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'How hopelessly you talk, mother!'

'Because I feel hopeless, but more at rest since you know all. Ethel's father will consent when he hears your true name.'

'No,' answered Bernard firmly; 'let that rest between us two. I will not run the risk of revealing it, not even to win Ethel.'

Mrs. Keane drew a deep breath -a heavy stone seemed rolled away from her heart.

She held out her hand.

'It will not be for long, Bernard; I am getting near the end.'

CHAPTER L.

WHAT THE LETTER SAID.

SHE was a criminal, hiding from justice. His mother was deemed a murderess.

This horrible thought flashed like lightning across his brain, scorching and searing it.

He

staggered like a drunkard, then stumbled blindly on and on, with pale quivering lips and laboured breath, until he reached a distant knoll. There, concealed from human eyes that might pry on his shame, he flung himself on the ground, and, taking the fatal letter from his breast, prepared to peruse it once more.

He thought he might better understand its true import, removed from the gaze of those pleading anguished eyes.

'Bernard, my Son,-Your mother sends this from her grave. Remembering that, have mercy! It is right that you should know the dark history of my life, and so I write it write with shaking fingers and a quaking heart, quaking for fear of your hatred, Bernard!

'I married at eighteen a man many years older than myself-a

man cruel, crafty, and violent, whom I soon learnt to loathe. Vainly I strove to conquer a feeling that was sinful before my Maker.

'Children were born to me; but wretched, rudderless, and reckless, I saw them die one by one, and hardly a tear bedimmed my eye. You were the youngest, the only one spared; and even you, perchance, would have failed to awaken a spark of maternal love, had I not suddenly become a wreck in name and fortune, with naught to cling to in the world, save yourself. Then it was that in your innocent smile I found my only joy; the touch of your baby fingers the only solace for my tortured soul. This letter must be brief, for it opens afresh wounds that have never healed, and my heart seems bleeding to death.

'Well, Bernard, time progressed, and with it hatred of my husband. Hate lived and grew stronger each day, and I was of a passionate impulsive nature too, that could brook neither reason nor patience.

'The man, to whom I was linked until death should break the bond, fell ill.

'A better spirit stole over me. I grew resolute to forget the bitterness of the past, and to do my duty bravely. Night and day, oblivious of self, I waited on him, ministered to his wants, lavished on him the care that a woman bestows freely on the man she loves-until one night.

'Bernard, I implore you, have mercy! I was mad, surely mad!

'The room was darkened; the heavy curtains of the bed, with dark shadows trailing over them, looked like a pall; a ghastly face lay on the pillow-it was a face I had never cared to look upon.

'Presently the cold gray eyes opened, a pang of suffering distorted the pallid features, the coarse and cruel mouth, and a lean hand

went out towards a table on which
two phials stood.

'One phial contained a harm-
less restorative; the other phial
held-laudanum.
""Adelaide !"

'The weak wavering voice, hard and metallic even in feebleness, called my name; but I never answered. I was wide awake and spellbound in my chair, with my gaze fixed on that shadowy handthe hand that I knew was about to free me from the shackles I loathed.

Unsteadily but surely the wrong phial was lifted and drawn towards the dry eager lips; I could hear the deep panting breath; I could almost count the faint slow throbs of the man's heart.

'Then of a sudden I essayed to scream and move; but my tongue clove to my mouth, my limbs seemed smitten with paralysis.

'Fascinated, I sat with straining eyeballs, my nerves strung to steel with horrible excitement, and I saw-O God, O God!—that phial emptied at a draught.

Some hours passed. I neither moved nor turned my head away from that awful face-it looked so strange and white, and it wore a mocking smile. Then, as the gray dawn broke, I crept towards the bed, put my ear to the lips, to the heart. There was neither breath nor throb. I pulled the sheet hastily over the face; then, stealing out of that terrible room, I took you in my arms, and left the house.

'I was a widow, free from a marriage that had been a curse, but I took away with me a burden on my soul which nothing would

ever remove.

A few days afterwards, in an out-of-the-way spot, I saw a placard. O Bernard, the letters on it stood out like letters of fire. It was a reward offered for my apprehension.

'The world had known of the band. enmity between me and my hus

'Could I prove that the laudanum was not given by my hand?

'Could I, with the proud Scotch blood in my veins, bear to stand a criminal before my judges?

