on board the steamer at Kingston. He had at least the satisfaction of knowing that they were on the boat like rats in a trap, and that, except the delay in confronting the villain Von Alba and his wretched companion, he was as successful as possible in his pursuit of the fugitives. Returning to the city, he procured the assistance of a detective, who undertook to accompany him to Kingston, and assist him in apprehending and arresting the fugitives.

By this time the steamship "Hungarian," on which the wretched pair had embarked, was ploughing the waters of Lake St. Louis. After a time they passed through the Beauharnois and Cornwall canals, and entered the labyrinth of beautiful patches known as the "Thousands Islands." As they emerged from this lovely spot the saloon became suddenly filled with smoke, and in a few minutes cries of "Fire! Fire!" were heard on every hand. A rush was made for life preservers, while the crew of five or six men vainly endeavored to extinguish the flames. The captain ordered boats to be lowered, but, the men being excited, and badly drilled at best, the boats were successively swamped, leaving the poor terrified creatures only a choice of two fearful deaths.

One of the sailors handed Mrs. Clarkson a life preserver, which she requested Von Alba to fasten round her waist, but the cowardly fellow snatched it from her, and, hastily securing it round his own waist, swung himself overboard, leaving her to perish in the flames! He was not to escape so easily, however; with a bitter yell of mingled rage and despair the wretched woman mounted the taffrail, and plunging straight for the spot where he rose to the surface dragged him under again and again with fearful maledictions. The passengers who still remained on deck could do nothing to separate them, and although the life preserver would have sustained both of them easily in the water, so great was the woman's bate on the discovery of Von Alba's cowardly treachery, that she did not even give a thought to her own escape, so intent was she on dragging him to the bottom. The expression of her face, lit up as it was by the blaze of the burning; steamer, was terrible to behold: the veins in her head and neck were swollen almost to bursting, and she died cursing with bitter malediction the man for whom she had sacrificed not only herself, but her husband and her children.

The steamer burned to the water's edge, only a few of those who had jumped overboard escaping. The bodies of the guilty pair were discovered at some distance from the wreck, Mrs. Clarkson's hand being tightly clutched round her companion's throat, while his tongue and eyes protruded fearfully.

With sad and heavy heart Clarkson returned to Detroit, and, having gathered together what remained of his former property, prepared to return to Canada. He took with him the children of his late wife, placing them both as boarders at the College at Lennoiville till they were old enough to be apprenticed to some trade or profession. He never quite recovered from the shock received on hearing of the manner of Mrs. Clarkson's death and that of her paramour, but became prematurely aged when he realized that, instead of the sweet angelic creature whom he thought he had married, he found that he had wedded a regular disciple of Satan.



CHAPTER VII.

The Frail Shop Girl.

The many fine ladies who patronize the fashionable emporiums of Montreal little think (as they sit comfortably at the counter, leisurely examining dozens of articles they never intend to purchase) of the sufferings undergone by those who minister to their wants, and, it may be, their caprices. Dozens of these poor creatures stand day after day, from morn till night, without a moment's rest except at meal-times; even then the short period allowed them barely suffices to permit of a hasty meal, when they have to hurry back again to undergo another term of misery.

It is strange that we should be so careful of brute beasts that we form ourselves into societies for their protection, prosecuting rigorously any one who shall have the temerity to ill-treat or abuse them, and yet allow our fellow-creatures (and those, too, of the weaker sex) to be treated with the most barbarous cruelty. A bruise or a blow may be brutal and severe, yet neither is so hurtful, so systematically cruel, as the forcing young girls to stand erect for lengthened periods, without change of posture. I am sure if the members of the House of Commons were deprived of their seats even for one session, we would, without further ado have a Bill enacted making it criminal for shopkeepers to make slaves of their employees, or individuals to patronize such establishments.

Were shop-girls provided with even the commonest of seats, untold numbers of crimes and diseases would be heard of no more. I am confident that but for this most refined cruelty the circumstances which gave rise to this story would never have occurred, and that I would have been spared the narration of a history which, though painfully true, is none the less shocking.

M——'s dry goods store has long been known in Montreal as a well-started and well-appointed establishment. Carriages daily blocked the thoroughfare while waiting for their fashionable owners outside its door; and inside busy walkers and clerks could be seen running hither and thither, serving customers. Young women, also, some of them still bright and cheerful, many, alas, pale and heavy with sadness, might be seen grouped behind the counter, engaged in handing goods down from the shelves, and displaying them to the fashionable loungers behind the counter.

One of these girls, by name Esther Ryland, was noticed by many who frequented M——'s store on account of her unusually attractive person and elegance of manners; she was a little above the average height, yet graceful and well-formed, with remarkably handsome features, and eyes that sparkled like a pair of diamonds. Esther had not been long in Messrs. M——'s service, yet she had become so popular as a saleswoman that crowds frequented the particular counter at which she assisted, and she was known to many who were unacquainted with her name as the Pretty Shop-girl at M——'s.

Esther was very proud of her attractions, both professionally and otherwise; she did not calculate, however, that the more popular she became the more work she would have to do, and that she would, in time, pay for her popularity with her health, if not her life. She had, in and out of the store, a great many admirers amongst those of the opposite sex, but there was one she prized above all others, a certain Mr. Quintin, a merchant tailor, who had just started business for himself, and had persuaded Esther to promise that, after another year's service, she would give up business and become his wife.

It had been their custom to go for a stroll together on the long summer evenings, and together they might have been seen, fondly looking into each other's faces, as, arm-in-arm, they perambulated the more remote portions of Sherbrooke and St. Denis streets, which at that time were scarcely built upon.

One evening when Quintin called, as usual, to take his enamorata for a walk, she said she would prefer to stay at home, as she was quite fatigued with the day's work. Nothing disconcerted, her lover remained with her in the house, and they amused themselves with a pack of cards and a chessboard. The following evening, however, Miss Ryland was again indisposed, and, on questioning her closely, Quintin drew forth the avowal that she had not sat down for a quarter of an hour during the whole day! It seems it was the busy season at M——'s, and, besides being engaged incessantly in serving customers, Miss Ryland was obliged to shorten her dinner hour, and to hurry back to meet the increased demand.

Quintin was quite shocked at this discovery. Although well aware of the brutal treatment of shopkeepers' assistants, he had never been an interested party, and so had the matter placed before him in all its horrors for the first time. He resolved that, come what might, he would emancipate his intended wife from a life of such slavery, and so, having carefully arranged his business and purchased a neat little cottage in Cadieux street, he urged Miss Ryland to consent to marry him without delay, and so avoid her life of thraldom. She agreed to marry him during the ensuing month, pleading with feminine weakness that it would take at least that time to get her trousseau ready, and the day was finally arranged to their mutual satisfaction.

The excitement of preparation before marriage, and the change of scene during her wedding-tour, wrought such an effect on the woman that Mr. Quintin became convinced that his wife's health was thoroughly restored, and be labored assiduously at his business, looking forward cheerfully to the time when she should become a mother, and the merry laughter of his children should, in his hours of rest from worldly cares, gladden and enliven their home.

A year rolled by, and both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin looked hopefully towards the future; two years passed and still they were childless. Mrs. Quintin would have given all the world, had she possessed it, for one of God's blessings; she loved children, even those of other children, and one of her own would have been a priceless treasure. But she lamented more on her husband's account. She knew that he doted on children; and when she saw him take the neighbours' children on his knee, and, after looking wistfully in their faces, rise and dash his hand across his eyes, she knew what it meant. "Oh," she would cry, "if only these abandoned wretches who desert their offspring could realize what it is to desire them and yet live unblest! If they but knew the priceless treasures they were casting from them, they would turn and repent in sackcloth and ashes."

