THE LILY OF MORDAUNT.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXII, Issue 7270, 7 March 1885, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE LILY OF MORDAUNT.

BY MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of "The Forsaken Bride," "Brownie's Triumph," "Dorothy Arnold's Escape."

CHAPTER XL.—(Continued.) LADY ALICE. "I don't know what would have become of me if ho had been," Eddie continued, "ravely. " I only hope that I shall live to do something grand for him, just to show how grateful I am. When my leg began to heal I used to get very tired lying so still in one place, and then he brought me such beautiful books, and pictures, and games. I have a pile of books so high," he said, measuring on his arm. "But," a glow suffusing his face and tears filling his eyes, " I shall never forget the day he told me about my father and mother. It was dreadful. Eut he waa so kind and tender, and when he got all through he asked me if I'd bo his boy, and let him take care of me always. I thought at first that he couldn't mean it, for I didn't suppose then that I should ever be good for much. He said that ho hadn't anybody to care for him —that he was all alone in the world too, and he thought perhaps we might; grow to love .and be a comfort to each other. It seemed like a beautiful dwam to me, for I could not understand how ho could care for anyone so helpless, and I knew 1 should be a great deal of care, and coet him lots of money; but he said I wasn't to worry about that. 1 was to get well just as fast as I could, and he would look out for everything else." "That is all—no, it isn't half either, for I could not begin to tell you how good he is ; but that is how I came to be adopted by him and to call him ' Uncle Philip ;' and oh ! if I can only live and grow up to be a great artist, 1 mean to pay him back for it all and take such care Of him when he gets to be old. I wish you could see him ; I think you would liko him, and—l'm sure he would liko you," Eddie concluded, naively, and with an admiring look into Arley's face. "You are very enthusiastic in your praises," she said, smiling at his earnestness, "and you have a right to be, if your uncle is all that you represent him to be." She had felt very strangely while listening to the boy's story—she even shook with repressed excitement when he had told her that the man was not really his uncle, but only a stranger who had taken him from pity; and the thought had flished upon her, "what i£ he should prove to be Philip Paxton ?"

Then she scorned the idea, for there was not the least similarity of character between him and this good man of whom she had just been told ; it could not be possible that it was Philip. "I tried to have him come here with mo to-day," Eddie resumed, "for he was not able to go to his office ; he had an ill turn a few days ago, and doe 3 not seom to get over it."

"An ill turn !" Arley repeated, absently. " Yes ; the other night we were sitting together, and the postman brought him a letter; it was a very thick one, and his face lighted up all over when he saw the writing on the back of it, But when he opened it he grew so white and looked so pained that I was frightened, and ran to get him some water to drink. I asked'him what was tht! matter, and he said his head ached very badly—he has had the headache ever siuco he got hurt, and the surgeon said he mustn't work hard or he would have trouble. He went into his room after a little while, but L don't believe that he slept much, for I heard him ever so many time 3 in the night, and he has looked pale and sick ever since." For a moment Arley thought she should surely fall to the floor, for ail her strength forsook her.

Eddie's talk about that thick letter, and his uncle's emotion upon receiving it, was beginning to 'open her eyes to the truth. "He must have had bad news," she said, in a low tone, and struggling for self-com-mand ; " but I thought you told me that he had no friends." " He said he had nobody to care for him, and I'm sure I don't know who his letter could have been from ; I thought the writing was in a lady's hand, aud I don't think he read it, for he put it right away in his desk, and I'm sure 1 heard him groan as ho locked the drawer."

