SABINA ZEMBRA.

Auckland Star, Volume XIX, Issue 76, 31 March 1888, Page 1 (Supplement)

SABINA ZEMBRA.

A NOVEL.

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CHAPTER XLI. . severance. _ im lingered on in thab con. cb i!d shl \m bub Sabina attitude: she would young spring aays tjito fnothm 0 . primroses m the 6Tth welcome big coat heavy <*. Indian fnrs- <** hw H PS fiti ,t3 ■ en(l p a ler; and her eyes were midnight (tin. flap= fijnW- u^Adown. Lindsay had been SVJSJS brought back with -fosftTwKh he offered to her l» Bt*Tf%riight Httlc thing, that i^'i-iii »■ i »»oBVf /Vn heavy as the tram-car, he *ftisßo'. Jf?Sr if you «'ould tie a pull it across ftkedatthetoy, in silence; there was _#fe^p?: 8 hesaid,ina *<KeC'vee arms are not fcirvoice, °v t'S^ylooked np 'in a wiid ' fam_ __f.roy boy is not yoing to die, ,;^Sno?/ng to take my little Ey^l^orangMish rather than of _ ri nerves were all unstrung ; and 'Ailment she had burst into a fran*»*\____V The curtains fell from •SSSSSS- invisible to him ; he "'rt'hear her sobs. And then there SJLiof a door opening and shuthphadgone away, to her unceasing 5S its awful and growing fear tfifa j™ .who camf ? own ?"_?" ll,nd he went to meet her at the ■IT When she got out of the railway--1 • * .shoeave him her hand in silence ; KE^Kkealeaf; Bhecould iCeS'a room for you at the ISfaid, 'Alt, is-the. best they Hw Of course you won't let her know ■ Jietort! itw'ould-only madden her with H^tvon think best," was all she said. ■ Bit _ they were on their way to the ■■ta shew, to him- • ■ «lfih_ Ung happens to the boy then it s a_verwitb Sabie. He was just the world Ker, Ifieistaken away, then she will Mpfo-itmU kill her." H "Don'tsay that," heanswered gravely. Hitatle'comes to everyone; it has to be ■H. who has had such trouble as she H»l*_.i_ who basso little deserved it ?" maid j s__ she was very much excited in ;Ki_t_sS." ""'l'say' 'it 'is not-it is not ■K^'iyesj-plertty of peoplo have trouble liLthey are notlike Sabio. She has just B^fcrothe. i; And now the little boy— ion in; the world—Mr land- ' B^ioypu rail that justice ?" 9fe arenc. ab their worst yet," he ;f|. bk ''I suppose you can stay here HJ'Hjes. Hew could Igo away until BH h. 1 kcew that the boy was out of Uf MiM _WBe*. bravely. "Phil is l'l i^itpwn tomorrow- to see that I ; I ajgtably settled; bub I am sure m^i__i_r^__'__,/'i. yor would |»,s!ite : itie mom that Mra Reid occould send her to the ■■fleteto sleep. . Rut I am afraid Sabina jw_jitolnowyou were in the house— Sft. »w.alarm her." H"ft m,, tho inn will do very well," ffljU'ltaglit she ought, to have a woman - near her, justin case anything should jH. fbe continued. "And lam sure I Ppl (jhd; to * have you here; for a Hfel!!'l MgtnePfe ip lots Qf things is more Hw»iM discriminating than a man's. H^;^J .'think, now, of sending word ;^B|f Antbony-that the little boy is ..■Bpte.ilipprl -mean, without letting .H?».fow ; shouldn't that be done ? Of ■ BW-lifwWdo, nothing of the kind ii p •_';.".<rould come down and alarm her ■^■mestiipid way." M^rweiyedthe. mention of Sir Anthony ; .Wr./aijame, with marked cold'■E^y'th open scorn. Klyto.him the last bime I was lW:# . i. ' " Sabina asked me to : ''___ ' -ett9r to c soake(* ■j* «id, although it had never been H*WMun at all. And do you think , ™MW ; irould come near a house in ! KrfW scarlet fever? Not likely. '_ IH" 3"1 too great.a sense of his im- : ISff 6 ™ the country. A man of such ■pW nation couldn't af Fc rd to run ' fKir L_ A»d. society-think of the ! ____?■' °-'i^ty losing so handsome KpjHiished-lookirigan ornament." ' M_. - revengeful. But I really 1 MN* to send him word that ' BS»ote" OU?!y Ul And yOU must ' Rifrth^werearrived at the inn, 1 82.& dthafc the? bad prepared ' ■SSS»'%^f. There was . »aS" bngbtl y ' there were some ! Kl. <__ ho fcable : t'bis would : Kr_wTllenfclifcfcle sittinc-room . Rffly^^oß6- Bub besides : »CS Wnßtairs' iD which sbe could : ___Si3%m^ M^ous to oblige . :H*i»d__f 6 4youn S mofcher whose : KS J» note to Sir Anthony that ■ XW.-i Bhe nor Wal*er i HffH vrh. _ T^' B housekeeper,- i »4S fr> at tlle "of the W*l!»hfiSl b, la"d-looking man. 1 IffCrrri.o^ldvVa^oin^ll: ] ■?W«a"- "?to have no better news. RjWlMrsFoaterthatherfather \ I^Sffi^ .-her father, did ■^»<^? ppose whafc you told ! «^^' fc you liketb see the poor ] _feS'S W l ST CS6 you are nofc i HC!w»»Mt& c5 Sand sisters. 1 ■!&?*• S_ _. Ust fcoex P ecb fchab 1 l^-^ g infCCti°n £ i^^vrj^6"o6B with th^ i _Km of CornS 6r We»"known to i IS i'^kS^^ within bhe « ■V^ the H 0 a"d' with a"ot,her , ■N^lCwT' Eaid "Sir." , ■^Shfrer was overIM '^oftl^y woman with ' ■>lj? 5 iX? noti°n that a : lCs^ttroti^ her~in the i!^SSerßka"d )S ir-the I KS\#S^'" «be said. I ™mg infection,"

