THE NOVELIST.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 5660, 19 October 1889, Page 5 (Supplement)

THE NOVELIST.

WHO'S the NOBLE ?

(BY JANE G. FULLER.]

CHAPTER XII

It was night again, deep and solemn in tho solitary log-houKO among the Alloghanies. Clouds had boon gathering all day in the heavens ; tho wild poplar-trees beforo the door trem! led strangely, as if touched with>oir.e sudden foreboding!'; and now, as tho shadows of evening fell, the old pines sent up a loud wail, like a voice of the unrest from the hoary forest.

Milly Maaon Imdlingered through tho day in the same dull, senseless state; and when toward evening Doctor Alton enmo again, ho declared there wiis no longer ft shadow of hopo for her. A few hours more would put a period to her Mifferinge. Those who have heard a similar declaration know well thu gloom and awo it spreads over a. household, even though it be but an audible response to tho whisper within our own hearts.—something which we felt and knew beforo, but could not acknowledge. As Joseph Mason looked around on the fear-stricken group within his darkened home, then on the pallid, uncoaeciou" face of his wife, all the feelings of the husband and father were stirred in his heart..

' Will she liover know and speak to us again—never?' he said, laying , his hand tenderly on her forehead. • Woe to tho day that we left her alono 1' . ~.,..

' I think it very possible there, will be a return of reason before death," replied tbo kind-hearted pbysiciau. ' I have sometimes known cases where every event of life seemed to pass before the miudlike a moveing picture. But I think,' he added, taking out his watch, ' she cinnot last longer than midnight.' Mrs Byrney—which is tho'true- name of the disguised woman—had been unwearied in her care of the poor sufferer. If the kindest attention of friend or slater could havo nursed tho expiring embers of life into a name again, Mason's wife would have revived. Even when tho last ray of hope was extinguished, she persevered in her efforts to restore her, leaving no romedy untried which her active thoughts suggested; and when everything failed, she still arranged and re-arranged her pillows in a way calculated to promote easy respiration, while Doctor Alton stood holding her pulse, counting by hie watch its feeble strokes. ' There is some change here.' be remarked at length—' a softening , or yielding of tho muscular organs. Hold tho candle near tho eyes, and"see if there be visual life yet. It is as I thought,' he continued, observing v slight tremor iv the eye-lids, as if they would have shielded the dim orbs. ' Nature is making , one more rally. , Maeoi. took tho light himself, and sat dowu by the bedside to wait for some change, which, whatever it might be, would be a relief from that long, strange lethargy. Chill shuddere began to creep over Mrs Maeon's face ; then there was a slight motion of the fingors and a tremulous stir of the lips. ' Is she better now, Father Mason V asked littio Maud, who had crept close to her side, and was watching, awe-struck, tho features of the dying woman. ' Does she know us ?' ' I don't know, my child. Speak to her if you like.' Maud shrank back:'a little, when her father took her hand and laid it on the cold forehead ; then the child, putting her fnco .close to the woman's, said: 'Do you kuow us, Mother Mason ? lam very sorry you are sick.' The suund of her own voico frightened Maud, and she ran and hid herself in William's bosom. A. low sob was soon heard from the lips of the sick woman. ' Milly,' said her husband. 'wo aro all near you. Can you not see us P Speak to us if you can, Milly.' She made au effort, but the worda were inaudible. Doctor Alton put some wine to her lips. She swallowed a littio, closed her eyes, and lay for a few minutes perfectly n'ujet; then opened her eyes, and looked around on every person in the room with au appearance of entire consciousness. ' Who is it ?' she whispered, faintly, to her husband, who still retained his seat beside her. fehe fixed her eyes as she spoke on Dr. Alton. ' A kind doctor from town,' he replied. 'We sent for him because you were very eiuk, Milly.' ' What does ho say of me V she asked.

