ACROSS THE FACE, OR THE SECRET OF OSMONDALE.

Evening Star, Issue 13004, 26 December 1906, Page 3

ACROSS THE FACE, OR THE SECRET OF OSMONDALE.

[All Eights Reserved.]

CHAPTER XVIL DBAD LETTERS. Osmondsle Hall seemed very dull and innbre to it* owner as he paced through it. Jut the dav would ccme when Kelly's sunny .presence would change all that. He looked into bis own drear, dingy room, and pictured his fair voung wife beside him. the sharer of all his" plans and hopes, his gcntlo companion. He was very grateful for her lore, for the sacred trust she had shown in him: and as he walked through the long suites of rooms he connected bet with every one. These should be Nelly's own rooms, and no pains, no expense, should be spared on them. In all the trifles that showed where a woman's presence had been, the : ' of Ids dead mother, he found •iriißt.) pleasure, because they re- ; ° f llis llvL "P brido ' Tho3r in o o ™ s unaccountable way, . .?rTS?r youth and living loveliness, to that benignant, gentle laJy who. though dead, stilt had the homage of her son's heart, and was still the ideal of womanly purity and goodness. This cynic's heart clung tenaciously to its old idols. This misanthrope .tnd Diogenes, whose words could be so severe and caustic, looked on the world with a tenderness and pity above and bevond that of the philanthropist who paraded his virtue and posed as friend cf humanity. At lr-gth he came to his brother's rooms. i.ii long closed- Should they remain so, or wbea >•*"- brought home his bride should he oprs them to the sunlight, T: g bare this shrine? He did not know : he would ask Nelly. To him it was always ptin to outer. He had shrunk f- n examining his brother's belongings v- a. bitter, named remembrance .of > ,:lab :e in life, and stark and white in de iai . ot knowing how he was to reproach hi for this ultra.-sensiuven.s6s. Mrs Ran kept the.«e chambers free from dust- aod .cobweb, but there was a melancholy aspect in their disused splendors. They were very different to the modest apartments used by Paul, for the old Earl had never spared'expense for his elder son. and royalty itself would have been well served with luxury such as this. How often had Paul looked in to see the bright- face aDd handsome figure of his brother here, and it haunted him now. His books, and many gifts of his many friends, were here yet, perfect. The eyes that had scanned those lines were closed for all time, the voice that had read them for ever hushed, the hand that had guided pen or pencil had lost its cunning, and yet to the kiving and faithful imagination of Paul tho bice brightness of the eyes, the rich vibrations of the tone, the graceful gestures, the fino finish, the dainty mannerisms and actions of his brother were still a living and visible reality. Some gifted artist bad painted Philip in the dress of a century ago, and it suited his manly beauty well. The face, with its radiant crown of hair, wearing in lip and eye the look of a man well pleased with himself, .seemed instinct with life. Paul almost fancied the lip moved. He drew up the blinds, letting the metal, lie. clear brightness of a wintry day .stream in. He turned over the books, the sketches, finally .he unlocked a great cabinet which, lince his bother's death, had never been which Philip himself had always Spt locked. The first xhing Paul saw was 3 mass of withered flowers, apparently C»rust in in haste; then a lady's glove ; a fen. broken ; a knot of violet ribbon. He passed these over with a faint sigh: his brother"* inmost heart had never been revealed to him. and whether he had lived without loving Paul did not know. One drawer after another he opened, :c find each filled with melancholy relics of the dead, until at last he came to ono locked. A small key attached to his ring of keys opened it. Inside a solitary packet of letters, a note unfinished, in Philip's beautiful writing, a photograph, and bound round and round this latter a tress of soft, dark hair. Paul caught his breath as his fingers touched it. Ho wondered if e- .- any man woidd stand as he stood, f .ing a tress of Nelly's, and wondering t >m what fair head it had been severed. He was about to relock tho drawer when his keen eye caught a name in the packet of letters, and he feh, his heart give a wild throb. Ho had heard that name before, told him in a romance. He opened the packet quietly, sitting down by the cabinet, and he read tho first very brief not/>. i " My Dearest Philip.