'You know Mrs. Keane's son, do you not?' asked Ethel, blushing like a rose.

Yes, he was very good to us, and he brought us here; I am grateful to him for that. How strong and well he looks!'

'Ah, that is from the outdoor life and the air of this place. You will soon get well with it, and be as rosy as the rest of us.'

A faint expression of denial came to the boy's face, but he said nothing. After a while he sat upright, and was astonished at the strength that had come to him.

'How pretty everything is !' he said; I did not notice it so much before. The sunlight on the water there is just like a silver flame.'

Ethel looked out upon the river, smiling pleasantly, as if she had heard what he was saying and dreamed over it. At last she started just a little, and answered him:

Would you like to see the river closer? There is a little boat moored up there; it will hold us both.'

'But I can.'

'You can row a boat!'

He laughed, evidently amused. 'Yes, I can. I have been rowing this morning; that was how I came here-'

'From heaven-if it only were so, I should be glad to go back with you.'

'If I cannot take you to heaven, Lennard, we may have a nice trip down the river. It is quite safe.'

'I should never be afraid to go anywhere with you.'

'Come, then.'

She went down to the water's edge and stepped into the tiny craft, and held out her arms towards the boy, who was by her side in a moment. She took the oars and pushed into the stream, laughing merrily.

'Now,' she said, 'I have got you and the violin all to myself, let us give the fish some music. Go on with that lovely tune you were playing.'

'Oh, not that,' he cried; 'it was sad! We must be gay, like my heart. Oh, if the violin had the power to speak so much happiness! But nothing can do that.'

He began to play a lively air, and they floated down the water: Ethel feeling as if a beautiful child had been intrusted to her keeping; Lennard wondering in his soul if the brightest places in Paradise could be equal to that river, and if the spirits that haunt them could be half so lovely as she who had brought him a new lease of life.

Meanwhile, Nell had taken a fancy to explore a little, and went down to the river, remarking everything she saw. It was all so strange to her, poor little town-bred morsel. If a bird started up at her feet it seemed like magic, and she watched its career with wide-open eyes. The green fruit, as it hung in clusters on the vines, was a marvel to her. She wondered what use this or that was, for an honest idea of utility in everything was as natural to the child as music and poetical fancies were to her brother.

Sitting down on the edge, on a huge stone, she took a survey of the spot. Just where she sat, a fine old forest giant lifted the bank into a green knoll with its thick roots, that crept into the water, and gleamed through it like a knot of huge serpents. The trunk of the tree had been hollowed out and burnt in by some prairie fire years before, making a small cavern.

'What a snug parlour that would make for a fairy!' she said to herself. It's almost big enough for me. I'll try if I can't get inside.' She was on the point of edging herself in sideways, when she

caught sight of the little boat, with Lennard and the girl he had been searching for so long.

'He has found her!' she cried out eagerly. 'Now he will get well, and she will be so glad, won't you, mother dear?' she questioned, lifting up her blue eyes wistfully to the sky. I think I will run and tell father.'

She hesitated, and, as she did so, the boat shot in to the shore.

Ethel had seen the girl, and asked who she was.

'Jump in here,' she called out; 'there is room for us all.'

Nell made a jump to the lower bank; another from that into the boat, landing in the bottom of it, where she settled down quiet as a mouse, and, in spite of herself, her heart beating with fright. It was a novel position, and she hardly liked the rocking of the water.

'What a queer little thing!' Ethel thought to herself, smiling under the scrutiny of the blue eyes. His sister, but so unlike him. She does not seem to care a bit for his music, either.'

No more she did. Such music with Nell was only one source of the family living. Everything that brought in money and household comfort was as good as music to the practical little creature. After examining Ethel, her glance fell on some green grapes in the boat, and, seizing on a bunch, she called out, in a most pathetic passage of the violin, 'What are these?'

Ethel shook her head, and, still listening with all her ears, whispered, 'Grapes.'

'Good to eat?' persisted Nell, crushing all the sourness out of one between her white teeth, and making a terrible grimace.

'They must be cooked,' whispered Ethel again.

'Oh, I know, stewed with sugar. Just set me ashore, please, miss; I'll get some for Mrs. Keane.

Sweet and sour make tremendous preserves, I have heard. Please, put me on the land! I don't like this-it feels like being a baby, and rocked in a cradle.'

Nell was soon half buried in the trailing foliage of a vine, so laden with fruit that she uttered a gleeful shout. No wonder—a host of rich clusters hung their shadows between her and the sunshine, which came through and around them in golden light.

