A WIFE’S PERIL

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XVI, Issue XI, 14 March 1896, Page 299

A WIFE’S PERIL

BF

MRS M. E. HOLMES.

Author of ‘A Woman’s Lore,’ 4 Her Fatal Sin,’ 4 The Tragedy of Redmoant,' Etc., Etc. CHAPTER XII. The bump of inquisitiveness, in spite of the popular idea, is quite as fully developed in man as in woman, and Bob, Lord Glen* ferris, had food for wonderment for many days. He wondered how it was that Ralph Sefton’s name and Ralph Sefton’s history were known so well to Mispah and Noel ; but, being a fellow not over and above clever at putting two and two to* gether, no gleam of the truth came to him* Then he wondered why Ralph was so determined to know their name, and why, when he had told it, he seemed scarcely to believe it. They had lived all their lives in California; he could know nothing of them. Then he thought of the strange visitor to the armory in the bright light of day. He laughed at the idea of its being supernatural, though he confessed to himself that he had been frightened enough at it at the time of its appearanc. It puzzled him that the spirit, ghost, or what, ever it had been, should be so like Mispah Kepple, and he wondered, most of all, why Ralph should have fainted when he called attention to the likeness.

Then, it was strange that Mr Kepple should resolutely avoid society. Some secret there was evidently, and greatly he would like to find it out. Ho was not inquisitive—oh. dear, no ; he simply onlywanted to know. Mispah, Noel and Humpy had been to his place many times fishing and shooting ; Mr Kepple not once. He was standing by the gate watching for them, or, perhaps, to speak more truly, watching only for Mispah. The firet moment he had seen her he admired her : and Mispab’s lace, though beautiful, was the least of her charms. Now he knew that he was scarcely nappy unless she was near him ; that the moments spent away from her side were long indeed — long and weary and unrestfui.

He wished with all his heart that there was not this mystery about her father, that he might woo her and ask her to be his wife. No one could have a sweeter or more beautiful one ; and vet —and yet up till now the wives of the Glenferrises had been women of family, and she was but a gold digger’s daughter. Reason may war with love ; but, if love is deep and true, it generally comes off conqueror. It is a pity that it is so ; but love is a madness, and madness casts out reason.

He was watching anxiously, and at length be saw Humpv’s curiously deformed form turn the corner of the road. The others would soon follow. But he was mistaken. Humpy came onward, his great, awkward arms hanging down, his hands almost touching the ground. When he got close to the young man he raised his hat. 4 You’ll be disappointed,’ he said, 4 to see me alone, but I ? ve brought a message from Jack—that's Mr Kepple— to ask you to step up to the cottage and take tea there.’ Bob Hushed with mingled pleasure and surprise. 4 I will come with great pleasure,’ he said. I would have called upon Mr Kepple some time ago, only I understood that he did not care for strangers.’ 4 Neither does he,’ Humpy answered. 4 But he has heard so much of you from the children that he scarcely considers you a stranger now.’

They were walking along together, making a strange pair—the tall, athletic young man, and the dwarf hunchback. People who saw them coming from afar off smiled at or pitied Humpy ; but, when he drew nearer, they could only wondei at the beauty of his face. 4 Are all of this mysterious family beautiful ?’ Bob wondered. Will the father have a face like a god ?’

4 Do you find time hang heavily on your hands here?’ he asked. 4 The life must be very different from what you have been accustomed to ? 4 Different to what I was accustomed to in California,’ he answered ; 4 but before I went there 1 had been used to a life of ease and luxury. 1 gave it up because I found that among the ladies and gentlemen with whom I mixed, my misfortune was made a subject for ridicule. In a drawing room my hands were tied ; I could not chastise even the men who made game of my deformity ; in the diggings, after I had showed that my strength was greater than that of most men, that 1 could punish an insult, I was respected.’

4 And now you are content to come and live in England again.’ 4 1 am content to live anywhere where Jack, and N >el, and Mispah live.’ His face softened, his voice grew more tender as he said the girl’s name. The young man looked at him quickly, and guessed his secret. 4 You love her V be said, impulsively. ‘Yes,’ Humpy answered, almost sadly ; 4 1 love her. Nature, which deformed my body, left my heart much like the heart of other men. I love her as men love women they would make their sweethearts—their wives; I love her more than the digger loves gold, more than the diamond seeker love* diamond-—with every fibre of my nature, with every beat of my heart.* The young man looked down upon his

face, at his wondrously beautiful eyes, and owned with a pang, that, despite of his deformity, a woman might well love him. 4 And you have wooed or will woo her?' he said.

A look almost of horror crossed the dwarf’s face. 4 1 have said that 1 love her,’ he said, simply. 4 Do you think, that, loving her. I would link her life with such a misshapen lump of humanity as myself? Not I. She will never know that my love for her is other the love of a father, a brother. When she weds, she must wed some one young and beautiful like herself — some one whom she can love. 1 marry her? 1 would rather kill myself; but, if God had seen fit to make me as other men. and to give me a form of which I need not have

been ashamed, then she would have loved me, she would have been my wife.* The young man reached out his hand, and took Humpy's long fingers within his. 4 You are a noble fellow,' he said. 4 Many men. loving as you. would let that love selfishly have its way; fora girl well might love a man with a face like yours, and forget all else in looking at it.'

4 You flatter me,’ the hunchback said, smiling. 4 1 know, of course, that my face is not i-o repulsive as the rest of my mis shapen body ; but it would be horrible for a sweet young girl like Mispah to love one like me. It might have happened had we not left the gold diggings, for it is in a woman’s nature to lavish love upon something, and her father let her mix with none of the other diggers ; but it is not likely now. and 1 am—am glad it is not.’ It was difficult to say. but he got the words out bravely. Life had been hard to him indeed, bereft of its greatest joy—love. They had reached the cottage. Mispah and Noel stood watching for them.

The girl came forward with a half shy smile upon her face, and a bright colour on her cheeks.

‘You’ve brought him, then. Humpy?’ she said, giving the young man her hand. 4 1 wonder.’ turning a pair of half-bashful eyes to his face, 4 it you were very surprised to see him alone.

4 I was very much disappointed,’ he answered. 4 until 1 heard the reason ; then 1 was glad, for I have wanted so much to know your father.’ 4 Come along, then, and have your wish gratified,’ Noel said. 4 My father is waiting indoors to see you.’

With a heart beating high, Bob followed the boy.

W hat would this mysterious man, the father of the girl whom he loved, be like .’ Would he look simply the rough digger, or would there be the stamp of crime upon his face —a crime from which he was hiding from the eyes of man? He felt nervous—almost frightened. W hat this man was, meant so much to him.