Mason hesitated, turning- an enquiring glance upon tho physician, who bowed to him to inform her of tho truth. 'Ho thinka—he ie afraid you cannot live losig, Milly. And oh !we are so thankful you can speak to us once more. - If you have anything you wish to say, my dear wife, tho tiino is short.' She did not seem in tho least startled by the information, but motioning Dogtor Alton to her bedside, suid : ' How Jong shall I live probably ?' Hβ looked at her earnestly, examined her pulse once more, and replied : ' Two hours, perhaps. , •Is that all ?' she askod. ( It is a ghQrt time. Send for the witch, Joseph. 1 have business with her.' * Do you know who she is, Hilly 'i aeked her husband. ' Have you the least suspicion r" ' Yes ; a spy from Luceyford. I know her. It must be the woman who nursed Lady Lucey at tho old Hall, though I haven't seen her since we crossed the ocean. Fetch her, quick, Joseph, for I have come things for her !' The woman of whom fiho was speaking had retired to the other end 6i the room ' with the first Mgn of intelligence exhibited by Mason's wife, lest another shock should , hasten her end. ! ' fche is in the. house now, Milly, , sajd Mason rising. ' Shall I bring her to you ?' .Receiving an affirmative reply, ho went, and in a moment the quondam witch was standing by the bedside, holding out her hand to tho dyicg woman, it was grasped eariit'stly, and Mason's wife regarded Mrs Byrney with a look of the keenest scrutiny. •Do you kno*- me, Milly Ma.son, in my changed dress ?' Mrs IJyrney asked. ' Your husband didn't recognise me.' 'He bad less reason than I. Hie breast ie as clean and as jnuocent as a baby's '. Don't you suspect my husband, , she said, imploringly. ' Let the guilt all rest on my own head, where it belongs. lam not strong enough to tell tho whole story ; but make your'statiiinents, and I will assent to what i» true. Let me ask you first if you took out of my box some papers r' ' I did,' replied her listener. 'It did not belong with the other things, madam. I toll ye truth now ! I that dying womiui to Bond them to her brother ; but in tho strait, it was not done. I was afraid thoy would come aud take away the child, and then my revenge would {,-ttve been defeated. But you we, that pro/nice has worried my mind ever since, more than all the rest. I want the papers tseut now, Will you send them r' Mrs Byrney promised, but taid : • Is it the brother of the woman who died at your house to whom thosn papers are directed, did 1 understand you '(' ' She said it herself.' replied Mason s •wife; though t>he did not tell her own name.

' This is unexpected,' said Mrs Byruey ; | ' and Btranger than all! What itn astonishing revelation it will bo lo poor Murray ! You solemnly affirm, woman, that the paper* were put in trust by the* •lying , woman 'r' * As.true ac God in truo, before -whom I expect soon to appear. • I know that ail'air would cost me my sou!, but if I had hiul a dozen to lose instead of one, I would have given them or my revenge.' ' Oh, Milly, don't talk so now !' said her husband. ' What was the dreadful deed you could do, and l not know it ?' ' Send away tliu children, Joseph. I canuot bear to have my children hear the story.' They went as the desired ; then t-iie said to Mrs Byrney« ' Now make your accusation, and tell why you have been creeping like a serpent over thetio hills, and living in tho 'Devil's Cavet" • 1 caiue to find Lord Lueey'a child, that you toyky.way from its cradle in ;tho nu rßer y eleven yenxtJ iigo, levying a stranger ch'ld in its place. What could have been your motive, woman for so inhuman an act i"'

' He was proud, and never thought poo folks had feelinjrs like hixnself ; btit that wasn't it either. He drove us from the mill, and gave the lease to Dick Smith instead of us ; and it did me good to see his flesh and blood as poor as ours.' ' Ob, Milly ! Milly !' said her distressed husband. 'You didn't do so dreadful a deed, did you ?' 1 1 did it, »nd am hardly sorry. But how came you to suspect me, Mrs Byrney ?' • I scarcely kuow what gave me the first suspicion. I didn't see you at the Hall tho night' the Lady Ellen died, neither was I quite sure the child was changed, for it. was to young I hadn't taken much notice of its looks; but when I tat by my window tho night after the funeral, and saw the light shining from your cottago window down by tho river, something seemed to whisper : ' Your child is there.' I did not think it was po, however, but thought tho fancy had got into my head by hearing , the servants tell about tho etrnuge woman that died at your house, and the little infant she left to

