MARJORY'S MISTAKE

Otago Daily Times, Issue 10571, 18 January 1896, Page 3

MARJORY'S MISTAKE

Sew Story by the Author of "Jacabis Wife,"

- Bx ADELINE SERGE ATST, Author of "The Great Mill Street Myßtery," " Jacobi's Wife," " Sir Anthony's Secret," "trader False Pretancea," &c, &c

(COPYMGHT.)

CHAPTER XXI.

"•I »m afraid it is a hopeless injury."

It was a London surgeon who spoke ths irordß. Before him, in his consulting room, »at Marjory Severne, her face white with a dismay too great to be put into words. He had been examining her hand, and was telling her what she had herself almost come to suspect, tbat one of the muecle3 had been irretrievably strained, and would never ba strorjg again; or, at any rate, if it ever were BfcroDg, it would be after years of rest, a verdict which put the career of a professional violinist out of Marjory's power fot ever, for even if the strain were ultimately cared, even it the'resulting weakness some day passed away, how would it be possible to repair the loss of weeks, of months, or of years spent in idleness? The fingers would have become stiff from disuse before that disabled thumb could be strong again.

The doctor was very sympathetic. He was not a musical man himself, and did not understand the blow that he was inflicting on a lover of a music, bathe undarsfcooc! that the loes of a career was a serious matter. Its gravity seemed to be lessened in his eyes, however, when he discovered that Marjory was married, arid tbat her husband could support her. " Yon might be worse off, you know," he said, lightly, when Marjory turned upon him B& appealing look. She got away from him at last, feeling that all life and hope had been crushed out of her. Deep down in her heart there was a great dread of the way in which Archie would take the news. He had shown a good deal of disappointment of late, when Marjory bad not been ablo to take up her old engagements. He had grumbled more than Bver about their poverty, and asked rather Impatiently when tbat hand of hers would be well. Marjory wished intensely tbat Felix Hyde were at home. She felt more dependent on his sympathy than on Aichie's. Than be was a doctor, and would perhaps ba Rble to advise her what to do. Tbe man whose advice she had jus'ti taken was certainly a specialist in casss'of the kind, nevertheless he might have been mistaken. He might . have pronounced too hasty a judgment. Marjorj hoped against hope, but knew all the time that it was in vain.

She made her way to MiSs Ferris'a lodgings, in which she still retained a share. Miss Ferris was out, and the rooms looked bleak Bad cold. It was a, chilly day in March, whan a black frost and a bitter north-east wind made life miserable. To Marjory they seemed in harmony with the bitterness of her BonL She sat down in the draughty sitting room, and looked about her. There was the piano which Archie had played when they first tried a duet together. She remembered the flood of snnshine that poured in, at the west window, and tha warm summer evenings when he first used to come. It was a very little time ago, and yet it seemed separated from the present by a csntnry o£ wretchedness, and she would have to tell Archie when she got home—that somehow Beemed the worst of it.

She sat there for, a little while, dreaming of the present and the past. She would not wait to see Hiss Ferris, she If ft as if ebe could not endure Ada's questions, and exclamations. She went out into the street, and made her way on foot to the station, where she took a train which reached Southminster about 5 o'clqpk in the afternoon. Archie was at home, and explained that be had not come to meet her at the station because he was not sure whether she would arrive by that train or not. But although the excuse was a flimsy one, Marjory was glad that he bad not come. Sbc did not want to tell him in the street of the calamity Which bad fallen upon her.

"Well, what did the doctor say?" raid Archie, cheerfully, at tea time, " How soon does he think you can use your hand again?" . .

Marjory was silent for a moment. "I wish you would.go and see him, Archie," she said, faintly. ••■•••■ ■-•'■,. " Is go ana seV him!. What for 1 'Didn't he tell you what he thought 1"

"Ye?, he told me, bnt I can't believe ft. I JeeJ »b if I must have hesrd him wrongly. I will tell you by-and-bye, Archie. I can't tell yon now."

