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pang. If it is terrible for you to lose your sister, what must it be for me to lose my wife ?"

He seemed almost to draw me to him by my hand, which he still held, as he continued:

"I would have come to you before, but I had not the heart. Your own pain was, in my mind, above mine. I knew your love for her: I knew how your past lives had sanctified your associations: I knew how your heart would be lacerated in having her torn from it. But see me. I am calm my eyes are clear-my voice resolute. I have looked this frightful misery of mine in the face steadily, bearing its blighting gaze until it has lost its horrible form. You have more fortitude than I. You can do this-and more. Think upon her now as I do-as a sweet saint. Make her memory a holiness, not a woe, in your heart. Her presence there will ring your life with a halo: you can make it the fount of sacred thoughts, and the inspiration of noble desires."

I heard his words; his hands clasped mine: my tears ceased to flow, and I listened, mute, obedient, charmed.

"Think you that it has cost me no effort to be able to offer you such consolations ?" he went on. "Is it not rather for me to plead for commiseration? Veil your sorrow as I do mine. It is too sacred to be expressed by tears-ignoble drops that any grief will prompt!"

I did as he commanded, and looked up to show him that my eyes were tearless. I met his gaze. Was there anything in my eyes that sent an expression flitting across his face vague, indefinable as the shadow of gossamer seen floating athwart the moon?

"You must be brave, Maggie. I shall want your bravery. You who were dear to my wife are now dear to me: Kate's child is motherless-will you be its mother?"

I started as if a ghost had crossed before me. He went on quickly, seeing that I had misapprehended his meaning:

"I have no one to whom I can confide the charge of this helpless little creature. I could trust no one but you. Could I secure safer guardianship? He has your blood in him, being your sister's child. Those nameless sympathies which exist in the blood of families will speak to him in your eyes, your caresses. Shall I be imposing a troublesome charge?"

"No," I answered; "you offer me a duty which it would be my pride, my delight to perform. But. . . .'

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"What is your objection ?" he asked, seeing me pause. "You will send him here?"

"No. You will return with me. My home is yours."

"I cannot return with you. Send the little pet here, and I will devote my life to it."

"You cannot return with me? Why? I have a house at Newtown newly furnished. It was to have received us. But it will be like a sepulchre. Come! leave this existence which has been made unendurable to you. Am I not your brother?"

"I cannot live with you. Do not ask me. I am not wretched here now. Since George has left us my aunt treats me like a daughter. She will love your child: for poor Kate's death has been a terrible shock to her, filled her with keen repentance, and her remorse will guarantee her devotion to the offspring from whose mother she has wrung so many tears."

"But my home will be so lonely-so fearfully lonely. Death has robbed me of my love-I am selfish. I want, I crave for the companionship of one whose affinity with her whom I have lost will lighten my trouble. Do not leave me to my solitude."

What would I have given to have said, "Yes, I will come"? But the lifelong influence of my aunt had filled me with something of the strength of her disciplinarianism: I found it fortunately operating at the moment which demanded its exercise.

"I could not live with you," I answered, not daring to meet his eyes. "Think of what you ask!"

He was silent. I felt that he was watching me intently. Presently he said:

"Be it so. The child shall be sent to you. It is delicate, and will need all your care. Will your aunt object?" "No. She will welcome it."

"Are you sure? Suppose she should be angry with you for receiving it here will you make my house your home then?"

"Yes. I can safely promise. The supposition is more than unlikely."

As I spoke my aunt entered the room. Major Rivers saluted her with distant politeness; but she did not notice it. She had tears in her eyes as she seated herself.

"My son George was with me when I saw you last, Major Rivers,"

she said.

He did not answer; but seemed struck with this illustration of the selfishness of sorrow. She dried her eyes tremulously, and then commenced to speak of Kate. She drew him over the same ground he had traced with me-I noticed his impatience-and then spoke of the baby. She manifested all the curiosity of a woman in her questions about the child, then paused, leaving me to fill up the silence by telling her of Major Rivers' proposal. There was no mistaking the expression upon his face of desire that she would object. But he was disappointed. She acquiesced with unwonted cordiality, named the room to be allotted for the nursery, and I could see welcomed the

prospect of having an object in the house that would divert her from the ever-present sorrow of her son's absence. She even smiled at me as she exclaimed:

"When George comes home won't he be surprised to see a little stranger amongst us welcoming him!"

It was then arranged that the baby and its nurse- -a French woman -should be despatched to Lorton on the following week.

"I shall visit it as often as I can," Major Rivers said, as he rose to leave. "It is a long journey from Newtown to Lorton, but for all that you may depend upon seeing me often."

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As we stood together on the doorstep, he slipped a piece of paper my hand. I opened it, and found it to be a bank-note for fifty pounds. I handed it back, exclaiming :

"It is not needful to bribe me into loving my sister's child."

He refused to take it, eyeing me for some time in silence. Then he said:

"You have still much of the foppery of a country girl about you. It is a dense mist, through which your intelligence breaks only here and there. But the light that is emitted is bright and keen. Were it not for this mist you would see things in a clearer sense. You would certainly not refuse to make your brother-in-law's house your home." "That is not to the point," I answered. "Please take back this bribe."