— ' " I have received your last note, and I ran only make one reply—only as your wife will Igo with you. Von know that: you know I could not. love you as 1 do loved I not honor more. K Still your own, " Nora Ardkx." Mr Broughton put this down, and poised to the second with a slightly trembling hand. Between this and the first a considerable time had elapsed. " My Dearest Husband, — "Why are you going abroad? Your letteT telling me that you meant to do ho has verv much distressed me. O. Philip, don't go.' I have a feeling that ■no good will come of it. At least, my dear husband, stay until your child is born : be near mo then, or I may never see you again. Philip, you will not leave me now. You must stay, if only for your little one's sake. Stay until you have ] kissed your child, and then I will not try j to keep" you. I have been very patient, I have kept the secret of our marriage from my own mother, from kind Lady Danton, from everyone. Only the old clergyman at Idleminster knows our secret. I have kept it well for your sake ; will not you do something for mine? Come to me, Philip, for indeed 1 am very miserable; if vour love fails me. my heart will break. " Your loving wife, " Nora." Tho other letters filled in the dates between, and were the fond expression of a gentle woman's love and trust. Then Paul passed to that letter unfinished, in his brother's writing. " My Dear Little Wife,— "I suppose I shall never euro yon of your foolish presentiments. But I must go abroad. There's no help for it, sweetheart, but don't fear: I shall return safe and sound to you and our child, whom I hope will be Lord Raymond, tho future Earl Osmondale, and I hope the day is not far distant -when 1 may present my sweet little wife to the world, onlv you know mv father's crotchets, and what a horrible row in the house there would be iS he found that 1 had married Lady Dantotn's governess. The old gentleman is very fond of your humble '"ervant. yon know, and tho news would give hrm a ■erious shock, so for the present, darling, in the interests of peace, be silent. " By the way, how my grave old Paul's wyes "would open if he knew that his brother, f° r whom dukes design their daughters, was already married, and visited his sweet wife under the rose? W'asn't it the Earl of Leicester who did the same ? There's a precedent fcr you: but, by the way. if vou haven't read ' Kemilworth." don't. I hope you observed my caution about the letters and burnt them. You cried about destroying my ' dear writing,' but. like the old fellow in ' Herodotus' who threw his ring in tie sea, we must sacrifice something to fate. Do you pitch my letters in the fire. "And what shall we call onr httfe one ff a son. mv name; yonr own sweet name ■jF » Hare the letter broke off abruptly, as Jmugh someone had entered and disturbed fee writer* But it. needed nothing more j j

* BY MARY CROSS, Author of 'Under Sentence, 'A Woman's Victory/ ' His Own Enemy,' etc.

tho truth had flashed upon the man'who read the lines written years ago by hands now cold and dead. Herbert Lester was his brother's child. He was the Earl of Osmondale. He covered his face with his hands, wtliich were suddenly wet with tears. It was not bcca.nso he had no claim to tho rank, and wealth, and title he had borne I so long. In the great heart of Paul I Broughton such thoughts had no place, [ and he felt the ermine mantle slip from his shoulders without a pang. But it was the thought that fcr so many long years his brother's child had lived with shame upon him. It was the I thought that he had so long stood in that child's place. The thought that now I that, beautiful bright-faced boy was an i outcast and a wanderer. Ho, the onlv child of a man whose whole life had been passed in splendor aud luxury, the heir, the bearer of a noble name, had lived in miserv. hunger, cold, and poverty, reduced almost to beggary, and was flying from a shameful death unmerited. Now he understood his own affection for Bertie; he understood the young man's resemblance to his dead brother, and, rising, he walked to the portrait to trace it there, line by line, in tho bright blue eyes, the yellow hair, the fine type of feature; in expression alone did thev differ. H« i»uld trace out the whole story now. as his mind reverted to those bygone days. Lord Danton had been a connection of tho family, a distajit relative, and, having in Idleminster one of those pleasant country houses to which people like to return, Philru. then Lord Raymond, had been a >-orv frequent visitor. Indeed, the freo;" rcc ,. fid duration of his visits to liuiel Kc !wd brought upon him a pit..