He entered a small, low room : the air was heavy with the scent of Bowers, which stood in great bowls in every available place. Jack was lounging in a low chair, but rose as the stranger and Noel entered. 4 Dad, this is Lord Glenferris,’ Noel said.

4 1 am pleased to meet you,’ Jack answered, holding out a hand so slender and white that it seemed impossible that it could have wielded a pick. 4 I have wanted to thank you for your kindness — your great kindness to my children.’

4 The kindness has been upon their side,' Bub answered, looking at the courteous, handsome man. and colouring a little at the remembrance of the thought* he had had of him. * They have made my life twice as bright as it used to be ; I have only regretted that you would not come with them eomet imes. ’

‘Sometime in the future, if you will allow me, I will,’ Jack answered ; • but at present, I do not wish my presence here known. You must not think,’ smiling a little, that I am flying from the law ; but I have an enemy in the village, and I am not quite ready for him yet.’ His hands clenched -<pasinodically. and his face grew dark as he spoke. Bob thought to hitn-elf he would not like to be the man who had injured him. 4 You must tell me of the people who live here now,’ he went on, *of the changes which have taken place within your memory. 1 have gleaned some little news, but not much.’

* Would it not be better,’ Bob said, leaning forward, 4 to tell me exactly what it is you wish to know ? You may trust me ; your secret shall be as a secret of my own. Tell me whom your enemy is, and, unless he is a friend of mine, I will do all I can to help you ; if he is a friend, I will keep your secret.’

Jack looked at him a moment steadily. ‘ 1 think 1 can trust* you,’ ho said ; ‘and friends are good at all times. Probably you know my enemy well. Like yourself, he has a great property here, though, it there were such a thing as justice in the world, not an acre would be his. His name is Ralph Seiton.’ 4 Ralph Sefton 1’ 4 Yes ; is he a friend of yours ?' ‘Friend—no 1 I know him, of course, but I have no love for him. What is the wrong he has done you ?’ ‘Every wrong,’ Jack answered bitterly. 4 He robbed me of al) life held dear—my wife and my home !* 4 Your wife—your home! Is it possible that, you are—Lord Radcliffe?’ 4 Ye-, I am Jack Radclifle,’ he said, quietly. 4 My wife went to him willingly, I suppose. It was curious how she could for she seemed to love me When my father died, >»nd my cousin took everything under his will, leaving me penniless, she left me. But I would have worked, and kept her, at least, in comfort. I went abroad a broken hearted man. I worked hard with an end in view, at the diggings ; at last, when luck came to me, I came home.’

• And can enJ you ba! in view *' To di-po<a my fathers will —to plead undue in due wee I have the meaa# oi war now. and i will tight ‘And jnor wile? Have you award aayihswe of h*r •’ • Ye# : 1 real in a pater that »ha «m •levi. and 1 hive triad to forgive her, but I cannot. She feigned lo*-e tor me for tnrve years, and then left me f r my enemy.' • Did she write »o you ?’ • Ye#, a hear: e** teller. 1 have reaa it Again and again in the h> pee of discovering jfle glimp-e of the wi e 1 *o loved in it, but 1 coaid not. • IV id you let me see it? Jack he»:ta’ed a moment, :hen rock a fated, yellow lookirg envelope from hi* •That i* the letter ha said. 1 i«ay n.ne of my wife - na art is in my children. Bob drew tne letter irom the e* velr je—wnere it was folded, it wa* almost torn through—then read it care:ally • It i# a hearties* letter, and written in a drtn hand threeghoc: — written with elaborate care* alness. One woo d hare cnought that a wife and a mother would feel tome little nervousness—some litt e prick# of conscience which w .old render her band unsteady in penning a letter which •hould par: her fort ver from husband ano children. Lid *he seem to love the little one* f ‘ She -eemed co aiore them. Jack *ai-i. bitterly. ‘Scmerime* 1 wa* half jewion* of my own de*h and blood. She wa* a good actress. doubt es* This thumb mark.* Bet- said. pointing to a dark *tatn upon the age stained paper, • is your*?’ ‘ No,' Jack answered : ‘it was there when I receive! the letter. I remem*?er, even in my horrible grief, thinking vaguely that Muriel mas: have sat dr.wn ro write the letter with soi ed hands. 1* was curiou* that the th- ught -hould have ceme : bat •he was always so particular. •It is a large thumb mark for a woman to make ‘l*it ? Sne had such tiny hand*. Bob pat his own thumb upon it. Sc -carcely covered ir. A dash rose to Dirace. • Yov wi think it a mad thing for me to -ay. he said ; ‘ but I do not believe voir wife ever wrote that letter. I believe it is a forgery.' ‘ A forgery Jack * face grew white as death. Humpy in i the children came near to Bob.

• A forgery What make* you think sc? • Fir*t y.' ne said. • tecau-e 1 do not be 'ieve ary mother, however vi'e a woman •ne »i*. <O3 d left her children with. st some fr.nd word of them in rhe et:er she wrote her ha-band. *cme wi-h that he would not fell them of her *b*me : secondly, berause the writing t* too firm ; but mo*:y b- cau*e that *tain i* the mark of a man's—not a woman « — thumb.’ A forgerv Jack said, once mere. ‘lf it is I will kill him : f~r he did worse ’han steal my wife—he killed my faith in her. But first., Tor my children * sake, I mast get biek my lands.’ • Have yea ever *een year father’s will ? • Sever/ • Do net think me imper’inen* ; Ear had \oar fa - her rea*c>n to te very angry with you ? 'N j : I married against hi* wish, where 1 loved. ll# l wa* ha-tily angry, but very forgiving. Had it not been for my c*>u*m I i am certain we shoo'd have been friend* ong before he died. Did he threaten to di-inherit voc ?’ ' Nev r Lord G enferri# was silent for a moment : :oen he took op the letter again • If this is a forgery, your father * will is probably’ a forgery a iso, 7 he said •It is pcseib e,' Jack *aid, slowly. Thank you greatly. Lord ; u have more brain* than I have. I wa* simply *:unned with all my sorrow, which came upon me at one time. Mr loved wife false, my dear old fa* her dead, mvselfdisinherited, i was -imp y hopeless. You will help me. an! Hampy will help me find out the •rath. ‘ I will help you *o *ar as is in my power. Bob *n*were-i ‘ I*, is *ad that you can get nothing but revenge —that those you love are ail dead. A sudden light leaped into Jac* * eye*, hie face grew pa e with emotion, hi* band* trembled. ‘lt i* possible, he said, i- a 'rembdng voice, ‘that the printed notice of my wife* death may also have been a forgery if the letter and will are. Perhaps my wife still started a little. If that was *o, might not the snncunce meat of Gerald Le Breton * marriage be also a forgery ‘ Might not kalpb cefton be working wickedly once more to gain hi* end ? But the though: wa* with him ba: for a moment ; he remembered the strange sight he had *een in the armoury.

