DURING HER MAJESTY'S PLEASURE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 12758, 7 January 1905, Page 3 (Supplement)

DURING HER MAJESTY'S PLEASURE.

(rijBLISHED BY special ARRANGEMENT.] I

BY MISS BE ADDON. CHATTER VII.— (Continued.) But, meantime, if she could save her mother from the horrors of the asylum, find possibly make tho cure complete by her ministering love, it would be something done. And then, even in her despair, she remembered that she would be better off than that innumerable army of good women who have given up earthly love for Christ's sake, who have put a barrier between their lives and all human joy.'. She would have her mother, she would have this warm. earthly love close at hand, to toil for and to hope for. She would have this immediate recompense for her sacrifice. And her father, that, fond and indulgent father, whom she adored, .she was going to desert- him for an indefinite time, to sever herself from that sheltering love, that ideal home, for the sake of this unhappy mother, whose claims seemed to her irresistible—tho claim of utter helplessness, the claim of unhappy years, suffered perhaps uselessly and unjustly, by a victim who had been treated as «' lunatic after the recovery of her reason, or whoso intervals of sanity had brought no alleviation of Buffering. She could not understand how so wise and good a man as her father could suffer this injustice to be done, but she felt sine that there had been injustice, and she felt that it was her mission to make amends. She sat up late into the night, making 3ier plans, calculating her means, and packing two light bags with necessaries, one for her mother and one for herself. "Never before, had she been called upon to plan and act for herself. Sire had lived like a child in a garden, where all things are beautiful and safe. Hut her spirit rose to the occasion, and sho felt equal to grapple with difficulties. Her only fear was that she might, not plan her course wisely. Her scheme was to take her mother to tome remote neighbourhood, where no one would be likely to trace them— dull street in that thickly-populated outer London, a street of humble lodging-houses, where people come and go without observation, a floating multitude, who come into the world and leave it uncared for and unrecorded except by a line in" a census paper. She knew of .such a neighbourhood, which she had visited once with her father, at the opening of a workmen's coffee-house and concert-room, to the building of which Sir William had contributed largely. She would take her mother to St. Mary's Town, a neighbourhood which no one in search of her would be likely to think of, rather than to some rustic village, where their arrival and their every movement would be watched and commented upon. It was not a pleasant region to choose for a mental patient- whose lasting cure she hoped for; but her safety was of the first importance. She wanted time before her father found hits fugitive wife, time to calm those agitated spirits.' so that when she could venture to bring husband and wife together she could say. "You see, father, there can be no more question of my mother going back to the asylum. She is quite as sane as you or 1." This was; the hope that sustaiued her in her self-sacrifice. She renounced her lover for ever, hardened her mind against the thought that she could never be his wife, but the thought of her separation from her father as only a temporary ordeal. So soon as she- could get some experienced doctor to pronounce "her mother of sound mind the necessity for concealment would be at an end. She had plenty of money, for she had" epent less than half of the liberal sum that Sir William had given her for her trousseau. She wrote to Amandine cancelling all orders which had not been put in hand, and then came the harder task of writing to her father and to Ronald. That letter, the hardest of all, she left till the last. "Dearest father, best and kindest of men," she began, "I am taking a desperate step, which may make me seem ungrateful and unloving to you, who are dearer to me than words can say. The poor mother, escaped from her cruel prison, has come to me for help and pity. She speaks with horror of the place she has left, and is full of fear lest she should be taken back to her prison. She thinks that you would send her back, and throws herself upon me, her daughter, to save her. I know how good you arehow kind—how —but jou might think it your duty to place her under restraint, not believing, as I do, in her cure. "In this fear I am taking upon myself to care for her and shelter her—for some time to come, till I can be assured that she