- : - ..ccuoatiou of worshipping at the shrine of Lady Danton's pretty sister: no one had suspected that the idol of his homage had been the young governess of the two fair daughters of Danton. Paul Broughton remembered how lightly, vet how skilfully. Philip had parried all his father's allusions to marriage. Truth to tell, the old Earl had leer, in no hurry to give up his handsome son to any lady" however high-born, so he laughed when Philip quoted Adricn De Mauprait--- " The poorest coward must die; but knowingly to march to marriage—mv lord, it asks til© courage of a lion '" ; ami gave the voung man his own way. And whilst Philip had been saying this, whilst he had gone about apparently free, he had been married to Lord Danton's governess; and, dreading his father's anger at the mesalliance, he had concealed it. he had bought his own peace liy the sacrifice of his wife's fair fame. Well, that might bo love, but it was of a kind that Paul Broughton did not comprehend. All the past seemed to be made clear to him. When they had supposed Philip to be at Idleminster, he had been with his young wife. How little had Paul suspected the truth when he had heard tho romance from Garth Ravenscrag ' Then came the journey abroad, and Philio's death. lie had been summoned to his father's death-bed. them had fallen ill himself, but never once, not even when he bad become Earl of Osmondale, and no longer needed fear a father's anger—never onoo had he alluded to his wife. And his death was too sudden for him to reveal the truth. The wife bad been left to mourn his absence, and would only learn his death from the dry. matter-of-fact newspaper statement that the Earl of Osmondale had been killed in a duel. This explained the condition in which she had been found; the shock had killed her. Who would connect her with Philip? Who. glancing over the paper to find what had had so disastrous an effect upon her, would dream that the secret lay beneath that heading—" The Tragedy at Zorvaine?" She had died, and, no one knowing her secret, no one knowing of the Earl's marriage, her child had been brought up as one on whom shame rested, and dark mystery bad folded round his mother's death and his own life. So the solution lay in that little hundlo of faded letters, in the photograph bound in the soft tress, and the dead man's secrot was revealed. Paul rolockad the cabinet, and relocked the door of that room. He had entered it Earl of Osmondale; he quitted it Paul Broughton, divested of coronet and ermine, of title and estate, once more younger son, on whom the world tun 1 its cold shoulder. (.- Ho consulted a directory, and t ten lie sat down and wrote a note to the clergyman at St. James's, Idleminster. Bertie lister, nay, Herbert- Raymond Broughton. Earl of Osmondale. must be found, and if found, alas! would lie tried for r.urder. Broughton clasped his hands across bis bead! which ached and throbbed, and then his thoughts flew to Nelly. He must tell her of the change in his fortunes. Before be married, must, clear bis brother's child from an unjust charge, and establish him in his rights. This was now the object of his life, and he sat musing over it. whilst Mrs Ramsay sliook her head, and said my lord always looked broken-hearted after he had been in his brother's rooms. And we may leave him musing, to follow his brother's child, Bertie, whom we last saw in London face lo face with Arthur Pascoe, and upon whose track his pursuers are fast gaining. Herbert Lester fled from London that night. It was no longer- a safe, and trusty hiding-place. To help in a trifle one who had conferred a favor on him he had risked his own liberty, and he had bee ■ recognised by his bitterest enemy. e fled. Had he "been really guilty he had -ielded, but it was for a friend's love tha ' lie was bearing this, so he carried his we t '•*" heart away from the city in whose giant bosom he had so long lain concealed. At night he had been standing on the boaa-ds of the Royalty Theatre ; by morning he was resting on tho roadside, London lying far behind. How many miles ho had walked he did not know, but he was footsore and weary. He sat down on a pile of stones to rest, leaning hie chin on his delicate band. His features were sharpened, the old brightness had gone, but still were bis tho blue and guileless eyes, the radiant hair, the sinlessness of expression, and, best of all, still untarnished and unstained his heart and soul. There was no shade of guilt or crime on the fair virginal face