"And pray, what have you heard from Mrs. Knoedler?"

"That you are going to marry Clara."

O Phemie, Phemie! O my love, my darling," I involuntarily moaned aloud, on hearing this.

Aunt Izah put back my hair, and stood over me, combing it with her fingers. I could see that she was shaken with grief and sympathy, almost beyond control. That I had made a fool of myself, I was fully aware, and greatly ashamed on that account. I soon began speaking lightly, in the hope of counteracting the impression my involuntary utterance would naturally leave.

mirth, which gave rise to a remark overheard by myself, that "Stephen Daly must have been tarrying too long at the winecup." I was often near Phemie, but we did not fairly meet until, later in the evening, I saw her pass out of the dancing-room into the conservatory. I seemed to be irresistibly drawn to follow her. I shall always aver that my doing so was not of my own will, though what the compelling agency was I am unable to state. She was standing over some lantanas, glossyleaved and golden with bloom, when I placed myself before her. "Phemie!"

She looked up with a start, and grew a

66

"Or is it Mrs. Loudigan whom I address ?” She turned away without a word. She seemed to grope for her way, as if in darkness,

flower-pot, which came to the floor with a

Here was a state of affairs not at all to my liking. Perhaps Clara, too, was looking towards marriage as the goal of our friendship. The idea was appalling. How careless I had been. But after considering the subject further, it became in a measure disarmed of its terrors. Phemie was to me as if she did not exist. I had a strong regard for Clara. She never grated upon my sensibilities. Our tastes were harmonious. The household over which she presided would be well-ordered and homelike. Perhaps Mrs. Knoedler's declaration, though a little premature, might yet prove itself true. Leaving Phemie out of the account-ah me, Phemie!-there was no woman I would so willingly marry as Clara Knoedler.

Thinking this, I made ready for a party given by the Knoedlers. I was late in arriving, and the ample parlors were nearly filled when I entered. I pressed my way through the crowd, to pay my respects to the hostess and her daughter. Clara was talking with a lady graceful in figure and elegantly attired, whose face was turned from me at first. But a change of her position revealed to me Phemie Dennis. Some one at my elbow spoke to me just then, and I compelled myself to give heed. When I looked again, Phemie's place beside Clara was vacant. I glanced hastily around, but did not see her.

How the first hour of that evening passed I do not know. Some faint impressions I have of having striven for an unnatural

queenly fuchsia, but in sad plight now.

"See what havoc you have made," I said. "Do you prey only upon hearts and flowers, or does your spite extend to all created things ?"

“You think Clara Knoedler will regret the loss of her plant. Perhaps you can console her, however."

"I fear not. O Phemie, Phemie! That you and I should have met like this."

"What sort of meeting could you expect after-".

"After your going away with Rosmo Loudigan, do you mean ?"

"What!"

"You went away with him, did you not?" "No."

"I was told that you did, and he certainly disappeared from Gaywold on the day that you left."

"I think I am sure now-that he did go on the same train with us. I had forgotten it at first. Was that why you did not answer my note ?"

"I received no note from you."

"What! Not the one I sent to your aunt's house, explaining that a telegram from my father had summoned grandma and myself to meet him in New York that day, in order to sail with him the following morning for Europe?"

"I received no such note."

"But the boy whom I sent with it, told me that he had certainly delivered it to Mrs. Beckwick."

"Mrs. Beckwick? ah!"

"A lady so much resembling myself," said Phemie, smiling faintly, "that my picture has been mistaken for hers.”

my part there is nothing to hinder the old relations being resumed. Is there anything on yours?"

Her answer I need not record. At present

"I knew it was, and forgave it after a little consideration, for I was aware that I had been acting perversely too. I asked Loudigan for the sketch, and meant to give it to you for a peace-offering. I am glad though they came too late-that we have had these explanations. We can at least part as friends now."

"Too late? part?"

"I must not rob Clara of her lover."

"My darling, I am no woman's lover but yours." I never have been, I never shall be. Clara and I are excellent friends, but there has been no word of love between us. On

holds the position of dictatress in our household. Being charged with the suppression of Phemie's note, she made confession of the same, giving as a reason, that she knew if Phemie Dennis came there to live, she (Mrs. Beckwick) would have to march. I com mended her penetration, and advised heras Phemie was certainly coming there to live very soon-to march in haste.

Mrs. Beckwick took my advice. Aunt Izah transferred the blessing she had in reserve for Clara to Phemie. Clara professed herself rejoiced at the reconciliation between my old love and myself, and is now the true friend of both.

