SHADDECK LIGHT.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 117, 18 May 1892, Page 6

SHADDECK LIGHT.

BY MAY ANGUS FLEMING.

PART TWO.

CHAPTER I. ** IOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME," SfiE meets him in a commonplace way enough, Bradshaw in hand, and eye-glass on nose, one of a crowd of other American sightseers. He is a Cook's tourist, doing Europe with a lob of other ' Cookies,' bub some bond of union musb exist in their eouls, for they fraternise at once. Then they meet again at the opera, then at a dinner of tho American Legation, then aba ball, where Dora finds oub thab as a waltzor he is simply one's ideal man. Not that she ever had an ideal man, but if she had she rather thinks he would have possessed a beautiful blonde beard, handsome, short-sighted blue eyes, a faultless taste in dress, a low, lazy, pleaeanb voice, and be past-master of the art of waltzing. Not a very high ideal, you perceive, but Dora never mounts among the stars, and the virtues; the ball-room gas-jets, and the ball-room accomplishments, are aa high as she can look.

Mr Dano Fanshawe is a gentleman, whose voice lingers pleasantly in her memory, whose smile she recalls with another smile of sympathy, whose compliments come back to her with a small thrill of satisfied vanity that is quite new in her experience of herself. And why, she wonders? He is handsome, but others are handsomer; he is agreeable, bub others have beon so before him; ha waltzes well, bub so did thab tall Austrian who was so attentive only a' few months ago. Dora is puzzled, but pleased; she is on the edge of the precipice she has laughed at, but the edge is flower-strewn, and the pitfall hidden in roses. Mr Fanahawe takea no especial pains to please her; it is not his way to take especial pains about anything; the weather is hob, sight-seeing, galleries, churches, and all that, fatiguing—he has enough to do in six day 3of Brussels without the added labour of trying bo win a lady's favour. He ia not half so assiduous as some of the other men ; she is rich, she is not bad-looking, bub he has heard she has forsworn marriage, and what is the use ? Ho thinks this languidly one day as he watches thedevotionofthoaeothermen.andmeanders by himself with bored patience among the Vandycks and Roubens. Perhaps ib is this very indifference, which she sees is thoroughly genuine, thab keeps him in her thoughts. It piques her. What business has he to stand yawning there, three yards off, putting up his glass to scrutinise one of Paul Peter's painted women, and heeding no more the other painted woman so near him than the pillar against which he negligently leans ? Then they part: . the ' Cookies' go one way, tho party Mra Charlton is with another.