on which the red light of tho frosty sunshine cast its glow. Poverty and suffering, cold and huneer. had left their traces on his body. The inner man was not changed. The meeting last night with Arthur Pascoe, flushed with triumph and exultation, brought back his lost life of pleasure, and «".ase, aod brilliance. Ho had given it up—given up the lovely things that were dear to his refined and deb'cate nature—given up friends and associates whom he loved for the ignominious hiding, the nameless wretchedness that were now his portion. As the eyes of an exile might turn back veamingly to tho green lanes and shady lawns of his own land, so tho eves of his soul fixed themselves on his lost life, and saw the home for which he was sick, the faces —the old, familiar faces —of his companions. Come back to him his early youth, when he had walked with Kelly Forest "through the apple-blooms of May." Come back his happy schooldays, and the meeting with Garth Ravenscrag, in poverty and misery, when his own life had been saved, and that strange presentiment had overshadowed him. Come back the bright hours at Ravenscrag, and his meeting with Nelly on the cliff. Now he was an outcast, a beggar. Then, be had looked on her with the joyous eyes of lova. his life- nprmi ntr as_a mtTnmpr.djJu ,

Whither was he drifting? To what end would ho come? He rose with a weary, sigh, and resumed his inarch. Where to ,o ho knew not; he could almost have era d for death. His life was frozen and blighted. Over-sensitive, he had almost a woman's yearning for love and liking. Nature had not fitted him for a hattle with the world. Loyalty and faith had so far sustained him. But in his bitter battle " His arm was weary of the shield, Hie right hand ached the sword to wield ; And, though his courage scorned to yield, It was his heart that weighed him down!"

And so his sole longing was for some place of rest, where, worn out and exhausted, he might die in peace. He walked on slowly, and more slowly, until he at length reached a wayside inn. Faint and hungry he entered it, and asked for breakfast. The landlord—a great, redfaced man—eyed him sideways, with a murmur respecting the color of his money. Bertie, pulling himself up with an air belonging to the days of old, laid down one of his few half-crowns: then he found himself by a warm fire over which he stretched his frozen hands.

The- landlord's wife brought hi-> .breakfast. She had been a mother herself, which perhaps accounted for the kindly if rough manner in ■which she addressed him. It might be that there was a sad, pathetic meaning in the blue eves and haggard face. In either ea.'e, for either cause, she spoke to him quite softly for her. Women very •seldom kick those who are down —of the opposite sex. He could not rat. but. lie drank the hot coffee, and rested his aching limbs by ,thc fire until a. noise outside caused him-to raise his head, and he saw through the window Colonel Vyner and another man. His heart for an instant seemed to stop heating, then to bound on so wildly that he wan fain to press his hand upon it. A delirious vision of his own face, stared at by hitndrod? of curious and pitiless eyes, pf standing in the felon's dock, of a shameful death, or a life that was worse than death, darted through the wretched youth's brain. He was si> wean - , so utterly broken down, that he was tempted lo .step forward, declare himself, and end the long, heartbreaking chase. What man, however broken in spirit, will willingly yield h : s liberty, though? No son of Kugland, bom free", drawing in the national love ot freedom with every breath ! Bertie Lester, after that first moment of agony, gathered his energies and his wits. A passage led right down past the kitchen, out to the open air. Colonel Vyner had entered and r.sked for a private room. Lester quitted tlie chamber where he had breakfasted, walked quietly down the passage, hearing the hosi and his new guests go upstairs. He passed the kitchen unseen,