Mr. and Mrs. Quintin had been married about three years when one day the former called on me, his face beaming with joy, and informed me that his fondest hopes were about to be realized, and that he would like me to call and consult with his wife. I was a little surprised at this intimation, as, from what I knew of Mrs. Quintin, I had fully made up my mind that she would never become a patient of nine; however, I was glad to hear that I had been mistaken, and so, when next in the neighborhood I waited on that lady and congratulated her on her improved prospects. To my great surprise she burst into tears, and confessed that she was not enceinte, or likely ever to become so; that her career in M——'s store, and continued standing for hours together, had rendered her physically unable ever to become a mother. She added that her husband had so set his heart upon the one object (viz., the desire to have children), and had spent so much money for medicine and medical advice with a view to that end, that she could not bear him to think that all his efforts were unavailing, and her complaint having assumed a form to all outward appearances similar to pregnancy, she had permitted him to delude himself with the belief that the latter was the cause of her altered appearance, and that scientific skill had counteracted the effects of years of abuse.

I was greatly taken aback at this disclosure, but my surprise was as nothing compared to that in hearing the plot which the woman's now diseased mind had concocted. She said she was going to bear reproach no longer (for, though her husband never murmured, at least in words, his friends and her neighbors were ever ready to deepen her sorrow and humiliation by taunting her with her impotency), and her eyes rolled in frenzy as she almost shouted: I MUST AND SHALL HAVE A CHILD'! Why am I prohibited from having what many do not know how to value? Many of them cast their treasures from them; shall I, frantic with despair, refuse to pick one up!

As she walked up and down the room in her fury, she looked like one demented. Her hands were clenched till the nails entered her flesh, her eyes rolled wildly, and, were I more easily frightened, I would have felt impelled to call for help. Gradually becoming cooler, Mrs. Quintin unfolded to me her plan for deceiving her husband, and, with a coolness that I would not have pardoned but for her evidently unhinged condition, actually requested me to assist her? She said she had been offered a child for adoption by a lady who was more guilty and unfeeling than herself, and that the person in question had promised to send her word when she was taken ill, so that she might send for me, and make her arrangements for the reception of the child, which was to be transported secretly into her bedroom.

I was so astonished that I was for a time unable to a speak. The deep plot itself, the proposition made to me to assist her, and the cool manner of the lady herself, fairly staggered me. At length, speaking as calmly as I could, I tried to convince Mrs. Quintin of the enormity of the crime she intended to commit, telling her that, if she wished to adopt a child, she would find it quite an easy matter to do so without taking any such course as she evidently intended; and, after arguing for some time, she seemed to yield a little to reason, and promised to do nothing rashly. She had already, however, committed herself to the first part of her programme, and told her husband a falsehood; how was she to undeceive him? I suggested that she should tell him on his return that she had been mistaken, and that on examination I had found nothing unusual the matter with her. This she positively refused to do, saying that her husband had so set his heart on this one object that, were his hopes suddenly dashed to the ground, he might do something desperate. She said she would break it to him gently, and, imploring me to say nothing to him of what had passed, she escorted me to the door, and, with tearful eyes, bade me farewell.

Several months elapsed, and I had, for the time, thought little of either Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, when one evening in glancing over the papers, my eye fell on the following announcement: "On the ——th inst., at —— Cadieux street the wife of R. Quintin of a daughter." I let the paper drop as I gazed vacantly at the ceiling and tried to realize the whole affair. Undecided how to act, I mechanically put on my bonnet and cloak, and walked up Cadieux street, when, coming out of the house, I spied my friend, Dr. P——.

"Good evening, Doctor," said I.

"Oh, good evening, Mrs. Schroeder. I have just been attending a patient of yours; it seems they were not at all prepared, and had not time to notify you. Indeed, I was late myself, as I did not arrive till some minutes after the child was born."

Without saying a word I beckoned the Doctor aside, and made a sign that I wished to speak with him privately. He invited me to step into his carriage, and we drove in perfect silence to his residence in Beaver Hall Terrace. Alighting, he preceded me to his surgery, and closed the door; then, with a look full of meaning, he said:

"Well, what is there wrong here?"

"I said, Before I reply, will you permit me to ask you one or two questions."

"Who called you to attend Mrs. Quintin?"

"A carter came and requested me to come with all speed to attend a lady in Cadieux street. I went as quickly as possible, but the child was born before my arrival."

"Who, then, attended the lady?"

"The nurse did, and apparently very satisfactorily indeed. I found the bandages so well arranged, and the patient's pulse so strong and regular, that I left, perfectly satisfied that all was properly attended to till your arrival. They explained to me that the lady was your patient, but that being unexpectedly taken ill, she had ordered the carter to bring the first doctor he found at home."

"Was Mr. Quintin at home?"

"No; he is gone to England to purchase some goods."

"Ah! That accounts for it then."

"Accounts for what? Really you must not catechize me any further. What is there underneath all these questions?"

I drew my chair closer to him, as I said tragically:

"Mrs. Quintin never had a child."

"This rather staggered the good old doctor, who had just come from the house, where he had examined and weighed the infant. He started up from his chair, and, drawing back, exclaimed:

"What do you mean? Explain yourself."

I then at length narrated all I knew concerning the Quintin family, and, as I proceeded with my story, the old man's eyes opened wider and wider as he exclaimed:

"My God what a diabolical plot"!

"Yes, indeed, and I was invited to join in it."

"Well, well. I certainly would never have suspected anything of the kind."

"Nor would anyone. The thing was well arranged, and artfully carried out."

"I suppose they will send for you now."

"Not at all. That is only a sham to get rid of your attendance. The husband will be given to understand that you were hurriedly called in, and that, my assistance being unneeded, they did not think it worth-while troubling me."

After consulting with Dr. P. for a considerable time and putting the case in different lights, we came to the conclusion that it would be as well now to let matters take their course. Any interference on our part would only have raised a great public scandal, and rendered both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin miserable, without benefiting anyone, so we allowed the poor man to believe that his prayers were answered, and that the beautiful girl he fondled was really his own.

Time rolled on, the baby being baptized in due course and known by the name of Edith Quintin. As she grew older, both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin became passionately fond of her, the latter being as much attached to the little girl as if she were her own daughter. When the child was about twelve years old, Mrs. Quintin, who had gradually grown more and more delicate, began to feel that she must, ere many months had passed, finally succumb to the disease which was gradually gnawing at her vitals, and the deception she had practised on her husband was a source of great discomfort and annoyance to her. She called on me in great grief, and, having informed me concerning that of which (as the reader knows) I was well aware, implored me to give her counsel and advice. She was surprised to hear that I had already learnt all from Dr. P——; for, although she, of course, knew that I was not blinded by her subterfuge, she was not aware that I knew all concerning the method adopted by her, and when she learned that both the doctor and myself had forborne to inform on her, she was visibly affected, and thanked me on her knees.