, " You are tired and overdone," said Archie. * I expect you have taken a chill. Poor little girl, don't you fret, your hand will be all right before long. Never mind what those blundering fools of doctors say. Drink your tea, there's a good girl, and don't cry."

"Marjory knew very well that he hated to jea'her cry, so she managed to suppress her tears, and put on a tolerably calm,-if not a cbeerfnl face, for the rest of the meal. They were rittiDg over the fire an hour laterbefors she ventured to recur to the subject.

" Archie," she said, in a low voice, "I mast tell yon what the doctor said. He does cot think that I shall ever be able to play 9gain."

"Rubbish-I" said.Archie, sharply, "He Can't mean that." ■ v

"Yes, be says the muscle is strained. I have practised too much it seems; it will never be right again."

• Aicbie stared at her, and then broke forth into angry words.

\ "Why were yon such a-fool as to practise too much, tbenj Why didn't yoa know better) Old Sandro told yon not to overdo it, I've heard you say. Why, if yon can't play again you've ruined your, whole career."

"I toow," said Marjory, trembling. Was be not going to say one word of love or pity for her in her great distress ? .

"It .can't be true, it's too ridicalons," .Cried Archie, stHI angrily. "Those meddling fools of doctors, they' can't tell. Why, you've rested It for months now. I expect that it's just a little stiff from want of practice; why don't you get out yonr violin, and play in spite of them all 1" " Because —I can't, Archie."

"You can't ? Yon won't, yon mean." "'I tried this morning," said Marjory, in a level, passionless voice, as if she bad no emotion left.' " The thumb is quite powerless, and painful, too. It is no use trying ; and tha doctor says it never will be strong enough for the violin."

"Good heavens I" said Archie, blankly. "-And all your training and everything thrown aw»y I"

111 suppose so," said Marjory. "You suppose so ? Well, of coarse, it must be so," said her husband, with increasing irritation. '

" You learnt nothing else in particular, all those years at Lripsic; then these two years in London, and lessons, and practices, and everything thrown away. What cursed illluck 1," ...

" Tea, I have not brought you mnch good fortune," said Marjory, with a pale smile.

" Good Lord, no 1" said Archie, emphatitally. "I must say it "U about the worst thing that could have happened, and after the other disappointment, too. It is very unfortunate." .

"What disappointment 1 " said Marjory, quickly. " Old Hyde's money, of course," he said, Staring at her. "You don't suppose that I Bhould have been so mad as to marry on my inoomeif youhadn'thadexpectations? Everybody said that you would have something handsome by way of a dowry from old Hyde; and then there was your music, a fortune at your finger ends, as Sandra used to say, and now there's not a penny from old Hyde, and the fortune at your finger ends has vanished into thin air, and jou have got to live upon my income, 1 suppose—a paltry £150, which wasn't enough for myself."

" Archie, don't talk like that," said Marjory. " I can perhaps give lessons; I don't know whether I shall be able to do as mnch as that with tbe violin, bat it is possible, and I can teach the theory of mafic and perhaps the piano. I'm afraid I don't know anything else well enough to teach at all, bnt I should think I could get some pupils la theory, if in nothing else." ~

" A paltry few shillings here and there," caid Archie with scorn, "when everybody said you would make your thousands a year belbre long^ It's a veiy unlucky business for me. Of couse I counted on your baing able to do something for yourself. I didn't know that your music would prove euch a fiasco as BH that."

" I Bhould have done well enough," said

Marjory,." if my hand had not given way. You must acknowledge that X was making a good beginning, Archie." " I should like to know what use a beginBro.tiß if jcra can't 20 on to a completion i"

said Arohie, a little brutally. "Well, I'm dura I don't know what is to become of us. It'll be a case of the prison or the workhonse, I Bhould think, before long."

"Arohie I What do you mean? Are you in debt? I know the housekeeping «x----penses are all right, because I paid Mrs Jenkins only the day before yesterday, but is there anything of your own, any bill tbat you are bothered about?"