j ■leitly raised the latch nf the back door, and" he next moment stood in a garden with poultry and vegetables, aud prim rows of iruit bushes. At the foot was a hedge, and beyond and around .fields and hedgerows, straight against the sky a semaphore marking the railway station. Lester walked down the path, and cleared tbe hedge ; and as he did so h<> heard a shout behind. He turned his head, to see the face of Colonel Vyner thrust through an open window in the upper room. He knew that a hue-and-cry would be speedily raised, and that quick pursuit would follow. Drawing a long breath and setting hLs teeth, he ran at full speed over the fields, jumping the hedges or scrambling through, until breathless, panting, and flushed, he found himself at the foot of a flight of steps leading up to the station. He went up them full speed, for he had heard the heavy panting of a train, and this was his last chance. If it had been a, goods train he would almost have jumped on ; as it was he had just time to fling himself into a compartment, neither asking or caring indeed whither he was being taken its the train rushed off. With his breath came back his senses, and he remembered that Vyner would follow to the station, and that such a thing as the telegraph existed. Fortunately for himself, ho had taken no ticket, be* had given no clue to his destination, and the train was likely to stop at several places. Where it finally halted he had not the least idea, and where or when should he get out. Anywhero save the last place; there the telegram would most probably be sent. A great sadness was on him. for he felt that he had but averted the doom. He felt that cither he would be speedily overtaken, or, completely worn out, ho would die. He hoped it. would bo the latter, that he would not be dragged a prisoner before his fellowmen, to be accused, and condemned for murder. Whether he had slept or bscome stupefied he did not know. There .seemed a gieat blank, from which he was brought by the sound of yokes shouting " Idleminster! Idleminster!" He did not know when ho had lieard 'he name before, if ever, but it seemed in some unaccountable way familiar. He got nut here, gave some money to a collector, with the explanation that he had not had time to get llis ticket. and then went into a long lane that wound away to a straggling village. It w.w nearly noon, and be felt eo wean- that le would almcet have lain under a hedge for rest and deep. What was he to do? What could bo do? He wandered blindly _onwards, his brain swimming, sick with cold, fatigue, and hunger, until he came to a great gate supported on either side by stone pillars, each surmounted by a griffin. He leaned against the railings', wondering what happy man dwelt in the Eden that must be beyond those gates, and wax so wondering when iL'i elderly gentleman and a young and handsome lady came out, giving each a jiassing glance to the haggard man, who felt liiroeelf coloring painfully as they looked at him. "Ho seems ill. poor fellow'," said tho gentleman, as leaning on his favorite daughter's arm he moved on. " Yes, lie does', papa. We might have ■poken to him." Ixird Danton and his daughter -went some yards in silence, then the young lady spoke again. "You look very thoughtful, papa. Shall I offer you the usual penny?" "My dear. I was thinking of Philip Broughton—ljord Raymond, I mean—our distant kinsman." "And what has caused you to think of him?" "I do rjot know. 1 found myself all at once thinking of his death, and wondering wliat had become of Paul, now Lord Osmondale, of course. You remember Philip?" "Oh, yes; he was so noisy, papa." " Well, really, Eva, what a description of one of the most handsome men of his time!" " I say, noisy, papa, because he always talked so much, and was always ready with a jest or a laugh. Silence was one of the lotst airts to him. He us>ed to tearo mo dreadfully, and pent Louise nearly frantic. But for cliocolate-cremes, we should have barricaded the schoolroom against him. I wonder why you should so suddenly remember him, though." Bertie Lester remained by the gate, as though he had not power of motion, until he heard a distant clock chime, then, with a, heavy sigh, ho prepared to resume his journey, whither only heaven knew. He had onlv gone a little distance down the lane when he encountered tbe sumo lady and gentleman returning, and tliey looked at him ae before. "Go on, Eva," said Lord Danton, in a low tone; " I will speak to this poor fellow." Tho young lady obeyed, and her father stopped Bertie. "Are you looking for any person or plaeef he" asked gindly, noting the sharp, pinched look of the face which had wakened remembrance of a friend long dead. "No. lam a stranger here," Lord Danton felt disinclined to offer him money. If he had been an ordinary man, a commonplace beggar, my lord would have sent him up to the house, -where beer and beef would have been given him, for at Idleminster Court tliere was liberality befitting the Middle Ages. Lord Danton kept open hatrsc, and dispensed his bounties witb a royal hand. He kept up the old reputation of the family. " Can I do anything for you?" he asked. "■Nothing, thank you." Tho qniefly-uttered, finely-accentuated answer of a -garrtlemiH]. 1/ord Danton looked, at him .keenly.,