• Did your wife re*embie your daughter T' ne asked

• Yee, Jack answered ; * MUpah ie tne living image uf what her mother was.

• Then. B b returned, ‘for no*« Ralph Sefton has spoken the truth. Your wife ie dead indeed. Jack’s face shadowed almost as though he had beard the words for the first time—aa though the * now ledge of hi* wife'.* death, and the belief that she bad been faith e#» :o him, had not been hi# tor year* • How do you know y he asked. Because/ Bob answered. lowering hi*

voice * I have aeen four wife e epiriv * Her #ptns !* Jack repea'ed, while the face* of end Noe. grew white iadeed • Ye*,’ Bob returned. •It i» 1 know. But the #paric of year wife—* ffboec with the feceM yoar walk* in the armoury of Rndc'ide (. a#tie. I have *een i: my*e'

CHAPTER XIII Mot ; ecpie would #ay that a wciuan

looker love a mao who ba# been fa»ih!eee tired of ooe « vniorerrupted society. It m a lone while riao* you ome co eee u*. • A very whi e/ he aaewered ; ‘ and you may cell me «h*t I have etme ab ut to day i* an impertinence : but we are very old friend*, are we not. Ho;e? 4 Very old friend*.’ *he an*wered. ‘ And you will forgive me for *aymg what I am to *ay because of that old friendship * It i# of Gerald Le Brecoo. You know tha: we were :riend». I loveu him -ike a brother, and 1 cinno: believe Chi* thing they »ay of him/ A crim*on fiu*h #wepc over her face, then it fa-ted leaving her very pale. •It i* hard to believe.’ *he anewered, * bat it ie true. 1 have *een r he announcement in the paper/ • I have *een ic al#o, be answered, * ani ye: I cannot believe it. Hope, lam going to a*k you a strange question : bat I im plore you to answer if. Did not Ralph Sec con once propose to you t’ ‘ Yes,’ she girl ao**ered. ‘ And since you hear! thi* new* of Gerald, ha* he again made love to yo« Y • Ye*/ “ It was he • he showed you the paper / ‘ Ye*/ ■ You have had no letter* from Gerald for *ome time?’ “No : not for a very long time. “ Did Ralph know of this?' ‘ He -eemed to.’ • Then, take try word for it, he put the announceirent in ’he paper, and i* trying to fart y a. I am certain that Gerald t* not marriel.’ A glad light leaped for a moment the girl’* eye-, then faded slowly away, leaving her very pale. • How can you be *ure ?’ she -aid • Because/ he answered. I knew Gerald too well to chink be woold do *ueh a thing : because I know how truly, how inteosely he loved you ; because a forged letter. wri:tea by R*lph Seltou. parted a husband and wife vears ago, ju-t a* with a forged to her. But lore that is strong, that has grown with our growth, that ha* twined itself around ou” hear *, and become jl of oar being, cannot be cast ou: in a moment. It wa* strange, :er nap*, but it wa* true. H-:pe Cartnew lowed Gerald, though lay after d »y -he rold berse f that it wa- a sin to lore Dim. sir.ee he had made seme other wcmin hi* wife. But the love could nor. try as -he would, be cast out of her life. Time might make her grief for her faith less lover le-*, ba: never cou’d she him. She had given h m her who’e heart He had seemed worthy g? love—noble, go- • . brave, and hanj-ome . she had set him ulo*> a pedestal, and poured out before him atl the wealth of btr yoang afiecti n. and n w it wa- »hr wn back a worthless gift. It bad been pleaded for. prayed for, and vrhtn given soon tire I of. It was very hard. A trial like chi- would have soured ®»n» girl*, but not Hope. She shut her -orrew up a* much a.* possible, and kept a cheer:a face for the world ; but her brave heart w*« breaking s’ow.y. and she could not help the colour leaving her cheek*, and the hap, y bright light fading from her eye*. Time heals all wounds, scar* alone remai Yet. staying, ache no looker. Poets calk a lot of non*ense. The scarremaining bring back the remembrance the old wound*, the old pain ; and the ache ac the heart i* every bit as keen a* woen the was first struck. Mrs Carthew did nou m->ke the gin's burden any ea-ier to be r ; -he wa* always urging ner to marrv Ralph Sef-on, if only, -he said, to show Gerald Le Breton that -he wa* not weartug the willow tor him ; bu: a gooi woman who ha* been disappeintea in love chinks l tt.e o’ revenge. Hoj-e was sitting at the piano one after noon when lx>rd G eafem* was announced. Mr# Cartbew was out making seme calls. • I am glai to see vou,' she said, giving ner hand to the young toan. • One gets notice of yoar lover’s marriage, he ha* tried to part y . u now. hhe leaned lorward. ‘ Are you sure of this/ she asked. •In my own mind, perfect’yj be answered : * bat I have ro prove ic certain y, and chat I mean co do. Now, wbat I pro :«>*e in the firs: place, is to send a telegram to Gerald. 1 have written out what I think we had better say.’ He took a paper from bi* pocket and read : • New* receive! here of your marriage. 1* it true? Telegraph Hope Las ha Jno le ter tor three month*/ • We -hail get an answer from him within three days, he continued, ’and I am -are it will be co say that it is cot true. Keep you spirt:* up, Hope. Ir. *p<te ot Bob * cheering work*. Hope found it difficult enough to keep her spirits ap. Uncertainty is never cheering ; and. wnen at la*t the sharp leg* of the telegraph boy did <x>n e. she felt a# near fainting as ever she b»d in her life ; when the servant brought it. her - and* tremb ed so tnat she could scarce y take it. Fora litcie while she sat looking at it, then opened it and ret 1 .