your care. ' I tried not to think much about it, for we were nearly crazed with grief and excitement at the Hall, but every day afterwards the samo idea would haunt me. I told Lord Lucey everything I knew respecting the change of garments, every circumst'inco of my leaving the child asleep for a few minutes while the lady .-was dying, and going back and finding it in a peasant's dress, but did not bint that Ihad other sue-' picione. He took tho baby, kissed it, and said: ' The things are not of much consequence, but the. circumstances are,very strange, Do not leave her alone again, lest something worse befall her.' , ..■ . ' It pleased mo to discover that be had ho suspicions of a darker deed already practised, but I could not banish my own mistrust. Whenever at evening 1 saw your light it oppressed me painfully. . After a few days I heard you were going to emigrate, and then I determined to see your foster-cliild, .thinking that the sight of the beggar baby might relieve me of the troublesome idea that possessed my mind. Perhaps you may remember my call at yoiir cottage; but that visit served only to increase my previous suspicions. "When I.stole a look into the cradle, the dark, shining eyes of Lady Ellen seemed to look up to me reproachfully, and I went home more puzzled than before, but not daring to speak to any human being my worst fears and thoughts. • Time paseed very slowly, with me then, I but every month and year made our little girl fairer and more beautiful. No eye, howover, could ccc the least resemblance to her lost mother; and old Parson Krving, whose mind was all broken up after Ellen's death, enid she had Atherton features, aridineisied she was the first Lady Lucey's daughter. ' My convictions became so strong at last that I made up my mind to follow you to America, to obtain the child if possible. It was a long, doubtful search. No one but, Ben Mason, your cousin, who worked at the mines, had over heard a word from you, as I could learn. He told mo you were somewhere in Pennsylvania, and I set out alone, telling no one my errand, *vhich way I was going, or whether I ever meant to comeback. Somo people said I was crazed, and should squander away all the little fortune I had ; but I did not heed them. .Hived but for one object. ' I crossed the ocean and reached Philadelphia in autumn. After travelling in the vicinity fora time I went back theie and wrote to as many postmasters asil could learn for information of Joseph , Mason, enquiring also of every stranger and backwoodsman I met. But the spring came, and with a hundred answers to my enquiry, there was no reliable information. Then 1 started, resolving to visit in person every new settlement in my power during the summer, or until I had accompliehed raj purpose. I dared not advertise, lest it should meet Mason's eye, and awaken suspicion of my search. " The whole summer and a part of the autumn I travelled here, there, and everywhere, in an unavailing quest, and was almost resolved to give it over, when, examining the records of a town near here, a gentleman who happened to hear mv enquiry told me he knew a person of the name I sought, describing hie locality asjnearly as possible. He said it was just in the neighborhood of tho ' Haunted Cave,' a place far-famed among the mountains. . . ,:• , ' ' I asked him many questions, and obtained from him much information respecting this region. He told me all the foolish traditions ho had ever heard connected with the cavern, and of the demons and witches who were said to haunt it. It was just what I wanted, aud I resolved to make use of the superstition for the furtherance of my own object, provided you proved to be the family I was seeking. ' Taking a carriage, with a driver who was familiar with the unfrequented mountain road«, I went forth to reconnoitre, stating that I was a foreign traVeller, and wished to see us much as possible of the back country, especially of tho scenery of tho mountains. In the first place, I would visit the gave in thorock.

'Ho drove me directly to this clearing. Down on the banks of the river wo saw Joseph Mason and his two sons at work. I recognised him in a. moment, but kept my veil drawn close, lest I might bo known. After Ipaving our carriago a<; th.c nearest point, aud toiling up "to the oavorn, which I examined vory carefully, we returned, and I next ordered the driver to the log-house, for a drink of water—ft mere pretext for further observation. Three little girls were at play under the trees bofore the door, and when they turned their eyes upon the carriage, I selected the daughter of Lord Luoey in a minute. Her face was just liko Ellen Erviug's in her childhood, and as I was gazing in (surprise and pity on her little bent figure, I heard voice call her, the smallest, weakest of the three, to bring water from tlie spring. I could not get away the child tbeu, that was evident, but my course was on; I would go away and perfect it- '" ' ' ■-".'..■

' All that winter I went not near tho spot again, but spent the season in Philadelphia obtainim? disguises, and practising tho uew and repugnaat character I was to assume; but not for a long time dared I trust myself alono in that solitary haunt. I went in June, however, resolving living or dying, to get the child. 1 knew well, even before asking counsel, that no law could aid me, without some eort of evidence besides the evidence of my own. wanees ; and I would obtain by stratagem what I could uot do by law, The world thought me crajsy ; my own friende had long believed me so; and I knew well, had I asked help of the Earl of JLucey, he, too, would havo inclined with tho multitude ; so I resolved to suffor and labor alone, I was around you come time, making my observations, bsfore I appeared to tho children, aud knpw'ell thp abuse and cruelty heaped on the innopeut chjld : but Joseph Mason stands acquitted of iutoutional wrong. , 1 Tine! true!' gasped tneexpinngwoman. ' Never tell the Btory to my children. I inoant to tell you how I got Maud, but cannot now. Take her back to tho Hall. And the papers—don , t forget. The poor woman —1 shall soon meet her—'