You arc a, gentleman," lie said, calmly. "I have had tho education of one." Lord Danton eyed him askance, noting; -the clear features, the shapely' form and delicate hands, the poise of his beautiful, bright head. Tbey were the signs of another sphere, the stamp of casta which could not be hidden. What was to bo done with a broken-down gentleman? An ordinary man, poor but able-bodied, plight Ibwo been sent off to tho farm-bailiff or the head garden, and been given, .a day's work. My lord did not feel inclined to give a man, with a lady's hands and a univoreity education a spade or a plough, a. few shillings, and a glass of beer. " Don't think," he resumed, " that I am asking from idle curiosity; but aro you seeking employment?" "I am. I should be very glad of anything to do." Lord Danton was a philanthropic man. Still, though, his benevolence sometimes approached quixotry, lie was too wise to take •a roadside stranger into liis dwelling and confer on him the post of secretary to himself, which post was now vacant. He took out his 1 card, and wrote a few words upon it with his pencil. " Go to the end of this road," he! said, '• and you will see the Rector's house. Please "give him this card, and he may do something for you." " I am very -jmich obliged—l am very grateful." Ho took the card and put it in his vest pocket, then with a slight, bow passed on. The crucial test; your " Brnmmagen gent" would have read the name on the pasteboard, and straightway began—- " your lordsh:p-ing." "''Well, papa, have you finished with the fallen angel?" asked Lady Eva, when her father rejoined her. " Don't call him that, my love. Upon my word he is like Philip Broughton." "Papa, wltat an extraordinary fancy." "It is, my dear; there's no accounting for it, or for the likeness, unless " And then pulled himself up. If his son instead of his daughter had been present he might have ended the sentence. " I have, sent him to Mr Carstairs, my dear," he went on, after a pause. " He is a gentleman, I am sure." " Dear papa, you are always finding—sermons in stones I w;us going to say ; but I mean giants in windmills, like the ridiculous Spanish knight " " Don't call him ridiculous, Kva. Whether the, author meant it or not, 'Don Quixote' is the saddest hook ever written, the most pathetic, and the most touching. And hi* figure, in its simple dignity, among the crowd of knaves, and scoundrels, and tricksters, and tinie-servera is to me a type of Faith among sceptics." Whilst Lord Danton was discoursing on his favorite book Bertie Lester had reached tho Rector's house, and given in the card. The Rev. Mr Carstairs was; an old friend of Danton's, from whom.be held the living, and so was accustomed to His Lordship's ways. He smiled a little as he read what had been written, and- then went to view the rara avis. He was a little surprised ; lie had expected a bird of prey; he fouud it of paradise. " The best thing I caa do for you now." he said, after a question or two, ''is send you to rest, for you look completely worn "out. When I come back 1 may have, thought of something. " One must oblige Lord Danton." he mused, " for he does a great amount of good in bis own way." " In two hours he came home to find the new protege waiting for him. "You wish to remain here?" he asked. "I do, if I can obtain employment." "Can you give me any reference?" "No. I cannot. I call myself D^cslie.■ I have uo friends, no relatives in the world." "It. is the old story," said the Rector to himself. ' " A prodigal son, I should fancy. Men like this" one are never friendless. Well, I can only offer you one thing, Mr Le.--iie, the position of under-master in our schools. T<ord Danton's daughters founded them, and no doubt His Lordship would allow you —1 mean, he would be pleased if this suited yon." The Rector did not arid " on trial," but he meant it. Bertie, wondered if anyone would ever compare him to Eugeno Aram. He accepted the offer gratefully, but he had a feeling that it was only for a rime; that he had no resting-place on earth, because 1m bote the brand of Oain. The old schoolmaster was crotchety, and not disposed to look favorably on Lord Danton's protege. He tried to floor him with a Latin quotation, but Bertie came up smiling. He tackled him in Greek ; then in the French they do not speak in Franco ; then ho admitted that the young man did know something. Bertie had no ideas about teaching, no experience, but he comprehended that he was to get a -set of redcheeked, white-haired laddies lo believe that six ones were six, an article of faith they seemed to doubt, and also to persuade them thai K was not the initial letter of " cow." He was very quiet and retiring, not affecting any moping melancholy or moonstruck madness, but not mixing with any. One day they would thank him for it. ho said inwardly. Before leaving Idleminster for London. Lord Danton's two daughters came to the schools, which were their hobbies. 