'Why does she stay behind?' asked Ursula, pretending interest in the subject. If she loves him so much, nothing should deter her from going.'

'She is an old woman now.' 'What of that-if she really loves her husband?'

Bernard's eyes brightened, and a sudden flush swept over his face, giving it additional beauty.

'If I went, would you go with me?' he questioned, laying a hand on each of her shoulders, and trying to read her countenance.

'I? Yes, of course, when people know I am your wife,' she answered, colouring angrily at the trap she had foolishly laid for herself; that is, if father would let me go!'

Bernard's face fell.

'I see you would not like it,' he said.

'How can you say that ?' she replied, in a hesitating manner.

Never mind, Ursula, we are not likely to try another land for many a long day; but sometimes, you know, I have my dreams of a pretty place of our own, in the fair country, with plenty of flowers and sunshine, and the loveliest woman in the world mistress of my home!'

'That means me!' replied Ursula, with a forced laugh. Well, go

on.'

us.'

And my mother staying with

'Oh, your mother! It is always your mother,' she cried pettishly.

'Of course, my mother is always the principal object in my homepictures. God bless her!'

'And how much would such a place cost?

'Very little; the price of three or four dresses of real silk, Ursula.' Ursula thought of the fifty pounds, and wondered if it would be enough. For a moment she was rather taken with the idea of the house, the flowers, and the sun

shine, and asked a good deal about it, more, however, to keep up a desultory conversation that was far removed from the thoughts she was desirous of concealing.

Bernard seized upon the idea and began to work it out in his mind with downright earnestness. With him it was the solution of a momentous question that had troubled and perplexed him.

He knew that things could not long go on as they were doing, and that his marriage must be acknowledged soon.

Such a home as the one he pictured in his dreams would assuredly remove Ursula from her old life and from all those influences that spoilt her character, and the pure air and broad liberty of a new existence would bring out all that was really good and noble about her. Then, perhaps, he would be able to present her to his mother, and claim her with pride as his very own before all the world. Now his artist life was a drudgery, instead of the picturesque vagabondage that most men of his own class found it; his hopes of a tolerable independence were limited, too, that each day made his marriage seem to him more rash and wicked.

Besides this he had the mortification of feeling that marriage had lessened instead of increased his influence over his wife; the very fact of being married appeared to have aroused in her fallacious hopes and a species of ambition which really startled him. And to counteract the miserably depressing feeling which such reflections awakened, Bernard tried to remember how very beautiful Ursula was, how passionately loving she was at times, and what wonderful capabilities of improvement she possessed if only the right influence could be brought to bear on her.

Ursula had been generous and

self-sacrificing regarding his mother, and the thought of this inspired him with fresh confidence. Yes, he murmured to himself, as he gazed at the girl's dark splendid face and caught the gleam of black eyes and white teeth and a piquant smile; life in the country home would be a paradise, in which the faulty girlish nature would quickly merge into the nobility of true loyal-hearted womanhood. He little guessed how the trail of the serpent had already gone over his Eden and tainted its fairest flower-the heart of his young wife. He little knew that those fifty pounds that were garnered up were garnered up carefully in her bosom had built up a granite wall between his aspirations and hers. While he dreamt of a pure bright home, and an angel to preside over board and hearth, her mind had flown back to John Lock and his coarse yet subtler flattery, his wonderful wealth, his extraordinary liberality. Sitting beside Bernard-a silence falling on both-she planned with in herself how she could spend her money undiscovered. She grew dreadfully impatient at last. Bernard's presence irritated her in the mood she was in; and, protesting she had a headache and moreover required things for the house, rose to go out ostensibly for fresh air.

Bernard offered to accompany her, but she put him off with the aplomb that is natural to most women, saying she had so many places to call at that he would be tired of waiting. So Bernard, in So Bernard, in whose nature suspicion was a stranger, kissed and clasped her once more fervently in his arms. And then Ursula was free to go out alone, to taste, for the very first time in her life, the pleasure of 'shopping' with plenty of money in her pocket. One advantage she had already reaped from her association with Bernard, and it stood

her in good stead now-she had caught a little of his artistic taste; and if somewhat brilliant in her choice of tints, she was at any rate safe from the possibility of a vulgar selection.

Ursula went out alone; but on her way home she encountered John Lock. The meeting seemed purely accidental; but few' chance' events ever fell into that man's life. He had, with his usual craftiness, foreseen that she would be in double-quick haste to spend her ill-gotten money, and so he had lain quietly in wait for her, his patience never flagging, trusting to his own influence over her much more than to her father's promises, extorted by threats, given with reluctance.