The words of the erring woman were lost iv a low gurgle. Dr. Alton whispered that she was going. ' May J lenven pardon her !' exclaimed the half-distracted husband. ' I was the fit st in fault, Milly,' he said, taking her hand and binding over her. ' Milly, 1 was the oause of your great temptation and sin. Forgive me, as 1 will hope and pray that you may be forgiven.' He felt a feeble pressure of the hand, then the cold fingers relaxed their hold, and grew stiff forever!

It was over at lust; and that midnight storm reached not the ears of the Biniul woman ; it spout its fury on the old pints, and they sent back a wild, lioaree melody on the wings of tho night. But the tempest of that autumn midnight was weak compared with the conflict and anguish within the heart of Joseph Mason. To see himself dishonored thus by the wife ho had choriehed, and in spite of all her faults, loved also—to see her pass away thus, with all her sin heavy and unrepeujjed of, seemed more than he could endure.. Tho children rout tbo cottage with their lamentations; they had nevpr eeen death before. But the most affecting of all was, to sco little Maud, after gazing for a moment in silorice on the unconscious clay, eteal softly near and kiss the cold cheek, and cay : 4 When my poor mother was dead like

her, she gave me a home, and I had no other. .

Mrs Byrnty led the child gently iiway, for tho sound of her voice opened tho stormy fonutaiu of Father Mason's grief, and he wept aloud. *** • ■ *

Down by the river-side beneath the giant old trees, they made the grave of Milly Mason. There was no priest, no burial service—none : to lift the veil from her faults, or point the moral of the human heart's weakness in its struggles with dark temptation. Mrs Byrnoy" closed her eyes, and wrapped her in a winding-sheet, while Mason and his two young sons made the grave with their own hauds, and laid within it, eorrowimrly and reVerontly, tho body of the unhappy wife and mother.

CHAPTER'XtiI.

We 1( ft Mr Murray and Ellon in the old church-yard of Lunoyford. The shadows had deepened and darkened when they retraced their steps through its silent paths, jcllen held his band very firmly, for somehow a,littio of tho shadow had stolen into her sensitive young heart. She never saw Mr. Murray look so sad before, and thought perhaps it was'because she asked him. of his sister. He led her along in silence, unheeding the enquiring, regrettullookashodirected to him. • .

They passed the lonely mound again, near the church-yard gate, iind took the path to the rectory. ; John was there waiting with beJVOwn littlecarriage; theaightof his broad smiling face was a relief to the somewhat nervous child. • . .

* Your father was you would walk too far this afternoon* my.young lady,' he said, letting down the steps as she drew near. • Would you like to so home now V , «If: Mr Murray will be so kind as to say ' good-night' for me to grandpa ?' and sho looked up into his face enquiringly. 'Yes,' he replied, I will. ; I think you had better go now, for the dew ia falling , , I will come in the morninjr and take tho landscape you wished fora copy.' ,■ He lifted her into the carriage, and said, in a graver way than usual she fancied. • Good-night, dear Ellen?"

'Good-night, Mr Murray,' she; replied, then added, almost in a whisper,:' I have not displeased you, I hopo ?' ; • No, darling; lam sorry if I made you think so, but! cannot explain to-night.. God bless you.!: •.■■■•■ < i -He closed the carriage door, then opened the gate and walked toward the house. : Lord Luoey was sitting in the open gallery of the Hall l when his daughter joined him, and took her customary plaoo at his side. ~ ! •..".. ... ..-.:■ ■. ,

• Do yoa remember nurso Byrney, Ellen ?' he enquired, after a word of two of endearment. ■■ ■■* ■"■

' Yes, a little,' she said ; but you know it is some years sinco she went away, papa. Have you heard from her?' ; ' I have had a letter to-dtiy.' Sho says she hopes to come back here sometime, and explain why sho left us. Where do you think she is? .