"Permit me to be the best judge of thab," he observed.

" Oh, certainly, sir," she said, with apparent humiliby ; bub she was beginning to rebel a little ; she was a vertebrate animal.

"And I thank you to take my instructions. I wish nay daughter to be informed that I called ; and that I was sorry not to hear better news. If she wants for anything, I hope she will write —by a third person, mind—be particular about that, if you pleaso-she must write by a third person, as she did on the last occasion—and I will see that her wishes are attended to. Good-morning !" '"Good-morning, sir." said Mrs Reid; and for a minute or two she stood on the door-step, looking aftor the stately and handsome gentleman, who passed down through the little garden and finally disappeared away along the road. But she did not at once go upstairs. She had been in terruptod in some domestic duties ; and she went back to bhe kibchen to resume these ; and for a while she was chiefly engaged in considering what kindly little messages ?he cotiid safely add to that which had been left with hor to deliver. And she thought that when Mr Lindsay eamo along in the afternoon, arid when she confessed what she had done, he would say that theso lies wcro white indeed.

So the anxious days passed. Lindsay saw little of Sabina now. When he rapped at the door she sent the nur.se. She would nob leave the bedside where that .-mall lire seemed, to be flickering so feebly. The nurse said to him once :

"I wi«h you would speak to her, sir. She won't take any rest. Sometimes she falls into a doze in her chair—for a few minutes, that is all. No human being can bear up against that long." " Tell her I want to see her," he said. In a second cr two, Sabina was there ; he was shocked at the change he saw. " You are acting very wrongly," he said. "This weakness may last for a long cimo — what is to become of your care, of your nursing, if yon will take no rest ?" "I have tried—l cannot sleep," she said, simply. " No, you cannot sleep so long as you remain in thab room. Why nob lie down in the nurse's room, when it is her turn to sit by him ?" "I cannot be away from my boy," she said. Then flic suddenly raised her head, and fixed a strangely scrutinising glance upon him, as if she would read him through and through. " Mr Lindsay, is the doctor telling me the whole truth ? He is not concealing anything ? What does he say to you ?"