Ib is now close upon the third year of her widowhood. But the world is small, and. people come together somehow in the changing revolutions'. They meet a second time in Paris, and visib more gallories and churches, and drive in the Bois, and walk through the gardens of the Luxembourg, and dine, and waltz together once more. He shall be like the rest, Dora vowa; be shall feel her power; he shalL.bow down and do her homage; ho shall lay aside that languid Dundreary air, and wake up to the knowledge that she is still a young woman; a pretty woman, a free woman. Of the result to herself {-he does not stop to think. Paris is pleasant, and both enjoy it; they have a community of t a3 te3 — they are kindred souls. They cross in the same ship, and are in common pathetically sea-aick. They walk the deck, they sit in sunny nooks, they compare notes, they learn each other's histories, they run up and down the old threadbare gamut of flirtation. Then they .land, and once more their paths swerve asunder. ' How is it that love comes? It comes unsought, unsent.' Dora wakes up to the discovery that life without Mr Dane Fanshawe is a blank. She wakes up to the knowledge, and is thoroughly disgusted. At her time of life, too—she tells the truth to herself—nearly thirty, and he—he is jusb as languid, just as gracefully indolent, jusb as Dundrearyish a3 ever. Let a woman be never so vain, there is an instinct in these things that tells her the truth if sho will bub listen. He is poor, too; he owns ib with a delightful frankness thab characterises everything he says. Ho has no prospects, no profession, no ability; he is just a welllooking, well - dresaed, well - mannered nonentity, drifting along on a legacy lately left him. Bub what is all that ? She cannot forgeb him ; she misses him exceedingly ; there is no one sho meebs who suibs her so well. She is impatient and angry with herself, and plunges into the • vortex' of fashionable life, determined to forgeb him. Bub after the New Year Mr Fanshawe reappears on the surface and plunges into the vortex, too. Nob plunges exactly—to do anything violent or muscular is nob in Mr Fanshawe, and the verb 'to plunge' implies both. He glides in, and floats round and round, in the old pleasant, lazy, aimless way. Naturally they meeb often, and it comes io pa?a that the little victress pulls down her colours and lays them humbly, and veb regretfully, at the feeb of the conqueror. Perhaps no one is more honestly surprised than the conqueror himeelf. Ho has not done much to bring about this consummation —he is nob aware that he has ever desired it very heartily ; atill—Bhe is very rich, and nob so old, and nob so bad-looking, and—Mr Fanshawe receives the congratulations of his friends with thab calm superiority to all earbhly emotion thab sits upon him so naburally and becomingly, wears his blushing honours calmly, and proposes. Before the spring buds are green in this third year of her widowhood Mrs Charlton stands pledged to become speedily Mrs Dane Fanshawe. And Vera ? All this timo Vera has been in a convent, and Dora has not seen her once. Bub she goes now, and Vera is sent for. • Wonderfully improved, my dear Mrs Charlton— wonderfully improved,' says the smiling lady superior, ' both physically and mentally. Her capacity for study is excellent; her application beyond praise : her deportment in every respect a model of obedience and propriety. Her musical ability is quite out of the common—her voice really remarkable. I think you will find the resulb of Miss Martinez's three years with us eminently satisfactory.' She does. Vera descends—at leasb, a tall young lady flies downstairs after a headlong fashion, thab betokens anything rather than the repose of Vere de Vere— cries oub in a laughing, sobbing, delighted cry " Dob !" and flings herself into thab lady's arms. It is Vera, bub a Vera bo changed, so grown, so improved out of all knowledge that Dora gazes at her with eyes of wondering delight. Plain ! V\ hy, sho ia almost beautiful. Thin! She is as plump as a partridge. Her complexion has cleared up — from dull sallow it is palo olive ; her cropped hair is. long and in shining abundance; her waisb and shoulders leave nothing to be desired ; her hands are slim, white, and taper; her air is self-poised and selfpossessed. She can talk easily and well ;

she bas nob in the leasb the manner of a schoolgirl She is nineteen now, and is to graduate this commencement. Dora is charmed, is enchanted. * Why, you pretby child !' she cries ; ' how you have grown, and how amazingly you have improved. I should never have known you. So womanly, so well rounded, every bone, and joint, and angle gono ! and you did so run to bones and angles in the old days,' says Dora, plaintively, her head a little on one Bide. Vera laughs, the old, joyous, sweet girl's laugh. That, and the Murillo eyes, at least, have not changed. 'Ah I do I nob know that? How often I have mourned over those samo joints and angles! Yes, they have nob starved me. My one terror is now that I grow fat. But banish the thought—thab way madness lies. You, too, Dob,' gazing at her searchinglyi 'have changed.' The light of the spring afternoon falls on Dora, on the rich black silk costume and costly India shawl, on tho piquant little Paris bonneb, and, alas 1 on the losb complexion and pearl powder. Dora laughs, bub shifts uneasily under that clear, BOarching gaze.

1 Dissipation tells after a while, I suppose,' she answers, ' and I really have been frightfully dissipated this winter. Ib excites me, and I don'b (sleep well, and then — and then 1 take to chloral, you know, and bhab is bad. I must go down to Charlton early this year, and be very quieb, and try if I cannob recuperate.' She sighs impatiently, and turns away from the mirror into which she has glanced. The tale it tells is not flattering. Those crows- feet, those fine sharp lines between the eyes, those silver threads among tho gold, the yellow pallor of the skin, the small, transparent hands. Dissipation, excitement, chloral —something is telling on poor Dora. She is growing old fast—awfully, horribly fast. She is but little over thirty ; one should have no crowß'-feet or white hair ab bhirby, and yet here they are. To grow old—it is Dora's nightmare, her horror—it turns her small, frail body cold and shivering from bead to foob only bo think of. She is faded and aged ; she has never realised it so appallingly as ab this moment, when she looks into her sister's fresh, fair face, with every youthful curve and soft lino in first bloom.