" Of course there is," said Archie, irritably. " A man can't live on nothing, especially if he has to pay a lot of money for housekeeping, and his wife's dress, and things of that sort." ■

Marjory forbore to remind him that Bhe had never asked him for a penny to spend on dress since their marriage.

"Of course I never thought that you wouldn't earn anything, Marjory. After an expensive training like yours, a woman ought to be able to contribute her share."

". Archie, Archie! it isn't my fault," cried Marjory, the, words wrung from her almost against her will.

"I am not saying that it is.your fault," said Archie, who was standing on the hearthrug now, with his shoulders shrugged to his ear;, and his hands in his pockets, the very picture of discontent and ill-humour. " It's your misfortune. I don't suppose tbat you could help it, but if you had listened to me and old Sandro and to everybody who advised you, you would never have run the risk of overstraining your hand in that way. In that sense it is entirely your own fault, only, unfortunately, I've got to pay for it as well as you."

Marjory leaned back in her chair and shut her eyes. She did not want to see him. She wanted to blot out the vision of this handsome, sulky, ill-conditioned young fellow, who was selfishly bemoaniog his own loss instead of her great sorrow and deprivation. She had lost the deßire to protest. If Archie chose to Bay these cruel things it was her duty to listen, but she would not make a reply. She had failed in her art, but that after all was nothing in comparison to another failure which seemed to be looming in the distance, the failure of" that love for which she had risked her very soul. " Well," said Archie speaking in a defiant voice, "we shall just have to gat what we can out of Felix Hyde. It's all the more necessary for him now to do something for ns. He talked very grandly about a post in London for me, but he doesn't seem c 6 have given another thought to it. When does he come back from the Riviera, 1 wonder 1"

Marjory opened her eyes, and looked at him with mingled doubt and horror.

" Archie, 1 hope you don't mean that you will ask hiia for anything 1"

" Indeed I do, then," said Archie, with a laugh, " and I shall expect him to come down with something handsome, too. He gave me to understand that he would do it whenever necessary, and I'm Eure ii it were ever necessary, it is necessary now."

"Don't, Archie," Marjory implored. " Let ma see first whether I can't make an income by teaching, I'm sure that 1 shall get pupils. Dou't lower yourself and me by asking for charity from Felix Hyde."

" I don't call it charity, I call it justice," remarked Archie. " Old Hyde ought to have provided for you, there's no denying that. If Felix has the wit, he'll see that it was a spiteful trick of the old man's. Beside?, if ha was in lova "

"I vrillnot listen to this, Archie. You have no right to say those things."

" I have aright to say whatever I choose in my own house, I imagine," said Archie. "You have crowed over me long enough with your assumption of superiority, and youc expectations, and your musical success. What ure you now, after all ? A beggar, without a penny to bless yourself with.. Not even as useful as your cousins, the dressmakers, or able to earn as much. A useful wife for h poor man to have I"

"Very pale, but with flaming eyes, Marjory rose to her feet. " You choose to insult me," she said, " in the very hour I most wanted your pity and sympathy, and if you choose to insult me, you must take tho consequence. I told yon I would not listen to you. I tail you now, if you speak to me ia that way again, I will leave the house, and never more live with yoa as your wife. If you have no love for me, yoa at least owe me some respect." .

She did not wait to hear his answer, which indeed was rather slow to come, for Arcbie was taken aback by this exhibition of wounded pride. He watched her as she swept out of the room with the air of an offended princess, and an exclamation, half of wonder, half of scorn, rose to his lips.

- "By, Jove!" he said to himsajf, as he watched her depart. It occurred to him that she looked almost as well as a tragedy queen that he had seen performing at a London theatre not many weeks ago. Would it be possible, ho thought, for her to go on the stage 1 She certainly had beanty, probably she had talent. It might be that she would make, as decided a snecess in the dramatic as in the musical art. He resolved to put the idea into her hsad, to make her consult her friends in London on the subject.