"FOR three long days, Regina Mia, I leave you. The Moors, at my friend's, Sir Edwards, are too tempting for me to refuse. Bertold will obey orders, and guard my treasure till my return." He stopped, as he spoke, and imprinted a kiss on the fair white forehead, framed in by the wealth of golden hair which fell over the beautiful face.

"O Arthur, must you leave me? There is something dreary about this old mansion; and, besides, my heart has a strange misgiving, an undefined fear. Must you go?"

"Yes, for a few hours," returned the baronet, laughing, "It will be pleasant to know my lady looks for my return. Adieu!"

The long corridor which separated her apartment rung to the proud step, a distant door opened and shut, and she was alone.

'How strangely nervous I do feel to-night," she said, ringing for her maid; "I wish Arthur would have delayed his journey." "Your ladyship's pleasure," said the girl, entering.

"Lizette, place that cabinet and writing materials in my dressing-room. No, I shall not require your attendance," she said, as the girl reluctantly withdrew.

Left alone, she undid the heavy coil of her hair that fell in a golden haze around her, seating herself before a large mirror. In a

moment the tramp of a horse in the paved court, and Lady Lytton sprang towards the window to take one farewell look of her lord, One step she made, only one, for distinctly seen beneath the heavy curtain was a naked human foot!

Her first impulse was to scream; her next to scan her terrible situation.

"O, that she had not sent away Lizette !" she thought. She was in a distant wing of a rambling old house, and her cries might fail to reach the servants' ears. For one instant she stood spellbound; the next, with woman's fortitude, she had formed her plan.

Humming a wild Scottish air that would least betray the trembling tone of terror, she turned again to the mirror, placing it so as to command the dreaded window. Pale with fright, she drew her fingers several times through the shining mass of her rich hair, then, muttering, “I wonder if Lizette placed the jewels rightly," she drew from the small cabinet a necklace of pearl.

"My bridal gift!" she continued, drawing the sparkling gems through her fingers, in full view of the curtain-concealed figure; "and this ruby, my Bertha's parting gift!"

For half an hour she continued to polish and arrange the gems, wondering if the loud throbbing of her heart was audible to her

Hark, the horrible curtain moved! no, 'twas the wind. O merciful saints! it does move though! and a dark form slowly emerged, with a creaking tread, and stole towards the bed. Lady Lytton closed her eyes, feigning the calm breath of sleep. A man stood beside her; he bent and watched the beautiful sleeper, and, through the long lashes, she beheld the gleaming knife of the assassin.

"She's pretty and kind," he whispered; "pity to kill her. Now, birdie, an ye value your pretty throat, sleep sound.”

He turned and with a gliding step sought the inner closet, where he bent over the table. Lady Lytton half raised her head

would he look round? No, drawn by the beauty of the gems, he was intently busied in the casket. Now was the time, or never.

With a nervous spring she bounded to the door and seized the latch. The robber saw her, and in an instant he too had gained the door; and now began the deadly struggle between man's strength and woman's agony.

She had almost closed the door when he grasped it, and nearly escaped her hold. It opened wider and wider. Their eyes met. It was Bertold the steward.

Summoning every nerve, she exhausted herself in one effort. The bolt shut with a loud click, mingled with the curses of the robber, and with one wild frenzied scream, she sunk to the floor. The sun had long

gleamed over the towers of Lytton Hall when she opened her eyes. A piercing shriek bespoke first her consciousness, which hushed as she beheld Sir Henry and her faithful Lizette bending over her. With a terrified glance she looked toward the closet.

In brotherly embrace walked the Angel of Sleep and the Angel of Death upon the earth. It was evening. They laid themselves down upon a hill near the dwelling of men. Mélancholy silence hung around, and the chimes of the evening bell in the distant hamlet ceased. Still and silent, as was their custom, sat these two beneficent genii of the human race, their arms entwined with cordial familiarity, and soon the shades of night gathered around them. Then arose the Angel of Sleep from his moss-grown couch, and strewed with a gentle hand the invisible grains of slumber. The evening breezes wafted them to the quiet dwelling of the tired husbandman, enfolding in sweet sleep the inmates of the rural cottage-from the old man upon the staff, to the infant in the cradle. The sick forget their pain; the mourn ers their grief; the poor their care. All eyes closed. His task accomplished, the benevolent Angel of Sleep laid himself again beside his grave brother. "When Aurora awakes," ex

claimed he, with innocent joy," men praise me as their friend and benefactor. O, what happiness, unseen and secretly to confer such benefits! How blessed are we to be the invisible messengers of the Good Spirit! How beautiful is our silent calling "So spake the friendly Angel of Slumber. The Angel of Death sat with still deeper melancholy on his brow, and a tear, such as mortals shed, appeared in his large dark eyes. "Alas!" said he, "I may not, like thee, rejoice in the cheerful thanks of mankind; they call me, upon the earth, their enemy and joy-killer." "O my brother!" replied the gentle Angel of Slumber, "and will not the good man, at his awakening, recognize in thee his friend and benefactor, and gratefully bless thee in his joy? Are we not brothers, and ministers of one Father?" As he spake, the eyes of the Death Angel beamed with pleasure, and again did the two friendly genii cordially embrace each other.