is restored to perfect mental health. I shall keep aloof from everyone I know, even from you, my dear, kind father, lest, if you found her with me, before her mind has grown calm and sound, as I feel convinced it will in peace and freedom, you might send her back to that joyless prisonhouse where she has suffered so long. "I am doing this, dear father, because it seems to me the thing I must do, after long and deep thought. You are first, you will always be first in my love and reverence, and I shall count the hours till I can come back to you. But all idea of ever being Ronald's wife has ended with my knowledge of my mother's affliction. I shall never marry. I should think it a crime to bring upon any man the risk of such a sorrow as you have suffered. In your indulgent love you must have shut your eyes to that danger, or you would not have allowed me, to engage myself to my poor Ronald. I am writing to him to-night to cancel our engagement, without giving any reason. You will do all you can, dear father, by your kindness, to reconcile him to our separation. "Good-bye, till I can write and tell you that my mother is cured. Have no fear for our safety. I have plenty of money to cany on life for a considerable time in the simple way that will suit us best. This responsibility has made me feel ten years older, and I believe I am equal to my task. —Ever your fond daughter. Rosa." Her letter to Ronald was very brief. "Dearest, — Something has happened which changes the whole plan of my life, and which compels me to part from you for ever. Forgive me, if you can, and believe that it is no caprice of my own, no lessened love for you, that makes me forego tho happy life we were to have spent together. Forget mo as soon as you can; my prayer will be that you may find a happier woman than your loving and sorrowful, Rosamund.". Her tears came as she wrotetears and passionate sobs, but she let no drop blister the page. She enclosed this brief farewell in her letter to her lather, trusting to his discretion to give it to Ronald at the fittest moment. She wrote a line to her aunt, to the effect that she was leaving home for reasons which she had explained to her father. This letter she left on the mantelpiece hi her room, the other she posted later. She was up before anyone else in the house next morning, and* made her toilet unassisted, then went noiselessly downstairs and "tit into the garden with her two bags, found .an under-gardener, and made him cany them to Mrs. Clarke's cottage. He had carried things there beforecomforts of food and clothing, during the woman's long illness, and except for the early hour there was nothing singular in the proceeding. At the cottage door Rosamund gave him a sovereign, and enjoined him to tell no one where he had. carried the bags, or that he had seen her that morning, and that was the last that was seen of Sir William Rayson's daughter at Tangley, before his return, which happened, unannounced, late on the next evening. CHAPTER VIII. Sir William found Rosamund's letter among his other letters. Stunned by the 'shock" of hearing that his daughter had disappeared mysteriously on the previous morning he stood on his desolate hearth with her letter open in his hand, while his sister watched him with anxious eye* 3 -

He looked up and encountered that searching gaze, which irritated his strained nerves. " Have you told me everything, Clara?" he asked. "For God's sake, keep nothing back. This is a matter of life and death, remember.'' "Is it likely I should keep anything back'.'" Mrs. Dalrymple asked, with an aggrieved air. "Rosamund's disappearance was quite as great a, shock to Octavia and me as it has been to you. Wilson rushed into my room before I was up, bringing Rosa's letter. She had taken the morning tea to her room at half-past seven, as usual, and had found the room empty. Wilson and 1 searched Rosa's bedroom and boudoir for any clue. Everything was in its place except two light bags, that had been taken out of a. closet, some linen, and some things from the dressing-table. The jewel case was in the .safe, of which Wilson has a duplicate key. Rosa had only lain down on the outside of the bed, and must have left the house before a- creature was up. You know how late the servants are. But Rosa said in her letter that sho had explained her departure to you." " Yes, she has given me her reasons. There is nothing blameworthy in what she is doing. It is only very foolish. She has acted precipitately, on the first impulse of her loving heart.'' said Sir William, almost as if thinking aloud. "It is a most extraordinary proceeding, but T am not going to ask any