made Jim happier "; she went over and over again all the ways in which she thought she might have done better for him, coming back always at the end with bitterer grief to the thought that now she could do no more, for the work she could do for Jim was almost over. It seemed to the child as if, now, there was nothing left for her to do, and no one wanted her.

She was not morbid-she meant to do her very best to be a good girl to "'Liza," and help her all she could-but, simply, she felt as if all her happiness and all her work had gone away from her with Jim.

She had not shown any outward signs of her grief; she had taken the deepest possible interest in every one of the new arrangements Jim made in the house and garden for his future wife. And Jim said to himself that his little sister was a "real good sensible child," and said or thought

Her face was very composed and quiet now as she rose and stood in the middle of the room, contemplating the effect of her work. It was the last time she should

upon

"tidy up" the kitchen for Jim, and she meant it to be done as well as she possibly could, both for Jim himself, and to please his wife for his sake. She was feeling fairly satisfied with the result, when all at once a tiny speck of dust caught her eye. It was in the corner by an old press-a press so heavy that it was never moved. It had stood there as long as Barbara could remember, and she had never looked it as anything but a fixture. To-day, however, it suddenly occurred to her that the accumulation of dust behind and beneath it must be very great. "It'll never do for her to find the dust there," Barbara said thoughtfully to herself. "I'll get it out, and wash behind it a bit." She went up to the press, with her little face very intent, her blue eyes eager with determination.

At about half-past eight Jim and his wife came home. "Come on in," he said to her cheerily, as they walked up the garden path; "Barbara 'll have some supper for us." He was a little in advance

of her, and, as he ended, he opened the door of the house. There before him was Barbara. The press was moved out a very little, and Barbara lay on the floor before it. Jim turned sharply round, his face suddenly very pale.

"Nell," he said to his wife in a strange, frightened tone, "come here quick."

She obeyed him, her heart beating very fast, though she could not have told why, and followed him as he crossed the room in two strides, and knelt down beside his little sister.

"What is it?" she said to him, in a low, awe-struck voice.

But Jim did not speak. He raised Barbara's form in tender, hasty silence. In that moment he had seen that the childish face his tears fell on would never look at him again, the blue eyes never smile at him any more. Barbara's prayers were both answered-she was gone to her mother, and she would be a "good girl always."

They said that the child had died of a sudden strain to a naturally weak heart, brought on by trying to move the heavy press.

Charlotte Robins alone refused any explanation but her own. "The child was heart-broke at Jim's marryin'," she repeated again and again with tears.

herself in the dimmest corner of the shaded room, began to place uneven, hurried stitches in a strip of embroidery she had taken out.

During the past three months Etrenne had lived through what was to her a terrible bit of life, which, in its passing, had been so heavy to bear that, to her, the three months had seemed more like three years.

She had written her answer to Brydain's proposal with an intense conviction of her love for him, and a complete selfsurrender of herself and her life to him. The conviction had been all the keener because of her fortnight's indecision; and the surrender all the more complete because Etrenne Farrant's was a very proud nature. She had sent the answer to Scotland with a more perfect feeling of happiness than she had known in all her life; and her feelings when no response came to the little loving note were terrible in proportion to those that had gone before. At first she simply waited, and watched, and hoped, though wondering, still secure in her belief that some perfectly simple and explicable delay had occurred. Then, as day by day went by, and it became plain that no answer was coming, her patience and hope underwent a sudden and natural reversion. They changed all at once into the bitterest feeling of passionate anger against the man who could lead her on to give him herself, and never respond to her gift. The terrible thought that she had thrown herself at Brydain's feet, and he had not cared even to stoop to raise her up, fired her, and at the same time crushed her completely. Her anger rose to hatred; she hated Brydain with the same force as she had loved him.

It did occur to her once, in the midst of this storm and stress of suffering and anger, that it was just possible that her letter had never reached Brydain. But she put aside the thought of the possibility again instantly, with the reflection that had he received no answer from her, Brydain would assuredly have written to ask for it.