Arley made a slight noise, and Eddie looked up at her in a starbled way. "Are you faint Vhe asked, for she was deathly white. • "No, but I am not feeling very well; I think 1 will go home now," she replied. "But, Eddie," she added, hesitatingly, " before I go won't you tell me—what your Uncle Philip's other —name is ?" " Why, ye 3, of course I will; he is Philip Paxton, Eoq., attorney-at-law," the boy said, proudly. For an instant every sense seemed to be leaving Arley ; her heart bounded into her throat, and then sank like lead in her bosom ; a mist came before her eyes, and a feoling of numbness stole over her. Then calling all her will to her aid, she thanked her unsuspicious companion, bade him a hasty good-bye, and escaped from the place as quickly as she could Now she knew why she had felt so strangely all the while Eddie had been telling his Btury. A dim suspicion had haunted her from the first thpt he had been talking about her husband ; she had been quite sure of it when he spoke of the letter that he had received, and yet when he had confirmed it by uttering his full name, it had given her a fearful shock.

" How could it be possible for tho man to change so during a few ahort mouths ?" she asked herself.

Philip had never liked children; they fretted and annoyed him. In faot, he never had any patience with anything that disturbed him. If everything moved along smoothly he could be good-natured and agreeable, but he had never liked any care, or trouble, or exertion, and she could not understand this sudden transformation.

What power could have thus softened his selfish* heart into such tenderness ? What could have induced him to take this friendleas, crippled boy into his care, providing him with every comfort and luxury, sacrificing his own ease to watch over him, and do for almost the tenderness of a mother?

Had he truly been " shocked" into a consciousnesa of his moral deformity, as hie letter had stated, and was be really struggling to livo a more noble life ? What he had done for Eddie Winthrope was certainly noble and graud, and it seemed as if hie whole natnre must have become miraculously changed to make him so gentle, tender, and self-sacrificing. fie had asked her to offer one single prayer for him if she should ever learn that he was striving for better things ; but could she do that ?-—did she want to pray for him ? Her heari; was in a tumult; a terrible conflict was raging within her as she wended her way homeward. He had told the boy that he had no one in the world to love him, and begged him to come to him. Could it be that he really craved love at last? Arley shivered as she remembered how she had begged and pleaded with him to be a better man, and she would devote all her life and all her love to him ; and he had almost jeered at her for it—had as much as told her that he did not want love, he simply desired money and the position it would give him.

She went home, and told the story to Miss McAllister, and that good dame was as much amazed as Arley had been. " Perhaps the ' prodigal' is returning," she eaid, with something like a sneer, for she found it hard to credit so radical a change in so short a time.

Arley started, as that Bible story was thus recalled to her, and she remembered how, when the son was a great way off, his father had seen him and ran to him, falling on his neck and kissing him. Could she ever imitate such an example of forgiveness. No; she felt that it would be impossible. She had tried to crush out every atom of love from her heart, and she believed that she had succeeded until to-day, when a hundred conflicting emotions were now running riot in her soul. She was very unhappy ; she almost wished that she had never heard Eddie's-story, then she would not have been so disturbed.

She could not forget what he had lold her of Philip's reception of her letter, or the money which she had enclosed in an envelope and returned to him. He had "groaned as he locked it away in his desk," and had " looked pale and ill ever since." That seemed as if he really wished to make her all the restitution in his power—as if he longed to atone as far as possible for the great wrong he had done her, and she had rudely repulsed him, thrusting the good he had tried to do back in his face.

Had she done wrong ? Would it have been better for her to have kept her money ?

No ; every feeling revolte.d against the thought. "I could never have used one farthing of it for myself, knowing that it came from him, scorning and despising him as I did—as I do."

Those last words were not spoken quite so confidently as the rest of the sentence had been; but there was bitterness enough in them to show that forgiveness was very far from her thoughts.

Wednesday morning, long before it wae time for fashionable callers to make their appearance, Miss McAllister's door-bell rang. There was a low, sweet-voiced inquiry of the maid who answered it; then the swift rush of footsteps up the stairs, a rustle of soft garments along the corridor, and a blackrobed figure stopped before the doorof Arley's boudoir. Then there was a soft; tap, and in answer to a low "Come in," Lady Elaine turned the handle, and, almost before Arley had time to realise her presence, she had glided to her side, and a pair of arms was encircling her neck, a pair of tremulous, dewy lipe met hers, and those sweet, well-remembered blue eyes were looking an unutterable love into hers.