'Lots of fruit-enough for jam and tarts and puddings and pickles.'

She scrambled out of the thicket, her skirt full of grapes, when she met Bernard. Keane.

He paused a moment on seeing her, and asked quietly if she had seen Miss

Then, remembering that Nell knew no one in the place, he checked himself, coloured deeply, and looked out towards the river.

'Oh, yes,' answered Nell glibly, 'I have just been rocking with her. Listen, and you will hear Lennard's violin whispering to the leaves.'

'She is with some one, then?'

'Yes, Mr. Bernard, the young lady is with my own brother, and delighted with him. No wonder, he is so beautiful!'

CHAPTER XLIX.

A GUILTY PAST.

BERNARD turned back homewards reluctantly. He was miserable and despondent, and, in a tumult of feeling, had gone blindly in search of Ethel.

That very morning he had asked Mr. Seymour's consent to their marriage, and had been refused it, not rudely or roughly, but with a bland firmness that allows no per

suasion, and admits of no hope. When Bernard asked for the reasons, they were promptly given.

Bernard Keane had neither position, family, wealth, nor any one of the requisites which could warrant his proposing to the only child of a man who had all the requisites save wealth. It was said kindly, but with sufficient force to kill hope in a proud heart. Every word of the objections was true. Bernard was assuredly as uncertain of his future as any man of twentyseven could be. A good education, natural intelligence, and the moderate salary of a platelayer on the railway, were all he had to offer. These he had offered, with all due humility, and they were rejected.

In the first severe pang of wounded pride, he sought for the girl he loved, but found that she was not alone. Lennard was but a boy, still he could not help a sore jealous sort of feeling stealing over him at any one enjoying Ethel's sweet smiles and kindly words. So he went home, and betook himself to the creature dearest to him on earth-his mother.

Nell saw that something was wrong, and, with unusual shrewdness, she crept away to the little kitchen, where she fell to picking the grapes, now and then casting curious glances through a small back window at Bernard and Mrs. Keane, who sat together in earnest conversation.

The young man's face was troubled, but the woman's face was deeply clouded with anxiety and pain.

'And he said that ?'

Mrs. Keane spoke in a low concentrated voice, and the colour, warm and red, began to flicker in her cheek.

Bernard marked the agitation on her features, and saw, too, how her fingers shook, as she made an effort

to continue the work she was doing.

'Yes, mother, it was his chief objection. Had I possessed any connections worth speaking of, I believe he would have been less positive in his refusal; but I had only Steven Keane, and- and he'

The wife, who worshipped her drunken brute of a husband, shrank back visibly.

'Yes, yes I know!'

'Mother, you have never told me who my father was!'

She turned as white as death, and caught at the table as if to steady herself.

'Is there nothing to take away Mr. Seymour's prejudices, in my family or in the past?'

She did not answer him for a moment. Then she abruptly questioned him herself.

'Bernard, do you love the girl so much ?'

'Love her? Good Heavens, mother, can you ask me that, when you know that I went with all my disadvantages patent enough to myself, and begged her father to give her to me! It was almost as sharp as a knife cutting my throat, when I felt that a refusal was my due.'

'Yes,' Mrs. Keane murmured, as if talking to herself. 'It was a downfall for proud blood to suffer.'

'You have not answered me about my father!' he cried, a little impetuously.

Again she evaded him with a question.

'And the girl loves you? It is no light passion on her part-no fancy that will die out? Boy, boy, tell me truthfully-have you discovered what real love is?'

'We love each other truly and deeply, in such earnest that it admits of no doubt,' Bernard replied passionately, his eyes lighting up, his face reddening with his words.

'And Ethel Seymour is your first love, Bernard ?'

He grew ashen white, and, after a dead silence that lasted a minute or two, he poured out his story to his mother's ears-all, all that has been told before.

Mrs. Keane, recollecting the fierce anger and dark beauty of the girl she had met on the staircase of Nell's dwelling in Liverpool, inwardly thanked God for having broken the fetters that would have chained her only son down to earthiness for ever.

'Bernard,' she said, after a while, we will talk over this matter again-you have taken me by surprise. I knew that an explanation must come in time, but just now it finds me unprepared.'

Bernard kissed her and went out, comforted without just reason, perhaps.

After he was gone, the effect of the interview became painfully visible in the woman. She sat for some time, her hands locked in her lap, gazing at the floor, in deep thought.

The exigences of the case demanded some sacrifice evidentlya sacrifice which it was almost death to make.

