friend here would excuse my coming at so late an hour, for you know I could not let you go without saying good-by."

And the doctor, who was rather a garrulous old gentleman, sat chatting for at least half an hour, while I sat on thorns, as the saying is, and I could see that Vallance and his father were thinking of anything but what he was talking about, and answered him quite at random and wide of the purpose. At last Doctor Brackenbury took his leave, and then there was a dead silence, so intolerable that I was the first to break it. "Vallance," I cried, "for God's sake finish what you were telling me when we were interrupted."

"Ah, yes," replied Vallance, with some signs of reluctance. "Well, you know, this girl Maria, whom, mind, we have detected in a falsehood before, and who, I suspect, is a zealous reader of the penny romances, that, thanks to a cheap press, are poisoning the minds of kitchen-maids and scullions, and unfitting them for anything but the streets-this girl, then, tells us-months after the occurrence, you know, never having said a word about it before that-that on the morning when the morning I have already mentioned, Frank, she picked up in Miss Nelly's room a scrap of paper, which she pretends was a part of a letter, in a man's handwriting—mind, I am only telling you what she says, so attach what credit to it you may think it worth, and no more-on which were some words

"What were the words ?" I cried, eagerly.

Vallance looked to his father, and the old gentleman again made an uneasy movement in his chair, but did not come to his relief.

"Well, mind, we don't attach any importance to them-in fact, we place no reliance on her statement at all-do we, father?"

"Well, Vallance, as far as that goes," replied the father, with emotion, "she showed them to Robert, you know, and he has always been a truth-speaking man

"Well, yes," replied Vallance.

"The words!—the words!" I exclaimed, eagerly. "If you don't want to drive me mad again, tell me what were the words on that bit of paper!"

"The words—or part of a sentence-were," replied Vallance, looking at me with a compassionate but nervous glance. "Well, we have talked the matter over, and thought it our duty to tell you, Frank-though, I entreat you, do not place too much reliance on what she said-the words, then, were at least this is her story-' And so, Nelly, let us fly, and hide our shame and disgrace together!" "

The words went right to my heart like stabs-a sharp spasm shot through my chest, and I beat the air for breath, which I dare not draw for fear of that knife-like, acute, cutting pain-then a deep sob struggled up and relieved me. Vallance had hold of my hand.

"Father!" he cried, reproachfully, "I told you we ought not to have"

"Oh yes, Vallance, dear friend, you were right and your right," I exclaimed. "It was proper that I should know it!

IT WAS NOT HER FATHER WHO ENTICED HER AWAY!"

father was

AND SO,

Agony Point reached at last! Perhaps I had suspected this before

perhaps so; but if I had, I had resented the suspicion, and driven it from my mind before it became a thought.

"You believe that what this girl has said was true?" I said; "by your manner, I know you do."

Both were silent.

"And the piece of paper,” I cried, anxiously—"can you get it for me to see ?"

"Robert took it from her, and destroyed it," replied Vallance, “thinking, poor fellow! it were best to burn it. But I am bound to say that Robert declares he read them, and that those words which I have told to you were surely on that paper. You are composed, Frank, are you? Can you hear a little more, for I ought to tell you all ?"

"All!-all!" I cried, bowing down my head to receive the next

blow.

"There were a few more words-'Let us then, dear Nelly, go to London, where we can live together, and never be discovered.'”

"Anything more, Vallance?" I asked, without raising my head. "It might as well all come at once, and crush me now."

"Nothing more."

I sent up an earnest supplication to Heaven, and it was answered. I felt relief at once. I believe I arose almost calmly from my seat, and

said, with tolerable firmness:

"Good night, Mr. Owen-good night, Vallance!"

And then I went up-stairs to bed.

In my own chamber I could give my feelings vent, and God, in his mercy, let loose the tears which had not flowed since boyhood.

Oh! Nelly, Nelly, in whom I put all my faith-to whom I gave all my love-what have you done? Oh, that I had died in the height of my fever before I had come to know this of you! Why was I spared to hear only of your disgrace?

