stand well and had stood well in her children's opinion, and now her best and noblest despised her. She spent long hours mentally writhing under this feeling. The whipcords which she had herself knotted were very sharp and cutting, and she felt their sting. She had never turned towards Heaven in the days of prosperity, so now that comfort did not seem possible; she had always believed first in herself, and now she had failed life seemed not worth having. Austin was still in London, and she knew by intuition that he was seeing "those girls" often. The spirit of a strong woman was broken; she who had been merciless called out for some one to pity her, for, better than any one else, she knew how selfish Minnie was and how narrow and sordid Frances had become. It was all the fruit of her training, and the worst of it was that she knew it. There needs no special avenger to dispense punishment, our deeds are self-acting. school; then we shall take a house near to him. You can tell Miss Gordon she can come here this day month." "Very generous, very thoughtful; but Miss Gordon is anxious that you should not go before the spring." "Her wishes have no weight with me," said the widow; and thus she silenced the lawyer. The packing continued, chiefly done by Frances, whilst Minnie helped her by fits and starts when not engaged in going to meet Harry Laurence. At last the day of departure drew near, and Austin was coming home to escort his mother to the South of France. He had been too much occupied to come sooner, and she did not seem to want him. The last evening was not altogether as cheerless as might have been expected, for Harry boldly came to spend the evening, and, in spite of Minnie's protest, told Mrs. Gordon that Minnie had that day written to Major Bond, and that he was bent upon taking his place. She appeared surprised, tried to look shocked, then finally cried a little, and Harry's attempt at comfort was most comical Very occasionally Mr. Blackston came up on necessary business. He came with smooth words on his lips. There was no hurry about moving. Of course, the Miss Gordons were well cared for by Miss-to Frances, who was the looker-on. Evans. It was really doubtful if they would return to the Warren. They ought to see more society. They were quite unused to the world. Would Mrs. Gordon settle somewhere near? She knew so many county people now; the loss of money would make no difference. It was only then that Mrs. Gordon, usually so polite, so self-contained, turned upon Mr. Blackston with quiet irony. "If you think that, Mr. Blackston, it shows you do not know society." Mr. Blackston did not like the retort, but laughed it off. "Well, well, really money is a mere accident. In these radical days-that is, in these days of common sense and-and high thinking, low living is fashionable." Mrs. Gordon could not bear more than a small amount of small talk, and brought the lawyer back to his business. "You were saying that the certificate having been proved, there is no need of the law?" "None whatever. Old Mr. Gordon, never thinking his son was married, made no provision for such an event, otherwise he would have specified that these girls were not to inherit." "Very well; then we shall go as soon as possible. I shall go abroad for a little while, whilst my son settles into his "Well, on your last evening, I must forgive you, you wilful children. Dear Harry, Minnie is a beggar. You had better have waited to marry Miss Gordon. I will leave you alone, and Frances will not disturb you." She went up to her boudoir, and sat down by the fire, sinking into one of her depressed moods. She looked years older. She had paid very heavily for her parsing glory. She did not hear a carriage drive up, nor did she know what was coming when she heard a knock at the door. "Come in," she said listlessly, and then she knew at once that it was Austin's knock. He came towards her very quietly, and the look on her face made him pause. She had sinned deeply; she had deceived, and she had caused the innocent to suffer; but none of the suffering she had inflicted could be compared to that which she was enduring. Austin saw and recognised the meaning of the look, and a great wave of pity and remorse swept over him. He had judged her and condemned her. Some day, might he not want pity? Could he be sure that he, too, might never sin as deeply, and would seek in vain for the pity of his fellow-creatures? Mother," he said, and he knelt on one knee before her, "mother, I have come." "I can do nothing more; Austin, some day you will get on, and when I am out of the way- I "Hush, mother; don't talk like that. shall not leave you till you are better. You will enjoy new sights and new lands. You will get back your-your strength." Mrs. Gordon was silent. Austin put his arms round her. There was such a feeling of protection and strength about the action that Mrs. Gordon gave a gentle sigh; some of the despair flew away on the wings of that sigh. For a few moments they remained