At length she could bear it no more, and confiding an outline of the facts to her mother, she told her that they must leave town at once. She could no longer stay where there was the least chance of meeting the man who had so shamed and humiliated her; and the two had made the abrupt departure that had so surprised every one. Since then they had spent the

time partly at one or two watering-places, and partly in the country, paying visits. With the last of these, Etrenne had come to the conclusion that she could never by any possibility live in London again, and having very easily made her mother acquiesce in her wishes, they decided to settle down in the north of France. She heard incidentally of a small château near a town on the Loire, belonging to an Englishman, who wished to come back to London, and after some correspondence, the house and the situation seemed so precisely to suit her and her mother that Etrenne left the latter with some friends, intending herself to go to France and conclude all necessary arrangements. She had come up from the country for this purpose, meaning to stay one night at their own house and cross the next evening, when she had met Brydain and Tredennis at Liverpool Street.

The shock of the meeting had been very great to her; and with the sight of Brydain-the first sight of him since that longpast evening when he had left her in the conservatory without his answer-there came back to her a momentary rush of all her former feeling for him. This it was that had created the strange expression that had caught Tredennis's eyes in hers. But it was only momentary; the next instant her bitter anger and her wounded pride reasserted themselves with redoubled force, to last in strength, reinforced by the momentary weakness, until Tredennis's visit on the following afternoon.

With Tredennis's story, told by him in the simplest and most convincing way, every word of it fraught with the earnestness of his attachment to Brydain, all Etrenne's pride and bitter anger seemed to melt away as snow might before a summer sun. All her heart and all her love went out to meet the explanation, as it were. In truth, her love for Brydain was, and always had been, living and strong beneath her anger and contempt. And it rose now with a sort of triumphant reassertion of itself, as if only too glad to justify its existence. That the man she had loved and believed in and trusted was, after all, quite worthy of that trust and love, was a thought to restore all her broken self-respect, and to make her triumphantly happy in giving him back that love. As Tredennis went on with his story, the thought that mastered every other in Etrenne's mind was, how could she best make amends to Brydain for all

the misery that he had suffered. Womanlike, she blamed herself in the reaction of her feelings. It seemed to her, in her irrational happiness, that it was she who had made him unhappy, and that even her whole heart and life could scarcely make him amends.

She did not, however, naturally, express the depths of her feelings to Tredennis; only when he, at the end of all, asked if he might take any message to Brydain from her, "Tell him to come and see me," she had said, in a low, eager tone; and as she said good-bye her grey eyes had been shining with tears.

And now she was waiting for him to come-waiting with agitation not to be described in words. The meeting before her was difficult. To meet the man whom she had injured, if not in deed, still injured deeply in her thoughts of him, was of itself embarrassing enough. To meet that man, knowing that he loved her, and to confess to him that she loved him, had loved him all the time, intensified it, until it seemed to poor Etrenne, as she sat in the drawing-room trying to work and trying to wait, almost impossible. She had almost determined that she could not wait, that she could not see him, that she must go out of the drawing-room and write a note to him, when it was too late; the door-bell rang. It resounded loudly in the quiet house, and Etrenne's heart beat violently. She bent her head low over the embroidery, she tried to put in her needle, but she could see nothing, the work was invisible; and the whole room turned suddenly dark as the door opened and the maid said, "Mr. Brydain."

Etrenne rose, let her work fall at her feet, and stood trembling in the darkness that was still before her eyes. She held out her hand mechanically, she could not look up. In a moment she felt it taken and held in a grasp that almost crushed her little fingers in its eagerness, and then, without a word from either of them, she was taken and held fast in Brydain's

arms.

The silence lasted for a long time. At last Etrenne released herself. "I never said you might," she said, with a voice in which crying and laughing were inextricably mixed.

"But I may?" Brydain said eagerly. "I may? Etrenne, you do say yes-your answer is yes? Let me hear you say it!" He held both her hands. He had caught them in his as she released herself, and

"I love you I will marry you," Etrenne repeated in a little, almost inaudible voice. Then breaking away suddenly from him she sank into the nearest chair, and hid her face in her hands. Brydain knelt down beside her, and tried to take them away. She resisted for a moment, and then she let him.

"Mr. Tredennis did tell you that I wrote ?" she said hesitatingly.

"He told me," said Brydain; "and he told you, I know, that I never got your letter."

"What did you think of me?" she cried. "Oh, what did you think of me? You must have thought me dreadful!"