questions," Mrs. Dalrymple began. "Don't!" said her brother, "for I could not answer them." "Shall 1 order some dinner for you? There were some partridges that were hardly touchedor if you would prefer cutlets—" "Dinner!" said Sir William angrily. "T don't feel as if I could ever eat again. Tell Grant to take some whisky and soda, to the library. I shall want nothing more to-night." "Is there really nothing we can do for you. William?" *" Nothing, except leave me alone. There are times when that is a service. Good night." He was gone, and his sister sat down by the lamp-lit table, covered with books and periodicals, which she had been making a. pretence of leading since, dinner, while Octavia amused herself at the piano. She had looked forward to her brother's return with a vague terror, as of something that might bring peril to herself. The crisis had come upon, her suddenly, and it had passed and left her unharmed. She breathed more freely than she had done for some time. The sense of relief was a kind of happiness. Octavia had got herself out of the way when she heard her uncle's voice in the hall. She came back now, after hearing him retire to the library. "Well, mother, how did undo take Rosa's flight?" " More calmly than I expected; but he is very much cut up. Of course, he will have it that she's not to blame. The wildest thing she can. do is only worthy of praise." "It must be nice to have such a father. Well, it's a profound mystery. It doesn't seem possible that she could have gone away with a lover, for she has hardly ever been out of my sight since we have been here, and she adored Mr. Halstead with an idiotic devotion." Sir William sat up late that night, and left home next morning. It was Saturday morning, and Ronald was expected at Tangley that night—Ronald who would go there light of heart, full of joyful expectation, to find his sweetheart vanished. The thought of his despair wrung the older man's heart. He telegraphed from Loudon to Sir Henry Halstead. at Braeside : Great trouble has come upon me. Can you come to London'' Reply to Athenaeum.'' He waited at his club for the reply, which came late in the afternoon. " Just home from shooting. Will be at Tangley to-morrow afternoon. Sorry to hear of trouble.^-HAi.sTKAO." It was past eight when Sir William arrived at Tangley: his sister and niece had been waiting dinner, a fact of which he was too preoccupied to notice by an apology. He had spent a busy afternoon, taking measures for tracing Rosa and her companion, but in his total ignorance of what direction the fugitives might take, and in his desire to avoid publicity of any kind, the chances of finding them were slight. He put the case info the hands of : a private detective of unquestionable respectability, charging him to act with the utmost discretion. The difficulty of tho case was increased by the fact that Rosamund had taken so little personal property with her. Two women of the ages of mother and daughter, both singularly handsome, and having a certain likeness to each other, were to be hunted for within an unknown area; they might have crossed the Channel, they might have gone to some remote country village, they might, have stayed in London. " That would be our worst chance, sir," said the detective; "if they've crossed, or if they've gone to some out-of-the-way hole in the country. I'm pretty sure to find them; but if they stick "in this wilderness I may be a long time about it." "Criminals are found, even in the wilderness," said Sir William. " Criminals almost always do the wrong thing. They are eaten up with self-consciousness, and their vanity gives them away. They think everybody is watching them, and they get the watched look that arouses suspicion." A telegram addressed to Miss Rayson was brought to Sir William a few minutes before nine. It was from Ronald, and despatched at eight o'clock from the last stopping-place of the Scotch express. "Too late to come to Tangley to-night. Shall be with you before breakfast tomorrow." Ronald had travelled by the day train, and his father would follow through the night. Sir William wrote a telegram to be sent from Hampton at the earliest possible hour next morning. "Don't come to Tangley. 1 am going : to Hyde Park Gardens by first available i train.