Did the man really love the woman he was snaring with liberality and flattery? It would be difficult to answer. At the bottom of the most depraved heart there may be a drop of pure feeling, just as water from a sweet and clear crystal spring may run through a tangle of poisonous plants; but he would be a keen searcher of human motives who could decide that any feeling was really untainted of the man whose actions were continually evil. More probably John Lock would never have thought of Ursula if she had not been necessary to his grasping avarice, and if it had not been his invariable policy to hold all his instruments under some sort of personal control. On the other hand, it is true that Ursula's wild gipsy beauty and her free manner, which shocked Bernard at times, possessed a strong fascination for the gross man of hard coarse fibre, to whom delicacy or refinement would have been naturally but a reproach.

At any rate he had carried out his plan of conversing with the girl alone, and it was dusk before Ursula hurried up the shabby old

staircase of her home, afraid to meet her father while the state of excitement her mind was in unfitted her for his scrutiny; but above all, she dreaded to encounter Bernard. With all the duplicity, the falsity that was in her, she shrank from touching her husband's hand while the strong clasp of John Lock was yet warm upon hers.

CHAPTER XXI.

A SIN OF EARLY DAYS.

RALPH PIERCE was still from home when his daughter Ursula stole noiselessly-like a thief or a criminal-up the steep and shabby staircase, thankful that the trail of evening shadows swept over her.

Wretched and utterly despondent, the old man had for hours wandered aimlessly up and down the mean tortuous streets, until nature was fairly exhausted. Then he had crept slowly to a humble lodging-house, with which he which he seemed familiar, for, on entering, he mounted at once to the topmost story and knocked gently at the low door of a back room.

A cry of delight reached him as his step and knock were recognised. The door flew open, and a young girl, tall and dark, with an exquisite face and perfectly moulded figure, sprang forward and flung her arms round his neck.

'Are you, then, so glad to see me, my darling?" he asked, in a tremulous tone, a tone rendered tremulous by pleasure; and his features beamed for a minute so brightly that it would have been rather hard to believe they were the same voice and face that John Lock had listened to and looked on but a few short hours before.

'When did you come that I was not glad ?' cried the girl, with a slow sweet smile breaking on her lovely

red lips. What happiness can I have so great as seeing you !'

Ralph Pierce gazed at her for an instant, then stooped and kissed her with an infinite tenderness that Ursula had never known from him in all her life.

The caress was effusively returned, and then she made haste to welcome him.

A chair, excessively old and worn, but adorned with a small square cushion of gay patchwork, was drawn out, and a little oldfashioned flower-glass, with a bunch of homely but sweet-scented blossoms, was placed in sight; and, dragging from its corner a footstool, the girl flung herself on it, and, leaning back against the man's knee, she gave a short sharp sigh of satisfaction, and looked up lovingly into the pale haggard face.

That sigh was echoed by one so unutterably sad and weary that she started and visibly blanched a shade or so.

'What troubles you?' she questioned anxiously, with quivering lips. 'Is it anything about me?'

'About you-no! My poor child, you give me nothing but happiness, however little I deserve it. It is my own fault that sorrows press heavily-cruelly; and so I must call up patience, and bear with them as well as I can.'

'If I could only bear them for you, I would-you know I would, dear, dear father!'

'I know it; but one thing is certain. As we sow in this world, so shall we reap; and I have laid up a thorny harvest for myself. There, don't have tears in your eyes; nothing so very terrible has happened. And God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, you know. Tell me about yourself-how you are getting on.'

'Capitally,' she cried, clasping his poor thin hands in her own soft warm ones, and then laying

her peach-blossom cheek against them. Since you paid up the rent of this room and sent me such a nice heap of coal, I am as comfortable as a queen!'

'But so lonely, so very lonely,' he murmured pitifully, stroking her glossy black hair caressingly.

'Not so lonely as you think. There is plenty of company in good hard work,' she answered, trying to speak as lightly and cheerfully as possible for his sake.

I think you are deceiving me a little?' Ralph Pierce asked eagerly, noting that a sudden mist of tears stole into her eyes in spite of the smile she had forced to her mouth. 'It is a dreadfully lonely life for you.'

'It wouldn't be if you could come a little oftener. I am always so much happier and better when I have been with you for a little while.'

'Are you?' he replied, and, notwithstanding the harassed state of his mind, a sense of thorough content and rest, which he always felt in that humble room, sent a quick glow to his mournful eyes. 'Who knows, dear, but that by some lucky chance I may soon be able to be with you altogether!'