"No; it is rather what did you think of me," Brydain answered. "You must have thought me well, beneath contempt. Say you have forgiven me in your thoughts," he added.

"There is nothing to forgive," she said. It has all been a dreadful mistake." "A mistake that has taken away from us three whole months that we might have had together. Oh, Etrenne!" Brydain cried impulsively, "it seems all too good to be true. I don't think I really knew what it has been to face the fact of living without you, till I-till Tredennis came to me yesterday."

And as if carried away by the thought, Brydain seized one of the little hands that were lying in her lap and kissed it with passionate kisses.

There was another long silence between them, and then Etrenne broke it.

"It all seems such a little thing, such a simple thing to have happened, after all," she said thoughtfully.

"It was a simple thing, in itself. The losing of a letter happens often enough, I suppose; but it doesn't often bring such consequences, or, at least, I hope it doesn't."

Etrenne was silent again for a moment; then she rose and went to the window. Brydain followed her, and put his arm round her. She did not move or try to take it away. She was looking out at the quiet street with grave, soft eyes.

"You wouldn't have seen me if I hadn't missed the train," he interrupted. "Tredennis and I should have been on our way to Harwich when you came into the station."

"And we should never have met again in our lives, probably," she said. "You know, I was going to France to-night. We-I meant to live there."

"You won't go now, Etrenne?" Brydain said, half laughingly, half pleadingly. "Call me by my name, and say you will not."

He turned her face gently towards him as he spoke. There was a little pause before she spoke.

"I won't go. I love you-Keith," she said, hesitating softly over the last word.

Brydain bent his face close to hers. Hers was flushed deeply, and her eyes were wide and soft. His was rather pale with emotion, and through the pallor the blue line on his brow was very distinct. He held her in both arms and kissed her again and again.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

"WHAT a heavenly night!" said Brydain, standing on the steps of his uncle's house in Weymouth Street, and gazing up at the sky. "Don't you think we might walk back, Ted?"

"Just as you like," said Tredennis, who was waiting for him on the pavement.

The time was the second week of October, and the clear autumn moon shone down on roofs, chimneys, and pavements with a dazzling white radiance.

The stars were faint at present in the brilliant light, but the sky was cloudless, and they were only waiting to shine and sparkle when the moon should set.

"I never saw anything so glorious!" said Brydain, coming down the steps to the evidently impatient Tredennis. should like to walk miles!"

"I

Tredennis made no answer. He accommodated his somewhat slower steps to the swinging pace Brydain had set, in silence.

A month had gone by since the day when Brydain and Etrenne Farrant had met again, and the next day was to be their wedding-day.

Brydain, apparently feeling that, after he had so nearly lost it for ever, he should never be sure of his happiness until

urged her to consent to as speedy a marriage as possible. There was nothing to wait for, he said, nothing in the world. He could get a house and furnish it, and have it all ready in a fortnight, easily. And Etrenne could surely buy as many frocks as she could wear out, in a fortnight! Etrenne and her mother, with some difficulty, argued him out of this conviction, but the former so far yielded to his unceasing entreaties as to promise to marry him early in October. Brydain had spent the interval with what patience he could in giving the keenest attention and the greatest care to every necessary arrangement.

He took a very pretty little house in Kensington, near enough to her old home to allow Etrenne to see her mother as often as she wished, and he furnished it in the prettiest and newest of modern fashions, most of them of Etrenne's own choosing. He wrote to announce his intended marriage to Mackenzie, and was far too busy and happy to give any heed to the fact that his announcement received no answer. He said a temporary goodbye to his own friends, of whom he had made several since he had become well known. And he finally arranged every detail of the wedding-tour he and Etrenne were to take. This was to be short, as Brydain could not afford to be long away from his work, with the winter engagements coming near. It was to begin in Paris, and then, at Etrenne's own request, it was to end with a visit to Brydain.

Brydain had, he scarcely knew why, not been pleased with this last suggestion, when Etrenne made it. He had tried to defer their visit, saying that it was cold and uninviting enough at Brydain in the autumn, and that he would rather take her there some time in the following summer. But Etrenne would not listen to any dissuasion. She was set upon seeing Brydain without delay.

"I never should feel properly settled down, Keith, if I hadn't seen your own real home," she said, laughingly and entreatingly. And he had yielded the point to her insistance.