"My darling! oh, iny darling! how impatiently I have waited and longed for this moment!" Lady Elaine said, in a fond, eager tone. " What shall I say to you ? how shall I tell you the blessed news in store for you ? I asked Nannie at the door if you were in and alone. I wanted to come to you and tell you when no one else was by ; and when she told me you were up here, I oame without waiting to be announced. I knew you would not mind, and I could not wait a moment longer."

Arley regarded her friend in surprise while she returned her tender greeting; she had never seen the fair, calm Lady Elaine so excited and disconcerted before.

The arms which encircled her trembled, the lips that kissed her quivered, and her voice shook with emotion.

Was it because this meeting brought back sad memories of poor, lost Wil, and opened her wounds afresh. ■

She could not think so, for there seemed to bu no sadness or thought of self in her greeting—only joy, and love, and eagerness. A feeling of restful content suddenly settled upon Arley as she nestled closer into her clinging arms, and elapsed her own about Lady Elaine's slight waist. "I, too, have been very impatient to see you," she said, "I can never tell you how I have longed for you during the two years that we have been separated. I have often thought if I could only have poured my sorrows and trials into your sympathising ear, and had you to guide and counsel me with your calm, wise judgment, I should have suffered much less ; but that was a selfish feeling, wasn't it, dear? when you have had your own sorrows, and such heavy ones, too, to bear." "We will not talk of ' sorrow' now, Arley," Lady Elaine replied, but growing white with sudden pain, " we both have had peculiar trials to bear, I know, but we have so much to be thankful for that we must put our grief out of sight—and perhaps, but for these very sorrows the present joys would never have been granted to us. Oh ! Arley, you know what I am here for; you know that I have solved all the mystery of your birth, and the result is wonderful! you can never—never imagine the truth! and you will be rich, my dear, far richer than you have ever been before. You have a fortune of nearly five hundred thousand pounds coming to you. "Elaine! you cannot mean it!" Arley cried, in astonishment, " but," she added, flushing, and tears startling to her eyes, " I do not care for riches if I can only have someone to own and lore me."

"Ah ! my dear, my dear! I have not told you the best of my tidings," responded her companion, tremulously. " Let me olasp you closely ; let me look full into your dear eyee while I tell it. My own Arley, you must never call me 'Lady' Elaine again, for you are a ladyship you own sweet self. My dearest, I will not keep you in suspense a moment longer. You are Lady Alice, eldest daughter of his Grace the Duke of Mordaunt, and therefore my own—my very own sister!" CHAPTER XLI. ATONEMENT. Arley was literally stricken dumb by this wonderful intelligence. She could only rest in those clinging arms and stare helplessly up into Lady Elaine's face, her own as white as snow, while all her strength forsook her, leaving her weak and almost fainting.

From the hour when she had first met the Countess in tho home of their mutual friend, Annie Hamilton, she had experienced an affection as deep and strong as it was strange, for her. It had been reciprocated by Lady Elaine, and both had often wondered why they should feel such peculiar tenderness for each other. .

Now they understood it; the same blood flowed in their veins ; they owed their being to the same father and mother, and nature and instinct had both asserted themselves long before it was possible for them to comprehend the reason for it. " It is no wonder that we have loved each other if this is true," Arley breathed at last, while she twined her arms more closely about the form besido her. "My sister! Can it be possible ?" •'Not only possible, but an absolute, indisputable fact," Lady Elaine returned, kissing her again and again. The tears rained over Arloy'a face, and sobs shook her.