' I don't care vory much :. for I remember she always made me feel unhappy. I think sho nover was very fond of me.' . ' She enquires very tenderly for youneverthelese. Bhe is in the backwoods of America, somewhere amongthe AHeghany mountains, and has written me a. very singular letter, ■ though every one believed her a little crazed before sho went away. You don't recollect the Masons, do you, Ellen,.who formerly lived at the mill, down there where you see the light at this moment V ..-.. ,:./•■ 'No, air! -I thought John's brother always lived there. I mean,' she added, smiling, ' always since-1 can remembor.' 'Let me see. You must have.been very young when they left; indeed,.countingthe years, I am not certain you. wero born. Idid not think it was so long since I made Joe quit tho place. IJe was a lazy fellow and his wife a perfect Amazon., Mrs Byrney writes that they live in the neighborhood where she is stopping, and Joe is now doing well; but she has something to oommuiiicato respecting the family that will occasion me great surprise, and winhee to prepare my mind for it. Hα! ha! ha! Perhaps Joe has tamed a wild-oat or ehpt an eagle!'

That night Ellen dreamed strange dreams of her mother, of Mr Murray and his sister Agnes. Again, in imagination,. she asked him for her mother's friend, and he looked sadly upon her, shook his head, and replied, as before: 'I do know. , :

The next morning Mr Murray made his appearance at the Hall earlier than usual. It was his custom now to spend an hour or two of every day there. At first he- was drawn thither by urgent invitations from the earl, who had known his, father well, was well pleased with the spoiety and companionship of tho son, whose genial maaners and acquirements made him a deserved favorite. As little Ellen grow from infancy to intelligent girlhftod, the aft-repeated invitation wag no. longer needed. Something, either in her manners, or else her attachment to him, had from tho first wrought with irresistible power on the sober, thoughtful student. He never grew weary of her thousand questions : would often ninu'ao her for hours by drawing pinturf.s, of which she was particularly fp?id, or in teaching , hor to rofvd, greatly to the gratification of the old earl, her father. At longth the entire supervision of her ehildlish etudies fell on him, for the child would hear of no other teachor. Lord Lucey told Murray of hie daughter's determination on tho subject of a new tutor, and he declared he would have opposed it is obstinately an Ellen herself. Thus the matter was settled, to tho apparent satisfaction of all.

In assuming the care of little Ellen Lucey's etudies, the young clergyman, left no duty unperformed. He found time for evory •good word and work,' and his presence gladdened no less the bum,b.ta cottage.than the lofty Hall, After the morning , lessons were rehearsed, Mr Murray proposed sketohing the view from the park, for which Ellen had expressed a wish during their walk on the day previous. Sho took her portfolio and pencils, ran down to the library to give her old father a kiss and tell him what a charming new leeeon Mr Murray was going to give her, then joined her teacher, who was waiting at the door of the Hall.

They walked through' the court-yard, through the great iron park ga.te, and along the shaded avenue, until they reached tho spot where they rested tho day before. A fallen tree, which had been gathering moss for years, served them for a seat. It was a pleasant spot. Through tho opening they could see the little hamlet sleeping in the valley, and catch \a glimpse of tho silvery stream, with its tiny cascade turning the old mill: from thcuee watch its rneanderings through the meadows, far away to thesouthward, Murray went to work quietly, while Ellen studied the principal features of the landscape, querying much at what point ho would begin, or how uniny objects tho picture would embrace. But her doubt was soon put at rest. Mr Murray held up her lesson, and she saw with delight the oascade, the mill with its old grey wheel, and a few cottages standing out plainly on the white leaf before her.

•It is beautiful, Mr Murray, , she said, ' and, oh, so very natural! l)id some one teach you to dia'w pictures when you were young like mo, or was it a natural gift, as papa said of some great artist I was asking about r'

Murray smiled and said : ' When I was a boy, I used to go forth with my sister very often, among the hills that surrounded our home. She was very fond-of landscape sketching, and I imitated her (iopii's until my pictures almost equalled hers ; then wo became very happy rivals. I think I never told you how strongly you resemble my sister, Ellen. I remarked the likeness the first time I saw you, while you were yet an infant; it has grown so strong since, that I almost fancy, at times, her spirit has come back to me in the childhood of a new life. This is why, perhaps, 1 feel so much interested in your pursuits.' 'Is she dead theu'r' Ellen ventured-to■ ♦ If I knew,' he replied, «I should be far happier than I now am ; but I don't know, and doubt is a fearful thing", Edith !'_ ' How did you lo.so her, Mr Murray ? But don't tell me, pluaso, unless you like.' Ellen had not forgotten the effect of her enquiry the ovening proceeding. ' I will tell you, Ellen. She came to Luceyiord to visit your mother, before her mar-