♦ You look a little worn, I think,' Vera says, tenderly, pityingly. ' You noed quiet and a long summer down at Charltpn, Dob. Aad I would give up chloral if I were you. Go to Charlbon, drink fresh milk and oat strawberries, drive about tho country roads, bry seabathing and going to bed ab nine o'clock. You will be all right again in July, whon I join you—bo part no more this time, Dob.' She throws her arms about her, and gives her a second hug. ' You darling !' she exclaims, ' ib eeotns so good to be with you again. Oh, Dob, I have missed you—mi3eed you in those last three years.' 'So I should hope, dear, 7 laughs Dob,, herself again. * Whab a little wiseacre you grow ! " Drink fresh milk, and go to bod ab nine o'clock!" Is thab the secreb of your radianco.l wonder ? And so you have missed me a little in epito of all tho ologiea and dead and living languages?' * More than I can say. I used to bo frightfully Dot-sick the first year, and it never quite wore away. Your long, gossipy lettera were such a comfort.' ' I thoughb you expected to have no time for letters ?' "says Dora, mischievously. ' Did you miss anyone else, I wonder?' Vera's colour does nob rise. Her largo, dark, solemn eyes look gravely at her sister.

'Where is Captain Ffrench, Dob?' •No one seems to know. He and I have not corresponded—oh ! for a«os. I wrote him, you know, thab you did nob wish to receive letters from him, and, as I warned you, he did not believe me. I managed to convince him, however ; since then I have heard from him no moro. lie is probably in Central America still.' ' Not unless he remained after bhe expedition. I read in a paper moro than a week ago that Dr. Engleharb and his band of scientific explorers had returned to Now York.' ' Indeed !' saya Dora, startled. Sho looks ab her sister, bub bhe pretty seriousness of her face tell, nothing. ' Have you thought —have you made up your mind—' 'I have made up my mind to one thing,' says Vera, throwing back her head with a rather haughty gesture, ' that I am nothing to Captain Ffrench, and never can be. Married to him I aw—that cannot be undone—bub thab marriage shall never force mo upon a man who clearly enough gave m e —you all—bo understand from the firsb bhab he did not want me. Thab ab leasb has been plain to me for a very long time. •Ib is such a pity ! After all, it was not necessary, as things turned oub. No one need ever have known of thab nighb at Shaddeck—and you were such a young bhing—too young to be compromised. I think the marriage was a mistake.' • I think ib was a frightful, an irreparable mistake, Dot—a mistake that will utterly spoil two lives. No, nob spoil—l shall never let ib do thab for mo, bub for him— poor fellow —' 'Ah ! you pity him, and wo all know to what pity is akin. Who knows ? ib may come all right yeb, and you used to be —' lOh ! Dot, my eisber, do nob say ib—do nob ever say that again. I have suffered, I have been fit to die of shame; lam still, when 1 think of ib. To know bhab I was forced upon him, thab*ho was obliged bo marry me; to know how he musb have despised mo, as half fool, half knave ! Dot! Dob !I go wild sometimes 1 If I could die to give him back his liberty, to undo that day's work, I would die this hour !' She walks up and down the room, and wrings her hands. Her grey school dress hangs in straight folds about her, with something of a classic air—her pale face, her wild words, the intense expression of hor eyes, Rive her tho look of a tragedy queen. Ib strikes Dora in that light, and she laughs. ' My dear child, if you could do ib half as well whon you graduate you will bring down the house. You look like Ristori in " Mario Stuart." It is never of any use regretting anything iv thab tragic manner; high-flown feelings are oub of place in the ape we live in, and passions, you know, were never made for the drawing-room. We will sco whab can be done. If you wish it, and he wishes ib, and, considering everything, thab sorb or marriage should nob be irrevocable. If he is in New York I will see him and talk it over. Now I will say good-bye until July.' So Dora goes, and returns to the city, and thab very nighb, as ib chances, at Wallack's, sees Captain Ffrench. Ho comes in with some other men, and takes his place in the stalls. Dora leans from, her box, and gazes ab him. How brown and manly he is, how silently and gravely he watches the proeress of the play. He has not changed at all, except thab three years tinder a Southern sun have deepened tho tints of his already brown skin. 1 Who is thab tall, distinguished-looking man ?' a lady near her asks, and she listens curiously for the answer. ' That is Captain Ffrench, of the Honduras Expedition, famously clever fellow. Have you seen his new book, "Among; the Silver Mines?" Bub you don't read bhat sorb of thing. So Fame has found him out—has Fortune ? Bub ib is nob likely ; she is much slower of foob than her vapory sister. Next day Captain Ffrench receives a note from the widow of his step-father. Tho result is that he presents himself in the middle of the afternoon, and is ushered into her presence. Dora winces a little under the steadfast gaze of those strong grey eyes, and is acutely conscious that she is reddening under her rouge. She flings back her head defiantly—somehow she is always belligerent with this man. It is not exactly a pleasant interview, al-