thus, and then she spoke: "You have always been a good son to me, Austin. Don't let me be a drag upon you now." "A drag upon me! You are my first duty-my first. Mother, there is some one else who thinks so." A faint flush overspread Mrs. Gordon's face. She understood only too easily. "Wait till I am dead. It won't be long." "No, no. Mother, I want you to care about her for my sake. I want you to believe in her goodness. You need never fear her. If you knew- He rose and looked down upon his mother's head; her hair seemed to have turned greyer, the soft lace hardly contrasted with her hair now. "I shall soon be away." "Yes, and for that reason, mother, I want you to see her-to please me." He walked quickly to the door and called softly. At the end of the passage Grace and Nan stood together. "Come," he said, and Grace came. Her face was pale, and she was much afraid; but Austin wished it, so she obeyed. In another moment the two stood by the side of the broken-down woman. Mrs. Gordon quickly glanced at the girl, and the glance took her all in-her improved beauty, her youth, her brightness, her joy. She felt a sudden pang of jealousy. This girl had conquered, and she had taken all from her, even her son. She would not hold out her hand. Grace had also looked, and the glance had shocked her. Was this the woman she had come so near to hating, this sad, miserable, broken-down Had she indeed disliked her, woman? rebelled against her wishes? It was as if the sun envied the gas-lamp. Grace, too, was melted. It was easy to forgive. She did not wait for encouragement or for the first word, but she knelt down and took the cold hands in hers. "Forgive me, forgive me," she said, and she meant it now. "I have done you wrong! For Austin's sake, let me be a real relation-let me be another daughter! I will do all you tell me, if only you will let me make everything easier. I must, I will! I owe it all to you. I owe all my happiness to him and-tɔ his mother." The cold hands relaxed; the widow had never expected to hear such words from James Gordon's daughter. It seemed so strange, so unlike the ideas she had of the world and its ways. This strange new love, so freely given, spoke of a forgiveness somewhere even for her, and somewhere there was still love and happiness. She bent her head and kissed Grace Gordon. "He is good, my boy Austin, and you are worthy of him, Grace!" CHAPTER LXIV. LOVE ON EARTH. SIBYL was never absent from the service in the Rev. Nathaniel Philips's church on the days she took the class of rough girls. The clergyman, after being struck with the strange likeness of his lost Minnie, went from a state of depression to one of happiness. He had called on Miss Evans, and had managed to win her consent to letting Sibyl work in the parish. The girl was only too glad. She had sunk so low in her own estimation that she had become morbid. Work was the best cure, Nan thought, but the cure did not come quickly. Even when the Rev. Nathaniel Philips became a constant visitor, and showed her very openly how much he admired her, Sibyl could not be won over to take any interest in herself. She admired the young man's goodness and zeal, which were both evident; but she felt that if he knew, oh, if he knew the dreadful past, he never could admire her. Poor Mr. Philips found his second love as unapproachable as his first; but he exalted the second one into a superior being-a woman so lovely, so pure, so angelic that she was quite unequal to noticing his love, admiration, and reverence. It was some time before Mr. Philips heard the news. The first he heard of it was the fact of Miss Evans asking him to dinner, and casually mentioning that her charges had retaken the name of Gordon. "Gordon!" gasped the poor man. "Are you related to a Mrs. Gordon who once lived at Longham?" "Distant cousins," said Grace, blushing. "That accounts for the likeness. I have often wondered over it. You, Miss Sibyl, are extremely like one of the Miss Gordons." "We have never seen them," said Sibyl, looking down, If Mrs. Gordon knew the story, as she would know, perhaps, through her son, she would think her still more unfit to associate with her daughters ! The poor man could not make out whether Miss Sibyl cared about him or not. He fancied she did not, and he felt as if he dared not ask her, and he dared ask Miss Evans even less. That evening he made a desperate plunge, as shy men often do. Sibyl happened to be showing him some photographs in the quiet, subdued manner now habitual to her. Mr. Philips only saw her taper fingers as she turned the leaves, he heard not a word of her explanation or remarks. Suddenly looking up, he saw they were alone, for Miss Evans and Grace had gone away. "And Mrs. Gordon?" "It was a mistake, not her fault, of course. It was her doing that we left home and lived in Germany. I suppose she meant to be kind—at least not unkind-I don't know; anyhow, we went to Germany, and there▬▬ "Yes, I see, I understand," murmured Mr. Philips, really hardly understanding