"Bribe!" he ejaculated. "Are you vicious yourself that you place evil constructions upon the simplest actions? You do not imagine that I was going to bequeath the care of my child to you as a pauper does his baby to the Foundling! I want my child to be independent of your aunt. Do you understand ?”

"Yes. I understand."

"This money will keep it and pay the nurse for a few weeks. When we meet again I will arrange for a proper banking account, that you may draw for him as you think fit."

I placed the note in my pocket without a word. He stood for a moment as if about to speak. Changing his mind, he squeezed my hand hastily and left the house. At the gate he stopped to cry, "You will receive a letter from me telling you by what train the child will arrive," and then vanished.

I re-entered the house. My aunt had returned to her bedroom; I was therefore able to meditate a little without fear of disturbance. What did I think of his manner, his language, his wishes? Had I not loved him-loved him the more passionately because my relationship forbade my love-had I not fancied that I could detect in his manner towards me a meaning upon which my passion placed the construction that thrilled me with a joy as sweet and subtle as its

cause, I should have said that his grief weighed but lightly on him. But on pardonne tant que l'on aime. I could easily find reasons for his sorrow not taking a more emphatical form, though I thought it truly sincere. I do not doubt even now that my sister's death had given him a great shock. But when I saw him the blow was already a thing of the past. He had had time to collect his energies, to fortify his mind against the further encroachments of his sorrow. Had I not loved him I do not think I should have misapprehended his motive in placing his child with me. It was plain that the infant stood in need of a protector. It was a delicate and a weighty responsibility on the father. He appreciated it rightly by consigning the helpless little sweet to the guardianship of me, the best fitted of any in the world to attend to it.

Meanwhile you ask how was it my grief, being sincere, deep-rooted as I profess it to have been, allowed me to experience any feeling beyond a reasonable one towards the husband of her whose loss I had mourned in many a bitter tear?-whose loss too was so recent-upon whose ashen brows indeed the dews might not yet have dried? I loved-I can say no more. You know there is no enigma more insoluble than love-unless it be the existence of God, who is love Himself. The silent growth of the body, the limitless expanse of bending blue, the life of flowers-deep, sombre, awful as are such enigmas, yet they are trifles compared to that one enigma the Heartthat pulsating seat of hopes which delude, of dreams which madden, of influences which pain, of passions which kill.

Account for my feelings as best you may. For myself I look and see but darkness.

CHAPTER IX,

I DULY received the letter from Major Rivers informing me as to the time I might expect the arrival of the nurse and baby, and on the day and hour named repaired alone to the railway station at Lorton. As I had left the house I was surprised to hear the Lorton church clock striking twelve, and consulting my watch I found that it had deceived me by twenty minutes. On gaining the station I learnt that the train had arrived and departed a full quarter of an hour. I hastened on to the platform, and there found the nurse-a very little woman with a dark yellow face and very black eyebrows-appealing with tears in her eyes to a porter, who stood by her with a hopeless expression of bewilderment on his face. Seeing me he came forward: "Are you in search of a nurse and a baby, Miss ?"

"Yes."

"Oh, then, there they are," said the man, brightening up. "I

guessed she were waiting for some one; but though she talks a sort o' English, it's all her own, and don't belong to these parts.'

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I advanced towards the little woman, who watched me with singular eagerness. On each side of her stood two large boxes, papered like the walls of a house, whilst in her arms she held a baby whose long clothes and bulky "wrap up" put her altogether out of proportion.

"Mam'selle Holmes ?" she asked interrogatively, but in a frightened manner, as if she dreaded a negative reply.

"Yes," I answered, " and you are Major Rivers' nurse? And this is the darling baby?"

"Oui," she responded. And then in rapid French broke forth: "O mam'selle, I have been so terrified! I came here, but found no one. I thought that I had mistaken the station. The porter was a coquin, who laughed at my tears. I was plunged into a situation of terrible solitariness."

"Are these your boxes?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied. Thereupon I called the porter, who consented to wheel the boxes on his truck to the house for two shillings. I led the way out of the station, followed by the nurse.

"I am dying to see my little nephew," I said, looking at the bundle, and endeavouring to pierce the thick white knitted veil that covered his face.

"Il dort, mam'selle; and must not be aroused, or he would want the bottle, and I have none to give him. Oh, it is a terrible thing travelling with an infant in this country! I would have given ten francs for some hot water, but did not dare get out at any of the stations lest the train should go on without me. There would have been a situation!"

I plied her with numerous questions about the child as we walked briskly homeward. I knew enough of French to understand her, and she knew enough of English to understand me. I found her a very intelligent little woman, easily dejected, highly nervous, fond of the child, and significantly French.

On reaching Ivy Lodge I led the way up to the nursery, poor Kate's old bedroom, in which burnt a cheerful fire. I had conferred with my aunt and had purchased a little cot, rightly judging that the nurse would come without one.

"Well commenced!-well prepared!" she exclaimed, looking around her. Then with singular rapidity she threw off her bonnet and shawl, and seating herself before the fire commenced to undress the baby.

My aunt had entered the room, and stood by my side waiting for the veil to be removed to see the child.

A fair baby, as I thought it would be. But in this respect only

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