He had no desire to quarrel with Marjory. Hia brutality of speech had proceeded from the result of vexation and disappointment on a naturally coarse mind. He could not in the least see why Marjory should be so much hurt by what he had said. He had spoken plain common sense, that was all. Women never liked common sense, Marjory least of all, he eaid to himself. He had. never tried to break her in, because she seemed so well able to hold her own; but if she proved a failure, if she were to pass into the ranks of household drudges, unknown and undistinguished, then he felt that she would owe him far more submission than he had ever exacted from her before. She would have to be grateful to him then, he reflected, for every morsel she ate or every garment she put on. There was a faint touch of satisfaction in the thoaght, in spite of bis unfeigned rage and disappointment. Marjory had lorded it over him sometimes, he considered. She had assumed airs of superiority. She had been a great, deal more independent than a woman and a wife had a right to be. She would learn her proper place now ; that was a set-off against the loss of1 the money that would have to be faced. ■

In the meantime he resolved to write to Felix, and to impress upon him the need of money in order to obtain proper medical advice for Marjory, and to supply the deficiency in their joint income caußed by her loss of work. He could write a very telling letter when he chose, and hig composition on this occasion was all that could be desired. It was particularly full of his affection for Marjory. He knew that was a safe card to play with Felix Hyde.

Indeed, he wrote so lovingly'of Marjory that by the time he had finished his letter he had argued himself back into good humour and affection for her. He went out to post his letter, and when he came back he walked into the little bedroom where Marjory had betaken herself. Hn found the room quite dark, and Marjory lying face downwards on the bed, in an attitude of utter prostration and self-abandonment.' He stooped down, put his arm round her, and kissed the top of her head, for he conld not reach her face.

" Come, don't fret^Marjory," he said. " I didn't mean to speak unkindly. I was put out, you know. Dome, look up. ■ We'll pull through somehow." She was only a weak woman, after all, and her heart was crying out for the love that she thought she had lost. She turned towards him instantly, and cried her heart out upon his shoulder. For once he was patient with her tears, and his caresses soon healed, or seemed, to heal, the wounds which his harsh words had made.

CHAPTER XXIL

Mr Beilby stayed at Redwood after -all. Mrs Drummond's objections to his appearanoe and his clothes were not allowed to weigh against the rector's appreciation of his curate's learning and sincerity, or Helen's pity for tbe motherless children, who seemed to have been tossed about from place to place with nothing approaching a home. It was perhaps as much for the children's sake as for their father's that the Bsv. Harold Beilby became curate of Redwood parish, bot he filled his office very fairly well in spite of his ungainly appearance. The village people pronounced him " grand "in the pulpit—far more to their liking than the rector, who preached simple little sormons about temperance, obedience to parents, Sabbath breaking, and the like, which were no trouble at all to understand. Now Mr Beilby was nothing if not scholarly and metaphysical, and disquisitions on ancient heresies were as natural to him as short moral essays to tbe rector. Probably the village people did not understand very mnch about Pelagius and Sabellius, but they liked the sonnd of the unfamiliar names, and, moreover, such sermons oould not be considered "personal," as some of the rector's were.

The curate went on lodging in Mrs Anderson's house, which was little larger than a cottage, and where it seemed to the outside world as if the family most ba unduly

crowded; but, Mrs Anfieißon wa» a motherly person, who allowed the children to have free run of her qvl rooms as well as tboEe that were let to the curate, and there was a big garden where the children could disport themselves whenever ths weather was fine; so that they, warn not so badly ofl after all.

Helen Dcumcaond's first vteit to the Beilby children resulted in their forming an immense admiration for her; an admiration with which no trne woman could fail to be pleased. They accompanied her in her walks, they lay in -wait for her with bunohes of wiuter berries, and afterwards of spring flowers. They confided all their troubles to her, and appealed to hor whsnevar they were in difficulty. But one thicg they wonld never do unless they wer« obliged: they would never eat foot within the reofcory gates. Mrs Drummond had the faculty of Frightening them all out of their wits. That was the more remarkable because the littla lady was always gracious and amiable in demeanour ; but children are quick to read between the Macs, and it wm possible that tbey soon distinguished the coldness with which she regarded their shabby olothes and their shy manners. Helen took them to tea with her one day, bat the entertainment proved somewhat o£ a failure, for her mamma froze the guests into terrible decorum, and one and all of them declared that they would never go there again. Helen tried to coax them in vain. " We-will h:we tea in the old nursery," she said, " and you shall ride on a beautiful, dappled, rocking horss, and have tea out of my old dolls' cups." The children looked at one another doubtfully.