Piteous and haggard as were her eyes, he felb bhab they had a certain command in them.

" You are my friend—l ferusfc you fco tell me the whole truth," she said. " Yon cannot refuse."

Well, he did nofc try to shirk the responsibility. As nearly a.s he could he repeated the very phrases — inconclusive as these were—which the doctor had used to himself. She listened in silence; and she seemed to be weighing every word. The pale, sad face betrayed no emotion ; bub' her eyes were distant and thoughtful as she retired, without further questioning, into the room.

He went over the way, to the Checkers, and sent for Janie to come downstairs.

"I suppose you have everything ready ?" he said—referring to a complete change of costume she bad got down from London, lest afc.any time she might be asked to take her place in the sick chamber. "Yes, everything," was the instant; answer.

" Well there is only one thing to be done, as far as I can see," he continued. " Sabina is killing herself. Tho watching and the anxiety are too much for her—you can see it in her face, in bor eyes. Poor creature, it is no longer ' like playing at having illness in the house.' That was-making sure too soon."

" What do you want me to do?" Janie said.

" I want you to go, right into bhe room and insist on remaining there; and then you must force Sabina to lie down from time' to time and get; some rest. The nurse has no authority over her ; you must; have."

" I may frighten her if I go in suddenly," Janie said, in doubt. " She is frightened of only one thingshe thinks of nothing else - she will hardly heed you," he said. So Janie went over fco the cottage, and installed herself in the. sick-room withou. protesfc. There was little nursing to be done ; only waiting ; and waiting for whafc nearly everyone in secret feared. One evening the doctor came downstairs and found W ralter Lindsay reading a book in the little parlour. He was really waiting for news.

•i Don't you think you should send for her father ?" the doctor said. , . Lindsay looked up quickly. " Then the end is near ?" " I am afraid so," the doctor said—speaking low so that no one should overhear. " Never since this lingering began has there been any sign of a fight against; ifc—nothing but a gradual losing of vitality—and now the child is alive, bub thab is all you can saj'." " But surely patients sometimes recover after they have got down to the lowest phase of exhaustion ?—isn't there a chance? —if it is only weakness, thero might come a turn ?" He pub these questions wibhoafc much hope of an answer. What he was really thinking of was Sabina in her lonely condition—bereft of all she cared for on earth. Nor was this the first time that picture had come before his mind. For days back dread possibilities had been ever present; and in his solitary evenings, sitting before the fire and absently looking to the future, he sometimes saw a young widow, in deepest mourning, enter a little churchyard. There was a small white gravestone there, with flowers around it, and perhaps, after the simple record of name and date, this inscription—" Dv, Heilige, rufe dein Kind zuruck. " The young mother kneeling—that was a pitiful sight—and putting further, little flowers on the little BTa<.'had almost forgotten the presence of thedodtor in. the room. " There i. no hope, then ?" he said, lookinf up from his reverie. "One must; never say that, was the answer. " Bufc, for myself, I think the end is near." " Does she know ? . "I imagine so, though nothing definite has been said. I hear she has had some violent fibs of crying, when she was by herself in the smaller room. I think she is prepared for the wor.fc. Indeed she is almost in a dazed condition, what; with wanfc of sleep, and fatigue and f dreadl of what; may happen. lam glad of ifc. She is so worn out; fchafc when the end does come, ifc will be less of a shock ; her^nerves seem fco be numbed ; she goei about in a kind of hopeless and mechanical way—yes, I think Bl"As Sfor n sending for her father, that would be no use, as he would not come near a house where fchere had been scarlet fever. As for her late husband's father, he can fc sfcir oufc-of-doors on account of rheumatism, or he would have been here ere now_, he writes But; when you think the crisis is ab hand,! will go along to the vicarage and ask Mr Lulworth to come and oe with her. The family have been very kind to her and she has a great respect for the old man. Don'fc you think I could do that. " Certainly."

" When ?" T ~,,.t fllft "As far as appearances go ; , I bhink the boy may last through the night. "But nofc much longer?" asked Lindsay, considerably startled. ............. The doctor shook his head. "I am afraid nofc," he said.