at all. "No, no, you cannot. There I--" Sibyl blushed to the roots of her hair. She felt she must confess-that this was her punishment. How could such a good man ever wish to marry her if he knew? "Well, you have come back. I did not know, of course, that you were rich." "Not that. How could you think I should mean that? Worse; it is about myself." "Then don't let me know it; it cannot be bad." "You must hear it. You are so good, so very, very good; and in your sermons you make me feel how bad I am." "I don't mean to do that, I'm sure." "But you do. I was so horrid-so very wicked in Germany. My sister is really good. She is a saint, but I am quite, quite the opposite." "Oh, no; that is impossible." "It is not," said Sibyl impatiently. "I am bad. I fell in love with a Baron, and I nearly-" He made a desperate resolution. He "Nearly married him, but not quite." would ask her now, before she could have "No, I nearly ran away with him. I time to say much more than yes or no. felt so mad, I did not seem to care; and He had loved before, but now he fancied-oh, Mr. Philips, if it had not been for he had never loved at all. Grace, I should be with him now-andand he had a wife." "Miss Gordon, I-I am going to make you angry. I am a presumptuous fool, I know; but I-I have but one excuse. I love you. You—you——” Sibyl started up and left his side. She went towards the fire and stood on the hearthrug, her two hands on the chimneypiece, and her face half averted. Mr. Philips felt all his hopes were over. "The scoundrel," said Mr. Philips, without once thinking of the sin of the fair penitent. "He was a bad man, but I did not mind that then. I would have done anything to have got rid of that life of drudgery, and now I would give anything to forget that dreadful time—but I cannot. It haunts me. There, now you know it | It is Mrs. Gordon. She comes and talks to " "How can I be a clergyman's wife?" You-you are much too good for me, that is all I know; and if you will let me keep you safe, then, all your life, all my life, you shall never repent it." "Then you don't think me very, very wicked?" Sibyl held up her head, and found that the man she knew to be so good, so devoted, was kissing her hands. "Don't, don't, please." "Why not? Give me leave." Sibyl lifted her face, and the Rev. Nathaniel Philips stooped a little, and then- Then Nan's step was heard, and the door opened. She smiled. She was happy, very happy, for here was a man who could keep Sibyl safe. "Nan, he says I'm not too wicked for " June has gone by on wings of noiseless swiftness, and Time has brought changes at the Warren. It is summer weather over the glorious moor; no wind howls in the firs, only a soft sighing of the sea is heard among the branches, whilst squirrels scamper up and down and twirl their long bushy tails in glee. They are happy and free. There is a large family gathering at the beautiful Warren. The Austin Gordons are keeping open house, and have managed to stow away Sibyl and her husband and their one girl, Bee and her Colin with a following of five. The Laurences came over to dine, and are going to start home again. Minnie is a great invalid, and she has no children. Her married life has been more clouds than sunshine, and poor Harry has much to bear. Austin is the life of the party, and is talking of old times with Sibyl. Actually Gretchen and her mother are coming to stay at the Warren. Suddenly there is a hush in the hall as a figure dressed in black glides down. incoherency in some of her words. Mrs. Gordon's intellect has failed. She hurts no one, often talks sensibly, then relapses into old times. Sometimes these scenes are painful. She speaks of a time when she must hide everything, and when she must get rid of "those girls." Suddenly, and very quietly, Grace goes forward and gently takes her mother-inlaw's arm. "Come with me, dear mother; you will catch cold at the open door. Minnie has gone." This one voice and this one touch she always obeys. It is so loving, so gentle; she listens to it even when Austin can do nothing with her. "Very well, my dear, as you like. Minnie is so ungrateful, you know. If poor Frances were here! She is happier dead. I wish I were dead, don't you?" "No, no. Come and wish Nan good night." "If you think I had better. You know best, my dear. Your children are safe, they will never insult you; but don't let them open secret drawers, Grace; you understand." Grace leads her into the boudoir, where Nan is resting after the long evening, and with her help Mrs. Gordon is led to her room, where her maid is waiting for her. "Good night, Grace. Kiss me, dear." "Nan, Nan," cries Grace when they are alone, "I think she is happy. As far as she knows, I think she is." "My own Grace, you have made her so, but it is a hard trial.” "No, no. Austin's mother is mine. But tell me what you think of Sibyl?" "My dear, I never could have believed it. She has become quite a clergyman's wife; but her husband spoils her. "We both want spoiling. Remember, you