"I have so longed for someone who was my very own to love, and who would love me; I have been so lonely all my life, yearning for some congenial companion ; and now, just when it has seemed as if life was wearisome and unsatisfying—hardly worth the living—this great blessing comes to me. Oh, Elaine, lam greatly comforted; I am very thankful 1" " Yes, we have found each other just when wo most need each, other. Our Father knows best just when to send His good gifts to His children," reverently replied the young CounteßS. " I know all your trouble, dear, she went on, tenderly, "or, at least, enough of it to guess at the rest, and my heart has been very sore on yoar account; but we will be all in. all to each other now; we will live together, and do good together, and try to forget our sorrows; or, if we cannot forget them, we can soften them by our love, and by doing for others,"

But the words, submissive as they were, seemed to unseal the fountain of the fair girl's grief, and the two etrangely-united sisters abandoned themselvee for the moment to ita sway. Arley was the first to recover herself, and wiping first her own and then Lady Elaine's tears, she said: 44 Now, dear, tell me all about this strange discovery. I can scarcely realise it qven yet, though my heart tells me that your words are troth; that I am of one blood with you." 44 It is like a romance," was the reply; 41 though there has always been something about you that has moved me strangely— something almost familiar in your looks and movements, although I never mentioned it to you." "I presume 1 ehould have regarded it merely as a fancy if yon had," Arley returned. " Well, it was not a mere fancy, and now I am going to prove it to you," and, as she spoke, Lady Elaine drew from her pocket a small package, < "Ah, such treasures as I have here!" she continued, smiling; "for without them it would have been almost impossible to prove your identity." She removed the papers from it, and revealed a small black velvet case and a box.

Opening the case, she disclosed a picture painted upon porcelain. . "Look, dear," she said, putting it into Arley's hand. " This is a portrait of our mother, taken just before her marriage. Now tell me if your face did not remind me of someone whom I had known."

Arley gazed upon it wonderingly. There was, indeed, a striking resemblance, though nothing like that of Ina Wentworth to her mother.

■ The shape of the face in the picture was much like Arley'e. The shapely brows, the curve of the dark, sweeping lashes, the large, liauid brown eyes, the piquant mouth and rounded chia, were strangely like the happy, spirited girl whom Lady Elaine had first met and loved at Hazelmere.

She gazed upon it breathlessly, holding it in her hand with a revereDt clasp, her heart fluttering, like a restiess bird, in her bosom.

" Was this my mother ?" she whispered. " Yes, our mother, dear; do not leave me out, please, for I am very jealous of. my rights now that I have found my sister," Lady Elaine said, dropping her golden head upon Arley's shoulder. "Is it not strange that I could never think whom you reeembled ? Do you not think that you are very like her ?" "Yes," Arley answered, with tremulous lips: " and lam so glad. While I believed myself to be Arley Wentworth it was always a grief to me that I could trace no resemblance in my features to those of my supposed father and mother. I remember that yon told me when we were at Hazelmere that your little sister Alice was dark and very like your mother, while you were a thorough Mordaunt in form and feature. How happy lam to have this pioture! but, oh, if the could have lived to own me her daughter, and hold me for one moment to her heart! Oh, Elaine, how I have wanted a mother all my life." "Don't, dear," Lady Elaine cried, in a voice of pain, " do not let us begin to long for the impossible, for if we do our hearts will surely break," and Arley knew that she was thinking of Wil as she spoke. She touched her lips softly to the white cheeks resting on her shoulder, and whispered, with her eyes still on the beautiful picture : "Tell me about her."