Once more she went into her own room, and unlocked the old box which accompanied her wherever she went. She drew out the old leathern letter-case, and, quickly unripping the lining, extracted the sheet of printed paper.

It was easy to see that it was killing the woman to read the words that stood out large and distinct, but she went through them twice, the first time in shivering haste; then once more-slowly, slowly-growing colder and whiter the while.

This document, with two others, that seemed to be a marriage certificate and baptismal certificate, and a sealed letter, she placed

carefully in the bosom of her dress.

After this she went back and sat down by the window in the sittingroom, drearily watching Nell as she flitted about. This lasted about an hour; then Mrs. Keane gave a great start, as though she had suddenly aroused from some horrible nightmare.

'Go and find my son, and tell him to come to me at once,' she ordered, awing Nell by her imperative tone and her pallor.

The child ran off and found Bernard, who, on entering the shanty, saw his mother pacing up and down, trembling, but resolute. He closed the door after him, and then remarked that the blinds had been carefully pulled down and the curtains closely drawn, leaving the room in dim twilight, in the midst of which Mrs. Keane stood like a ghost.

'Come here,' she said, seating herself; come here, Bernard! and, O my son, kiss me once more-once more, with the old love, before I make you hate me for ever!'

The voice was shrill with pain; the haggard face uplifted to him was piteous to behold.

He went up to her, and, dropping on his knees, wound both arms round her, kissing her cold hand and white face with eagerness.

She shivered under his caresses, and pushed him from her; then drew him closer, and kissed him again and again, crying out,

It is the last-last time; after this your lips will recoil from mine, Bernard!'

'Mother, you don't know how I love you,' he said soothingly.

'Not enough to overcome disgrace and-guilt,' she answered, in a low frightened voice, while her eyes feverishly scanned his face.

'Enough to overcome every

thing, be it misfortune or disgrace. The one holy fact that you are my mother will lift me above all.'

Then she burst into tears, and

sobbed piteously.

'I would never have told you. I would never have done it, but that your happiness is at stake. I am an old woman-old, worn, broken-incapable of much beyond sorrow. You are young; years of life, please God, lie before you; and I will purchase your happiness at any risk. Read this letter. I wrote it, thinking to die in silence; hoping that, with the grave between us, you might not blame so much. But God will not let this cup pass from me.'

She put the sealed letter in his hands, together with the three documents she had taken from the old trunk.

He glanced at the door, as if of a mind to go outside, but she pointed to a seat in the window.

'Read it there,' she said. Bernard sat down, raised the blind a little, and took up the printed paper.

A stream of light fell directly upon his features. Who shall describe the horror, the anxiety depicted on them? His cheek flushed, his eyes kindled, his hands clenched fiercely together.

Then he glanced at the certificates of marriage and baptism, and let all three papers fall from his hand. For a little while there was almost a weird silence in the room, broken only by the rapid beating of those two human hearts.

Then Bernard took up the sealed letter. In a minute or two a look of intense and tender commiseration stole into his eyes, and Mrs. Keane felt that her son was thinking of her as if already in her grave, as she had desperately prayed to be before the history of her life-before the guilty past -should be revealed to him.

VOL. XXI.

When the paper rustled in turning over the leaves, the tension of the woman's nerves was so great that a faint shriek died in her throat. She sat there like a poor hunted animal, waiting for the deadly bullet which was to pierce her breast. Of all her hard wretched life, this hour was one of the bitterest.

Bernard rose at last, grasping the papers in his hands. She saw that he moved unsteadily, and kept his glance fixed downwards, as if afraid of wounding her by it. Feeling this, she shrank back breathless. The motion that she made-faint as it was-struck him with infinite remorse. In an instant he was bending over her; again he kissed her with a tenderness unknown to her lips.

'My mother, my poor, poor mother!'

Then his manhood gave way, and, with her withered cheek pressed against his, he wept like a child.

'And all this horror and misery you have had to bear alone; not even your own son has shared the burden,' he said, smoothing her gray hair softly with his trembling hand.

'My sorrow would have made you sad, my guilt degraded you,' she replied.

'Do not speak of guilt-such a word is not for a son to hear. If there was guilt, a lifetime of atonement and repentance is surely enough.'

'No, no!' she cried bitterly; 'atonement is not a thing of this world. The time which God gives us is all His own; we cannot take one portion in which to redeem another. What human soul can atone for wrong done? Like a stone cast into the river, the wrong sends forth its circles, which nothing can arrest. Repentance may be ours, but atonement seldom.'

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