though a silent onoon the gentleman's parb. He lets her do pretty noarly all the talking, sitting toying with a paper-knife, and keeping throughout tho same silently grave look that struck her laet night). After all, he is changed, too; thab old, easy, insouciant dash of former days is gone; ib is a very thoughtful, earnest-look-ing man who sits before her. ' I have just come from Vora,' she says, thab defiant ring still in her voice ; 'ib is from her I learned that tlje expedition had returned. She saw ib by chance in the newspapers.' ' She is well, I trust ?' he says, quietly. ' Quite well, thanks, and so grown, and so differonb from the Vera of threo years ago. In every way—in—every—way, Captain Ffrench 1' she says, slowly and emphatically. He looks at her quostioningly. ' She was a child then, younger than her years. She is a woman now, and older than her years. She has learned to think for herself. And the result of that knowledge is thab the memory of her marriage is spoiling her life.' 11 never doubted thab tho result would be otherwise,' ho responds, in the same quiet tone. •It was a mistake, a fatal miatak'e—l see thab now. She did nob know what she was aboub ; she regrets ib most bibterly. She would give her life—she told me so—to bo free.' • 'I do nobdoubbib.' ' You take ib very coolly,' Dora says, stung to anger. ' Have you nothing more bo say than this ?' He recalls thab morning ab Shaddock Lighb, when she stood before him, flashing ' angry defiance, as she is doing now, and asking the very same question. A slight smile dawns on his face at the supreme inconsequence of the female mind. ' Permit) me to remind you, madam, that from first to last I am nob to be held responsible in this matter. It was you who insisted it was my duty to marry Vera ; it was you who asked her to marry me. Whatever comes of thab marriage ib ia you who shall look to ib. I positively decline to have the blame shifted on my shoulders. Why you insisted upon ib Heaven only knows. In the light of later events — your marriage '—the strong, stoadfasb eyos bring the angry blood to her cheeks once more—' I confess I cannot see your motive. I am in no way a .desirable parti. I am a poor man, and likely to remain so. I have no time to make money, if I had tho inclination. I lead a wandering lifo ; I have no prospects. No, Mrs Charlton, I am at a loss to understand your objecb in insisting, as you did, on this marriage. And, after having insisted upon it, to try to shift tho blamo of spoiling your sister's life upon me, is a littlo too much. You made the match, Mrs Charlton—you must boar the blame.'