The girl sprang up from her lowly seat, and with a burst of joy flung herself right into his arms.

'Is that true-true?' 'Yes. Please God it may be. He may arrange it for us!'

'I will pray for it night and morning; and you too must pray for it!' she exclaimed fervently.

'I-I pray? Oh, sometimes, in the horrible outer darkness, it seems quite impossible that Heaven should listen to me! But you, child, you can pray! The prayers of a pure and innocent soul like yours will be surely heard. You have no sin on your conscience weighing you down-down to the very earth.'

'Neither have you; you are so good, father.'

'Hush! don't say that,' he whispered hoarsely; it seems like mockery. But in all my trouble I have the comfort of knowing that you are pure-that no evil has reached you.'

'How could it have? She took such care of me always, and now that I am left alone-almost alone, that is-she seems to be more with me than ever.'

Ralph Pierce shook his head, and, looking at her sadly, murmured something about wishing he could think so; but the girl saw that his eyes filled with large drops, which he vainly strove to keep back.

'Yes, father, yes! You would believe what I say if you could understand how safe and protected I feel. Sometimes I almost hear her voice praying for me and you.'

The man started, and then shrank together in his chair, just as if some one had dealt him a hard blow.

'You never told me she prayed for me,' he said, with pale cheeks and still paler lips; and it would have comforted me to hear it.'

'Didn't I? It must have been because I did not like to speak of her when your trouble in finding this room so empty was so great. You didn't know how dearly she loved you. Her last thought, her last word, was of you. "He will take care of you, I know," she said softly, just as she was dying; "I would trust him with anythinganything!""

Ralph Pierce hid his face in his hands. His shoulders began to heave, and he shook all over, while the girl soothed him by kisses and words.

'Don't, don't! It would make her grieve dreadfully, if she knew it. For her sake, try and bear up

under everything. I was wrong to

talk about her.'

'No, oh, no!' he answered, trying to conquer his agitation, and speaking with irrepressible pathos. 'I am glad to know she loved me, and forgave me all the evil I have done. If only-only-she had lived till I had seen her just once again !'

They were silent for a moment; then he started up, saying he had much to attend to and must go.

'You will have a cup of tea, father, with me?' she pleaded; 'and then you will take me with you; so many people are ill just now.'

'No. You must not run such risk as you have been doing. Contagious diseases are about.'

'But some one must look after the sick, you know.'

'Yes; but not you, my child. Sit down again or get the tea; it may make me stronger for my work.'

The girl disappeared, leaving him alone in the room.

How terribly sad and humble an expression his features wore as he drew his chair up to the little table, and pulled towards him an old Bible which lay upon it! He opened it, reverently glancing at the first page. Then he closed

the book with a deep sigh. There was no record of marriage inscribed therein-no mention of a child; and he remembered how in the early days he had committed a sin before God. It came to him vividly, the hours in which Helen Willoughby had been everything to him save his wife.' He recollected how madly he had loved the girl who had sacrificed her name-her all on earth-for him; and who had never uttered a word of reproach, even when, in the weakness that leavened his whole character, he had yielded to his father's commands and married

another woman. He and Helen Willoughby had parted then, never to meet again. But in the evil and trouble that had come to him later on, Ralph Pierce had never lost trace of his first and best love, and of her child and his-that child he had called Ursula.' It was the name of his dead mother, whom he had worshipped with all the fervour of his nature. Three years later he had a daughter born of his marriage, and to her too he had given the name of 'Ursula.'

It was curious how differently these children were grown up, strangers to one another, and so utterly unlike in disposition. When his wife and his old love were both gone for ever, Ralph Pierce would have willingly thrown the two girls together, had not a letter from Helen Willoughby requested that they should be kept apart.

It was a hard thing to comply with-to a man to whom both his children were very dear; but he held the dying wish as a sacred command. He never forgot, however, to spare enough out of his slender means to keep his deserted love's child from want.

This one good act gave a sort of haven of rest to him; for the Ursula whom he could acknowledge as his offspring before all the world had but little sympathy with him. It appeared to him, when he remembered this, that Nature herself seemed to join with Fate in persecuting him. Never, perhaps, had two beings more closely resembled each other personally than these sisters who had never met; the same rare beauty, the same rich colouring, the large dusky orbs, the glossy raven hair, were facsimiles one of the other. The expression was widely different, however; through one fair face looked the soul of a pure truthful woman-a woman full of tenderness, and capable of noble self