"Oh, I'm ten, Willie's fourteen, and John is eighteen. Isn't he old ?"

Before the children had separated, Rita had said to John, “Will you have my eyes to see for you till Marian is old enough ?"

V.

DURING Rita's stay in England her life had been a continual struggling. At fifteen she was in her inmost self a woman, but within her woman's nature there lay still untouched her child-like soul. She yearned for her old home, for Giacomo, and, above all, she yearned to kneel once more in Como's little chapel, as she called the one he frequented, where she had knelt at times beside him, gazing about in wonder, then hiding her face in her hands, and trying to pray. She felt that she could bow not only her knees, but heart and soul, in praying there now. She dared not tell Como, fearing he might even venture to come for her ere the six years her mother had mentioned had expired; of course he would not have been received at Mountfort, being looked upon in his artist life as the continuation of the family's disgrace, nor could she dare to mention it in her new home. It was drawing towards the close of poor Rita's trials, when tidings reached her that her brother was ill. The letter not being written by Giacomo made Rita's heart ache; she now felt that his last" Adieu" had been said. When the news came, Rita was standing in the window where she had first made friends with her cousins. John alone was with her. Her long pent-up sorrow burst forth; she forced her cousin into a chair, and, kneeling beside him, sobbed our her grief:

"Oh, Giacomo! my only one gone! John, I must have you for my own brother; I cannot consider you my aunt's son ! Bear with me, dear John, and listen, then, as my only brother. Had you not shown me sympathy, I should have gone away-away-I know not whither. What are so precious to me-my home memories-your mother-I know she meant well, I am sure she did-made me stifle. My inmost feelings were constantly checked, not quietly and by degrees, but suddenly, because I was excitable, and it was not like an English woman. I was always hearing I was too much like my mother. Oh! where would such a mother be again found! I was proud and thankful to hear I was like her. Ah! what turned my nature into ice almost, was that hapless day when your mother said I was to study more, and give less of my time to you, with whom alone I felt at rest here. I knew what she meant full well, but when she added, Rita, I trust that if any advantageous offer of marriage presents itself you will consider it, and not be carried away by your feelings at once, and say that you refuse because you may have other views which would never meet our approval. Remember, you are portionless;' then I hated my aunt. I have forgiven her now; for thinking of home, Giacomo, Como's chapel, and of leaving you, John, has revived my frozen nature. Now, John, hate me!"

And Rita rose from her knees. Her cousin also rose, and, putting his arm gently round her waist, drew her towards him. At that moment Lady Everest appeared before the now trembling Rita. Putting her finger to her lips to enjoin silence on her, she beckoned Rita away. "John! I will go now," she said, and left him hurriedly.

VI.

SIR JOHN EVEREST's hair is white now; Willie's is a mixture of brown and grey; Marian's is much as it was. Lady Everest's children have still some of her hair, which they keep as precious in their lockets. Sir John is unmarried; Willie's son John is the heir; Marian, as Lady Vincent, enjoys a fair share of happiness, and her daughters a fair share of her beauty. Marian's husband was chiefly her mother's choice-a rich politician.

He

"Strange taste for a blind man, pictures, is it not ?" said Mr. Verner, a constant friend and companion of Sir John's, to a dealer in paintings "He is so unselfish, that he likes spending money on what gratifies others. He is passionately fond of having them described. will be here directly. I am certain he will buy that picture." Mr. Verner was right. The picture was purchased, and was at once restored to its owner, a sick woman. Beside the woman's bed sat Sir John, with his hand clasped in hers.

"Yes, John, I have strength left to tell you all how thankful I am now that Buonita sold the Carina's dear picture without telling her poor lodger. When I came back, I looked again on dear Como's face, but he never saw me. The day he was laid by the Carina's side, I knelt in Como's chapel, and I have done so ever since. Ah, we knew it not, but he was so, so poor! He had nothing left save a few clothes and the mother's picture. I determined to suffer too. I had now no claims, I felt, on your mother; nor, had I had any, would I have owned them. When we stood together the last time in the bay-window, she saw us from the garden, and signed to me that I should leave you without letting you know that she was there. My unwillingness to see you alone was owing to the many hard speeches that she made me. I then swore I would not see you alone, or write to you. Oh, John, it nearly killed me when I said good-by' so coldly."