‘Of ccor*e is is not tree.' is ran ; *it is .ome plot. Believe nothing against me ; I am as true to yea now ae ever 1 was. _• Thank God for that!’ Hope said, fervently. CHAPTER XIV. It was evident ro a!' those who were taking op arm* against Ralph Sefton that by some xean? be had managed to intercept (Jerald’s letters to Hope—but how. was the question, and that Bob had made up hi* mind to discover ; with this end in view he waylaid the postman one evening a* he was return iag from deliveries bi* last batch of letters. ‘Good evening, Gabbing*, he said. * Goxi evening, your lordship/ the man answered, teaching bi* hat. ‘Anne evening,’ Bob went on, keeping step with the postman, much to his embarrassment : 4 how doe* this weather suit vou y

4 Nicely, thank your lordship.’ Gabbing* returned ; 4 though it miss? the bag seem heavier. Since the parcels post has come in Ive felt tae summers greatly ; you see. is ain't like Leaden, where the carts deliver the parcels ; we have to take them ourselves, and. when is comes to a reeking horse and a feather bed by the same de.ivery, it’s no joke/ •No joke, indeedßob said. laughing ; •the letter*, I am sure, would be enough. How long have you been postman. Gab binge F* • Ever since I worked for myself,’ be answered ; 4 we re a’l ol d hands down here with the exception of Mrs Graham, the postmistress : she used to be servant up at the castle once.’ Bib started. ‘Do you mean to Ralph Sefton?*’ be asked. • Yes/ the man answered. •Mr Sefton’s been very gcod to her : be got her the place, and once a month in the evening she goes up to the castle, and they do say sup* with him in the armory.’ ‘ That seems strange.* 4 Yes ; some say she has done him a service, and chat this is hi* return.’ ‘ Is she a young woman Y The postman laughed. ‘ Oh. no, he answered ; 4 quite old—too old for anyone io make a scandal out cf his sindnese, which folks are food enough cf

doiag. Next Thartday ie her eight for going up to eupper at the caatle; *he'« oeen taikiag of it for the lart day or two.* • ell, goed evening, Bob eaid reaching a place where two roade brar.ched od, and not wi*bing, *inee be bad got oat of ibe pjs'.min all he could, te epend any mere time with him. ‘Good evening, yoar lordship,’ the man answered, and they cook the dideren: wave, getting farther and farther from each other a* they went coward. • I begin to *ee my way a little more pla oly,’ Bob «aid to him-elf. ’Of coarse tbU woman ie in Ralph Setton e »wy, and has been bribed toeoprpreee Gerald’s letter*. I begin to under*;and thing* a little; ba: I •h ald like to be an unseen wicaeee of thi* sapper party.' A* he said the word* a sudden thought came to him. His race dashed, his eyes danced and be walked on hastily in the direction of Jack’s cottage ; he bad almost reached it when he overtook Mi*pah. • Were you coming to see u* y’ she asked, giving him her band, and not looking up lest he should see haw dreadfully glad she vi? to see him. ‘ Ye-*,' he answered ; 4 1 was coming more especial y tv see yoar father : but I am g!a d — very glad to see you. I think we are getting on famously.

‘ l ee/ she returned. *lam so glad I If only my mother’s name can be cleared, 1 shall care for nothing else. I have no wi*h to go up to the castle : 1 think nature never intended me for a great lady/ 4 She made you a very perfect one,’ he sai i. softly, bringing a brigbrer dash to the girl * face. * But, even if your father gets his rights sace again, and the castle is his. I prophesy that you wid not tive there long.’ ’ Ng?" she said, interrogatively. ‘ No,’ be answered, smiling ; ‘ some one wil E ruo away with you. Some other man wi’i want yea to ma<e his home perteet. I think a home never is chat unless there is a perfect woman in it.’ 4 A perfect woman F she repeated, smiling. 4 1* there such a thing ? ’ I know one, at least/’ be said, looking as her. She grew a little frightened. What would he say usxt did she linger with him ? She half feared and half wished to know.

• Dad i* indoors, she said, irrelevantly ; * be will be pleased to see yea : bat yoa know we are always that, do yoa notF •Are yoa p eased to see me?’ be asked. • Tell me the truth. Mi*pah * It wa* the dr»t time be had called her by her *weec. curious name She looted at him. stat tied.

• Yes. she answered •. ‘ I im j4ea*ed. Did you not know it? Has my welcome been lese kind than that of the other* y • No, no,’ he said, quickly : • oely it has been more anxious y looked for. perhare. W hen I have bn is bed the task I have set myself, I am going to ask you for a re ward.’

They had reached the cottage, and he left her without ano:her word—left her with a curious new g adoess at her bear:, wondering, yet knowing fall well wha: be

For mere than two hours Bob and Jack sat and talked alone. When they parted Jack’s last words were : ‘On Thursday, at five. CHAPTER XV. The evening* were drawing in ; autumn was enjoying bis reign ; tns ’eaves upon the tree* were changing from green to brown, and red and gold, and dropping crisply to the groan’d. A high wind swept great black clouds over the sky. end bid the lingering ray* cf the sun ; rain, which was falling rapidly, was own aslant across the earth. It was scarcely a pleasant evening to be oat. So thought Mrs Graham, u *be made her way up> to the castle. She had, to put is mildiy, donned her best bib and tucker, and it was annoying ro be bzown about and rained upon. However, she was sure of & blazing fire and a good supper, and that is something. Mt hen she reached rhe castle, she was shown straight into the armcary. Ralph was nos there, bur he entered lost as she was raking od her bonnes and replacing it with a most elaborate cap, using the breastplate cf a Henry the Second knight for a looking glass. 4 Good evening, Mr* Graham,’ he said ; 4 I’m pleased to see you to night. I think

we will not spend the evening nare . the p ace ’ —locking rooaC with a frightened air— ‘ is ancauny aad ghostlike. Let us come into a more ccgf rocm.’ He laid h s hand upon the great trass door hancle. bat she stopped him ‘This room is my delight,’ she said. • When I sir here. I do not feel like a servant —a po«r mis trees, but like a lady, born and bred. I look forward to silting among the gleaming armour once in every month, every bit as much as I i<xk forward to receiving what you. in yoar g ednese, give me for faxth'al services rendered. Let a* s’op here. Mr Sefton ; I should feel that seme misfortune was going to happen if we went from cur c-Id h>bit ’ 4 So be it,’ he answered, sitting down and touching a gong ; ‘but I am begi ning to hate this place. You will scarce y believe it, perhspe, bat Marie: RaJelitfe walks here. Mr* Graham gave a start, and almost it seemed that, at the same time, some of the suit* of armour rattled a* »hocgb something bxd shaken them. Both the woman an d the mao started. ‘ V\ h>t was that F' she a-ked, under her breath. 4 I don’t know/ he answered, with ipe which tremble!. *1 told you it wa* an uncanny piece. Let's come out of it. ’ 4 No, no !’ the housekeeper said : ‘I tell you, I love the place. No wonder Ife t a little nervoa* when you said that Muriel Radcliffe waked here, when I know she ba* been dead these manv year*. What can have put each an absurd idea into your mind ?’ 4 lt is not an idea. I have seen her. ‘ Seen her ?' 4 Ye* ; seen her many time*. Lord Glenferris saw her as we.l a* I but a few nights ago. •Great Heavens, yea can’t be serious/ the woman said, growing pa’e : * and yet. Heaven knows, she suffered enough to mike her rest ess after death. 1 hate ofs-n repented of the hand I had in that business. 4 lt is late for repentance, Ralph said, with a steer ; 4 and she could have been happy enough had *be been reason*t/e. I odered her wealth :or poverty, love for love, a castle for a cottage—what more could a woman want? She was a* great