Sho sits silenb, beating an angry devil's tattoo with her foot, two hob, rod spots on her chocks. What ho says is so bluntly, hatefully, uncompromisingly true. 11 should like to see Vera,' he suddonly says. 'You dannob see her,1 Dora answers, angrily, glad to thwart him ; ' she doea nob wish to sco you. She is still at school, and studying hard to graduate. She refusod to writo to you from the first—you may infer from that how her sentiments have changed.' ' Yes,' he says coolly ; ' tho change is remarkable, indeed.' I You intimate thab she was in love with you,' Mrs Charlbon goes on, st-ill more angrily ; ' well, sho never was !It was a girl's foolish fancy for tho only young man she know.' A sarcastic smilo curves Captain Ffrench's moustached mouth. • She was not in lovo with you, Captain Ffrench, either then or ever. Ho rises. I 1 have an engagement at five,' he says, still wit!) perlecb composure. 'Is there anything rnoro, Mrs Charlton ?' ' Are you going to remain in New York ?' ehe asks. ' For this month, yes.' ' And then ?' An amused look comes into his face. ' Your intoroso does mo honour. Then I go to Cuba.' 'To join tho war?' she cries, eagerly— 'to fight for Cuba?' 'To fight for Cuba. Fighting and engineering are my trades, you know.'Her face clears up. What a short cub this is—how oasy a way of severing tho Gordian knot. A man goes to the wars, and the chances are fivo to one against his ever coming back. And to Cuba of all places, where malaria lays more low than Spanish bullets. Climato and bullets he canno.i both escape, a boneficont Providence will never permit it. Thi9 Ffronch is jusb the sort of reckless dare-dovil to lead forlorn hopes, and storm breaches, and head mad cavalry charges. Go to Cuba 1 why, it is tho very thing of all things sho would have desired. Her taco lights up so swiftly and brightly that he laughs outright as he turns to go. He reads every thought sho thinks. ' Good-bye, Mrs Charlt,on. Say ib bo Vera for me, will you, and toll her nob to make herself unhappy about bho foolish past. A ball, or a fever, may end ib all, and will be better every way than the divorce court. Once more, adieu.' So he goes, still laughing, bub in his secreb heart, hurt, sore, impabienb. He does not blame Vera—tho change was inevitable ; only bhab she should blame him, should hate him, is nob so easy to bear. ' She was such a dear little soul, too,' he thinks, regretfully; 'so frank, so true. Why, her very name means true, " fond and faithful." And she has grown up like her sister, no doubt, wibh powder and painb on her face, shallow of soul, and artificial of manner. Yes, Cuban fevers or Spanish bullets aro better than that.' July comes, and with ib Vera back to Charlbon for the firsb time since she left it. Green and lovely ib lies under the midsummer sun, its rosea in bloom, it 3 brees in leaf, its fruits ripening on the laden branches. Dora ha 3 changed, and enlarged, and improved it, bub nothing she sees is so much changed as herself. St. Ann's, sloepy as ever, lies blistering in. the white heat, the black water slipping about its rotting wharves, and Sunday stillness in its grass-grown streets, as of yore. Yonder is Shaddeck Light. The tide ebb 3, and the tide flows, and the little grey cabin stand 3 lonely, and dropping to decay on its wind-beaten, wave-washed rock. Up there is the white church on the hill, with its tall gilb cross Hashing in the sun, where she drove one August morning, and Captain Dick pub a wedding ring on her finger—bho ring she has never worn. Here is bhe summor-houoo where she crouched in her agony of shame, and heard bhe truth from merciless lips. Here is his room, or the room thab used to bo his—ib is Mr Dane Fanshawe's now—and the litter of pipes of all sorts, the litter of sidearmß and firearms of all nations, tho litter of books, scientific, mathematical, with hero, and there a Dickens," or a Thackeray or an Irving peeping out — have all been swept away"to the attic. Only Eleanor Charlton's portrait, oddly enough.remainp, the head in crayons, broughb from Shaddeck Light. Ib hangs over bhe mantel, and smiles with grave sweetness on the slumbers of the man Dob delights bo honour. Vera visits the room shortly after her arrival, a muscular chamber-maid playing propriety and making the bed, and looks ab ib musingly. Poor Nelly, gentle Nelly, patient Nelly, where is she now? When lasb Vera heard from her she had gone with a family bo travel in Europe, and perhaps has not returned. She stands abstractedly gazing ab the picture, and sbill before ib Mr Dane Fanshawe finds her, as he unexpectedly appears. ' I thought you bad gone with Deb,' Vera

