"Yes, Dora may have written," said Ada, much as if she doubted the possibility. "But, Edith, you can't go alone and reach London in the small hours of the night."

"If there is no letter from abroad," said Edith, who had with her usual decision settled what she must do after a moment's reflection, "you shall please, Sir John, telegraph to Mrs. Lewis and she will meet me; I must not waste a day, but try and catch the Calais boat to-morrow."

And accordingly when a couple of hours later Sir John returned with the information that there were no letters and that he had sent to Mrs. Lewis, Edith started, promising to let Ada, who was half inclined to accompany her, know everything as soon as possible. That journey and the suddenness of the summons reminded her of other telegrams, and how Lawrence had in those days always been at hand to help and advise her. Where was he now, and what wounded or guilty feelings kept him away from all his old friends? Very welcome was the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, who were both waiting for her at the London terminus; and when, after a few hours' sleep, she came down to an early breakfast at Kensington, she found Mrs. Lewis with her bonnet on and a portmanteau in the hall.

"Rose is going with you," said Mr. Lewis. "It is all settled, we won't hear of your going alone."

"Edgar need not know I am with you if my presence would annoy him," continued Mrs. Lewis; "but, indeed, I must see you to your journey's end. It is so odd of Dora to let a perfect stranger send for you."

"I feel myself as if there were something we don't know," said Edith, who was too glad to have Mrs. Lewis to make the slightest demur at her coming, knowing well also that Rose was far too sincere to offer to accompany her unless she really wished her offer to be accepted. It was a hurried journey, very unlike their last pleasant trip together, as they travelled on grudging every half-hour's

delay, and merely driving from one station to another in Paris. Edith had sent word to say she was coming, and on her arrival at Wiesbaden half expected to find Dora at the station, or at least awaiting her at the hotel to which she drove at once with Mrs. Lewis, who felt intensely thankful she had come, as she noticed the half curious, half compassionate looks the waiters cast upon them when Edith gave her card and asked for Mrs. Marsden.

Madame was not at home, the waiter replied, with a peculiar smile; if the ladies would sit down, the English doctor was with Mr. Marsden, and had begged to be told as soon as they arrived.

In a few minutes he appeared, a brisk business-like little man, with an odd abrupt manner, which reminded Edith of Doctor Vernon. He evidently took Mrs. Lewis for Lady Clive, for he apologized for sending to her, saying that he was not sure of Miss Marsden's address.

"But where is my sister-in-law?" exclaimed Edith, when Mrs. Lewis had explained who she was, and the doctor had answered their questions about Edgar, who, he said, was very ill, and utterly unconscious of all that went on.

"The Lord knows, for I am sure I do not," replied the doctor drily. "Well, I can't mince matters or varnish over nasty facts. Mrs. Edgar Marsden has been the talk of the place for months for her notorious gambling, and she was last seen at the railway station in company with some Prussian scoundrel, who has been playing the part of Mephistopheles by your brother all the winter."

"When was this?" said Mrs. Lewis, as Edith covered her face with her hands, too utterly shocked to speak.

"Last Monday. Mr. Marsden was ill at the time; he has been ailing for weeks; his wife's conduct has nearly killed him, he can't stand the disgrace. As soon as she was fairly off, I sent to you," he continued, turning to Edith. "There, I've made a mess of telling you, but one's blood boils at such things."

"Poor Dora!" said Edith; "but my brother, has he asked for me?"

"He asks for no one, and knows no one," said the doctor. "You must not mind what he says, he talks very wildly. You have plenty of self-command?" he added, looking attentively at Edith.

"I am used to illness," she answered, whilst Mrs. Lewis begged to be allowed to share the nursing; and the doctor, who was a man of few words, installed them both in Edgar's sick room, after insisting on their taking a proper amount of food and rest.

Later on, when he discovered that Mrs. Lewis was to be trusted, he told her more than he had told Edith, namely, what a cat and dog life Edgar and his wife had led together, how sick they seemed of each other, and how people said that the whole coming to Wiesbaden had been a preconceived plan of Dora's to meet the man for whose sake she had left her husband, and half ruined him.

A weary month followed, a month spent in ceaseless attendance upon Edgar. He was very, very ill, and as the doctor had warned them, he talked wildly. He seemed utterly unconscious of his sister's presence, though he often in his delirious moments called for her; evidently the Ulcoombe affairs had preyed on his mind, for he talked perpetually of his uncle and the Hall, of Mr. Bretherton, and above all of Margaret Fielding, betraying how true his early attachment had been, and how soon he had repented his marriage with Miss Ronaldson. Mrs. Lewis, whom he had vowed he would never speak to, nursed him as tenderly as Edith herself. When at last the fever, which he had caught at some masked ball to which Dora had dragged him, left him, he was too utterly weak and prostrate to talk. Perhaps he wished to ignore the past, for he never mentioned his wife's name, and seemed to accept Edith's presence as a matter of course, and either really did not, or pretended not to recognize Mrs. Lewis,

who prudently kept in the background when once he was fully conscious, and contented herself with doing all she could for Edith outside the sick room. Not till early in March did Edgar so far recover his strength as to be able to bear the journey by very slow stages back to England. On the very day before they left, the little doctor, who had proved himself to be the best of friends, came to Mrs. Lewis with a German paper in his hand.

"Here's a nice ending to our domestic tragedy," he exclaimed.

"What!" said Mrs. Lewis; "no news of Mrs. Marsden?" "She is dead," said the doctor in his abrupt way, putting the paper into Mrs. Lewis's hands.

"Dead!" exclaimed Mrs. Lewis. "How dreadful! When? Where?"

"There, read, and tell Miss Marsden as best you can. It's a happy release for that poor fool of a husband of hers," said the doctor.

Mrs. Lewis took the paper, and glanced quickly over the paragraph the doctor had marked. It was but too true. There was a long account of a terrible railway accident to the mail train between Paris and Berlin, and amongst the names of those killed were Dora Marsden and the Prussian gentleman she had been with. Mrs. Lewis carried the paper to Edith, who had to tell her brother. What his feelings were they could not guess. He maintained the same resolute silence. Only as they got into the carriage that was to convey them to the station, and he found himself face to face with Mrs. Lewis and obliged to recognize her, he took her hand and thanked her warmly for all her goodness to his sister.

The Miracles of our Lord, as illustrating the
Doctrine of Purgatory.

X.-CURE OF THE SICK MAN AT THE PROBATIC POOL. (St. John v. 1-15.)

I. It appears that, not long after the miracle which has last been mentioned-the healing of the paralytic man who was let down in his bed into the inner court of the house in which our Lord was teaching-He went up to Jerusalem for the celebration of the feast of the Pasch. It was now,

then, just a year since He had taken on Himself publicly the office of Teacher and Prophet in the Holy City itself, by the wonderful exercise of authority which had been shown in the act of cleansing the Temple. By far the greater part of this year had been spent by Him, as we have seen, in Galilee, at a distance from Jerusalem—from the neighbourhood of which He had retired in order not to provoke too soon or too much the enmity of the Jewish authorities. At the time, however, at which we have now arrived, our Lord was following what we should call a bolder course, and was claiming for Himself, both by act and word, an authority which was not likely to be at once recognized by men so full of ambition and pride as the Chief Priests and Pharisees at Jerusalem. A notable example of a claim to authority hitherto unheard of, is that on which we meditated in the last chapter-His claim to forgive sins upon earth. The miracle of which we are now to speak is another such instance, at least in so far as it asserted an entire independence of the usual interpretation put by the Jews and their teachers on the

C