fool as her husband. What man in his tenses would have gone off as lie went?’ Mrs Graham smiled a grim smile. * He did not go without letting you first feel the weight of hie arm—the strength of hie anger,’ she said. Again the strange chinking of the armour sounded through the great room ; once more they started, and looked round frightened. * We re nervous,’ Mrs Graham said to her host, forcing a smile; *it can’t be anything, but I never heard the sounds be tore.’ Just then a serving-man brought in the supper trav. and, after a long drink from tumblers of foaming champagne, their spirits began to rise. ‘ We’re as timid as a couple of children,’ she said. ‘l’m ashamed of myself, and I'm ashamed of you, Mr Sefton. As for ghosts walking, I don’t believe in them ; it's some trick. Let me catch any ghosts walking—l’ll show them. Have you any fre-h instructions for me to night ?’ ‘ No—no fresh one?,’ he answered. ‘lf Miss Carthew write* any more foreign letters, though I fancy she will not. continue to keep them back. It wa« a gre<t idea of mine getting you into the post office. Martha.’ ‘ A great idea.’ she agreed ; • though 1 fancy you would have worked your end better if you had written a letter from her lover breaking off the engagement.’

‘Perhaps.’ he answered: ‘but I feared detection: If once a forgery was traced home to me, the genuineness of my uncle’s will would be doubted, and that would mean simp y ruin.’ ‘ And you have made up your mind to marry Miss Carthew ?’ * If I can,’ he answered ; ‘ but as yet I am not very hopeful. Her mother i? upon my side, but the girl will have nothing to do with me. There i«* a new girl who has come into the place, too, who has taken my fancy—a Miss Kepple ; I could love her. only she is the living image of Muriel. I half feared that she might be her daughter, and that Jack might have come back from abroad.’

‘Surely he would never come back. What is there for him to come back for?’ • Revenge !’ ‘ Revenge ! Surely he had that before he went.’

‘ I hope he thinks so,’ Ralph said, with a shudder. * I most devoutly hope he thinks so ; 1 never wish to see his face again.’ He pushed back his plate as he spoke—they had been waiting upon themselves. * And you have no more instructions to give me?’ Mrs Graham said, looking up at the great old clock.

‘None,’ Ralph answered. *1 only have to give you the usual amount, and to thank you for all you have done.’ As he spoke again the armour seemed to clank. Ralph and the woman looked wildly round, and distinctly at the far end of the armoury, where the lights burnt most dimly and the shadows fell with most ghostly dimness, they saw’ two of the suits move, the arms moved themselves, the steel-ca-ed fingers pushed the visors up, and where there had been nothing, there were faces, firmly’ set mouths, and flashing eyes. For a moment they looked ar. the frightened man and woman, then, while their hearts froze with horror, while their eyes glared from their heads, and their limbs became paialyzed, the armour-cased men stepped down from their pedestals, and advanced up the room.

It was enough to frighten any one with the strongest nerves, that empty cases of armour should suddenly be endowed with the power of walking, that human faces should look out of the steel setting ; but. as they drew backward, a new horror met their gaze. Rising from the floor was the same figure Ralph had seen many times before —the ghostly figure of a woman with a beautiful, pale, sad face. Slowly she rpse till the stood at her full height, then glided forward. The men in armour paused and looked ; Ralph and Mrs Graham, growing whiter ami whiter, shrank further backward.

Onward the figure went, with a slow, gliding motion, until within a few feet of Ralph ; then it paused. ‘ Scoundrel, and you, the tool of a scoundrel,’ she said, turning to the frightened woman, • forbear—pau e e before you try to work more mischief; for, as there is a Heaven above me, I will unmask you. All your wickedness, all you misdeeds, are known to *ne. Thief, liar, murderer, forger judgment is upon you. This heart, which you have broken, shall have its revenge.’ She moved a step nearer ; the woman threw up her arms, and fell fainting to the ground. Nearer still—Ralph kept his eyes upon her as though fascinated.

The armed men took a step forward ; then one stood still, and the other, with a swift movement, came onward, threw his arms around the ghostly woman, drew her close to his heart, and cried, as he kissed her : * Muriel — Muriel, my wife !’

A shrill scream rang out through the armoury. I* or a moment Ralph gazed upon the picture ; then something in his heart seemed to give way. an idiotic laugh broke

from his lips, and he ran a madman from the armoury.

CHAPTER XVI. * Muriel—Muriel, my wife ! Strange words to address to a spirit—a ghost ; but it was no supernatural being that Jack held in his armour cased arms* but a creature of fle-h and blood—his love, his long-lost wife. She looked up at him ; her face grew paler than ever; she trembled like one struck with an ague. ‘Jack — Jack !’ she whispered in an awed voice. • is it really you ?’ • My darling, yes,’ he answered, stooping to kiss her and finding his helinet in the way. ‘ Bob, take this confounded thing off.’ Bob did as he desired, then discreetly retired to the other end of rhe armoury, while, after years of separation, and doubt, and sorrow, the lips of husband and wife met. What a kiss it was—long, lingering, sweet ’ With it was given once more all the love of youth—all the stored love of long, long years spent apart ; to both it was like receiving one back from the dead. ‘ !•* it really you. Jack ? she said — ‘ really you in the flesh ? 1 thought you were dead. He told me you were dead.’ •He lied 1’ Jack answered. ‘lt is really me, my wife, in the flesh. But I have my doubts of you, my love. Look at this little white hand - surely, surely it belongs to a spirit woman ?’ • 1 am no spirit woman,’ she answered ; ‘ though for years I have been thought one. Oh, husband, love, we have much, much to tell one another. But first tell me, have we still two little children, Jack ?’ ‘ We have still two children,’ he answered, smiling ; ‘ but Miepah is as big as you, Muriel, and Noel a great boy.’ ‘ Take me to them,’ she w hi* pored ; • let me see my children.’ ‘ Not yet/ he answered ; ‘we must prepare them first. Remember, love, they thought they lost their mother years ago, as I thought I had lo&t my wife. Let me get out of this armoury, then tell me all that has happened since that dreadful day when I thought you had left me.’ ‘ You doubted me, then, Jack.' ‘ God forgive me—yes ; and yet how* could I help it ?—I had the news in your hand writing. ’ ‘I never doubted you/ she answered. • though he told me you had let me go willingly, in exchange for two thousand pounds. He showed me your receipt for the sum ; but I knew it was a forgery, and 1 tcld him so.’ ‘ You were more faithful than 1/ he said, humbly ; * but you know it was not because I did not love you that I doubted. I left England a broken-hearted man. I could scarcely ’ A groan from Mrs Graham interrupted him : they had quite forgotten her in their new-found joy. She sat up ; then, seeing Murie’, hid her face once more. ‘ Spare me—spare me !’ she said, in a trembling voice.