" There ia not much to tell," Lady Elaine said, " for I was only ten yeara old when she died, but I remember her as gentle and sweet, very affectionate, but with a sadness about her which was extremely pathetic. This was caused, as I was afterwards told, by the loss of my little sister Alice, while returning from India, where my father had been obliged to go on political business soon after his marriage, and by the subsequent death of my only brother, who was the last of the Mordaunts. You have heardof that dreadful voyage from India from Jane Collins, so I will not repeat it; but you were supposed to be drowned, and were always spoken of as being dead. You are two years older than I, for I was not born until some time after our mother's return to England. She devoted herself to me, but she oould not get over the loss of her first-born, and. almost the first thing I remember was her teaching me to say Allie, and telling me about my little dark-eyed sister. When I was three yeara old, an heir was born to the house of Mordaunt, and my father's heart was filled with joy and pride, for now he believed that his name and title would be perpetuated. But Arthur only lived to pass his fifth birthday, and our mother never recoverd from the shock occasioned by his death ; she grieved until she undermined her health and gradually faded out of life. She died, as I have told you, when I was ten years old, and five years later my father was taken from me, leaving me to the guardianship of Sir Anthony Hamilton, only stipulating that I was to remain at the convent where he placed me, except during the annual vacation, until my education was completed. So you perceive, Arley, that my life has been as lonely as your own, even more so, iudced, for you had Dr. and Mies McAllister, who, believing you to be the child of their dear one, loved you as their own. Oh, if we could only have known years ago that we belonged to each other, how happy we might have been !" Lady Elaine paused to bestow another carcae upon the lips so near her own, and then resumed:

"Now I will tell you how I worked out this intricate puzzle. I told you in my letter how accident brought me into contact with good Jane Collins, and that I learned from her what transpired in connection with you at Madrid. She related how she had been startled upon seeing you, for you resembled so strangely the 'beautiful lady' who had been shipwrecked. I made her go over every item of her story for my benefit,'and remembering the date of the terrible ordeal through which my own father and mother had passed, and knowing that you were a poor little waif cast up by the sea, and your birth still shrouded with mystery, I became suddenly impressed that you might be the little Alice for whom our mother grieved as long as she lived. I went immediately to Miss McAllister and asked her if she had retained any articles of clothing which you had worn at the time of your return. She had nothing save a pair of little shoes and stockings and a tiny ring set with an emerald. The shoes and socks did not, at first, appear to me to be of much value, but the moment that my eyes fell upon that ring my heart sprang into my throat. " Mamma had a very dear friend who married a nobleman, and went to live in France. When she was notified of the birth of little Alice she immediately sent congratulations, and with them a very plain but rich ring set with an emerald. "If it had only been a son,' she wrote, ' the stone should have been a diamond, and remember whenever the heir does make his appearance, he is to have it.' When the news of my birth reached her she sent another ring, the exact counterpart of the first, saying that she should serve the daughters of the house of Mordaunt all alike, and again spoke of a diamond being reserved for the heir; and lo! when Arthur came, true to her promise, there came still another circlet, exaotly like the others, only set with a pure, beautiful white stone.

" The moment that Miss McAllister gave me the ring that had been taken from your finger, I recognised it, and in my heart I knew well enough that you were my sister; bat I knew that yon and others would not be feeling satisfied without further proof, so I resolved to say nothing about my suspicions until I could establish the fact beyond a doubt. I have the three rings which mamma's friend sent her; I brought them to show to you. They are the first link in my chain of evidence."

Lady Elaine opened the box upon her lap, and taking from it another smaller one, lifted the lid, and revealed the three rings lying within upon a bed of snow-white cotton—tiny little things, fit only for baby fingers, but fraught with an interest and sacrcdness which would render them priceless to those two lovely women so long as they should live. "See, my darling," she said, putting the box into Arley'e hand, "if you can pick out your own." Arley bent over them with quivering lips and tear-laden eyes, wondering how it was possible that so mush vital importance could be connected with such tiny trifles. "They are exactly alike," she said, at length. " I can see no difference in them, excepting, perhaps, that the stone in this one ia a trifle larger than in the other; but whether it belongs to you or me I cannot tell." "We will assume that) it is yours, since you are the eldest daughter of the house of Mordaunt," Lady Elaine answered, smiling; "and," she added, taking it from her, "we will make a charm of each, and always wear them as the precious mementoes of our restoration to each other."