However, it was nofc until late the following night that the end came. Janie was in the room and the clergyman ; the nurse had retired, her services were unavailing now ; Walter Lindsay was below, waiting anxiously enough for news. Sabina woul3 not leave the bedside ; she knelt there motionless, voiceless, tearless, holding tho small, thin hand in hers ; her very soul hanging on that faint breathing that was graduady growing more and more feeble. And then the little life, happily without any struggle, passed quite quietly away, and the mother's head fell forward on the bed with a dumb moan of agony. No tears came to her aid ; she was too worn out and bewildered and stricken down. Consciousness seemed to have gone from her with that low wail of pain. Janie was at her side, and would have taken her away, bub the next moment Sabina was erect in tlie middle of the floor, and her eyes were as one bereft of reason, baking no heed of bhose around her, and for a second she looked as if she were listening. Then she went quickly to the window, and tore aside the blind. Far overhead the mid^ night skies were shining, the myriad stars were cold and clear. A little way she raised her trembling fingers, as if she would fain reach to those distant plains ; and then they heard bhe stifled and piteous cry— ~ "And there is no one—no one there—to take care of my little boy !" '• No one," said the clergyman, " no one —except Christ the Lord." And then he pub his hand on her arm, and led her out of tho room.

CHAPTER XLII,

darkened days,

This should have been a wedding morning. The earth had donned her fairest brida^ robes—the soft snow mantle gaining a touch of gold from the wintry sunlight; clear and cloudless shone the pale blue skies; there were diamonds sparkling in the hedge-rows, the vane of the church spire flashed a distant ray. But ib was a black-hued littlo procession that moved slowly through the white, hushed world— out from the straggling village, along the rutted lane, and up to the gate of tho churchyard. Tho neighbours were lingering about the porch ; whon the tiny collin had been carried in, thoy followed, and and entered the pews ; no one sejemed to notice that just before the door was shut, two women, both dressed in deep mourning, and closely veiled, came in last of all, and took their places rather apart from the real:. They were in the dusk ; not even Walter Lindsay guessed that the stricken mofcher was there, come to hear those dreadful words of a last farewell.

When tho service was over, and the little crowd passed out again into tho sunlight and the snow, these two remained behind for a second.

" Sabie —dear Sabie—como home now ! You can't bear it ; ib will kill you !"

She. did nofc answer ; she only shook her head. But as they went out into the white churchyard she held Janie's arm tight, for she was. trembling a little. They took up their station a short distance from the others ; bhe bystanders paid no heed to them ; all eyes were turned towards the clergyman and the open grave, and the small, small coffin covered with white flowers. It was when they proceoded to lower that tiny coffin into the grave that Janie found that her companion was shaking like a leaf, so that she was afraid sho would totter and fall; and when the first sprinkling of earth struck with its hollow and ominous sound, the young mother uttered a short and stifled cry, as if a dagger had gone through her heart. Janie had almost to drag her away. "My little boy !"—that was all she said; and sho spoke no more as they made their way back to the village, far in advance of the others, the two black figures in the world of white. Arrived there, Janie took her to her own room in the inn. Sabina was purposeless in a strange kind of way ; she sab down afc the window, whero sho could see—across the dream-like waste of snow—the littlo church, and its windows, and the spire, and the vane sending forth its steady golden rays. Then her head fell forward on her hands.

A message came for Janie that Sir Anthony Zembra was below, and wanted to see her. She went down to the small parlour. Never in all this world was fchere a more suave, and distinguished-looking, and perfectly-appointed mourner ; as he took off his black kid gloves and put them on the table, so thab he might rub his hands because of the cold, and as he took up his position on the hearth-rug in front; of the fire, he seemed to say that not any one of the trials or duties of lite could find him wanting ; put the occasion before him —he was there, and equal fco ic. "I heard fchab she was with you," he remarked. He had nofc seen his daughter that morning — nofc having cared to go within doors.

" Yes," Janie answered. " She will stay here until the house is disinfected. My husband and Mr Lindsay were going up to London immediately the funeral was over, to see about having ifc done afc once."