I advised her to break the matter to her husband, and not to die with such a load on her conscience, but she avowed that she had neither the strength nor the courage to do so, and importunately besought me to undertake the painful task. When Mr. Quintin learnt the truth he was of course greatly shocked, and at first was bitter in his denunciations at his deceitful wife. His better judgment, however, was soon brought to bear in the matter, and he was moved rather to pity her misfortune than to punish her for her fault. He knew that her judgment erred solely in order to retain his affection, and when he looked at her pale face and emaciated form, and thought of the agony and suffering, both mental and bodily, which the poor creature had endured, he willingly forgave her, and, though sadly disappointed and sorely smitten, did what he could to reassure her.

Edith meanwhile had developed into a beautiful girl, and had she really been, as she believed herself, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, she could not have been more beloved by them. The former enjoined me never to reveal the secret of her birth to his daughter as he called her, and so her life, at least, was not darkened in the least by the knowledge of the truth.

When Edith was about seventeen years old Mrs. Quintin finally yielded to the ravages of that dread destroyer, consumption. The poor girl wept sadly and bitterly at the loss of her mother, the only one indeed the poor child had ever known, and poor Quintin wept sadly as he thought of his wife's brief and unhappy career. He removed with his daughter into furnished lodgings, not wishing the child to be burdened too soon with the cares of house-keeping. What he would not allow her to do for him, however, she soon became very anxious to do for another, and the days of her mourning were not long passed when she became the happy wife of a young man named Wentworth, bookkeeper in one of the leading hardware firms in Montreal. She has now children of her own, and the youngsters' greatest delight is to gather round their grandfather's knee while he astonishes them with stories. To them nor to no one else, however, has he told, even as I have done, the story of the frail shop-girl, who from being young and handsome, and the belle of her circle of acquaintances, became a wretched and deceitful woman, diseased both in body and mind, and finally sank into a premature grave.

Out on this heartless, brutal system, and the thoughtlessness and ignorance which permit it! I hope the narrative given above may cause some of those at least who engage in this barbarous system to pause and give the great problem of life, capital and labor, a few moments thought that they may see the error of their way, and that poor Esther Quintin may not have died in vain.



CHAPTER VIII.

The two Orphans

One evening, about a dozen years before the introduction of the present system of fire alarms into Montreal, crowds might be seen hurrying along that part of the city known as Little St. James street, towards the scene of an immense conflagration. Several fire engines were throwing strong streams of water on the burning mass, but, the evening being windy, the fire swept all before it, and soon reduced several buildings to ashes.

In one of these resided Mr. Wilson, Notary Public, and his two daughters, the eldest a beautiful girl about 9 years old, the other aged nearly 8. When the fire commenced they were seated calmly at the tea-table, partaking of their evening meal, but, so sudden was the holocaust which burst with tremendous fury around them that they had not the slightest warning till they were surrounded with dense volumes of smoke The two girls rushed forward to the window, and screamed for assistance, while the old man endeavored to gather some of his most valuable papers together and throw them into the street.

Amongst the crowd who assembled were two young men, clerks, named Wilgress and D'Alton respectively. Taking in the situation at a glance, they sought hastily for ladders, and placing them against the burning windows, mounted bravely through the flames, each seizing a girl round the waist, and carrying her in safety to the ground. Their clothes were almost completely destroyed, while their faces were grimed and scorched, still, nothing daunted, they looked up to see if anything more could be done; they espied the old man at one of the windows with a parcel in his arms. Quick as thought Dalton mounted the ladder once more, going through the flames like a salamander, and, taking the parcel from the old gentleman, tried to induce him to descend the ladder. Poor old Wilson, however, could not bear to leave so much that was valuable while a chance of saving it remained, and so, rushing wildly back into the burning building, he was soon lost to sight. A cry arose from the crowd as they saw him disappear once more, and several hardy youths sprang up the ladders, determined to bring him out by force, but, ere they could enter the naming pile, a loud shriek met their ears as the floor gave way, hurling the poor old notary into the dreadful pit of fire. All efforts to do anything further were now unavailing, and the firemen directed their energies to protecting the neighboring buildings, and preventing the fire from spreading.

The young men were at first puzzled what to do with the two girls whom they had rescued, and who were now orphans, without parents, money, or even clothes, but some Sisters of Charity, who had witnessed the heroic action, came forward and offered to take them in charge. The good sisters took the children to the convent, and provided them with both food and clothes, intending to educate them and bring them up in the Catholic faith, but some Protestant ladies, members of the congregation to which Mr. Wilson had belonged, having heard of the affair, induced the clergyman to call and obtain possession of the orphans, they undertaking to provide the cost of their maintenance, or to find them homes in Protestant families.

By the time the Rev. Mr. Flood called at the nunnery the children had dried their tears, and were beginning to feel quite at home. The Sister in charge, however, saw at once the correctness of the Clergyman's action, and agreed to give the girls up as soon as he had made arrangements for their reception elsewhere. In a few days they were sent for, and each was adopted by a different family; Cissie, the elder, was taken in charge by a childless minister, residing in St. Albans, in the State of Vermont, while Lillie, the younger sister was adopted by a farmer from the neighborhood of Varennes.

Many years passed away and the two girls were grown up, and were both uncommonly good looking, Lillie being then just seventeen, and as handsome a girl as one could wish to see. Then circumstances, however, were not the same, for while Cissie had received a good education, and had in every way the manners of a lady, Lillie could not even read with facility, and writing was with her and utter impossibility. The people who had adopted her were Irish settlers, who, though comfortably off, knew little beyond the cultivation of potatoes and the care of pigs.

About this tame Cissie Wilson, tired of the monotony of life at St. Albans, determined to make an effort to "see the world," as she called it, and earn her own living; and, as her adopted father remonstrated with her in rather a hasty manner, she collected her effects together, and, one day while the old man was out, started for Montreal. She left a note for him, informing him of her destination, and warning him not to attempt to stop her, as she had determined, at all hazards, to carry out her intention. Miss Wilson had been several times in Montreal, and had several acquaintances there, among them a Miss Wood, whose father had a position in the Telegraph Office. To Miss Wood's, therefore, she repaired, and, being welcomed with the usual number of kisses, she requested the young lady to persuade her father to procure a situation as telegraph operator or something of the kind, as she was determined to earn her own living. This the young lady promised to do and succeeded so well that Miss Wilson was soon installed in a tolerably good position, earning enough money to maintain and clothe herself respectably.

Things went on smoothly enough for a time, Miss Wilson spending most of her leisure time with her friend, Miss Wood, or sitting quietly at home arranging such dresses and finery as her scanty income permitted her to indulge in. After some months, however, she began to make more friends, and being invited frequently out, and made much of because of her beauty and accomplishments, she soon became madly eager for the means of dressing herself like the rest, and making the conquests she knew she could make, were she only to have equal terms with her rivals.

This passion for dress and jewellery soon became deep-seated; were she only well dressed, what could she not achieve. She had, in her anxious endeavors to make a good impression in society, deprived herself even of necessaries sin order to procure a fashionable ball-dress and outfit, and these were now no longer fit for active service. While musing over this circumstance one evening, as she walked home to supper, she chanced to meet Anna Smith, who had been the belle at the last ball, her fine dress and showy jewellery having completely eclipsed the more solid and modest beauty of the poor telegraph girl. Miss Smith inquired casually if Cissie were going to the Oddfellows' ball, an affair which was then on the tapis, and when the latter answered in the negative, explaining that her small salary would not allow her to purchase the necessary finery, Miss Smith laughed and called her a silly little goose. Taking her by the arm, Anna then let her into a secret, and explained how she obtained all she required, and indeed could, out of the abundance of her stores, fit out Miss Cissie, whom she chose to consider her protegee. She urged Cissie not to miss the ball on any account, and reminded her that she had already obtained a decided advantage over Miss Williams, Miss Hunt and Miss Jones, and that with such an outfit as she would lend her the victory would be complete.