She fastened it, as she ceased speaking, upon Arley's watch chain, aud then attached the other to her own,

" The diamond," she continued, tenderly,' 44 we will lay away among our treasures m » sacred keepsake, to remind us of our only, brother." She then took from the box upon her lap the little socks which Mies McAllister had given her, and also the pair which she had received from Captain Bancroft's widow, and told Arley of her visit to the old lady, and o£ the long and conclusive story which ehe had related to her. " 1 knew," she said, " before she had half finished, that all mysfcery and doubt were solved, but when Bhe brought me the passenger list, and I read there the names of oar father and mother—'Lord Arthur Warburton, Dnke of Mordaunt; Lsidy Warburton, Miss Alice Warbnrton and nurae, , the fact wae established, and 1 knew that the girl whom I had learned to love so dearly at Hazelmere* was my own sister." "It is wonderful! Ido not know how to comprehend' it," Arley murmured, when Lady Elaine concluded. '•It is wonderlul," she assented, 44 and I am so thankful, so content, so blest in the knowledge. Just think I you are no longer 'Arley the nameless,' as you have so often and bitterly styled yourself, but Lady Alice Warbnrton, eldest daughter of the Duke of Mordaunt, and heiress to half of his immense property." Arley flushed a sudden crimson. "The property—that has always beei yours—l cannot take it," she said, quickly* Lady Elaine laughed such a low, sweet laugh at this. "Have you forgotten," she asked, ,4 how two years ago, when poor Ina Wentwortb tremblingly made her appearance, claiming naught but a name and kindred, the 'usurper,'Arley, not only relinquished her name, but all right and title to fortune,. home, and everything ?" " I know," Arley returned, with the flush still on her cheek; " but; I had been using the poor girl's fortune as freely as if it has been water, vrhile she had barely existed, with no home, no love, or anything else tor make life endurable." "Out of your own mouth will I condemn you," Lady Elaine retorted, smiling. "All these long years I have been spending your fortune as freely as if it was water, while during the last two you have lived—how have you lived, Arley ?" " You shall tell me about it by-and-bye," she resumed, hastily, seeing how flushed and pained Arley's face had grown at this question ; " bat you must not allow any false. scruples to trouble you. Remember that you are the eldest "daughter ot the Duke of Mordaunt, and your rights are paramount to mine. You are to share equally with me from this time forth ; that I am resolved upon, and from this day you are to consider that you have ten thousand pounds annually at your disposal." Arley knew from her manner that it would be useless to argue the matter further, and. so she did not refer to it again. " It all seems like a dream," she said, ingly"But it is not a dream—it is a blessed, glorious reality; and how much we may both enjoy in spite of the «ad past," her sister returned. " Our father's house here in the city stands closed and gloomy. We wiU go back to it. It shall be our homo, if you consent. I could not live in it alone, bat with a pleasure to go back into its familiar you to help me to enjoy it, it would be halls and rooms. The Mordaunt Hall at Eversham shall be opened once more in summer time, and we will do what we can for the glory of the old house, and we will be happy in each other, and in doing all the good we can." In spite of her hopeful words and her attempt at cheerfulness, Lady Elaine broke down here and threw herself sobbing into Arley's arms. All the tender memories of those happy months at Hazelmere came rushing over her, with all that she had lost and. Buttered since, and in spite of the happiness which she experienced in her new relations with Arley, a feeling of desolateness and. misery completely unnerved her for the moment. Arley soothed her with exceeding; tenderness, and when, after a time, she grew 4 more calm, they began to talk over the past more minutely and to lay plans for the future, Arley questioned Lady Elaine very closely regarding what she knew of Philip since hi» return from Spain, and was at length convinced that he had told her all the truth— that he had indeed not " spared himself."