" A mosb necessary measure," Sir Anthony observed, with approval. "lb is an imperative duty fchab one owes to the rest or the community. And I hope it will be done thoroughly, whether Sabina goes back to the cottage or not. She herself has always been too reckless in such matters— " I don't think so at all !" Janie said, rabher hotly ; who was he thab he should criticise Sabina's conduct?

"Ah, you joined with her in those foolish enterprises," he said, with a superior air. "My share in them may have been foolish enough—Sabina's never was," said Janie, whose meek eyes were growing indignant. " It's all very well for people whositin their own homes, surrounded j?y every selfish luxury, it's all very well for them to balk of foolishness when anyone bries bo do a little good in the world. Perhaps you never even took the broublo to go and see what ifc was that Sabio was doing ?" " We will nofc discuss the question," he said in his grand manner. "If I have offended you, I beg your pardon. I merely wished to express the hope that before my daughter goes back fco the cofcfcage the most rigid precautions may be taken to guard against the spread of infection. Temeriby in such mafcbers is bhe worsb of folly. Ifc is nofc bravery ; ib is criminal heedlessness. And I think that even you cannob deny that Sabina has always shown herself far too careless—only now she may be warned by the terrible consequences." "But what do you mean?" Janie said, wibh ber face grown a trifle pale. " Thab Sabie was careless aboub her boy ?—bhab she was responsible " Janie's words failed her: her indignabion was boo greab. Bub she pulled herself together. " Have you anything further to Bay fco me, Sir Anthony ?" she demanded, coldly. "I am going back to Sabie."

"I wish to hear whafc she proposes doing," Sir Anthony said. "That is all." " I don't know," was Janie's answer.

"For ibis quibe absurd her going back to live by herself in that cofcfcage," he continued. " I suppose fchab ab presenb ifc would be useless for me to see her, fco discuss the matter with her." " She won't; see anyone—she can't," Janie answered.

" At; all events I should like her fco know this," Sir Anthony said, "that Lady Zembra is per_ictly willing that she should return to her own home—always, of course, on condition that she should abandon those pursuits which made thab impossible when she used fco be in London. Probably she has had enough of that;. In the circumstances, then, and with the conditions I name, we are quite willing she should return to her own home."

" As for that," said Janie (and there was a touch of scorn in her voice fchafc might

have pierced Sir Anthony's complacency, had that nofc been so entirely gigantic), "as for that, Sabie will never have to go begging for a home. There aro plenty who would be proud to have her—proud and pleased. And I know that if she will come and live with us, neithor my husband nor myself will stay to impose any condition —no—she shall live in any way she pleases —and I can answer for it that her welcome will be none the less."

"Ah," said Sir Anthony, looking at her as if she were some kind of sentimental maniac. " Well, it is a good thing to have friends. Bub friendship i<_ apt to get sbrained if one lives conbinually in bhe same house."

" Was it ever so in Kensington Square?" said Janie, boldly.

He did not answer that question. " Common sen?e," he went on to observe, " would suggest that a single woman in her circumstances should come and live in her own home. At the same time, if she prefers her freedom —I mean, if she wishes to return to the occupations of those former days—well and good; she will have her allowance as before." " Of course, if she comes to live with us, it will be as our euest. That is clearly understood by all of us." "Oh, then, you have put that proposal before her ?" " Yes." "And her answer ?" "It was only a suggestion—Aye wanted her to know that there was a home awaiting her—and she said nothing definite in reply. And at present it is useless to say anything." "At all events," Sir Anthony said, "you are of opinion that she should not continue to live by herself, in that cottago ! Why, good gracious, she might bo murdered in bed ; that would be a nice story to get into the papers !" This indeed was an appalling thought— that the name of_ Sir Anthony Zembra might be dragged into the public prints in connection with an obscure and revolting village tragedy! ">'

" Yes, I want to get hor away from here." said Janie, sadly ; " but it is no use talking to her at present. I wish sho was nob going back into the cottage at all. I wish she would come away with us this very afternoon, as soon as Phil—my husband, I mean—as soon as he comes down from town. That would bo the best thing."