Cissie was for a moment shocked. She had been several times offered presents by gentlemen of her acquaintance, but had always resolutely declined to take them, having an instinctive feeling which warned her against their acceptance. She could not bear now to wear the dresses proffered by Miss Smith, and momentarily made up her mind not to go to the ball at all. Then again her heart failed her as her companion glibly ran over the names of those who were to attend, and Cissie thought how she would like to enter the room on Horace Gibson's arm in the presence of Miss Williams and the rest. Horace Gibson was a clerk in the Bank of Montreal who had invited Miss Wilson to the ball, and was to receive her answer that evening. As luck would have it, that young gentleman approached just as the girls were rounding the corner of the street, and, raising his hat in salute, inquired if he was to have the pleasure of taking Miss Wilson to the ball. Cissie hung her head, and was just about to offer some excuse, when Miss Smith answered for her:

"Oh, yes, of course she'll go, and be the best dressed and best looking lady in the room too."

"If you have taken her up, I am sure she will be at least the second best as regards get up," responded Mr. Gibson, conveying an indirect compliment to Miss Smith herself, who was celebrated for the elegance of her attire. Cissie could not utter a word. After all, she thought, there can be no harm in borrowing a dress from a young lady! It was not for her to inquire how that lady was able to purchase so many dresses; and then, as she looked at the handsome young man before her, and thought how her rivals would bite their lips with envy to see her in her elegant out-fit, the blood rushed into her temples, and with an impetuous bound she burst away from both her companions and entered the house, saying to Mr. Gibson: "Yes, I'll go; call for me at nine to-morrow."

Till late night Cissie sat in her rocking-chair, her hands pressed over her throbbing temples; at length wearied nature came to her relief, and compelled her to retire to bed. Being fatigued, she soon fell fast asleep, and on the morrow when she awoke, although she remembered clearly all that had passed on the previous evening, she had not the same sensitive feelings, or the same sharp prickings of conscience, and, as she walked towards the office, she began to anticipate the ball with the greatest pleasure.

As Miss Smith had said, Cissie, beautiful before, was ten times as beautiful now that she was adorned with all that art could do in the matters of dress and jewellery. Miss Williams fairly gnashed her teeth with envy, and left the hall shortly after ten o'clock, disgusted with that thing from the telegraph office, while the gentlemen eagerly sought for an introduction to the acknowledged belle of the ball-room. Miss Smith was as proud of Cissie's success as if it had been her own. With all her faults the girl possessed a good heart, and in doing as she did fancied she was doing the innocent country girl a kindness in opening to her the highway to fame and fortune, even though it were reached by the gate of dishonor.

It is needless to give in detail the particulars of Cissie Wilson's career; suffice it to say, that the brilliant triumph at the Oddfellows' ball was too much for her weak nature. She plunged headlong into the vortex of worldly pleasure and excitement, and, having little time or inclination for reflection, became in time quite habituated to this peculiar mode of life, always maintaining outwardly, however, a moral and respected appearance.

All this time, the reader may well ask, what had become of Lillie, the younger sister? She had been remarkably successful in her country home, having at her feet the hands and hearts of all the most eligible young men for miles round. This at one time would have gratified her utmost ambition; but her sister's letters from Montreal made her dreadfully anxious to join her in her whirl of exciting pleasures, and, with the understanding that her sister would obtain her employment in Montreal, Lillie, at the age of eighteen, came to the city.

She was not long in her new home till her sister unbosomed to her many things of which she had previously been in ignorance, and promised to introduce her to the creme de la creme of her worldly companions, urging her to endeavor to acquire these graces and accomplishments which she had failed to learn in her country home. Lillie soon became more popular even than her sister; for, although she was not so well educated, she was naturally clever and witty, and there was a vivacity and freshness about her conversation, which, added to her beautiful face and perfect figure, made her a charming and desirable companion.

One day Mr. D'Alton, one of the gentlemen who had rescued the two girls from the fire, was walking along Notre Dame street, when he observed a beautiful girl, rather showily dressed, promenading just in front of him. Something in the girl's manner attracted his attention, and, as he passed her, he turned round, and carefully scanned her face. As he did so the girl looked up and their eyes met; he, raising his hat, blurted out an apology, saying he had mistaken her for another lady of his acquaintance named Brown. "Oh," said she, laughing, "my name is Lillie Wilson."

On hearing this name D'Alton started, and, having questioned her closely concerning her antecedents, asked her if she remembered the fire, and the two gentlemen who rescued herself and her sister; and, although she had altogether forgotten his appearance, she remembered the circumstance perfectly. They walked together for a little while, and then he asked her permission to visit her at her address, and was astonished to find that she objected, for some strange reason, to do so. At length, bursting into tears, she confided to him her whole history, informing him that she had been seduced and betrayed, and was at that moment enceinte. This disclosure, as may well be supposed, staggered D'Alton not a little, but at the same time he became more and more interested in the girl, and offered, if she would promise to give up her corrupt mode of life that he would do his best to see her through her present difficulty. Calling on me, he consulted with me as to what was best to be done under the circumstances, explaining that, although he was willing to do all in his power for the girl for the sake of old associations, yet that he did not wish to peril his own reputation. I promised to do what I could for the girl, and calling on her was informed that her paramour was an officer in the Rifle Brigade, who had returned to England, leaving her to bear the burden of their crime. Having procured suitable lodgings, I saw the girl comfortably housed, and in due time she gave birth to a fine little boy, which, as usual in these cases, was sent to the nunnery to be taken care of by the good Sisters of Charity.

Mr. D'Alton did not come to visit Miss Wilson during her convalescence but, after she was completely recovered he called frequently, taking her to theatres and concerts, and sometimes in the winter to sleigh-rides. What his intentions at first may have been I do not know; I certainly think that but for his friends he would openly have married her; be that as it may, in a short time it became apparent that they had both overstepped the bounds of ordinary friendly intercourse, and that Mrs. Rushton (as she now called herself) would soon require my services a second time. This time she gave birth to a beautiful girl, and, before many years were past, there followed another girl and boy. These children were not, as in the former case, sent to the nunnery, but were retained and brought up by their mother, she being smart enough to perceive that by doing so she would maintain a hold on their father, and secure for herself, if not a respectable, at least a comfortable position, Mr. D'Alton having been successful in business, and being at that time one of the leading brokers in Montreal.

For a time things went on this way, D'Alton visiting his mistress frequently, and becoming passionately fond of the children, whom Mrs. Rushton artfully used to influence him on all occasions. To do her justice, it must be said that she never, either in thought or action, was untrue to D'Alton, and that, whatever her past career might have been, she lived at this time a quiet life, indeed, caring only for her husband (as she called him) and her children. By the time the little boy was two years old, both mother and children had so ingratiated themselves in Mr. D'Alton's affections, that he determined, come what might, to marry his mistress, and so make their future offspring at least legitimate.