"Rita," said John, "your birthday was mine; when your first kind look was given, new life came to me. Oh, how I have loved you ever since, though not so much as now, darling! I never dared tell you so, fearing you would love me chiefly for gratitude for my sympathy, and from pity, but not for myself, and so would sacrifice yourself to my selfishness. They said, darling, you were married, they thought, and happy."

Sir John lives in Rome. Willie, his wife, and children, are at Mountford. Rita's grave is so pretty now, though simple are the flowers which grow there; her heart's husband is often there, and ere long will rest by her side. The Carina's picture is in his sitting-room, and looks from out the canvas with loving eyes on him. Rita's golden curls and tender looks still bring sunshine to many weary hours, and are as dear to him as on her birthday and his.

A BLANK IN THE LOTTERY.

VI.

TOO LATE.

TOO LATE! Alas! how many hearts have ceased to beat with the wild pulsation of hope when those cruel, crushing words have fallen on the ear, leaving only the utter blankness of despair! How often have the struggles of long weary years realised a fortune too late! How often we have all found what we coveted most-friends, power, love-but too late! How madly happy it would have made us once, before our trust had been deceived, and our spirit broken! It sickens us now, for we had given up the thought of it long ago, and turn from it even as the dying beggar turns from food, the want of which has killed him.

Mr. Warrington was not expected to live"-so the servants said, as Ismé, without waiting even to take off her wet clothes, crept into her grandfather's room. The shutters were closed, and a deep, heavy breathing alone broke the stillness. The doctor was leaning over him, anxiously watching for any change of symptoms, and one or two servants stood in the doorway.

There is something appalling in sudden illness. No preparation, no warning, but all is changed as if by magic; hushed voices, stealthy footsteps, and a nameless terror on white eager faces.

How that night passed Ismé never could recal. Grief even may have its alleviations, but when the conviction presses that it comes by your own hand or act, the cup of sorrow is, indeed, full. Sir Edgar even was for

gotten, as for long hours she knelt, and wept, and prayed. Once she remembered he had almost carried her from the room, and insisted on her taking off her wet things, and she had done it, but refused the food he entreated her to eat, returning at once to her old place.

The early morning dawned at last, and with it came hope. The doctors said that with great care Mr. Warrington might recover, provided he had no fresh attack, which might at any time be brought on by a renewal of what had caused the first seizure. Ismé looked up; Sir Edgar was standing in the doorway; she went swiftly to him, and, beckoning him to follow, led the way down stairs into her grandfather's library.

Sir Edgar could hardly realise that the rigid white face before him could be the same Ismé he had known under such different circumstances a few hours before, suffering had changed it so. She laid her hand imploringly upon his arm.

"He must not see you," she said; "and I have come now to ask, to entreat you to go-to leave me."

Sir Edgar took her trembling hand.

"You are not fit to be left," he said. "You need some support-some friend; let me at least be that?"

Ismé drew her hand away, and the tears came to her eyes.

"No! it is impossible," she answered. "If you wish to be my friend, you must leave me."

Sir Edgar's face grew white, whiter even than Ismé's, as he exclaimed, passionately:

me!"

Ismé, the miserable result of last evening has taught you to hate

"Hate you!" she said softly. -for loving you still as I do! have nothing to bear?"

"God forgive me for having loved you Do you think you only suffer that I

Sir Edgar looked up from the table, where he had been resting his head upon his hands:

"Can you forgive me, Ismé, when you think that I have brought it all upon you?"

"It is only myself I blame. I had been his child so many years," she continued, with her hands crushed together. "If he lives now, all my future life must be given to him. Even now I cannot stay." And Ismé turned in the direction of the door.

Sir Edgar intercepted her:

"We cannot part like this, perhaps never to meet again! Think, Ismé! Never!"