Two days afterwards, I was back in London-again at the "White Horse Cellar," where I had lost my scent before-again haunting Piccadilly and the Parks, peering under every bonnet and every hat.

I was going mad; and this was the shape my insanity was taking!

77

THE CARINA'S PICTURE.

I.

"CHE faro senza te, madre mia!" had been the sad wail of Giacomo Ricchi for the last month past, as he paced and re-paced his atelier, every now and then looking with fond pride towards his easel. Well might he turn often to it, for hardly could a lovelier face be imagined than the one before him. Poor Giacomo might well look anxious, careworn, and sad. His life had been one of sorrow, but still through it all he had been blessed with a choice gift, a loving mother; and now that mother's hour of rest had come, and she would leave him and Margherita, his sister, to stand alone. "Oh! why must Rita, too, leave me? I could almost curse my precious mother's faith, when I think it must separate us." Then came his wail of "O madre mia, che faro senza te!" "Giacomo! come quickly," cried Margherita, as she opened the door; "the Carina wants to see you."

And the brother and the sister went into the little room where their mother still breathed. She had just wakened from a short sleep.

"Kneel down, darlings, and let us pray once again."

Como commenced the prayer they had in common, and, ere he had finished the "Pater Noster," the children felt they were alone. "Rita, let us once more kiss the Carina."

In the atelier where had toiled her husband, and where now toiled her son, and where her presence had cheered many weary hours of father and of son, they had placed her. The orange-blossoms seemed to deck some youthful bride, not a careworn matron's brow. In the bright moonlight there shone some ancient armour, and there gleamed cross-swords as if to guard her still. From out the pictures looked bright angels: little children, clustered round a good padre's knee, smiled sunny smiles; a chastened Magdalene, sad, but hopeful, with upraised face, still seemed to pray for her. Beneath her husband's picture they placed her oaken chair, where rested many pieces of drapery which she had designed.

As Giacomo said "Rita, let us once again look on the Carina," he laid his hand on Rita's, and, with saddened hearts, they looked their last. Then Giacomo left his mother's side. Rita looked, but knelt again; for she felt more resigned to see the Carina's dear face once more, and then in prayer to commend her to God.

II.

SPARKLING in the sunlight, and tossed hither and thither, were the tiny waves which seemed to kiss the English steamer Hyperion's prow, as she lay off Civita Vecchia. Many were the promises given of writing, many last words spoken, ay, words which were the last for ever and ever, and to a few on board "Adieu!" rang again and again in their ears, and when years had rolled on found its echo in their hearts. At last only signs could be given, by the waving of handkerchiefs and the kissing of hands; even they could at length no more be distinguished; and the vessel, as it passed from sight, waved back the final farewell in a long pennon of mingled smoke and steam.

Thus was Rita borne away from Giacomo, and, as he sat in his little garden, puffing the smoke from out his pipe, he fancied he still saw the Hyperion carrying her to her new home. Let us sit near him, and try and unravel his thoughts.

"O madre mia, why were you not a Catholic? Why did not your deep love for my father give you strength to abjure your errors? or at least Rita might have been baptised in his faith. Rita! Rita! I have sent you away as I promised; but my heart misgives me; I fear the cold of England will not only make you likely to fade away, and die earlier than you would have done here, but that the passionless hearts will change your nature or kill you from want of sympathy. For without sympathy Rita's soul would die. If she had brought in even a daisy, I, though hard at work, must stay my work for a while, and love and admire it with her, or she would look pained. Oh, Rita! my heart bleeds more for you than for myself even. Oh, Carina! why did you leave your children ?"

III.