He was weary of his irregular mode of life, and, being comparatively wealthy, longed for some place which he could call his home. His wife could hardly mix in society, even could she obtain an entree to that realm of prudery and hypocrisy, but he cared for no society better than that of herself and his children, and his bachelor friends, of whom he had not a few, would, even if they did know or surmise the truth, exercise a more liberal spirit, particularly while the wine in his cellar maintained its reputation. Accordingly, he one day astonished and delighted Mrs. Rushton with the proposal that he should marry her; and that they should live together openly. As may be supposed, the lady unhesitatingly accepted the proposal, and accordingly they were married, formally and legally in St. George's Church, which, at that time was situated in St. Joseph street, on the site now occupied by Messrs. Ligget & Hamilton's large dry goods store. Mr. D'Alton took a house in a new portion of the city, and as they lived very quietly, receiving no calls, except from business friends of Mr. D'Alton, the neighbors did not trouble themselves much about them, or inquire concerning their antecedents.

Although her husband did not trouble himself whether his wife was or was not received into society, Mrs. D'Alton felt it very keenly. She had not, like him, drank the cup of life's pleasures till it tasted insipid or even nauseous; on the contrary, she looked on the pomps and vanities of society as only a woman can look on them, and now that she was legally respectable, and rich enough to keep pace with even the most fashionable of her neighbors, it made her very heart ache to think that these scenes of brightness were closed to her as much as ever. She thought of what she might have been had she not in her ambitious haste gone off the right track; and, pained with bitter reflections, and with no one to speak to or converse with (for her husband spent most of his time at the club) she solaced herself, as others in her predicament have done, with the cup of forgetfulness, sinking deeper and deeper at every step, till the habit became confirmed.

Although Mrs. D'Alton had taken her husband into her confidence, and told him truthfully her history, she had not sufficient strength of mind to tell him how ignorant she really was, and that she could not even read and write with accuracy. Her letters to her husband had been written by her nursery-governess, engaged ostensibly to instruct the children; but in reality to act as amanuensis for the lady of the house. The young lady thus engaged was at first rather averse to signing her mistress' name to her letters without adding her own initials, but the present of a handsome broach and earrings soon quieted her sensitive conscience and she soon fell into the plan, not being unwilling to make use of such a powerful lever for obtaining largesses from Mrs. D'Alton. In time this young lady became so overbearing that her mistress fully made up her mind to discharge her, but a summer trip to Portland being then on the tapis, she allowed her to have her own way, as Mr. D'Alton remained in Montreal, and would naturally expect letters from his wife during her absence. She would have dismissed the governess and engaged another, trusting to her own pleadings and the powerful appeals of her purse to win her over, but the handwriting would not be the same, and she would not for worlds have allowed her husband to think she had deceived him.

The day came for their departure for Orchard Beach, where Mr. D'Alton had taken a cottage for their use. The children were in great glee as they anticipated surf bathing and digging in the sand, but Mrs. D'Alton was moody and down-hearted, the exhilarating effects of a large potion of brandy having worn off and a reaction set in; her husband, however, attributed it to sorrow at her separation from him, and was rather gratified to think she was so deeply affected.

They arrived at her destination in due course, and were comfortably ensconced in the cosy little cottage. Miss Watson, the governess, dressed herself up, and with the children departed for the promenade, and Mrs. D'Alton was left to her own reflections. The thought of her past career, of the opportunities gone for ever, and lastly of the predicament she was now in, shunned by all respectable people, and despised by her own paid servant, who felt her power, and was disposed to wield it unmercifully. The brandy-bottle, her never-failing companion, was by her side, and as she mused mopingly over her sins, she took from time to time copious draughts of the potent spirits, regardless of its power to do otherwise than to rob her of these racking memories of the past. In about two hours the promenaders returned and found her lying back speechless in her chair, the bottle and glass by her side; her eyes rolled wildly as she gazed vacantly on her children, but she was unable to utter a word.

Miss Watson became alarmed and summoned a doctor immediately, who, on entering the room, perceived at once the cause of Mrs. D'Alton's malady, and ordered her to be conveyed to bed. In the morning she was a little better, being able to speak; but she was still very much shaken, and raved incoherently. Mr. D'Alton was telegraphed for, and came immediately; but, being merely informed that his wife had had a fit, he imagined her to be afflicted with hysteria; indeed, although he knew she was fond of a glass of wine, and often joined him in partaking of brandy and water, he had no idea that she imbibed to such an extent.

In a few days Mrs. D'Alton was able to go out again, and, as during her husband's stay at Orchard Beach she was particularly abstemious, she was able to associate with the ladies in the hotel, and made several acquaintances, who, seeing that she had the dress and manners of a lady, interchanged calls with her and invited her to visit them in Montreal. On her return to her home, however, these ladies received her but coldly, and when she gave a large party, inviting all those whom she had met at the seaside, "they all, with one accord, began to make excuse," and at entertainment there was present, besides herself and the family, only a sister of the governess, and one or two bachelor friends of Mr. D'Alton. Dancing was of course out of the question, so they organized two whist parties, and, with a little music, managed to drag along till supper, which was served in Joyce's best style, and looked unnecessarily elaborate for the small number who were to partake of it.

Mrs. D'Alton was mortified; she had imagined that those people whom she met at the seaside would have judged her on her merits, and would not have taken the trouble to inquire concerning her antecedents. She did not calculate that, what may be allowable at a summer resort, would not be tolerated in Montreal society; moreover, that the tongue of slander had been busily engaged in painting her even blacker than she really was, so that these people, even if personally disposed to associate with her, dared not do so lest they might lose their own insecure foothold on the ladder of social position. In moody silence she presided throughout the entire evening; she was enraged at herself and at the poor enslaved creatures who, though anxious to go and enjoy themselves yet dared not infringe the rules laid down by society; and, as she drank glass after glass of her husband's famous Moselle, she became more and more despondent.

About midnight Amy Watson, the sister of the nursery-governess, took her departure, and Mr. D'Alton with his friends, went up to the billiard room to enjoy themselves at their favorite game. It was near daylight ere they grew tired of pocketing the ivory spheres, and left their host to close the doors, and retire to his room. When he did so what a sight met his gaze! There lay his wife in all the finery she had arrayed herself to dazzle her fashionable acquaintances, a speechless corpse! a brandy-bottle, nearly emptied, lay at her side, telling too plainly what had been the cause of her untimely death. Her husband's first impulse was to ring the bell and send for a doctor, but, knowing the scandal that would surely ensue, he quietly let himself out, and went for Dr. Hickson, being determined not to give up hope till he had done all that could possibly be done. The doctor on examining the body shook his head ominously, confirming Mr. D'Alton in the belief that his wife was no more; he considerately agreed to remain in the house, and not to inform the servants for some time of the occurrence. The doctor's presence, of course, excited some alarm, and in a short time it was known that Mrs. D'Alton was dangerously ill, the announcement of her death being reserved for a time till all the traces of the recent festivities were removed, and the house had resumed its normal condition.

When the children heard of their mother's death they rent the air with their cries of anguish; even Miss Watson shed real tears, her occupation, like that of Othello, being gone. Poor Mr. D'Alton was almost beside himself. He had never loved another woman; and, though he was not blind to his wife's failings and shortcomings, he nevertheless lamented the loss of one, who, whatever her faults, was true to him and a good mother to his children.