She could not resist the appeal; the strength of her love made her weak to yield, and the next minute she was sobbing out her tears with his arms round her, her soft hair sweeping his face as he bent over her, whispering low passionate words of endearment.

Ismé was the first to recover herself. Her grandfather! She started up, then suddenly throwing herself upon her knees at his feet, said a short prayer-such a prayer as she had been accustomed to say, when а child, for the protection of those who were dear to her, now it was for him, and him only-such a prayer, said with such child-like faith, and in a moment of such real need, as must surely have reached a throne of mercy.

Before Sir Edgar had recovered from the suddenness of the movement, the door closed, and Ismé was gone; the light had faded from the room, and his whole life had become a blank.

There was one peculiar feature in Mr. Warrington's recovery, which took place, although very slowly, and this was an entire forgetfulness of the events immediately preceding his illness. He very seldom mentioned Sir Edgar, and, when he did, it was as if he had not seen anything of him since his first visit. The shock his system had sustained on the mere suspicion that something had happened to his granddaughter, was as dead to his memory as if it had never been; his mind never recovered its former tone; he was not childish, but the power of reason, the strength of a man's will, had gone. Ismé was his watchful guardian, his friend, and his grandchild, all in one. For hours she would sit, as in the old days, nestled at his feet, holding his hand in hers, and letting him beguile the long hours by telling her stories of his boyhood, a period in his life which he now more distinctly remembered than any other. She would walk with him in the garden, read aloud the papers or books, and minister to his wants with the endearments of a child and the watchfulness of a

woman.

"You are happy now, grandfather ?" she would say, putting her arms

round him, and laying her fair white face close to his. 'Say you are happy!"

And then he would put his trembling hands on her soft wavy hair, and whisper, gently:

"Always happy, my little Ismé, so long as I have you!"

Then a shade would steal over Ismé's face, and the tears would come to her eyes, and she would answer:

"Could you not be happy without me, if—if you knew that I was well -better than I am here?"

But the old man would look at her with a look of such anguish, that it made Ismé's heart ache, and she would start up and laugh gaily, and soothe away his fears. What had she to live for but him? Why think of separation? Surely he wanted her now more than he had ever done before, and she was too young to die. Why did the thought come so often? Had the angel of death gone forth? Was her doom sealed?

How many events are often compressed into one year, whilst others roll by with a dreary monotony that robs them of all individuality in our remembrance! One year had done for Ismé what never could again be undone. The flower, just as it was about to burst into life, had been blighted, and there had been none to save it, none to protect it from the storm that left it with a bowed head and a broken stem.

If any of us paused to think what would be the results of our words and actions, many of them would probably be left undone and unsaid, but the impulse of the moment hurries most often to irretrievable ruin. If Sir Edgar had been able, in imagination, to contemplate his work that September afternoon that he first met Ismé, he would have gone to the ends of the earth sooner than have done it.

Our worst actions are generally the least premeditated; we are led insensibly on; it was never the result of design, it was "fate." There are some natures that can bear more suffering than others; there are some it actually kills, and this was the case with Ismé. She had a severe cold after that wild wet night ride, and she never lost it. If she had been happy, she might have got well; but the will was wanting, and so the light went flickering out.

One early spring morning Ismé and her grandfather were walking in the garden, she leaning on his arm, listening to his plans for the

summer.

"We must go abroad, Ismé," he said; "you are not strong."

"Dear grandfather, I am never so happy as at home. I would rather stay here far rather, and I am getting much better, so much better." "Yes, little Ismé, I know it is only the doctor who wants to keep you ill; he said you must leave home; but I know him, I know he only does it to frighten me." And he smiled anxiously into her face.

Dear grandpapa," she answered, "there are so many things here we both love, and we should be so tired if we went wandering about the world, and we should long so to be back, and then something might prevent it, and we might never see home again. Promise, grandpapa, you will not think of leaving.”

"I promise, darling, I promise," he said; "but you must get strong, quite strong."

Ismé smiled, her grandfather walked so slowly himself that he did not