riage.' Here she made the acquaintance of a srentleman who was staying , at the Hall, and Wtto, at the expiration of a weeit, asked her of our father in marriage. His suit was rejected, courteously but firmly, for he was

not a man to whom my father could intrust

the welfare of his only daughter. He resolved, therefore, to take Agnes home immediately, thinking that in the circle of her old friends, and in the discharge of home duties, she would soon forget the blandishments cf the fnsciHating stranger. The moinitig whs named for doparture, but when it came Agues was gone, withouta word for father or frionds. Every enquiry-;'wits vain ; they had baffled pursuit. Aud "after a month's weary, bewilderingqucst, my father wentliomeheart-hrokon, for Agnos had been his cart lily idol. .

♦ And was that all tho effort made to recover her?.'. Kllen asked, with a face on which sympathy with tho' speaker and interest i» thd .Trandctor wciv written with equal plainness. 'It was very cruel for her to so off so ; but, Ihen, she dill tho wrong; and therefore must have been thegreatest sufferer of you .-ill.' ■ . ■

' Her sufferings or her repentance aro known alone to Him who"' sceth in secret.' We hf.ird from her incidentally on the Continent, and I left, my stnilies, 'determined'to edo'hfer, or perish in'the' effort. Several months wm-o wnsted in unavailing search, I was suddenly recalled homo. My father was on his death-bed; my mother drooping at his side, without a murmur of complaint. They were both laid in the same grave. I took their words of undying love , and blessing for poor Agnes from their dyinc , ' and have treasured them until nowj; but "for what purpose P' i : ~ ' ' Dear Mr Murray,' said Ellen, dropping the pictured t'heot • sho was holding, and placing her hand affectionately in his, ' God will teach you what it nil menus sometime. lam glad you-have told me tho story.' <''.:■. 'Why are you glad, Ellen?'.he asked, grateful for- the unaffected Byrapathy of the. child, and curious to know what further thoughts might be hidden in her reflecting young mind. ■ ,:., ■ - :■ ' I shall understand you betteiy now I know what it is causes tho shadow to;comeover yon. at times,' eho said. ' ltmadeinoa little afraid before. , ; .•

; 'I sometimes forget that you are a child , Ellen, and that not oven the reflection of a shadow should heedlessly fall upon childhood. Think no more of ray Had story now; gaze 6hly on the sunshine.' " .-"; ■• :; . ,' But, Mr Murray, I do: not always see sunshine. Though I seem so very gay, strangely dark fancies often gat into mv mind. I dent understand why theyshould", unless it is because papa is getting old, and I have no one but him. Papa looks at me sometimes as if he might be seeing , the same shadows, but he never speaks of them, and I laujjh and frolic away until he is quite happy again; then go by myself, and think the same things alone!' ' " •-;

MtjMurray gazed on herearuest; thoughtful face. In tho clear depths of her grey eyes seemed mirrored tho thotight-fountaiusi he hud never yet sounded. Few think of dropping _a measure into the'-depths of a ohild's spirit •while the lily flouts on its 'surface. ■'■ '■■■' : - ' v- ■ ■•• i

■■' Ellen,' he said, thoughtfully, wrong, and I have been wrong, too!' ■ ' I caunot help it "she returned. ' Aft«r our walk last evening my mind was full of diemnl fatioies, and : when I rfept I kept dreaming , the queerest dreams .' Let me tell yon, one of them; dear Mr Murray. -Are you quite willing ?' •: '* Certainly, if you like; but I would'not have you think linich about dreams. Though they do of ten-times appear strange to us," they have their origin iv natural causes. , ' '"* So papa ''always eay.s ; but ar'n't they sometimes very strange, so unlike anything , we could ever imagine when awake? I will tell you'thtj ono I have thought most of since I awoke this morning. ■"* . -' I 'dreamed you and I nitido another visit to the church-yard, after a few days. If was dark' and lonely there, just ac it seemed last night. We stopped, and eat down for a moment besido that grave by the gate. Th« little flower I left there yesterday had ta>en root and grown up into a. tall shrub, vrhich hung full of the sweetest blossoms, all soft and white. While, wo wondered whose spirit had animated it, there fell suddenly a mist araundthe plant, and then-a young ami beautiful-looking kdy was standing close besido you, anil I was sitting on the other side. She spoke very and I heard her, cay, • Deur brother, lam sleeping here. I k»ow when you pass by me to tho church, and am happy. , Thon she kid her misty white hand on my head, smiled a pleasant smile, , and. vanished. I awoke chilled with fear, glad to see the first rays of sunlight peeping intu tho'old Hall windows, and to hear the robins sing ;■ but all the morning , I could not forget the dream, though I should never have told it, if you had not spoken of your wister again. Was it not a queer dream, Mr Murray f '. '.'""