In the meantime what had become of Cissie Wilson, Mrs. D'Alton's elder sister? She had endeavored to persuade Mrs. D'Alton to engage her as governess to her children, but the latter, once married, refused to hold any communication with her whatever. Miss Wilson then despairing of finding a road to reform in Montreal, took her departure for Toronto, taking a position as governess in one of the leading families there. On hearing of her sister's death she wrote to Mr. D'Alton, offering to take charge of the children till he had time to make permanent arrangements for their education. To this letter she received no reply, which nettled her so much that she determined on a plot for wounding the pride of her haughty brother-in-law. "Who is he," she would exclaim, "that he should dare to snub me?" "If I have sinned, was she not equally bad, and is he not guilty himself?" "Never mind, Mr. D'Alton, I will have my revenge some day." She racked her brain to think of some means of repaying him for his severity to her, but could think of nothing at the time, and so resolved to wait and watch her opportunity.

It was some years before Miss Wilson had that opportunity for which her heart so yearned, but come it did, surely enough, and she dealt to Mr. D'Alton a blow so bitter that he never got over its effects.

Lillian, Mr. D'Alton's eldest daughter had, after her mother's death, been sent to a fashionable school in Mansfield street, presided over by the wife of one of our leading brokers. Here she made many friends, and being known only as the beautiful and accomplished daughter of a rich widower doing business in Montreal, and well known on the Exchange, she was in time introduced into society, and became at one bound the belle of the season.

At that time several British regiments occupied the Quebec Gate barracks, and the officers were eagerly sought after by the party-giving community, no ball being complete without at least two or three officers in full uniform. Among the latter was a certain Captain Trevelyan, the heir-apparent of an English nobleman, who was, of course the eligible young gentleman of the season. Most of the ladies openly courted Captain Trevelyan and, figuratively speaking, laid themselves at his feet; but Lillian D'Alton was too little versed in such matters to know the triumph she had achieved in being sought after as a partner by the much-admired Captain, and, when he asked her to dance although she complied readily with his request, yet she carried herself with an air so natural, and altogether so different from the time-worn belles he was so accustomed to meet, that he engaged her for dance after dance, then for supper, and, before the ball was concluded, he was deeply in love with her, none the less because she was the only young lady in the room who did not covet that distinction.

Although Lillian was but eighteen years of age, she could not but perceive the marked attention paid to her by Captain Trevelyan, nor was she blind to the glances of envious hatred darted at her from all quarters. Her heart responded to the unspoken avowal of her partner, and ere they parted that night they were one in heart and in thought, each living only for and in the presence of the other.

Youthful love makes rapid progress. Ere many months had passed Lillian D'Alton was the affianced bride of Captain Trevelyan, and their approaching wedding was the one theme of conversation at balls, routes or parties.

Here then was the opportunity longed for by Miss Wilson. She would inform Captain Trevelyan and his friends concerning the D'Alton family, and warn him to break off his engagement. With a refinement of cruelty peculiar to women blinded with rage, she allowed the wedding day to be fixed before she communicated with the bridegroom, and then sent him a complete history of the family he was about to enter, informing him that the lady he was about to marry was the illegitimate child of Mr. D'Alton, and that in marrying her he would not only injure his own prospects, but alienate himself completely from his family, bringing on them both shame and discredit.

Captain Trevelyan read the letter with astonishment, but did not believe one word it contained. His Lillian a bastard! why the thing was preposterous. Her father was as well known on 'Change as Rothschild was in London. Her mother's funeral had been attended by the wealth and fashion of Montreal, and since that time Lillian had been the acknowledged belle of the set commonly known as "the upper ten." The letter being written in rather extravagant terms, he imagined it to contain the incoherent ravings of a maniac, and his first impulse was to toss it aside. On the arrival of the English mail, however, he received letters from his friends, couched in terms of the deepest anxiety, urging him to sever all connection with the D'Alton family if he did not wish to alienate himself completely from all his family and friends. These letters led him to think more seriously concerning the communication from Toronto, and being determined, come what might, to know the worst at once, he started immediately for Mr. D'Alton's residence, only to find that the gentleman in question had just that moment departed for his office.

Lillian was at home, however, and she rushed downstairs impetuously to meet her affianced husband. He received her as usual, but there was a cloud on his brow as he followed her into her boudoir, where they frequently spent hours together. He questioned her concerning her aunt and her relations generally, but Lillian knew little more than that her aunt resided in Toronto, and was generally considered to be what is called "flighty."

This somewhat reassured Trevelyan, and he dismissed the subject for a time from his mind. He determined, however, to clear the matter up, and so in the evening he called to see Mr. D'Alton, requesting a few words with him in private. The two men entered the study, and Trevelyan led off by saying:—"I have received a strange communication from your sister-in-law, Miss Wilson; from what Lillian has told me, I am aware that she is a person of weak intellect, and her stories are not worthy of credence, but I thought it due to you, nevertheless, to bring the matter to your notice."

At the mention of Miss Wilson's name D'Alton turned deadly pale. He was a bold man, and capable of carrying out a deep scheme, had he felt so disposed; but this intimacy of Trevelyan with his daughter was the result of no scheme, and he had for some years lived, with the rest of his family, a blameless life, rejoicing in the fact that his neighbors either did not know, or had forgotten, or overlooked his past career, and were prepared to receive his children with open arms into society. With bated breath he ran his eyes hastily over the letter held out to him by Trevelyan, and in an instant he saw the whole situation. If he could only have had time to consider the matter, he would probably have taken the right course, come what might; but he had little time for decision, as Trevelyan stood before him, eagerly expecting a reply. Mr. D'Alton pictured to himself the state of affairs did he acknowledge the truth of the accusation, and though loath to deceive the young man (whom he already loved almost as dearly as his own son), he dared not ruin his daughter's prospects by an avowal. Pretending to read the letter once more he gained a little time, and then, with consummate diplomacy, endeavored to find out what Trevelyan thought. Looking up coolly, he said—

"And do you believe all this, Trevelyan?"

Of course, Trevelyan did not believe it, and was profuse in his apologies, for having permitted himself to doubt for a moment that the writer was bereft of reason. This confirmed Mr. D'Alton in his course and he at once denounced his sister-in-law in no measured terms, vowing to punish her for her irresponsible utterances. The news that Miss Wilson had written to Captain Trevelyan's friends in England made D'Alton furious, and he swore a fearful oath that he would place her where her ravings would harm no one but herself. All night long he thought over schemes for getting rid of her, and at length he concocted a plan which he speedily put into execution.

As was said before, Mrs. D'Alton and her sister were orphans and they both left their adopted parents early in life, having lived under assumed names for years, and severed all connection with their former associates. During Mrs. D'Alton's lifetime her sister was forbidden to approach the house, and on the death of the former Miss Wilson was not recognized by her brother-in-law. The children had never seen or known their aunt, and the people with whom she had last resided in Montreal (in the capacity of nursery-governess) had known her as Miss Rogers, and had lately lost all trace of her whereabouts.

Taking the early train for Toronto, Mr. D'Alton took counsel of an astute lawyer, and learned that, as events had been shapen, Miss Wilson would have now great difficulty in proving her connection with the D'Alton family, did he choose to deny it, and that the fact of her having written such letters as those received by Trevelyan and his family would be fair presumptive evidence that the woman was insane.

Carefully considering his position, D'Alton determined on his course of proceeding. He was averse to a public prosecution, as many things, now unknown or forgotten, might be brought to light, and yet he felt that the woman must be effectually silenced by some means or other. Going to her residence he boldly demanded an interview with her, and, producing the letter to Trevelyan, asked if she had written it. Miss Wilson laughed as she saw the effect of her shot, and exultantly exclaimed:—"Of course I wrote it; who else could have done it?"

"And are you aware that you are liable to be prosecuted for libel?" pursued D'Alton.