accustomed us to it when we were young." "Well, I really think you have plenty of it now. Austin rules his boys with a rod of iron, and his wife and children he ruins with indulgence." Austin's boys are those of his very flourishing school, for the Warren has been added to enormously, and Mr. Gordon's school is famous. How Grace gets through all her work puzzles even Nan, who is the other prop of the house. "Mr. Jones is coming, Nan, on purpose to meet Gretchen. Austin believes he means to marry her. He never would marry any one in England." "Now you must talk no more. Heaven bless you, child. But Grace, who could have believed in all this?" "It is all your doing all of it." "Humph! What nonsense. bed." ment nor criticism." Bonaparte never acted himself, but took great pleasure in witnessing the performances. One of the last pieces represented by the amateur company, selected by the First Consul himself, was the "Barbier de Séville," in which Hortense Beauharnais Go to obtained a brilliant triumph as Rosine, Lauriston personating Almaviva, and Bourrienne Bartholo. It was played several times, and we learn from a letter of Bonaparte addressed to Joséphine (who was then at Plombières), and dated July the first, 1802, that on the preceding evening, "Hortense acted Rosine with her usual intelligence and ability." NAPOLEON AND THE STAGE. It is difficult to understand, taking into consideration the innumerable published records concerning the First Napoleon, that even in those more exclusively relating to his everyday life, so little mention should have been made of his well-known predilection for the theatre. This is the more surprising, inasmuch as from his early youth when, an obscure lieutenant of artillery, he was indebted to Talma for his rare visits to the Comédie Française, down to his last appearance at that theatre during the "Hundred Days," his interest in the prosperity of the national drama never flagged, but retained its influence in the midst of his most ambitious projects, uninterrupted from the commencement to the close of his eventful career. Molé In the same year an annual subsidy of one hundred thousand francs was granted by the First Consul to the Théâtre Francais, the superintendence of which establishment was entrusted to the prefect of the palace, Monsieur de Rémusat. From this period the comedians were absolutely under the control of the chief of the state, who, by a decree dated January the sixth, 1802, despatched Talma, Mademoiselle Raucourt, and other members of the company to Lyons, in order to give the inhabitants of that city a taste of their quality. Bonaparte rarely missed a first performance, either at the Opéra or at the Théâtre In the absence of any complete work on Français, accompanied always by Joséphine, the subject, it may not be uninteresting, who desired nothing better than an with the aid of contemporary and other opportunity of displaying a new dress or authentic documents, to give some idea of a recently purchased set of jewels. MeanBonaparte's partiality for dramatic repre- while, the Comédie Française had lost two sentations, especially for those of the of its most illustrious members, Comédie Française; and to record, stage dying in 1802, and Mademoiselle Clairon, by stage, the progress of his scheme for a long since retired from the stage, in 1803. thorough reorganisation of the leading The future rivals, Mademoiselle DuchesParisian theatre. Shortly after his nomina-nois and Mademoiselle Georges, had made tion to the post of First Consul, we find him in 1800 at Malmaison, engaged in superintending the erection of a miniature "salle de spectacle," calculated to accommodate two hundred spectators; the performers being exclusively amateurs, including the future Queen of Holland, Hortense Beauharnais (the "star" of the company), her brother Eugène, Junot and his wife, General Lauriston, and Bourrienne. The latter sums up as follows the merits of the "troupe": "Hortense acted delightfully, Eugène very fairly, Lauriston was rather heavy, and without vanity I may say that I was not the worst. At all events," he adds, "if we were not good, it was not for want of practical advice, for Talma and Michot were always present at our rehearsals, and spared neither encourage their first appearance; and Talma, divorced from one wife, had married another in the person of Madame Petit, daughter of the actor Vanhove. In 1803, by order of the First Consul, then installed at St. Cloud, a theatre was erected adjoining the palace, and thither the actors of the Théâtre Francais were frequently summoned for the entertainment of the guests; Racine's "Esther" being selected for the opening performance. These representations were interrupted during the months of June and July by the departure of Bonaparte for Ghent and Brussels, accompanied, or rather preceded, by Talma, Mademoiselle Raucourt, and other artists of the Comédie Française, as well as by a few musicians belonging to the orchestra of the Opéra. In the course |