'It was indeed, for a child like yon to dream , , Ellen, but I think the supernatural part may he ascribed to the uneasiness you felt there last night, and which, I fear, was occasioned by my own gloom and silence. It does not seem very singular that the thought of my sister and thu mystery of her fate should have linked themselves in your mind with tho tenant of that lonely grave. I am sorry for any disagreeable impression you have received, dear Ellen, feeling that I may have been the ■unintentional cause, but you must try to'think as little as possible about such things; they are not suited to your age. Ijeavo the shadows and the dreams to those whose lives ■- have bepn

darkened, and follow childhood's beokoning angels through tho bright paths which, when onoo left behind, we may return to no more. .

But though Murray thus counselled Ellen to think no more of dreams, it was not easy to dismiss it from hie own mind. Often during the day it recurred to him, and the more hu strove to banish it, the heavier it weighed upon him.

' I promised Ellen to ask the old gentleman something respecting: that grave,' he said, musingly. ' Sho seems to think so much about it, that I am getting infented with her interest. .

At tho tea-table that evening , the subject was not forgotten. While Mrs Bridges poured tea, Murray enquired of Mr Erving if ho remembered anything about the mound by the gate of the church-yard, and why it had been so neglected. ' Yes, yes !' suid the old man, putting his hand to his head, as his habit was whenstriving to recall any event. ' That new grave by the gate. I have its history, all safe, but do not seem to tbiuk of it at this very moment. Mrs Bridges,' he continued, ' what is it about that grave ? I hope I am not growing forgetful!' ' Lor sakes ! It's always tho way of him nowadays ! Such a mighty suliolard, too! themore's tho pity !' she murmured aside to Murray. Then drawing near to Mr Erviug, site said, with emphasis: ' Don't you remember how 'twas a. atrunger woman in these parts that died down at Joe Mason's house '( it was a terrible storm, just before our desr young lady died.' ' Ah, yes, I have all clear now,' said the poor, bewildered old man. ' True, you are right, Mrs Bridges. I knew there was something, remarkable about it. Ihava made a noto of it, and shall mention it in my sermon. ludeed. I think I have written the paragraph already, though I did not bury the woman. 'Tie a solemn time now in our little parish, Halph." 1 There !' exclaimed Mrs Bridges ;' do but hear h ; .m ! Eleven years are all one as so many days in his'mind now. Hje thinks all that's just taken place, and. 'tis why he will never know little Ellen when she comes. But that don't si»em very strange to me, after all. 1 don't hnrdly seem to know her myself any better. She hasn't ways at all like her mother, winsome as she is. 1 always feel co disappointed like -when I see her, and look for some manner like our own Ellen.'

' "We were speaking of tho woman who died at the cottage,' interrupted Murray. ' Did you know anything , about her?' ' All that anybody knew, qnd that wasn't much. It .was the dead of night when Joe Mason himself ca,mo up hero to tell that a stranger woman had just died at and he wanted Mr Erving to bury her vest day, and mo to go down that night *o4 help lay her out. But, as you litr Erving and I whs both up at the TsttM, so my sister, who was staying fyetQ then, w.ent instead of me. They said tho woman was crazy, and got (Fqr continuation see next pme.)

froze in the storm : bat my sister said she looked as poorty, when they got her laid out clean and white, as Ellen did. I don't think it, though, for that wasn't to be expected in a poor body like her. , ' Was she young,' Murray asked, ' like the Lady Ellen F ' Almcst; and yet they couldn't tell certain about her age, there weresuchdeep, sor-row-like lines on her face, poor thing ! It was a dreadful thing to die so and leave a little baby among strangers.' ' A baby !' repeated Murray. ' She left an infant, then : ' Yes. And Joe Mason's wife, in i-pite of all tho world said about her, opened her heart to it, and took it for her own child, and she carried it with her over tho ocean when they were so poor and Joe so luzy. Nobody would have thought such a thing of Milly Mason, and 'tisn't everybody who has got a bettor name that would have done the Christian deed.'