"It is no libel," retorted she, fiercely; "you know it is true, or you would not be here now."

"Indeed! can you prove it, then?"

"I have no need to prove it to you. Your very facial expression acknowledges it to be true."

"Will that satisfy the jury?"

"What jury?"

"The jury who are to try you for a malicious libel!"

At this Cissie started, but recovering herself exclaimed: "You dare not sue me for libel. Your history would not stand repetition in court."

"Who knows my history?"

"I do!"

"Indeed! WHO ARE YOU?"

The fierceness with which he said this made his sister-in-law quail. She perceived that he was terribly in earnest as he repeated his question in a tone very unusual with him, and she meekly replied:

"You know well enough who I am, your late wife's sister."

"My wife had no sister!"

The look he gave as he said this fairly frightened her. She had seen a good deal of life, and had in her time met with all kinds of men and women, but never till now did she fear either. She began to see that she had roused a desperate man, and that, legally, she had no hold on him, neither status in society; moreover that she had got entangled in the meshes of her own net, and that only the dread of exposure would prevent D'Alton from prosecuting her for libel. Not knowing what to do, she remained mute, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. At length Mr. D'Alton broke the silence: "You have evidently had an object," he said, "in circulating these reports. If your object be to extort money out of me, you will find it more to your interest to remain silent." With these words he drew from his pocket a roll of bank bills, and laid them on the table near his companion; but she, growing livid with rage, refused to touch them, promising to expose him and his family before all the world.

D'Alton had not calculated on this, and was for a time taken a little aback. His last card, however, was not yet played; and, summoning all his energies together, he braced himself for the enactment of that, which under other circumstances, he would have suffered much rather than become in any sense a party thereto. Addressing the lady once more he said:—"What, then, was your object in writing these letters?"

"My object was to disclose the truth," she cried, vehemently, "to denounce you as a blackhearted villain, and to save an unsuspecting youth from becoming the victim of your deep-laid schemes."

D'Alton bit his lip with passion, but restrained himself. "And you do all this solely from conscientious motives," he said with a sneer.

"My conscience, like your own, Mr. D'Alton, is pretty well hardened. No; I have no conscientious motives to impel me to show your true character to the world; but revenge is sweet, and I have not forgotten the scorn and contempt with which both you and your fashionable wife treated me while I was in Montreal. I was not good enough to touch the hem of your garments, but she was dressed up and paraded in the drawing-rooms of those who did not know better than to admit her, and now her b—— daughter is to wed a scion of a noble house, while I am not even recognized. No, Robert D'Alton, you will not become respectable and leave me out in the cold, insulting and spurning me at every turn with your petty offers of money. I have sworn to have my revenge, and by —— now that the opportunity offers, I will have it, too!"

She had worked herself up to state of uncontrollable fury. Her eyes rolled wildly, and she looked like one demented. This gave the devil his opportunity, for D'Alton, who had been halting between two opinions, came to a hasty conclusion, and bringing the interview to a close, hurriedly left the house, his teeth firmly set, and a horrid glare in his eyes. He walked rapidly down Yonge street and along the east end of King street, then, hailing a cab, he directed the driver to travel towards the west end, coming to a halt opposite the Lunatic Asylum. Entering he enquired for Dr. Tuffnell, and was informed that he would likely find that gentleman at his residence on Jarvis street. On repairing thither he found the doctor at home, and, requesting a few minutes' private conversation, was soon closeted in the consultation room. "I have long intended to see you," Mr. D'Alton began, "about a young lady who lived in our family some years ago in the capacity of nursery-governess. She was always of a somewhat flighty disposition, which we used to humour as best we could, and when she left us (at my wife's death) for Toronto, we fancied she had quite recovered, but it seems she has been gradually growing worse, and she now continually torments our friends and us with letters full of ridiculous flights of fancy, which, though meaningless to those who understand how she has been afflicted, might possibly cause serious trouble."

"Has the young lady, then, no friends or relatives?"

"None, whatever. She was taken out of an orphan asylum by an aged clergyman, now deceased, who adopted her, and since his death she has supported herself by teaching. We consulted our physician about her some time ago, when she imagined herself to be my wife, and ordered her mistress down to the kitchen. He thought it would be advisable for her to take another situation away from us till her health improved, as she was continually fancying herself trampled upon by some member of the family; we accordingly procured for her a situation in a friend's house in Montreal, but they in turn became frightened of her, and dismissed her, which dismissal, strange to say, she attributed to me. She now imagines herself to be my wife's sister, and demands an entrance into my house, denouncing me in the vilest terms, and writing scandalous letters to all my acquaintances."

"Are you sure she is insane?"

"Well, I have long tried to persuade myself that she is not, but latterly she has grown so violent that I am afraid that what I said years ago to my late wife in fun about her being demented was only painfully true. If you would kindly visit her and give me your opinion concerning her case, you would oblige me very much."

"What does her present mistress say about her?"

"Oh she has only been there a short time and has not yet given an exhibition of her oratorical powers. Still the lady who is a clergyman's widow, told me that she walks about her room in the middle of the night, talking wildly to herself."

Dr. Tuffnell had not time to visit Miss Wilson that morning, but he made an appointment with Mr. D'Alton for the following day, and together they went to the unfortunate girl's residence. Arrived at the house they rang the bell, and inquired for Mrs. Brookes, the mistress.

Mrs. Brookes was a middle-aged lady of a retiring disposition. Her husband had died at an early age, leaving her to take care of three young children. Her temporal wants however, were provided for, her husband having been possessed of a handsome income independently of his small salary. Dr. Tuffnell made inquiries concerning Miss Wilson's habits, and was informed that her actions were at times very peculiar, that she had not gone to bed all the past night, but had stamped up and down her room, talking as if to a second party. Mrs. Brookes was shocked to hear that she had unwittingly engaged a mad woman to take charge of her children, and suddenly recollected several extraordinary episodes which, until that time, had never struck her forcibly.

It was arranged that the Doctor should see Miss Wilson and satisfy himself concerning her affliction before any further steps were taken. Accordingly Mrs. Brookes rang the bell and told the servant to summon the governess.

Miss Wilson had not slept all night, and her eyes had a wild expression, which heightened when she beheld Mr. D'Alton. The doctor, having previously taken all that was told him for granted, made up his mind at once that she was insane, and never reflected for a moment on the possibility of some scheme being on foot to injure her. On entering the room she laughed wildly and said—"So you have come back with your bag of gold. I tell you it's trash, sordid trash, not half so sweet as REVENGE!"

Now as the doctor had heard nothing from either D'Alton or Mrs. Brookes which he could in any way connect with this wild utterance; moreover, as the young lady looked like a tigress, and walked fiercely up and down the room, he became more than ever convinced that he had got a bad case in hand and acted accordingly. Looking at D'Alton he shook his head, which Mrs. Brookes perceiving, she shook her head in turn, and, taking out her handkerchief, wept copiously. Dr. Tuffnell tried to soothe the patient with gentle words, but she (mistaking him for a pettifogging lawyer, whom D'Alton had engaged to bind her over to keep the peace) cried out:

"Ah, yes! you want to quiet me, but you can't quiet me. I am like the surging cataract, which, suppressed in one place bursts out again with more fury in another. I have suffered too much to be tamed down by soft and gilded promises. No, Robert D'Alton, you have started the mighty avalanche and it is too late now to stop its progress."