— XViua am Rayson." This message, in a sealed envelope, was given to the butler to be taken to the post office immediately. Telegrams were despatched on Sunday mornings between seven and eight. " I shall face them both together, father and son," thought William Rayson, and r then, with his elbow on the table and his ! head leaning on his clenched hand, he gave himself up to despairing thoughts. The palace of his peace, the sanctuary which ' he had built for his declining years, was shattered, his daughter's love-dream was broken, the bond of friendship, the quiet growth of a lifetime, was loosened, perhaps, for ever. He- saw no ray of light, no far-off star of hope, along the dark | and troubled road. CHAPTER IX. The Sunday morning train from Hampton landed Sir William"~Rayson at the Royal Oak before eleven, in time for him to have heard any one of the famous preachers who were starred in the Saturday papers. The journey, with its change of trains at Richmond/and its endless stoppages between Hammersmith and Paddington. had seemed excruciatingly slow to a, traveller whose brain was working at racing pace. Poor Ronald ! Oh, to have it over and done with, to sec the blow struck, and the brave young ; spirit stand up against it! To be able to ' give all his mind to the task of finding RosaI mund, and providing for the safety of that , other fugitive, who had flung tho burden of ' her tragical fate upon him. Sir Henry Halstead was in his library. There had been time enough for him to make his usual careful toilet, and eat his breakfast while Sir William was chafing at the stations on the Metropolitan. Ronald was with his father, pale and anxious, starting to his feet and coming to Sir William in an agitated way before the butler could make his announcement. "Why wasn't I to go to Tangley? There is something wrong, 1 know. Rosa is ill— dangerously ill!" he said, gaspingly. "No, it- is not that. There is trouble for you, Ronald, but not that." ■"What is it, then? It must bo a .out Rosa, or you would not have forbidden me to go to her. It must be something serious or you would not have sent for me, father." "Ronald, for God's sake, be quiet," said Sir Henry. " Sit down, Rayson,'' shaking his hand fervently, "and tell us your trouble, our trouble, for we are of one family- Rosamund is well, you say?" Sir William nodded.. r

" Then nothing can be ill. We can face anything else. Come, my dear old friend., why did you send for me? Is it money troubles? Is it the damning itch of riodern times? Have you poured the earnings of a lifetime down some rotten gold mine, and . beggared yourself and Rosa? Don't bo down-hearted. That won't break Ronnie's heart, or mine, i have enough for both of them." "No, Halstead, it isn't money. It does me good to hear you talk like that, but, of course, I knew you were the right metal. It has nothing to do with money. I ant rich, and Rosamund will be rich, come what may." ■ "That's a good hearing! But if it isn't sickness, or loss of fortune, what is the trouble?" "Give me time," said Sir William. "It's rather a. long story, and not. an easy one for me to tell." "Is it for my car alone? Shall Ronald 0? " T " No. no, Ronald is to hear every word. I don't want to tell the story twice. You remember our party at George Chilworth's shooting lodge?" "I'm not likely to forget it. A tragedy like that sticks to a man's memory." " You helped to save Lady Chilworth from the gallows." " 1 did my best. But it was your evidence as a well-known physician that saved her. If you hadn't made the jury believe in her insanity, she must have swung." "Well, she was saved—as we called it— kept alive at any rate- -and she bore her life, miserable as it was, for [ifteen years. Sho made several attempts to escape in the. course of those years, and made her condition a, good deal worse by those attempts. That she failed was natural, that she should have ever made the attempt was wonderful, seeing the difficulty of it: but she has a daughter whom sho adores, and that gave her a desperate courage. She made another attempt three weeks ago, and succeeded." "Only to be caught and taken back. 1 suppose," said Halstead, while Ronald stood with his back to the mantelpiece, motionless and intent, wonderuig what on earth Lady Chilworth's movements could have to do with the trouble at Tangley, that trouble which was keeping him from his idolised Rosa. He had heard the story of the Chilworth murder, and had forgotten it. being an essentially modem young man, with mind and body always fully occupied by the work of to-day. and seldom troubling himself about things that belonged to the past. " No. she has not been taken back. While I was in Scotland helping in the search for her, fearing the worst, that she had made awav with herself, she was on her way to London. She appealed to Rosamund for help and protection, and they arc now together." " At Tangley?" Ronald asked eagerly. "No. Rosamund feared that I should send the unhappy woman back to the asylum, and she. has taken her away." "What madness!" exclaimed Sir Henry. "You will put a slop Jo this, of course. Where have they gone?" " I don't know!" " Your daughter is with an escaped lunatic, and you don't know where she is':" "It is terrible, but it is the truth. These two women are hiding somewhere, and I don't know when they may be found. 