"Then do you return home this after noon ?"

She glanced at him in surprise; she could hardly understand any human being putting such a question. "Oh, no! How could Ido that? How could I leave Sabio at such a time—alone ? If she would go with us, that would be well; but as it is I must remain with hor to see what she is going to do."

"And when she has decided that, I hope you will let mo know," Sir Anthony said, and he took up his gloves. " I presume when these sanitary measures have been carried out there will be no posssibility of a letter convoying infection. You might tell my daughter that Lady Zembra would have written to her to express her sympathy, but that she thought it moro prudent not to open communication with a house in which there was fever. We have goo to consult the safety of others, nofc our own feelings."

When he had delivered himself of this wise .saying, Sir Anthony took up his hat and umbrella, again asked Janie to communicate with him whon Sabina had come to a decision, bade her good-bye graciously, and set out for the station. Ho walked with an air of lofty satisfaction ; he seemed to think that it was he who was diffusing that cheerful sunlight ovor the wide landscape. Those next few days at Witstead were terrible. Sabina had wholly given way to a dumb stupor of misery and hopelessness ; she was as one walking in the dark, seeing nothing of what was around her, heeding no one. She hardly ever spoke ; she haa no wild fits of crying; there was nothing but this dreadful monotony of unuttered and unutterable grief. Mechanically she went up every morning to the little grave, with a poor handful of flowers; sometimes she would go in the afternoon too ; and always her dull, despairing thoughts were thore. Janie soughb in vain to distract her and arouse her. Sometimes she wilfullvinflicted pain, if but to break in upon this dangerous listlessness. Once she went the length of asking what should be done, when they could go into tho house again, with the little boy's toys and playthings. Sabina shivered, but did not answer.

Janie went to Walter Lindsay, who was pretty frequently over at Witstead, hurrying on the workmen. "I do everything I can to gefc her to talk," said Janie, " and of course she has to settle what she is going to do. But ifc is very sfcrange. She is keeping something back from me. It is always ' Wait a little while, and I will tell you.' I don't; understand it ab all. Even about the house; ifc appears it belongs to aMr Deane; but she does not know where he is ; and when I asked her how she paid the rent, ifc was the same thing—'Wait a little while, Janie, and I will tell you everything. I cannot talk to you now, or to anyone.' But she thinks it is you who put tho fresh flowers on the little grave every morning. Is it ?" "No." " Do you know who it is, then ?" He hesitated. " Oh, well, if you must know, ifc is one of the Lulworth girls. I asked her to do it for me. I have them sent down from London, and she takes them up. You need nofc say anything about ifc." Janie thought she would follow her own counsel about, that.

" Then what do you think is she going to do ?" he asked.

" As likely as nofc she will go back to the hospital and become permanent nurse," Janie . answered — bufc this was merely a guess of her own. "It is dreadful to think of tho poor, broken, wasted life. _ You remember whafc | Sabie used to .be in old days ? Well, last night I was lying awake, and I was wondering whether ib would nob be possible for someone to take Sabie away from what has happened during these last years—to take her away altogether, to some other country, and teach her to forget. And I thought that you were the only one who cared for her enough, and had money to do it as well; and I saw all sorts of pictures of you two— walking along the Promenade Anglais a!; Nice—and Sabie laughing ani happy again——" He turned very pale, bufc she di<J nob notice; she was intent upon her waking dreams of the previous nighfc.