"It would be very nice," ss.id one of the smaller girls, in a timid voice.

"Look here," said Bobby, " shall yon be all by yourself, or will your mamma bo at home 1 "

"She, will be at home, certainly," said Helen, half laughing. 'She knew protty well what was coming next.

" Then we won't come," said Bobby, with decision.

" Oh, Bobby, how can you be bo rude ? " came from Fanny's mouth, in a shocked voice.

" Well, 1 don't care," persisted Bobby, stoutly. "We can't have any fun if your mamma is there, and you know we can't, because we have to sit still and not make a noise."

"I don't think she would mind a little noise," said Helen, more amused than offended, "and you could run about in tho garden as much as you liked." Bat the children looked so unwilling that she did not press her invitation, aud Faony explained to her afterwards with anxious hesitation that they would like to coma very much if it were to see Helen alone, but they always felt a little frijhteced of Mrs Drutnmond, because, although she smiled at them, and spoke very kindly, ehe always seemed to ses everything that was amiss, " and it frightens v?, you know,"said Fanny, naively. Helen contanted herself after this with going to see the children at thair own home, or taking.them ont. ia the pony carriage, and getting tea for them at a wayside cottage, a form of entertainment which they very much preferred to the stately rectory.

Eadwood Rail was also open to them, and was a place oC great enjoyment. Mm Hyde and Felix frere away for the winter, and Helea had free leave to make what use she liked of the house, and she passed many a long hour with them In the quaint old mansion, where there was no one so be disturbed by their shrieks of laughter, and the shouts which u?rully accompanied their games. She scarcely ever eEcouaterc.-! Mr Beilby in her visits to the cottage. He shut himself up in a tiny little room which he had lived with books, and called his study; or else he was out visiting his parishioners, a duty which no aUurements of learning ever caused him. to neglect. In his visits to the village he wa3 usually accompanied by one or more of hio children, who were all devotedly fond of him. To them he seemed able to become a charming companion. He told them lengthy fairy stories, mostly from old mythologies, and entered with interest into all their tchemes and occupations. So much Helen learnt from the children's own reports. The provoking thing was that he fled at her approach. If she came upon the little party when he was telling them a story, he would desist in the middle and walk away. In fact, his shyness neemed rather to increase than to lessen, and Helen at last gave up the idea of beguiling him from the solitude in whichAe seemed to have wrapped himself.

She noticed that ths children spoke very little of their mother, although the elder children mast surely have remembered bor very well. Fanny one day showed her the late Mrs Beilby'g likeness. It represented a very pretty yonng woman, with large languishing eyas, and aa air of mingled coquetry and childishness, at which H&len was somewhat surprised. v" She looks very pretty and very yonng," she said, scarcely knowing what else to say.

" Ob, yes, she .was very pretty," said Fanny, her eyes kindling at once, " and she always looked yonng like that. She was scarcely 17 when father married her, and 2G in this portrait."

"Yoa remember her very well, don't you, Fanny 1" \

" Oh, yes, I remember her just like that. I remember that dress she's got on. You see what a pretty one it if>, all lace and ribbons.' It's in a box upstairs now. Father would nevar let us take any of her things, though the housekeeper we had in London used to want to eat them op for the children, but when we came here be gave me the key of the box, and told ma I was old enough to judge whether they could be used or not."

" I suppose he thought some of them could be made over again for you," said Helen;

" Yea, but they're too smart for me," said Fanny, with rather a frightened look. "Mother l,iked pretty things. Sim wore white a great deal, white and pink ribbons," said Fanny lovingly. " I don't think that would do tor me as all."