says, wibh a nervous little laugh, and moving away. • Shall I apologise tor this intrusion ?' 1 Not ab all—my apartment is honoured. lam going with Dot—l mean Mrs Charlton —bub I forgot my gloves. You are looking at that portrait Vhe says, suddenly. ' You knew her ?' 1 Oh, very well—dear, quiet, pretty Eleanor! Is ib nob a sweeb face, Mr Fanshawe ?' He does not answer at once. He stands and looks at ib, and something like a moody shade darkens his face. 4 Ib is very well done,' be says, afber that pause. ' Who was the artist V 'An amateur, I believe,' Vera answers, moving to tho door. • Yes, ib is very like.' 'I wonder why they lefb ib here?' Something odd in his tone makes her look at him. His face is generally most gracefully blank of all expression, bub ab presenb it wears an expression that puzzles Vora. ' Because, I suppose, ib seemed to belong here of rig-lib. The gentleman who sketched ib lodged in thia room. If you objecb to it, Betsy can take ib away—l should very much like to have ib.' 'By bo means,' he says, hastily : ' I prefer to ccc ib there. A pretby face, on Bristol board or off, is always a dosirable possession. And I liko the room as Mrs Charlton has arranged it.' Vera frowns, and goes. His old manner has quita returned, and she does nob like thab old manner nor the man himself. He is here wibh half a dozen other summer guests, bub he is here with a difference. She knows all ; the marriage is to take place in September, and she is jealous and provoked. The first shock of surprise is over, bub she cannob reconcile herself to it. Why need Dob marry 1 Why can they two nob live togebher all their lives, and be all in all to each other, withoub any obnoxious husbands coming between ? And if he were the right sort of man, a manly man, nob an idle vaurien, caring only for Dob's forbune ! Vera has an image in her mind, her ' man of men' once and always, and very unlike this languid, handsome dandy. To think of Dob's falling in love with a perfumed coxcomb, with golden locks, parted down the middle, eyes thnb look half asleep, and an everlasting lassitude and weariness upon him that makes her long to box his oars!