' Yes, yes, Mistress Bridges, two motherless children,' eaid Mr Krviug, musingly. ' I mentioned iho very wugulitr yrovideuco in my sermon. This is a world of sorrow and of changes, Ealph. , Murray nmdo no reply, but his head rested thoughtfully on iiis hand for some minutes. • I do not feel quite satisfied, Mrs Bridges, he eaid. ' Was nothing more ever known of thedtad stranger? <id she reveal nothing herself?' •Nobody was thero when she died, but just themselves. I went down after the burial, and they told me she was out of her head, and talked much and wildly about her 1 home, and so on. I cannot pretend to rei member all.' i ' Did she mention her name ?' I , ' Not a lif-p of it. She told Mason's wife to callthe child Maud or Madge, or some such name, and that's all I remember.' ;Mr Erving sat bowed complacently, dropping an occasional ' Tee, , or ' I remember,' until the housekeeper had told all she knew, then he said: ' You see, Ralph, wo keep familiar with parish history ; people often come to me for information.' :Mr Murray sat alone in his study that evening, striving to connect the broken, uncertain threads of the poor woman's history into a lengthened chain. ' Eleven years,'- ho whispered to himself. 'It ia more than that since wo lost trace of her. And how could she have happened to be here? Was it to seek aid of her father's friend ? Agnes Murray would never have (jone that; but they say the wanderer was crazed ! Poor Agnes J could it have been she, directing her weary steps towaril her own home far away among the pleasant hills? Could my beautiful aieter have fallen thus like a shorn lamb in the tempest ? And where was I then that I could not shelter her in these strong arms and save her ? No ! it was not Agnes. It was some other poor weak human wanderer, and not she! I should never have thought of it but for Ellen's dream. Silly child, to tell a dream! Yet, did she not bid them call the baby Maud ? That was our mother's name—the very mother whose heart she had broken ! I will go to America and seek the child— Agnes's child. I will blees and reward the poor people who gave it shelter, and take her home to my heart, as I would have done her mother. It is yearning for something j kindred to love. I have loved Lord Lucey's child better than any earthly object, only because she reminds me of Agnea. How, then, shall I cherish her own flesh and blood though it be the offspring of one who, but for my eacred calling, and the promise I gave tho dying , , long ere this had felt the vengeance of an injured brother. I cannot stay here; I must go, and leave this peaceful field, where 1 have co earnestly labored and struggled to keep in subjection the inward foe. I thought it was vanquished, but forgiveness of injuries deep as mine seems more than human. Forsake me not, oh G/od, when my strength faileth I , No slumber rested on the eyelids of the , agitated Murray that long night; not one moment of forgetfulnesa came to his aching heart. He paced his lonely chamber, wrestling with a lull tide of agonising memories. He threw himself on bis couch, groaning in bitterness of spirit. He clasped his hands convulsively, and prayed—oh, how earnestly ;—for calmness and submishion to the will of Heaven. But the air of his chamber seemed euffocating; his prayots there, he fancied, could not find room to soar. Then noiselessly he went forth, bearing his burning brow to the quiet influences of the night. The palemoon-shadows were fallingspiritliko over the ehrubbery and lawn. The snowy lines looked more stainlessly white in the night air, and the dew-drops with which they sparkled whispered to him of the glittering white robew which the spirits of the saints -wrill -wear in tie streets of the ' Evcrlaßttng City.' He clasped his hands upon hi» breast, and went forward. Above the yew-trees he saw the old church tower, and the moonlight seemed resting like a smile upon it, as it stood tiiere amid the graves, pointing upward, faith-like, like the holy words he had striven to utter from week to week. He went forward until ho reached the church-yard gate, which he softly opened. The same *<oft light u-se falling on the green mound near hy, revealing little Ellen's withered blossom. He knelt down beside the grave, and gazed upward with tearful eyes. The mighty etrugglo, the great temptation was gone ; it was one of those moments when manhood may weep, and gather strength for its manhood again. Ralph Murray did weep, and uttered broken. words of thanksgiving instead of prayer. When he went back to hie chamber the morning was breaking redly in tho East, and a new morning of hope and faith and patiencß had dawned in hie heart. [TO HB COKTINUKD. j