Helen looked at frock.

the girl's shabby stuff

" Now that the summer is Doming on," she said, " you might fiad something that would be usefnl to you, as you are in the country. It is more difficult to wear white things in town."

"Would you mind," said Fanny, taking Helen's hand in hers, " would you be so very kind as to come upstairs with me and look at the things 1 You could tell me what to do with them, became I really don't know, and I don't like to ask Mrs Anderson."

"Perhaps your father would not like it," said Helen, shrinking a little at the thoaght of turning over the dead woman's things.

" I'm sure he would like it better than for Mrs Anderson to do it," said Fanny, almost vehemently, "and you would understand what the things were for, and how I conld use them. Do, dear Miss Drummond, do come and help me look."

Helen yielded, a little reluctantly. ~'. Mr Beilby was in the village, and the children were playing ia the garden. Even Mrs Anderson was out, and a small girl from the village who assisted her was alono in tha kitchen. There could not ba a better time. Fanny teok Helen's hand and led her up the narrow, uncarpeted stairs to a little attic in the roof, which was used as a lumber room. One large wooden box stood conspicuously apart from tbe rubbish of broken furniture and dusty portmanteaux with which the floor was strewn. Fanny explained that she came up and dusted it every day. A curious little example, as it Sfcemed to Helen, of an affection which was not unlike Fetish worehip. The box was unlocked, and the contents displayed to Helen's wondering eyes. Mrs Beilby's taste in dress certainly struck her as peculiar, considering that she had been a poor curate's wife. There were two or three gauzy ball dresses ia the last stats of dilapidation. Thoro were also some day dresses of a light silk, or ranch befrilled and befurbelowed muslin of the most delicate character, all of which struck Helen as flimsy and overtrimmed, Fanny brought out triumphantly two or three tiny pairs of satin* shoes with very high heels, a white feather fan, some strings of Roman pearls, and lastly, to Helen's surprise, a box of cosmetics.

" Aren't theee funny little bottles 1" said Fanny, displaying them to her "and there are brushes and sticks and powder puffs. I wonder what these were for."

" Charades perhaps," said Helen. " Some people use them for dressing up."

" Oh," said Fanny, with rather a graver look, then shutting up the little box, she added thoughtfully, "Perhaps they had something to do with the time when mamma used to dance. She could dance and siDg most beautifully; I think she had something to do with a theatre, bat I don't exactly know what it was."

Helen thought it very likely. There was something vaguely suggestive of theatrical costume in the drosses that Fanny showed her. and in the acceaianoe of tbe photo.-

graph. She stood looking down on tbo faded ribbons and half-soiled laces with a dreamy air. By what possible means had Mi' .Beilby, scholar and olergyman, an uncouth, »wkw»rd lout, as in some respects ho might ntill be called,1 by what means had he possessed himself of the hand of the littlo burlesque actress or dancing-girl, or whatever she had been ? j A less suitable companion for a man of Harold Beilby's kind ;Holen could not imagine.

" Thera's nothing there that wonld do very well for me, is there 7" »aid Fanny, wistfoily. " Mother used to look bo pretty in that white and mauvo thing, but somohow it looks too much trimmed up for me."

" I think," said Heleu, gently, " that you are right about most of the things. Tboy are not quite suitable for you, but here are these white muslins, they would make you a pretty summer dress, and this pink would do for the little ones. The trimmings must be taken off, and the stnff washed and ironed, then it will make you one or two pretty things for the warm weather."

"I ■ hope papa will not mind sasing me wear them," Baid Fiuny, almost in a whixpar.

Helen put her arm round the child's shoulder. " I think, dear, ha wanted you to ronke use of them from what you tell me," she said, " and another thing,' the dresses will be So ranch altered that he will not recognise them unless yon tell him, acd you needn't do that, you know, unless ho asks.