'I wonder if a sound box on the oar would rouse him ?' sho thinks, irritably : 'we would both be happier and better if I could administer it. Whab can Dot see in a scented fop like that V Dot soes in him nob a whib more than there is to see—his thoughts are her thoughts, his world her world, his intellect hers. She idealises him nob at all, but he suits her. And she means to marry him. • Doob ho know aboub the will?' Vera asks one day ; ' about the estate going to —Captain Ffrench at —you —when you—' •No !' Dora said sharply. ' VVhy should I tell him ? Whab a fool I was, to be sure, in that, as in the other thing.' 'I think he oughb to know,'Vera says, slowly. ' And why ?It is no business of his. I am rich, and I am going to marry him— that is enough for him. Do you think he is marrying me for my money ?' Vera ia silent—there are times when truth need nob be put in words. IHe is not!' Dora exclaims, irritably; 'ho is no fortune-hunter. And if he is it serves him right to—not to know. I shall nob tell him. Let him find oub for himself.' Mr Fanshawe does find oub, and very quickly, naturally after the marriage. He makes the discovery during the honeymoon trip, and whab ho thinks his bride knows not; thab cxpVessionless face of his stands him in good stead. Ho is too indolont to exorcise himself much over the inevitable at any time. > ' I must make all tho more hay whilo the sun shines,' he thinks, if he thinks at all. ' She is rich, and sho is my wife now. Ido nob think she is likely to livo long, and after that—well.aftor thab I shall bo able to say at least, *' Come what will, I have been blessed." If site will have luxuries she must pay for them.' This sounds heartless put into worda.but Mr Dane Fanshawe is by no means a heartless sorb of fellow—not robustly bad, indeed, in any way, nob unkind, nob inabtontivo, not, for the matter of thab, without a sort of liking for the rich widow ho had made his wife. That is bo say ab first, for with time came change. Dora is exacting, and Dane is not disposed to inconvenience himself to please her. He spends too much monoy, ho stays oub too lato, ho comes homo in the small hours, reeking of cigars and wine, he givos champagne suppers, he plßys monte and faro, he gambles horribly in fact. Ho has just one passion outsido his intenso lovo of self—gambling. She is nob long in finding it out, and money he will have. Love spreads his rosy pinions and take 3bo flight. There are scenes, recriminations, tears, hysterics in the nuptial chamber. Dora scolds shrilly, passionately ; calls him a brute, stamps that tiny foot of hers, and protests she will deserb him, will divorce him, hates him. wishes Bha had been dead before she ever married him. Mr Fanshawe listens coolly sometimes, smilingly often, pleasantly always, and when very much disguised in — cigars — laughs, a feeble, maudlin laugh, or sitß down on the side of the bed and sheds tears, or drops off, in a limp and imbecile way, asleep with his boots on, according to the strength and quantity of the—cigars. Bub bheso are bhe intervals. For months together sometimes things go smoothly, and Mr Fanshawe is the lazily graceful, languidly agreeable gentleman of tourist days, as polite to Dora as though she were some other man's wife. And through ib all Mrs Fanshawe hides the disgraceful bruth from her sister. Vera has always disliked bhe man and the marriage, and that 'I told you so' look is about the most disconcerting any human face can wear. Dora has n. profound respect for her stately sister, so sensible always, as sensible, indeed, as though she were nob a pretty woman, and who does nob look as though under any combination of circumstances, late hours, or heady cigars, she could scold, or stamp, or go into hysterics, She ia very much admired in Washington society that first winter; has a number of admirers, and one offer. They go to Europe in the spring—Vora is a good American, but she feels she must see Paris before she dies—must see Venice, Naples, Vienna, Rome—mosb of all Rome. Ib is the dream of her life, and Dora indulges her. Dora indulges her in all things ; thab old sisterly love, the one puro, unselfish thing iv Dora's meagre, selfish life i 3 stronger than ever. It rests and comforts her to come to Vera after one of these stormy scenes with her indiSerent husband. Her health is failing, too, she needs travel and change; the heart trouble of her youth is more troublesome than ever. So they go, and Vera, happier than mosb of us, has the desire of her heart, and does not find ib turn to dusb and ashes in her mouth. Paris, Venice, Rome, she sees them all—she grows brighter, healthier, handsomer, every day. If the memory of the man to whom she is married ever crosses her thoughts Dora does not know it. She never speaks of him. Bub taking up a homo paper one day she reads tnere of the capture of Las Tunas, and among tho' list of mortally wounded is the name of Captain Richard Ffrench. He i had fought like a lion, and had fallen with a ballet through the heart. There is a grand ball to be that night, and a superb toilet has come home for Vera, but she does nob wear it, does not go. She is deadly pale when Dora meets her nexb, bub if she suffers she makes little sign. She goe3 on with her lifo jusb the same and hides her heart jealously from all the world. Bub the next mail contradicts the report—it is nob death, only a bad

wound—a ball through the lung, not the heart. Richard Ffrench is not dead, or going to die. Dora watches her with great interest and curioaity, but is baffled. Dying or living, they can hardly be more asunder than they are, but why did he not die ? It would be so much more comfortable every way ! In the spring of the second year they return to London, intending to remain until July and then go home. And this June night—morning rather—Dora Fanshawe stands smiling under the chandelier, and holding out one diamond-ringed hand to Colonel Richard Caryl Ffrench. (To be continued Next Wednesday.)