THREE months after her mother's death, Rita stood in her English aunt's drawing-room. Lady Everest had never fully forgiven her sister's early and imprudent marriage, though six-and-twenty years had passed since Margaret Strangways' lovely face had attracted universal admiration in Rome. Her long wavy hair fell in golden curls over a fair and well-shaped brow, and in her brown eyes there seemed reflected a tint somewhat similar to that of her golden lashes. Her features were regular, but it was her expression that arrested the greatest admiration. It bespoke in every look a gentle loving nature. Many offers had she, and as many refusals did she give. For her husband, Giacomo Ricchi, and herself seemed by mutual sympathy to have loved at once. It needed no telling. After giving him a few séances, they loved, and were privately married. When her widowed father and only sister discovered her marriage, they left Rome immediately, but not before Mr. Strangways had altered his will, and so disinherited his daughter Margaret. He died suddenly shortly after his return to England, Lady Everest being the only near relative left to poor Margaret. When pronounced to be in a deep decline, Margaret had written her first and last letter to her sister, begging her to have her child's education finished, and to superintend her religious instruction, and that if after six years her heart and soul yearned for her Italian home, and for her father's faith, she might return to her brother. Lady Everest had written to her husband, General Sir Evan Everest, who was in India, for advice, and had received the following answer:

66

Why not, Carry? It would be unnatural not to take her to ourselves. I wish I could be with you to welcome her, and to tell her that I shall think of her as my own child."

So, in a cold letter to her sister, she had acquiesced in her wish.

IV.

"MARGARET, you are welcome," had been her aunt's first words, and Rita was folded in a cold embrace. "You are very like your mother, but your mouth looks more firm. Poor Margaret was always weak, and led away by her feelings."

Rita's heart had intended to take in her Carina's sister at once, but she felt chilled, and unloving thoughts seemed filling her soul as she lifted her eyes and gazed into her aunt's handsome but hard face. Then there rose her mother's gentle face before her, and the hard lines seemed to vanish one by one, and she bent forward, and kissing her aunt, said, "Oh, dear, dear aunt! I will love you so dearly." Then came a pause; for, as she looked up, her aunt's face seemed as if it could not look like the Carina's, and she added, "Only love me, too."

"Of course I love you, child! How can you doubt it? Do I not receive you as a child of my own?”

Rita said "Yes," but somehow felt "No."

"I saw you first alone," said Lady Everest, "to tell you, dear child, that my duty as a mother makes me forbid your ever mentioning anything of your past life. Do not look so frightened, child. As your mother's marriage disgraced our family, and as being married so many years to a Roman Catholic she doubtless believed many things which I as a Protestant would consider dangerous-listen, child" (for Rita had turned away her head angrily)-"I am sorry to see you so impatient-but I consider it right, for my children's sake and yours," she added this time, "to speak openly to you at once."

Rita almost leaped from her seat, exclaiming, "Aunt! say for your children's good fifty times over, but not good for me."

Rita's anger stopped her saying more, and tremblingly she reseated herself.

"Rita! you are my child now."

Rita shook her head; then, thinking of her mother, said, "I will try and do as you wish, aunt."

"I have only a few words more to say, once and for ever, I hope. Any little crosses and Roman pictures which you have, you will give me at once."

Rita bowed submission.

"Now do we understand each other?"

"Yes, aunt, perfectly," said Rita, in a despairing tone.

"Now we shall be very happy," said her aunt, as she kissed her, and rising from her chair, she opened the door of an adjoining room, and Rita's cousins came to welcome her. Marian, being the only girl, claimed the first kiss, bounding into her cousin's arms, and then ran away to her toys. John, the eldest, gave his cousin a distant kiss, but Willie, the remaining one, gave her many.

"Let John take you to the window, Rita; he is nearly blind, you know, and I know he wants to see you, but he is awfully shy, and would never ask for himself, but he is not as selfish as I am."

Rita walked to the window, and, tossing her head back to clear away her curls, looked with a tender pitying face into John's. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

I am

"John, I was afraid your eyes would be dazzled by Rita's hair. glad she tossed it back. Now, cousin, turn your back. John, shade your eyes with your hand. Now look."

All was done as Willie wished. John not only looked, but felt the silky hair.

"How old are you?" said Marian, leaving her toys.

"Fifteen to-day," was Rita's reply.

VOL. LVIII.

G