‘ You shall be spared if you will confess ail you know,’ Jack sa’d—‘all about the forged will and the rest of Ralph Sefton’s wickedness.’ The woman hesitated ; Muriel moved a little nearer to her ; she shrunk away. * Keep off—keep off !’ she said loudly. * I’ll promise anything, only do not come near me. I will write all 1 know’, and send it to the clergyman—only let me go now.’ ‘ You can go,’ Jack answered. And, covering her face, the woman went. ‘Now to hear the whole history,’ Jack said, sitting down and drawing his wife to his side. ‘Bob, ccme here and hear the history, and be introduced to my darling—my wife.’ Bob, who had meanwhile got rid of his armour, came forward. ‘ To my friend,’ Jack said, ‘ I owe more than I can ever repay. He was the first to make me doubt that the letter seemingly in your handwiiting was genuine; it was he who found out that Mrs Graham, the postmistress, was making one of her usual monthly visits here to night; it was he who devised the plan of getting into two of the suits of armour. Had it not been for him, perhaps I should never have held you in my arms again. 1 shall ever owe him a debt of gratitude.’ ‘And 1/ Muriel said, putting out her hand, and looking up at him with eyes like Mispah’s—‘ I wish I could thank you properlv.’ • For anything I have done I shall ask you to pay me over and over again rcme day,’ Bob answered. Muriel looked puzzled, but Jack smiled. ‘ I think you will have your payment.’ he •aid. • Muriel, he wants our daughter for his wife.’

* What ! Baby Mispah?* Both men laughed softly. • Miapah is no longer a baby/ Jack said. * She is a beautiful girl, the image of her mother. And now, love, the story.* ‘Let me begin from the beginning/ she said ; then went on without waiting :

• You know. Jack, when you asked me to be your wife, I refused, thinking a mar riage with me might ruin your prospects. Then you went to your father, and, though he did not approve, which was natural, perbap a , he did not forbid you to marry me. You came back to me, told me this, and I promised to let things be as you wished.

• Wei’, we were married ; your father did not come to the wedding, but your cousin did. Then we went abroad. When in Pari« we had a letter from your father, saying that, a* you had disobeyed him (which you had not) by marrying beneath you (and I was beneath you, dear), you were no longer a son of his, and he should make your cousin Ralph his heir.’ • A forgery, of course,' Bob said. Jack started. • Do you really think so?* he asked. • Undoubtedly.'

‘ You wrote to your father, and had the letter leturned unopened ; you were highspirited, and you did not write again.’ ‘We stayed abroad; Mispah was born, then Noel. We were very happy. You sent your father the papers with the births of the children in, but he took no notice. After a time you grew homesick, and we came back to England. You heard your father was ill, and tiied to see him ; but the servants—new ones since you had left home—would not let you in. Now comes my story.

‘I was walking down the village when one of the carriages from the castle passed mo, and stopped a little w r ay ahead. Ralph Sefton got out, and came to me. • “ My uncle is very ill,” he said ; “ he has asked to see you—it may mean much to Jack. Will you come ‘ I never thought ot foul play ; I never doubted for a moment; I stepped into the carriage, and we were driven off. I thought only of you, and what it yet might mean to you if your father should consider me worthy of being his daughter. •We reached the ca«tle ; Ralph led me up four flights of stairs. I thought it strange an uld man should care to sleep so high up. but said nothing ; it might be a fancy of his. ‘He opened a door at last; we went in ; then he turned and locked it.

• “ My uncle is dead,” he said ; “ his will leaves me everything ; Jack is a beggar. You are a woman ; therefore you love the good things of this world. I can give you ail your heart desires; Jack can have a letter this evening in so good an imitation of your handwriting that he will not doubt but that it come* from you, to say you have left him for me : he will never doubt but that it is true. You are my prisoner, my captive, but your chains will be chains of gold, for 1 love you.” ‘ You may well imagine my horror, and how powerless I was to escape from this man. He tried to kiss me, but I snatched a knife from the table, and I have kept it ever since. I have been his prisoner—nothing more. ‘ Nore than a year passed by ; he told me you were dead, and asked me to be his wife, I refused. I tried all I could to e s cape, but I could not, I was too safely guarded. He told me my name was a byword of shame—that everyone thought I had left you for him—that 1 should be hooted and etoned out of the village if I did escape.

‘ More years passed onward. I fell ill, and 1 wished with all my heart that I could die. The doctor was called in—a strange doctor. He ordered me to te moved down stairs, and I was moved. He was kind atd attentive, and in spite of my wish I began to mend. 1 would have to d him my story, on!j’ I was never alone; an old woman named Stifle was always with me. Ralph was afraid to come near me. It was scarlet fever I bad. • The fever left me, and the doctor came no more. I heard he had gone abroad for

hie holiday. I waa still very weak, but getting better fast. ‘One day, when Mr. Stifle was eicting by my bedeide, I began to cry. She asked tne why I was crying, and I said I would I were dead. “Why?” she asked. "So that I might tree away from here/’ I answered. * She seemed to think for a little while. * “ Do you want to get away from here so much ?” she said. * I would give all I possess to get away from here,” I answered. * I saw her glance down at my fingers, on which your rings were still flashing. Jack. •‘‘Would you give the pretty diamonds?” she asked. * “ Yes, yes,” I answered ; it seemed horrible to part with your rings. Jack, but more horrible to be there. * “ I will show you a way of escape,” she said ; “ but you must let me say that you are dead. I can manage everything. My son-in law is an undertaker ; he will tell no tales if the coffin has nobody in it ; it will be a job for him. The doctor is a friend of master's and will send the certificate right enough. Give me the rings, and i'll get you away to night.” ‘ Then 1 felt a little frightened. Where could I go when I escaped ? There was simply no home ope i for nn. ‘ 1 said I scarcely thought I felt strong enough to go at once.