1-ouise. the elder, shot a keen gianco at papa's nonpet, tho ]«ilc young master, who looked utterly out of place. As the ladies passed out ho opened the door for them, not with tho majestic disdain for deal or oak peculiar to footmen, not with a tradesman-like smirk, nor with the obsequious liend of the old schoolmaster, but with a simple inclination of tlie head, the slight but, courteous .defence a gentleman would accord a lady with whom be was on equality. To tho little things, the trifles that denote the absence or presence of polish, the knowledge or ignorance of society's ways, Louise was in tlie habit of looking. She had an eye for detail, for particular, and refused to accept anyone or anything in a general way. " Papa was right in two things this time," she 6aid to her sister —" Mr Leslie's good-breeding and his resemblance to Lord Raymond. But ho has a better face." "0 Louise, Louise, Lord Raymond was verv handsome!"' "'Yes, but selfish, and very vain. I am not speaking against him when I say so. but be certainly was," said Louise, m her downright way. Bertie was ignorant of his resemblance to tho race of Osmond. As far as anyone knew, bis hat covered- his family and estate, and on his bygone life he observed a marked silence. Saturday was a holiday always. He remained indoors as a rule. To-day, however, he had roamed out lo tho old churchyard, where generations of villagers were interred. If none of the inscriptions wore as startling as that of John Jones—"a loving husband, a kind father, but he never could believe that; Jonah swallowed the whale"—tliere were many worth studying for their quaintness. As Bertie stood looking down a grave with a date of two centuries ago he beard voices. Ho was standing just beside tlie vestry window, which was open, and ho distinctly heard Mr Carstairs's voice. "In the year 18—, if at all. Philip Broughton. Lord Raymond, to Nora Arden." Nora Arden ! It was his mower's name! Bertio moved away out of the churchyard with a fast-beating heart. What did this mean? Who was making inquiries about her? Did it mean that she had been married, and that after all these years her husband and his father was about to make the marriage known? Philip Broughton, Lord Raymond ! If he indeed had married Nora Arden his son was heir to an earldom ! But what mattered that now? He could not claim it; $o do so be must sacrifice two men, his friend and the present holder of the title. His first thought had been to return and ask Mr Carstairs to allow him to see the Tcgistcr; now he would not. Why should ho disturb the ashes of tbe past, who was dead to tbe world and a criminal ? Ho went quietly back to his lodgings; in living death his days passed by. The Danton family had left Idleminster, and the little place was more 6leopy than ever. . One evening ho walked out alone through its peaceful lanes, more hushed and peaceful by reason of tlie hour than usual. He paused by a stile, and leaning on it eared across the soft, glimmering landscape with eyes dimmed by tears. Upon the young man's soul had come a great yearning and longing for peace. The march of life bad wearied him almost to death. To die and ba buried in thJßjtuiet jrjlaco, and faarotten

—that was now. his heart's desire and hope.,. - :- ! ; $Te; covered his eyes with- his hand, -but his unspoken prayer was not finished. A sudden cry, a rough seizure, a rattle of steel, and he.was a prisoner, with handcuffs on.his wrists; and the eyes of Colo4el; Vyner looking into his with triumph and hate and exultation. At last he was hunted down, the race for life and liberty was ended, tho long battle lost and won. "It is only life that can fear dying; Possible loss means possible gain; Those who still dread are not quite for.saken; But not to fear because all is taken, Is the loneliest depth of human pain." And Bertie felt that he had reached that loneliest-depth, at last, for he cared not nor feared now. (To be continued.)