Fanny looked a little comforted by this assurance, and began smoothing out. eomo of the faded ribbons with an evident admiration which showed that she had bean taught to believe them beautiful. The two wore so absorbed that they had failed to observe a step on the Btairs behind them. Something now, however, caused Helen to look ronDd. She saw the tall, gsiunt figure of the curate, in his long black coat, standing on the topmost stair, with his hand on cha bannister. He was looking, not at her, but at the open box, and the billowy fiaery which hung over the sides. Helen thought that she had nev3r seen 30 stricken a look on a man's face. The sight oJ these old dresses, probably well known to him in bygone days, seoraed to have turned the living man to stone. Hs stood for a moment looking, then, without a word, hs turned and went down the narrow stairs again. Helen heard him go into his little study and lock the door. She fslt as if one bad been detected in an act of sacrilegious curiosity, Sbe was sorry that Bbc had yielded to Fancy's desire that she would examine the box of cloths?. What would Mr BailViy think of her 1 Sorely that she was prying and peering into what did not concern her. Ir. was an annoying position, acd Helen's face flashed as sbe thought of it. It was all the more annoying abo because she felt that she liked Mr Beilby all the batter for that look oE sorrow in his deep-set, earnest eyes. She wondered that Fanny had not heard her lather's step, but the child was too much absorbed in the rearrangement 01 some ribbons on the dress to have a thought of anything else. It was she, and she alone, who had caught sight of that overwhelming, passionate gaze, and who realised for tbe first time the depth or that unspoken sorrow which had wrecked a strong man's life. " Let us put them away now, dear, and go downstairs," said Helen, gently. " Your father has come in. I beard him go into his study jusc now. We had better lopk at them again some other day."

Fanny agreed to this proposition, observing as she locked the box again that she would rather look at these things when her father was out, " because, yonkcow, it makes him so sad when he is reminded of her."

" Was she ill for a long time 1" asked Helen, sympathetically.

" Yes, I think so, for a good wbils," said Fanny, vaguely. " Papa used to sit up with htr, and nurse her, and do everything." The children wera all very little than, and we couldn't afford more than one servant, so papa did all the nur.-ing, you know. It made him very ill, I believe, because he stayed up so many nights, and people say that ha has not been quite the sams over sinca. Sue -went away to the seaside at last, and then papa told in that she was dead."

Helen thought it a pathetic picture—tho big, gaunt scholar nursing his fragile, frivolous, little wifa, with a host of unkempt, uncarad-for children dragging at his heels. The care of a sick woman and young children seemed the last thing which Harold Bailby was suited for, and yet it was very evident from all she heard that the man's patience and gentleness had never failed, that he had been tender as a woman with the fragile beings committed to bis charge, and that it was from no want of care and affection if Frances Beilby had slipped away out of this world at 26. Helen felt more sorrow for him, and less sorrow for the children than she had ever done before. She could rmdarstand his grief at tha loss of a wi£e whom he lo7ed, but it seemed to her as if tha children had perhaps not suffered so much as she bad imagined in losing ths little creature, who had perhaps retained more of her theatrical proclivities than of the motherly instinct which would have made their lives happy. Hitherto Helen had pictured Mrs Beilby as a homely domestic woman, a perfect mother, if not a perfect wife. A woman who very possibly^tnanaged her husband and her household alike, and kept her family up to the mark in habits of neatness and economy. Now the reversa side of the picture ' was brought to view. By her death it was almost as though a clog on her husband's career had been removed; for it could not have been much to his advantage to havo for a wifa a feeble, ailing creature, whose tastes must have been so utterly different from his own. The children might, after all, get on better without such a mother, but was it possible that Harold Beilby could ever recover from the loss of one to whom he had evidently given as deep and strong an aifdction as it was in the nature of mau to bestow?

Helen thought not, and she was sorry, for it seemed to her a pity that the best part of a man's Ufa should be for ever buried, in the grave.

She did not see any more of the curate that afternoon. She refused Fanny's pressing invitation to remain to tea. She felt as if she did not want to encounter Mr Bvilby's eyes again. He, too, would probably not wish to see her. Very likely he would not easily forgive her for looking at his poor wife's past treasures. It seemed an insult to hia love for the eyea of. an outsider to have gazed upon what was once so near and dear.

{To be continued.')