1 have put the matter in the bauds of the best man I could hear of. a retired detective officer recommended bv the people of Scotland Yard. Whatever can be done will be done. And I have the utmost confidence in Rosamund. I know what a lucid mind she has— I know her good sense and courage. I have trained her, Halstead— beloved girl— and I know what she is." Tears were in bis eyes, and he was very near breaking down; but he fought against his weakness, and held) himself bravely through this bitter hour. "Hilt what took that woman to Tangley.' What made, her throw herself upon your daughter for protection?" asked Sir Henry. His friend paused for a few moments, with bent head and thoughtful brow, before replying. Then, lifting that grave, white head, and looking Sir Henry full in the face, he said: "She threw herself upon her own daughter—the child whose image has never been absent from her mind in fifteen miserable years—the child she idolised." ' "Her daughter—her child! Are you mad. Ravson?" "No—l have been mad. perhaps, to keep this secret from you and Ronald—l have done wrong—but—but I love this girl so dearly. I know how pure and perfect a creature she is; and I feared that if you knew she was that unhappy woman's daughter you would imagine some evil taint, some hereditary weakness." "Imagine!" cried Sir Henry, while with auger. Imagine some evil taint The child of a homicidal lunatic'." " She was not a lunaticshe has never been a luanitc." "You dare tell me that, Rayson— you who swore she was mad when she tired the shot." The two faces looked at each other, one convulsed with rage, the other calm, but pale as ashes. " She was madat that moment. She fired that shot in a moment of fury so in- • tense that there is no other name for it- but madness. She had been told that her child was in peril of death, and she wanted to go to her. Her heart was bursting with grief, her mind was distracted with apprehension —and her husband, that human icicle, refused to let her leave his house. She snatched up the pistol, she threatened him. He was obstinate, laughed at her fury, and she tired." " Yes, I remember the story she told us—in one of her lucid intervals. ' What a Jesuit, you are, Rayson! Homicnhd madness! You swore to that. I think—you, a specialist in mental cases." "I swore to a condition of madness when. the shot was fired." " And you talked learnedly of recurrent mania, cited cases and authorities—you gave me my cueand between us we befogged a Scotch jury, and got that woman off the extreme penalty. But I was her advocate—l was not in the witness-box—-I was not upon oath. You perjured yourself. William Ravsoii —vou swore to a lie to save the life of vour mistress—and then you lied tacitly, to Ronald and mc. and would have imposed that woman's daughter upon us — the daughter of Chilworth's wife, and your cast-off mistress." " You wrong her and me. Halstead. lam not a. scoundrel, and she was true as steel. She never belonged to any man but George Chilworth, who ought to have married her before her child was born, and who did not marry her till four years later, when ho came'into his fortune." "Then Rosamund is not your daughter.' exclaimed Sir Benny. "My daughter by adoption only. She was an orphan—homeless, penniless, for her father left no will, and she had no legal claim on his estate. 1 took her to my heart then, a sick child, not live years old, her memory of infancy impaired by a. severe attack "of scarlet fever, and i have held her in my heart, ever since, and shall so hold her until I die, the dearest thing this earth contains for me. I suppose 1 did wrong in keeping this secret from you and your son, Halstead; but f knew my girl, and knew that all England could not find a fairer or a sweeter creature to bless a good man's life. I was not afraid of the result." " No, sir, you did nc wrong," Ronald said, giving Sir William Ids hand. "What difference could my dear love's parentage make? I know, as you know, her sweetnature, her noble mind, I know how good God has been in giving me her love. Whatever her mother may have been—" "She. murdered her husband. Ronald ; please don't? forget that detail. It is not a bagatelle. Come, Rayson, you and 1 are old friends, and have been good friends, but you have used me badly, and if you think J shall countenance my son's marriage with Lady Chilworth's daughter" " Your