" Yes, and I followed you to Venice—l was an invisible ghost attending you—and I saw Sabie feeding the pigeons m the Square—and I saw you and her in one of the glass factories over afc Murano, and you were drawing her initials on a bifcof paper so that the man could copy them and put; them on the jug he was moulding for her. I wonder if such a bhing ever happens in the world—for people to forget the years of misery they have gone bhrough, and become happy again as they used to be ? It seems hard if it is possible. However, these were bufc forecasts of a vague and shadowy fufcure; and m bhe meantime Janie was soon to be startled by a definite announcement of Sabina s plans. On the second evening afber bhey had returned fco Wayside Cofcfcage—the fumigabion and so forbh all being over—bhese two were seated in the little parlour together, Janie sewing, Sabina pretending co read, bub more often with ber calm, sad eyes fixed wistfully on the fire before them. At lengfch she took a letter from her pocket. "Janie " she said, " a few days ago I wrote to old Mr Foster, down in Buckinghamshire, and this morning I received hi* answer." . , , , , , Janie was a little surprised to have beard nothing of this before ; and quite simply

and naturally she put our her hand fco take the letter—for there never had been secrets between these two. Ifc was hastily withdrawn, however. "He writes very kindly," Sabina said, elowly; "and he asks me to go and live with him, though he says ifc's a dull house— I wonder if he thinks ib is gaiety that I should prefer." " And are you going?" said Janie, rafcher breathlessly. " When I havo everything settled up here —yes, 1 think it is the best thing I can do." "Oh, Sabie, we shall never see you atall!" Janie cried. " And don't you think that would be best?" was the calm answer : she was staring absently into the flames. Janie's eyes grew moist quickly enough. " After the friends thab you and I have been, Sabie, ib does seem—a libtle hard bhab you should talk in that quieb way aboub going away from us for ever." " Bub I shall nob forget," the other said. " And soon after I am there I will write you a long, long lebber, to explain a number of things. I ought to tell you the whole story' now; but I have not the courage. And I am so tired," she added wearily. Janie did not understand" what this promise meant; and perhaps paid little attention to it, for she was bent on opposing this decision—ifc seemed so dreadful bhab Sabina should withdraw herself inbo a, seclusion so remobo from all those who had known her. "You have so many friends in London, Sabie! It was bad enough your coming down here ; but now, when there is no reason in the world why you shouldn't come and live with us—l wish Phil were here, and he would speak for himself—to think of your eoing away down to that place, to bury yourself alone, and brood over all that has happened. Is ib wise ? Is ifc reasonable ? Surely you should come amongst your friends — I don't mean at this precise moment—but by-and-by^ when time has begun to tell a little. We don't ask you to come to any gaioty. It is a quiet house. You would have your own rooms ; no one should disturb you when you wished to be alone." For answer Sabina took Janie's hand, and patted ifc a little. "You have always been so kind to me— I never could understand why. But lam going down to Buckinghamshire, Janie," she said. It was later on that same evening—in the dead silence thafc was broken only by the click of Janie's needle—that Sabina looked up from her reveries and said— "Janie, there is one thing I must do before I leave this place. I must say something to Mr Lindsay of what I feel towards him for all bis goodness to me — his generous goodness and thoughtfulness and kindness. lam sure I don't know how I shall 6ay it—but I must try. I cannot go away and leave him to think me ungrateful." "That he never would think, nor any other ill of you, Sabie !" Janie said, eagerly. " But surely you are right—surely you can do no less ; —and a word from you would be a great deal fco him," she made bold to add. " I suppose you don't know when he will be here again ?" was the next question. " No ; but 1 could send him a note," said Janie, promptly. " You might tell him thafc I was going away, and that I wished to say good-bye— if ib would nofc be boo much brouble for him bo call when he was in the neighbourhood." Janie's nimble brain soon fashioned forth a betber scheme than that—though she kept it to herself. Gould she not, on the next morning, find some pretence for slipping out, and make her way south to Burford Bridge by ono of the early trains? A few words with himself would be of greater service than any note ; and was not the occasion urgent ? Sabina was going away. She would be beyond the influences she had known ; .she would forget; • she would sink into apathy; she was closing the book of her life. But what if, at such a juncture—and she was helpless, and distraught, and uncertain—some sudden appeal were made to her ? Ifc seemed dreadful to think of weddings and wedding-bells, when one had to think, too, of the little grave lying far away there amid the as yefc unmelbed snow ; bub, short of that, might not some vague hint be given her that jvherever her footsteps might lead her, fchere would always remain open for her the refuge of a strong man's love, when time and distance had dulled the edge of her cruel sorrows ?

(To be Continued.)