‘ You can stop where I am going to put you for a day or two, if you like.* she said ; ‘ but you must get away from this room today, or not at all. The master's gone up to town, and the servants are mostly out.’ ‘So I dressed myself, with her help; then she gave me her arm, and I managed painfully to drag my limbs along. She led

me Io the armoury, touched a hidden .-piing, and a panel revolved, leaving room for m to pass through to the darkneva beyond. ■ I followed her, fearing and trembling. She led me down, down, down —down etone steps which were so steep and high that, had it not been for her help, I must have fallen. We reached the bottom at length. She struck a light and lighted a email lamp she carried. I looked around, and eaw we were in a great etone room. There was furniture in it, but so covered with dust that it war evident that the place had not been inhabited for years. ••• Stay here until you are a little stronger,” Mrs Stifle said, not unkindly. “ I will bring you food once a day. Fiom this room there is a passage which leads you along under the land for a mile, and brings you out by the sea. You shall have plenty of lights, and I will not forget to feed you.” •In the evening she came again with bedding and food. • “ I have brought you enough food for twenty-four hours,” she said ; "tomorrow night X will come to you again. It is dangerous getting here ; I cannot come too often ; the revolving panel only works one way. X have to go back through the very floor of the armoury. I cannot see whether any one is there, and, if X were seen, I should be taken for a ghost, and frighten whoever saw me into fits. I have telegraphed to Mr Sefton to say you have had a relapse, and have told every one in the house that I do not think you will recover. They are afraid all of them to come near your room. To night I eha'l telegraph again to say that you are dead.’ • When she left me, I dragged myself after her to watch her go. She went down a passage, then stood on a sort of lift, touched a spring, and the thingmovedslowly upward. When she leached what must have been the floor of the armoury a smtll piece of it opened outward. She stepped off it, the flooring closed, and it came slowly down again. • In three weeks I was strong enough to get away ; but where was Itogo ? Ralph Sefton's words came back to me— that my name was a by-word and a shame in the village.

* All believed me an unfaithful wife. Who would take mo in? Who would believe my story? Many, many times I went to the end of the cavern, only to turn back. I had been so long a pri-oner, I was afraid of freedom. Mrs Stifle was very good and patient, though afraid that she would be caught coming to me.

• She had given out that I was dead, suggesting to Ralph that he should write to the doctor who had attended me for a certificate.

‘He sent it, demurring a little. Her son-in-law brought the coffin. It was filled with stones and buried ; no one doubted but that I was daad. ■Altei a time Mrs Stifle ceased to visit me, and I wanted for food. For two days I was without it. But at last I could stand the horr.ble hunger no longer. • X remembered that it was Ralph’s fancy to sup always in the armoury ; I knew that the tray was not taken away till the morning ; I would go up the secret lift and help myself.

‘I watched at the mouth of the cave where the sea rolled on ti l night c-ime onwatched it grow darker and darker, and the stare come out; waited until X thought midnight had come, then stepped on the lift.

‘ Slowly it rose ; slowly a portion of the polished floor lilted, and fell back noiselessly The room was empty ; the moonlight came in through the stained glass windows and gleamed upon the armour. X moved toward the table : there was bread and meat and wine upon it. I took some of each, sitting down like a ghost among the old knights ; then I filled a jug I had brought with water, took some bread with me, and went back to my hiding place again through the panel.

For two or three months I did this without being seen : but one night, whether I was earlier, or Ralph was later, I do not know, but I came up the trap and found him sitting there. ‘ I stood still with fear : I forgot for the moment, ti I I saw him shivering with terror, that he wf'uld probably be more frightened than I ; but one look at his face showed me that he took me lor a supernatural being. I spoke to him in a deep, low voice, then glided across the room, and away through the panel. More than once I did this, but not intentionally ; I was too much afraid of being discovered. Generally he was alone -once he had a young girl with him : he was making love to her ; I heard him befoie he saw me—once a young man. To-night, as you know, there was Mrs Graham with him; she, I know, has helped him io all his evil ways, and now it is our duty to punish both.’ * Be sure they shall notescape.' Jack said, drawing Muriel close to his side. * Oh, love, love I you have a strange, dreadful past ; but, if my love can make you so, you shall be happy yet, my wife !'

CHAPTER XVII. • Bridget, did you ever have a valentine?’ • Did ever I have a valentine?’ Bridget repeated, looking at Mispah, with halfottended dignity. •Me ! And w isn’t it twenty-three I was last February ?’ * Does that mean that you have had valentines ?’ ‘ Sure ; and if it does not, I don’t know what it does mean, she returned. ‘ Why, I’ve had them every year reguar. since I was a girl of fourteen. * And were you ever offended when you got them ?’ •Offended! Dear Heaven b’ess your heart, no. Faith, it’s a compliment to have one sent. I had one this morning. Maybe, avourneen, you’d like to see it ?’ •That I should,’ Mis pah answered, 4 if you don’t mind showing it me, Bridget.’ For answer the girl went to a drawer, from which she produced a white paper box ; this contained a paper lace-work arrangement, trimmed with white satin bows, and a painting representing a bright red heart, at which a fat cupid was shooting. Under the picture was written t To My Valentine. I lore thee more than words can say. I love thee better every day : My life, my love, are wholly thine ; Oh, will you be my Valentine I • And shall you send any answer ?’ Mispah asked. ‘ Faith, and I must ; or it’s a badly brought up, impolite girl I’d be thought,’ she answered.

‘You know from whom it comes, then?’ A broad smi'e widened the Irish girl’s mouth.

‘ Sure and I can gue«s.’ she answered. ‘And what will you «ay ?’ ‘ Something like this.’ the girl continued. ‘ “ Begorrah, and it’s like your impudence, that it is, to be sending Bridget Murphy a valentine, and it’s angry she’d be with you if it wasn’t that you’re a neat laddie ; so under the circumstances she'll take you for her valentine, and you may take her for yours.” ’

• That would be the right thing to say, would it?’ Mispaii a«ked, gravely. • Under the circumstances—yes : but it's not well to be eager answering such things —I mean I shall not be writing till tomorrow ; it is well to keep the spalpeens in suspense a while.’ ‘ Thank you.’