The doctor began to feel he had a desperate case in hand and tried to quiet her, but the more he did so the worse she got till at last all persons began to talk to her, receiving from the poor girl replies altogether removed from the point at issue coupled with threats and oaths and furious gesticulations. At length the doctor suggested, in a whisper, the propriety of their departure, when they might consider what was best to be done, but, on Mrs. Brookes protesting that she was afraid to stay alone in the house with the maniac, Dr. Tuffnell dispatched a note to the asylum, and in a short time two keepers arrived, and proceeded to take Miss Wilson into their care till she should become possessed of a sound mind.

There is no time at which a sane person looks so much like a maniac as when trying to convince people of his sanity. The real lunatic will cunningly hide his affliction from the most watchful, and is frequently able to deceive those unaccustomed to deal with persons of unsound mind, but the victim of persecution becomes wild with honest indignation, and generally manages to convince even those who might be inclined to believe him to be sane.

When the truth of her position began to dawn on Miss Wilson, she became more frantic than ever. She raved at D'Alton and the doctor, tore with her hands at the keepers, and abused Mrs. Brookes for standing tamely by to see one of her own sex so ill-used. She roared so that two policemen came rushing up to the steps to inquire what was the matter, but, seeing Dr. Tuffnell, with whom they were well acquainted, they saluted him respectfully and withdrew.

Miss Wilson was accordingly driven to the asylum and incarcerated till she should come to her senses, and Mr. D'Alton, having made arrangements for her safe-keeping returned to Montreal.

Shortly after her father's return Lillian D'Alton was married to Captain Trevelyan in Christ Church Cathedral. The wealth, beauty and fashion of Montreal attended the wedding, and the costliest presents were displayed on her father's sideboard. The young couple departed for England immediately, Trevelyan's regiment having been ordered home, and the bride was received into the first London circles.

Mr. D'Alton remained in Montreal where he still lives and moves in the best society. What his private feelings are I cannot tell, but outwardly all is serene, the only one besides myself who knows his family history having long since passed away in solitary confinement.



CHAPTER IX.

A Tale of Two Cities

Among the many friends we made during our stay in Montreal, none were so thoroughly beloved by myself and family as the Sinclairs. Mr. Sinclair was an English artist who had settled in Canada some time previous to our arrival, and, being generally well informed, as well as a shining light in his own profession, he was made much of by the English residents here, and had as pupils many of the wives and daughters of the officers of the garrison, besides some of the more cultivated Canadians. Mrs. Sinclair was a refined English lady of good family, and had several children, mostly girls, who were greatly admired not only for their beauty, but also for their many and various accomplishments. The Sinclair girls were frequently at our house, being, in fact, looked upon as members of our family, and no social gathering of ours was considered complete without them.

In time Mr. Sinclair became tired of Montreal. Many of his patrons left with their regiments for England, and he became weary of the dull routine and scanty income which he saw was all he could ever look forward to in Canada, so, breaking up his household, he departed for the United States, and, having lived for a time in various cities, finally settled in Boston, where he became quite successful, and soon obtained an enviable reputation as a portrait painter.

Lulu Sinclair, the eldest of the girls, was a sprightly blonde of about sixteen when her father left Montreal, and the family had not been long in Boston before she became engaged as a teacher at one of the conservatories, and a mutual attachment sprang up between the pair. Miss Sinclair had already made her debut in Boston Music Hall as a vocalist, and the pair were frequently engaged at the same concerts and entertainments, so that the natural sequence was that they in time became engaged, and afterwards—married!

"Nothing very mysterious in that," I think I hear my fair reader say, a little disappointed that I have not prepared a spicy bit of scandal for her delectation; but as Balaam the Prophet could only speak as he was impelled by the spirit, so likewise must I confine myself to the realities of the case, and I therefore make no apology for this commonplace bit of history, but proceed with my story.

One evening Lulu made her appearance at our house, in Montreal, accompanied by Mr. Hill, her husband. It seems that they were on a concert tour, and were to give two concerts in Saint Patrick's Hall, which at that time stood on the corner of Craig street and Victoria square, and, as we had often invited them to do so, they promised to avail themselves of our hospitality during their stay, as their engagement terminated with these concerts and they were anxious to take a little rest before returning to Boston.

The children were delighted to have Mr. and Mrs. Hill in the house with them; they had never met a real live prima donna in private life before, and they flaunted "Professor Hill" and "Mademoiselle Lulu Sinclair" in the faces of their juvenile acquaintances, as if they had been entertaining the Emperor of all the Russias and Her Imperial Majesty the Empress.

Since the Sinclairs had left Montreal, the principal playmates of our children had been the Bennetts, who lived in the adjoining street. Mr. Bennett was a French-Canadian, with (as usual) a large family, and was in comfortable circumstances, having a large retail grocery on Notre Dame street. One evening, shortly after the arrival of Mr. Hill and his wife, the former drew me aside and asked me if I knew a family in Montreal named Bennett. I told him that I knew them intimately, that they lived close at hand, and taking him to the window (it was late in the spring) I showed him the children walking opposite hand in hand with our own. He then intimated that he had something to tell me, and, taking me aside into the adjoining room, he told me something which astonished me as much as it will doubtless astonish the reader of these pages.

It seems that Mr. Bennett's father was an American, who, in early life, being settled in Montreal, became enamoured of a Canadian girl named Beauchamp. Miss Beauchamp was young, pretty, and a Catholic. The first two of these qualifications rather suited Mr. Bennett, and the third did not in any way annoy him, he being (although a Protestant) a liberal-minded man, and having the idea that thoughts and opinions could not be forced, like sheep, to go in a particular track, but that every one should be free to hold what convictions his reason dictated, untrammelled by conventionality or creed of any kind. Miss Beauchamp professed to be of a like mind, and agreed to allow him to educate the boys (if any), while she would look after the female issue of their marriage. With this ridiculous understanding they got married, and for a time things went pleasantly along, Mrs. Bennett attending L'Eglise St. Jacques regularly, not only without opposition from her husband but sometimes even accompanied by him. He did not believe in the efficacy of the service to save his soul, but he had sufficient common sense to know that it could not harm him, or turn him one whit aside from what his reason dictated; and neither did it, for at the end of two years he was as greatly opposed to what he considered the errors of the Church of Rome as ever he was, and though he attended L'Eglise St. Jacques almost as regularly as St. George's Church, of which he was a member, he went there simply because he liked the society of his wife, and she believed it to be necessary for her salvation.

In the course of time Mrs. Bennett gave birth to a boy, then two girls, and afterwards another boy, all of whom, as children will, made enquiries concerning whence they were and whither they were going, etc. Mr. Bennett now began to see the folly he had been guilty of in making the agreement mentioned above. If the Catholic religion were the true and only faith, all his sons were on the high road to perdition; if, as he was inclined to think, the Protestant religion were nearer the mark, then what was to become of the girls? What a pleasant prospect was there before him! His family torn and divided by the most bitter of all dissentions, religious disputes (or rather irreligious disputes about matters of doctrine), and his life and those of all his family rendered miserable. This was certainly bad enough in its way, but something more annoying was in store for him. He one day discovered that not only were the girls baptized in the Romish faith, but that the boys also were surreptitiously baptized by the parish priest, so that he alone of all the family remained a Protestant, and a poor one at that. Every day things got more and more complicated, and his wife at last openly avowed that all the children were to be Roman Catholics, and advised him also to flee from the wrath to come and take refuge in the arms of the true church.