son has a will of his own. sir, and must use it when the happiness of his lite is at stake." Ronald interrupted hotly. There need be no quarrel,'' said Sir William, in his low, grave voice—that voice which had so often pronounced the death sentence of medical science, not. to the patient, for it was rarely that he deemed it his duty to destroy hope, but to the patient's heart-wrung kindred—" there need be no quarrel, Halstead. My daughter cancels her engagement to your son. I. have her letter to Ronald." He handed the little folded note, which Ronald snatched with a shaking hand. "Oh, Sir William, can you think I shall abide by this?" he said, when he had read Rosamund's farewell. "Do you think I shall submit to be cast off? I swear that if there is any power in honest love, Rosamund shall be my wife. I swear that if I fail in bringing her back to me, no other . woman shall ever fill her place,' 1

! " You will have to find her first." said Sir William, "and you will have to reckon with her will, and her sense of duty. I came . here to tell vou that your engagement was . ended, and to ask your forgiveness for hav- • ing deceived you." > " Oh. Sir William, I have nothing to for- < give. I can understand that loving her as ' vou do vou could hardly bear to remember that she is not really your daughter, still ■ less to tell anyone her mother's story. And ' if you think any scientific bosh about hereditary madness" would scare me—me, her . lover, who knows every look in the ex- . quisile face, every thought in the clear, calm brain—if you thought I. should be frightened - because her mother was an ill-used wife, ■ and had the misfortune, to put a bullet into a tyrannical husband—l daresay she only ; meant to frighten him. and pulled the trig- ' ger unawares—yon must have a very lowestimate of a modern lover." " I doubt if all modern lovers arc up to your form, Ronald." . ' Sir Henry Halstead had been slowly pacing the room, his habit when in perplexed ; thought. His footsteps had worn a. track of shabbiness across the Turkey carpet between one oak bookcase and another—the utmost length of a. spacious room. _ Ho i stopped suddenly in front of his old friend. "Rayson, you loved that woman! I sus- ■ pcetecf it under Chilworth's roof. lam sure of it now." " Yes." William Rayson answered, with a sigh. "I loved her. 1 loved her from tho hour these eyes first looked upon her in the shabby music-hall at- Naples, amidst fumes > of rank tobacco and the jingle of glasses--i when Chilworth and I were fellow travellers, and strolled ill, curious to see. what a Neapolitan cafe chanlant was like. No, Ronald, Rosa's mother was not born in the purple. She. was the daughter of a shopkeeper, who , had died bankrupt, and penniless, and left, i her to earn her bread how she could. She ■ was only the. loveliest woman I ever saw, and with a superb contralto voice, and an extraordinary capacity for doing anything i she wanted "to do. We saw her shoot i at a, mark that night, 1 remember. Could - either of us think that one day the mark , would be Chilworth's heart? Yes, Harry, I . loved her, 1 loved her! She was the only woman 1 ever cared for after 1 was five-and-twenty; and I have not looked unouxi woman with a. lover's eyes since I knew that . she could never be my wife." I " You would have married her off-hand, 1 • suppose," said Halstead, with a. touch of contempt. " 1 loved her too well to have any baser thought." ■"' "And she. refused you?" " Before I had time to ask her, Chil- , worth had stolen her from me. He look ■ her away from Naples, and when I met him in London six mouths after he would tell me nothing about her. except that she was safe, and properly provided for. He Mas a poor man, he said, but tie was not a brute, and he would not let her starve. 1 went, back to Naples in the following autumn, and did not, rest till I found hoi-, in a cottage at Amalii, with her baby, living as peasants live, but with a. self-respect that kept her from any intercourse with her neighbours, She was devoted to her child, lived only for that, and she seemed '. happy. She was lovelier than ever in that serene and retired life. I know no picture • of the Virgin Mother that surpasses the tranquil beauty of her countenance a,; she • sat on the beach with her baby on her knees"' "She did not think herself deserted by her lover?" "No. She was resigned to his absence. • She was able to live, and her child filled ■ her life, 'He says he may want me to live in England some day, 1 she told me. ' 1 hope Knglish air will suit Rosa. " "And you loitered in Amain, 1 suppose," ' said Halstead, sharply. "You played the old, sad, bad game of