L

and "holding office," Gordon was away the most of the time at the period when memory first begins to serve me. Ingalls, as I remember her, was, alternately, gay and gloomy. I have visions of her resplendent with dress and jewelry, and beaming with color; and yet other visions in which she sat pale and mopingly disposed, like a moulting bird. During these seasons of morbidity, which sometimes lasted several months, she kept her room, read "Childe Harold," and-strange as it may appear to some-" Pilgrim's Progress." I well remember that book, a chumpy volume, in faded cloth, with fossil mosquitos smashed between its yellow pages. It had belonged to grandmother Ingalls in earlier days, and was read on that account, perhaps. It was during one of these "blue spells," that I was born, and somebody named me Gaius! Gaius, of all names! 'Twas a mean trick on a yet unsuspecting man. I never could find out, for certain, who did it. My malediction on them at random though.

I have a theory, however, that it came out of that "Pilgrim's Progress," from an old chap over in the last part. Wicked or not, I have always hated the book, instinctively. Now an infant tongue would very naturally get into trouble with the intestine vowels of G-a-i-u-s. Mine did at any rate. Up to the age of ten, I never could make anything but Ga-as of it, which sounded so much like Guess that everybody took to calling me Guess, and I was thus rechristened-for life this time, I expect. Gordon used to be at our hotel once in from two to ten weeks, fortuitously. I was sometimes with Ingalls when he came. She was nearly always lying on the sofa. Gordon would come in with:

"Hillo, Ingalls! In the dumps yet?" To which she would reply, without getting up, "Ah, Mr. Gordon, you've come."

He generally stayed two days, sometimes three, but never more than a week; and their partings were much more affecting than their greetings. They were generally preceded by various little misunderstandings, ending in Gordon's charging on the wardrobe for his hat and coat, while Ingalls rose to a sitting position on the sofa with:

"Dan Gordon, you rake, I wish I had never seen you."

To which Gordon would add: "My idea exactly, Ingalls."

Then the door would bang, intimating that Gordon had bidden Ingalls good-by for a month or so.

On such occasions my mother would clench her bejewelled fingers and look the picture of fury for a moment, then turn her eyes on me

when I happened to be present-with an expression of disgust, rather hard to bear, till I got used to it. I have been told that I strongly resembled Gordon; and on these occasions I used to get the impression that Ingalls not only hated me for my relationship to my father, but that she also looked upon me as a most unfortunate and mortifying mistake on her own part-one she would not be likely to repeat, while her name was— Ingalls. In short, that by good rights, I had little or no business to be about. Gredel, the nursery-maid, seemed to be of the same opinion, for she used to hurry me off, and keep me out of sight. This Gredel was a German girl. The Germans are now a great people, and I shall speak guardedly concerning her. Perchance she had a German admiration for lager; perchance, I say, for she sometimes smelled of it; and used, occasionally, to put me into the foot of my bed with my heels, instead of my head, on the pillows. Ingalls used to rate her most unhandsomely at times; but that was before the late war on the Rhine.

This was our mode of life till I was nearly six years old, when Gordon went to Europe, having been appointed United States minister to one of the smaller nationalities on the continent. Ingalls was intending to accompany him; but during the week preceding his departure which they spent together, old quarrels broke out afresh, making such a breeze, that Gordon sailed without her. She sulked for a fortnight, then went into society full tilt. I, meanwhile, went to the dogs at about the same rate. There is no need to describe how I lived and what I learned, in the saloons, on the street, or at school-for I did go to school some during these years. I would respectfully suggest to our great moral philosophers, who write long treatises, beginning with "There is implanted in the human bosom a certain nice perception of right and wrong," I would suggest, I say, that they compare this most happy and reassuring view of" the human bosom " with the moral status of little chaps brought up in hotels. There were, I remember, a lot of us little fellows; and whatever God, or nature, had "implanted," our moral condition was, according to the best of my recollection, something like this. Whatever we could do and get through with, without getting ourselves into a scrape