And now October had come, and the eve of his wedding-day had come. He had been spending it at Weymouth Street.

Mrs. Kingston had arranged a family dinner-party to celebrate the occasion. This, of course, included Mr. Reid, who considered himself practically a member of

it; and Tredennis, whom Brydain had asked leave to bring, Mrs. Kingston had welcomed for his own sake, as well as for the sake of his friendship with Brydain. The Kingstons were all delighted at Brydain's intended marriage. Tiny, it is scarcely necessary to say, was wildly excited at the triumphant proof thus evinced of her own sagacity in foreseeing it so long beforehand as she had done.

"I knew Keith would-I knew it!" she exclaimed to any one who would listen. "I always said they would marry; and she is just the very girl for him!"

Mrs. Kingston echoed the last sentiment in soberer but most cordial fashion; and Rachel naturally gave Brydain the keenest sympathy of all. She it was to whom he told a slight outline of the misunderstanding that had kept him and Etrenne apart so long.

Mr. Reid and Rachel were not yet married. Tiny's excited words as to the prospect of their marriage before the end of the season, had been merely the outcome of her excitement. The wedding had, however, been fixed for September; but owing to some delay in obtaining possession of the house Mr. Reid had taken in Bruton Street, it had been necessary to postpone it for some two months.

Mr. Reid had expressed to Brydain, several times during the evening, his chagrin at this fact, and his envy of Brydain's "luck," as he called it, in having had so short an engagement.

Though never in the least likely to understand one another, Mr. Reid and Brydain were very good friends now. The former was now far too content in his possession of Rachel even to remember his former decided admiration of Etrenne Farrant; and Brydain, now that even that slight shadow of rivalry was gone, was very ready, for his cousin Rachel's sake, to like the man who was to be her husband.

It was not late when Tredennis and Brydain left the Kingstons' house. Mr. Reid, having another engagement, had left some time before; but it was only eleven o'clock. Big Ben was just striking as they turned the corner of Weymouth Street; there was not a breath of wind, and every one of the clear strokes came distinct and clear through the night air.

"Only an hour!" said Brydain, "only an hour more of to-day!"

Brydain was flushed; his eyes were sparkling and dancing, and an almost boyish elation shone over his whole face.

The same excited happiness had been visible in his expression and in his demeanour all the evening; indeed, it had been an evident effort to him now and then to restrain it within any bounds at all.

Directly he found himself alone with Tredennis, he had abandoned the effort and given himself up to his happiness. He looked round at Tredennis now, as if expecting some sort of sympathetic answer. None was forthcoming. dennis's face was thoughtful and his manner preoccupied. manner preoccupied. Brydain, in his excitement, did not notice this; he simply thought that Tredennis had not heard him.

Tre

"Tredennis," he said, in the same excited tone of voice, "who would have thought three months ago, that I should feel like this to-night? It was all so hopeless, then!"

"There certainly did seem no room for hope then," said Tredennis tersely. "You are happy in proportion now, Keith?" he said abruptly and interrogatively. He half stopped in his walk as he spoke, and turned sharply round to look at Brydain. There was, as there had been all the evening, a most unwonted expression on Tredennis's face. It was not easily definable. To say he looked alarmed is to say too much. But there was a suggestion of something very like it, mingled with wonder, in his eyes, as he looked at Brydain now.

Tredennis had been thinking all the evening, thinking of a subject to which he had scarcely given one serious thought before-the Brydain doom. He began by congratulating himself on the fact that it was apparently not weighing on Brydain's spirits in the least. Real trouble had "brought Keith to his senses for good," he said to himself. But, even while he rejoiced in Brydain's escape, the thought of what it was that Brydain had escaped from crept into Tredennis's mind, half unconsciously, and dwelt there. For the first time since Keith had related it, he went over the Brydain story in his mind with a singular concentration. He believed in it, as a fact, not a degree more than he had done then; but to-night it grew in his thoughts into a curious importance. He found himself dwelling with an imaginativeness most rare with him, on what Brydain's position to-night would have been had it been all true; to-night, the eve of the day that would, had the story been anything but nonsense, bring his death in its wake. The idea at length so affected him, that he began to feel as if