the moth round the caudle." "Yes. I stayed. She gave mo her friendship. I knew no higher bliss than ■ to be in her company. She never knew ' that 1 loved her. 1 was useful to her, and ' the child loved me, as babies love the. first man whose strong arms toss them into the air. She. thought 1 was an adorer of infancy. She never suspected that 1 loved her baby because it was hers. Don't de- ' spise me. Halstead. You don't know what a great unhappy love means for a man who has passed the meridian of ins lite. Fate smiled upon your love, and gave you a, fond and beautiful wife for the asking. How can you understand? Yes. I loved her always", and knew how to respect her aud myself. She never has had an inkling of my' secret. She' has always been able to lean upon me—in her joy and in her despair, as the one friend she could trust." "You arc a good fellow. Rayson, and there is very little 1 would no!- do to prove my friendship for you—except to approve of* my son's marriage with the daughter of a murderess. Mad or sane can make little difference. Lady Chilworth's daughter is no wife for Ronald." "I hope I'm not an unduliful .-on," said Ronald, his pale face fixed as stone, "but in this business 1 must take my own line. You can turn me out of your house, and cut me oil' with a shilling." though 1 think you won't do either—but I belong to Rosamund, and our marriage depends upon no will but hois. And mo.. Sir William, will vou be kind, and let mo help you to look 'for her? I shall he tit for nothing else on earth fill she is found." "My dear boy. I'm afraid there's nothing for us to do but- to waif and hope. I've put the matter into professional hands, and 1 hope she may be traced speedily. 1 shall put an advertisement in the Times urging her to communicate with me, but, if you"read that," handing him Rosamund's letter, "you will see that for her mother's sake she' may hide herself from us for some time to come. She knows nothing yet. remember. of her mother's crime. Sho thinks of her only as a fugitive from «». lunatic asylum. Her" mother may tell her that terrible stoiy. perhaps. She may not be spared thai blow." '• You think her mother is sane now?" - " Yes, Ronald. I believe she has been sane for years, though the medical authorities who have scon her from time, to time, and the house-surgeon a! the asylum, have doubted her sanity." "You have seen her sometimes'. - ' "No year has passed in which 1 have no! seen'her. I was the only link between her and the life outside her prison walls. 1 -could talk to her of her child." "And you never took Rosamund to see her?" , "No. I would not spoil Rosa's life by tho knowledge of that dark history. C wanted her existence to bo cloudless. Her mother had sinned, and could not escape the penalty of her sin. She had 110 right to share 'it with her innocent child. 1, who so loved her. was hard with her, cruel, perhaps, when Rosa's happiness was at stake. Good-bye. Halstead, good-bye, Ronald," taking up bis hat and stick unci moving towards Ihe door. " You ) shall hear from me if there is any news." "Let me go down to Tangley with yon, Sir William. I shall lie a sluulo happier there." "No. no, Ronald. I have no right to foster an attachment which your father will not, sanction." "My father has no voice in this matter, sir. I am his obedient son in everything else—but not here." " Let him go with yon if you like, Rayson," said Sir Henry." " His mother and 1 have spoilt him. and now he defies us." "No, no, father, you will come round to my way of thinking. You know that if I didn't love Rosa to distraction I am. in honour bound to her. You will trust your old friend, Sir William—the highest medical authority in England—l've heard you call him so". You'll trust him when he assures you that Rosamund is as pure and perfect in mind as she is lovely in person." " 1 would submit that question to a jury of specialists without fear," said the doctor. (To be continued on Saturday next.) CAUTION TO FARMERS. The extraordinary success achieved by tho use of Sykcs* Red Drench has elicited letters of praise- from all parts of the colony. In order to obtain the genuine drench ask expressly for SYK.ES" RED DRENCH. ' Every ingredient in this drench is selected by an expert in (London, fresh supplies arriving every thieo months. Only materials of the highest quality are. used in its manufacture. Shim the dealer who, in order to gain larger profits, tells you he has something better. Beware! His advice may cost you tho life of a most valuable animal. For cows, horses, sheep, and pigs. Price, Is 6d. Each packet J contains two drenches.

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