She left the kitchen where Bridget resided, and went up to her bed room to meditate over what the girl had said. She, too, and for the first time in her life, had received a valentine. There was only one person who would send her one. It was not so elaborate as Bridget s, only a box of roses, with the word*, • Be my valentine,’ written in blue forger me nots. Mispah wondered where he had managed to get such beautiful Bowers even at that time of the year : she never doubted from

whjin they came—her heart whimpered that they were from Lord Glenferris, and she was glad — very, very glad. It seemed a wonderful thing to her that he shouM have thought of it ; no other man would have—no one el*e would have been so kind.

She wontiered vaguely, it she should consent to be his valentine, whnt the duties of a valentine were ; she ought to have asked Bridget that. Should she go and ask her mother. Her mother ? What a wonderful and beautiful thing it seemed that she had a mother whom she could run to—a mother who had been a martyr, a saint—not a sinner, as they had thought! Shou’d she go to her ? She took up the box of rosea almost shyly, and left her room once more.

In the hall she met Humpy ; his eyes fell upon the flowers at once. ‘ What have you there, Mispah?’ he said, in his sweet, deep toned voice. • Flowers,' she answered, looking up at him, ‘My valentine. Humpy,’ changing her mind, and deciding to take him into her confidence. ‘ Did you ever have a valentine ?’

‘ Never,’ he answered, a flush sweeping his face. • I never had a love-token in my life. ‘And so.’ sighing softly, ‘you have had a valentine—little one. From whom?’ ‘There i* no name upon it,’ she said, coming a little nearer to him; • but I think, I am almost sure it is from Lord G’enferris.’

‘ Why ?’ he asked, a little harshly ‘He is so kind,’ she said, simply, without a shade of deeper colour stealing into her face. ‘ Will you look at it. Humpy, and te’l me what you think 1 ought to say ?’ He took it in his han is, and, under the slight weight, the strong hands trembled. ‘lt there anything for vou to say ?’ he asked. ‘ Ye®,’ she returned. ‘ You see, he asks me the question : “ Will you be my valentine?” What shall I s-*y, Humpy?’ A little shiver ran through him. ‘ Don’t ask me. Mispah, he said. ‘ I cannot advise you ; and I think the lady is not meant to answer a valentine. It is enough that you accept it.’ He turned and left her a® he spoke. She caught a hat from the stand in the hall, and, with the flowers still in tier hand, went out into the cool fresh air. The sun was shining warmly ; she scarcely felt that it wa’ cold. • Will he think me ungrateful,' she thought, pondering to herself, ‘ if I say nothing at all? I wish I knew what was right. I—’

Her thoughts were interrupted ; she hoard footsteps coming behind her. She looked down at her flower*, and wondered if anyone passing would think it strange that she carried them. She did not look round until a voice called her by name • ‘ Mispah !’

She turned quickly. Lord Gienferris was at her side. She would have to speak of the valentine now ; she mu»t, since she held it in her hand. She scaicely noticed that he had called her by her short, curious name ; while she wondered what she should say he spoke again, and saved her the trouble. •\ ou had the flowers, then?’ s|>eaking as though he thought they would probably have miscarried. ‘Did you like them ?’ ‘So much,’ she answered ; ‘it is the first valentine I have ever received. Bridget has had them ever since she can remember, but I had scarcely heard of them before today. You ask me to be your valentine : I hardly know what that is—will you tell me?’ He grew a little pale, then took the girl’s hand, flowers and all, in his. There was no one near. They had strolled away from the oottagc among the great, gaunt, life'e®s trees which bordered the road. What I would have you be to me.’ he said, striving to keep calm lest he should frighten her. ‘is my lifelong companion, my second seif. I would have you always near me; 1 would have your greatest con tentment, your greatest happiness, in being iny companion, as mine would be in being yours.’ ‘ Anri that is what you m?an you wish me to be when you say, “ Be my valentine.” ’

* Yes ; that is what 1 mean.’ ‘lt means a« much as that, does?’ it she -aid, softly ; and yet I fancy it cannot always mean as much as that. Bridget has valentines ev« ry year she tells me, and never answers the question with a no. How can she be a second self to so many ?’ ‘ Bridget won d have different views upon the subject to yours and mine,’ he answered. ‘ I have never sent a valentine befoie, just as you have never received one before.’ Why have you never sent one before?’ ‘ Why.’ repeating the word, * becau-e I haye never loved before. Mispah,’ bringing her to a standstill, ‘did you never guess that I loved you ? Sometimes, sweet, I have thought—l have hoped that you did, and I have wondered if it could be possible that you gave me a little love in return. Darling,’ coming a little closer. ‘ I love you with so great a love—not with a love that has been given here and there, frittered away in fleeting passions, but with the one great love of my life, the only love. Mispah, sweet, can you love me in return ? Will you be my wife ?’ Will you be my wife ’ It is a question which makes most girls lower their heads and drop their eyes. Mispah raised hers, and looked him full n the face — looked at him long and earnestly, a< though she would read his very soul, her colour deepening a little. ‘\\ ill it mean so much to you she asked.

‘ It will mean everything,’ he answered. ‘•Just the little wori “Yes” from you, love, will make me the happiest fellow upon earth, just a- the little word “ No ” would make me the most mi-erable. But you will not give me a “ No,” will you ? \ou will promise yourself to me, will you not? It will plea-e everyone—your father, your mother, Noel, and—yes, I think, even Humpy. Mispah, deare-t, you will not say “ No ” to me.’ He put his arm* around her, and bent his head close to hers; his eyes looked straight into hers, questioningly, lovingly. She gave a little half sigh ; he bent his head still lower and kissed her.

‘ Mispah,’ he whispered, ‘ Mispah, say it ** \ eP- ’ Kiss me back, and sav it is “ Yes.”

For a moment she was still, then the «weet lips were shyly lifted, and then there was no need for words.

CHAPTER XVIII It took but a little while to prove the will, by which Ralph Sefton ha 1 inherited, a forgery, and after a long search the right one was found. Mrs Graham, under promise of pardon, confessed all she knew, and Jack and his beautiful wife and children installed them selves in the castle. Ihe shock of seeing two whom he believed dead robbed Ralph of his reason, and doc’ors despaired of his ever regaining it. Perhaps it was well. He escaped punishment, and he could work no more ill toward his fellow creature 4 ; his puni-hmenr for evil came from God instead of man, and was just in its severity. Muriel soon regained her health and spirits, the love and companionship of her husband and children working wonders. The romantic story became public property. and tho*e who had spoken of her as

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