Then she showed her the letter which he had written to her, and related all that sha had learned from Eddie Winthrope regarding his more recent doings. Lady Elaine was greatly astonished. " There h good in him after all," she said, " He is atoning most nobly." "Do you think so ?" Arley cried, with an eagerness which made her speech sound almost sharp. " 1 certainly do," Lady Elaine answered, giving her a keen glance and marking her fluttering eyelids and excited breathing. " If he has done all that you have told me, I believe that he is really repentant and desirous of making the most of his future. It is very evident that he has no hope as far as you are concerned, and he could have had no selfish object in writing that letter, for no one, excepting myself, had bad the least suspicion of the . good fortune awaiting you. Besides, if he had expected forgiveness, he would not have been apt to make himself out quite so bad as he has done—at least, he need not have told you of that shameless robbery and his subsequent gambling operations."

"Bat where do you suppose he got all the> money which he had deposited in the Bank of England, the interest •on which Mr. Holley has been notified to pay to me quarterly ?" Arley asked.

" That seems to be a mystery," responded Lady Elaine, gravely.

" Of course he never could have earned it in so short a time, although Sir Anthony told me that he was overrun with business," pursued Arley. "No, I do not think that he could have earned it; but it is possible that that speculation, which he thought had proved so disastrous about the time of your engage« ment, may have turned out well, after all. Do you know what he had invested in ?"

"No; but he told me that it ruined him," Arley answered. " If he had put his money into stocks, they may have risen, even at this late day, and realized a handsome sum for him—l have heard of such things," Lady Elaine explained.

" That is so; I had not thought of that. I feared that he had been gambling again; I could account for this sudden acquisition in no other way, and though I could not "have accepted the money under any circumstances, my whole soul revolted against using gold obtained in such a way." "I believe he really loved you,' Arley," Lady Elaine said, after a short silence, during which she had been examining Philip's letter again. "What makes you say that?" Arley asked, sharply, a quick flush again mounting to her forehead. " These words which he has crossed out, and which evidently must have seemed sucli a useless, hopeless appeal, or he never would have so crossed them ; and also this little beseeching prayer at the end." " Yes, that was the only thing in all tuo letter that did not fill me with horror, and— I have suffered so much—so much through him —oh ! how have I ever borne it 2" Arley cried, in a voice thick with pain.

"It has been too, too cruel, I know, darling," her sister returned, tenderly, " and I believe he also realises it now, for, besides the regret and remorse expressed here, it seems as if he ia striving to make up, in a measure, at least, to poor little crippled Eddie Winthrope for some of his brutality toward you. That is noble in him, Arley. I think it is grand for anyone to take a little orphan, smooth over the rough places in life for him, and rear and educate him. I mast confess," she went.oD, gravely, "that I experienced the utmost scorn and contempt for Philip Paxton when he came to me that night with words of love and asked me to marry him—a divorced man, he said he was ; but I begin to feel something like » spark of respect for him once more for the course ho is pursuing.

"What do you suppose made him face about so suddenly ?" Arley asked ; "do you imagine it was the influence of what either you or I, or both combined, said to him which, made him see himself as he really was ?" "I do not know," Lady Elaine replied, musingly; "perhaps hie wickedness was like a disease—like a violent fever may be, which, when it has once fastened itself upon its victim must have its run, arid pervades and poisons the whole system until the criaiß comes, when the fe?er either does ite fatal work and death ensues, or subsiding life conquers and heslth returns. In * case, when the crisis was. reached his better nature conquered, and he began at once to strive to redeem the past." , "Do you believe that anyone can redeem the past 2" Arley aeked, weariJy t

"Perhaps not in one sense, and yet I know that there are many men who have lived the later years of their lives so nobly, that they have blotted oat, at least from the minds of others, all remembrance of the Bins Of their youth, and, in faot, atoned for much 6f the evil which they have previously done. I must say," the lovely girl continued gently, "that my heart yearns a little after that recreant husband of yonrs, Arley; do you JTOppose that he could ever atone to you ?" Arley gave her a startled glance, and grew deathly pale at the question. She did not answer for some time; then looking up with a tort of hopeless misery in &er eyes, she said in a hollow tone : " I have said that I can never forgive him, Und Ido not believe that I ever can. lam Bfraid I do not even want to." [To be continued.]