'So I slunk away like a guilty thing, leaving no trace of myself. Years and years, tortured by fear and remorse, I hardly ate or slept. My hand had committed no murder; but could I swear before Him who seeth into human hearts that murder had not been in my soul?

'Then suddenly-do not scorn me, Bernard !-love swept over my life-that first intense love that comes once to every woman.

'I married Steven Keane, and I buried the old haunting name for ever. But, fool that I was to expect happiness to come to me nard, what my life is. God grant after-after all !-you know, Berme rest in my grave !'

Bernard folded up the letter, and kissed it.

'A record of misery, but not of guilt. Surely, surely God will judge her aright!'

He tore the letter into shreds, and scattered them over the long green grass. The printed Reward' shared the same fate, but the marriage and baptismal certificates he placed carefully in his breast.

'My poor mother!' he murmured pitifully, with a loving smile on his mouth, all the world may condemn you, but I cannot. To me you will always be the best and dearest of God's creatures!'

CHAPTER LI.

'GOING HOME TO MOTHER.'

It was not very long before the caresses of Ethel and a sense of justice won a full consent to her.

marriage with Bernard; but the engagement was to last a year, and was not to be made known to any one beyond the immediate relatives. The life led by the parties concerned rendered obedience to this mandate easy. The dwellers in the shanties troubled themselves but little about extraneous matter.

Meanwhile Nell and Lennard had completely settled down in a tiny log hut close to Mrs. Keane's cabin; and little Weston spent his days at the refreshment shanty, helping the proprietor serve out whisky smashes, eye-openers, and an assortment of drinks the very fumes of which were enough to keep any moderate man in a state of semi-intoxication. He sometimes went and did a little digging and gardening for Mrs. Keane, at which time he appeared prim and decorous enough to make Nell proud of him, and pin her faith to the country air as a capital corrective of intemperance and idleness.

But poor little Nell had other troubles, which would not be put aside with delusions.

After the first weeks, Lennard had begun to droop again. He was never at rest unless Ethel Seymour was somewhere in sight, and would sit hours together at the window watching the door of her house, with such intense yearning in his lovely eyes, that Mrs. Keane in very pity contrived to keep the girl near. When she was absent he never touched the violin; but sometimes, when he caught a glimpse of her in the garden or by the river bank, he would catch up the instrument, and with plaintive strains call her to him as plainly as though he had spoken in words.

Ethel was sorry for the boy, and fascinated by his music; and her nature was light and reckless. Besides, she was happy in those first days of her engagement, and it was pleasurable to give the radiance of

her own joy to every one less fortunate than herself. She did not realise that the boy was dying, and that her presence as he approached the valley of the shadow' was like that of an angel. Youth puts aside the idea of death, and is always hopeful. Still Ethel knew that Lennard grew thinner and whiter each day; that unearthly harmonies seemed most natural to his violin; and that the wan sweet beauty of his face was like a seraph's pining for companionship.

The girl would sit for hours listening to him, holding his hand in hers-soothing him even with innocent sisterly kisses, and talking of the time when he would give concerts in New York, and she would bring half the world to listen.

Lennard talked freely of dying to his sister; and when the big tears fell down her cheeks, he murmured with a smile,

'Don't cry, Nell; I am not afraid of death. I feel as if I was only going home to mother.'

And she will be glad to see you,' replied the child; but I must stay behind.'

'Never mind, dear,' the boy said. 'Life is very beautiful too; and even here God sends us angels.'

His glance went out towards Ethel as he spoke. It was a sweet dream he dreamt-full of visionary happiness, in which he floated slowly to his grave.

One day, in the restlessness of his illness, he crept away to the river, and sat down on the rustic bench he had occupied the first morning that Ethel had appeared to him. The vines which had seized on the boughs of the maples, weaving themselves in and out, had grown thick and heavy since then, trailing to the earth, and yielding a cool green shelter that protected him from the sun and concealed him from sight.

The boy had left his violin at

home, being too weak and weary even for so light a burden. As he sat, quiet and languid, the sound of footsteps sweeping through the grass behind the clump of trees disturbed him, for he wanted to be alone. Then he heard a voice that made his heart leap. It was speaking softly and sweetly.

Bernard, be good and patient,' it said. 'Papa has been kind to yield so much; for if he is ambitious at all, it is for me. The idea of wealth and position he has given up for my happiness' sake; but we must do something in return. His interests in this railroad are enormous. All that he has in the world is vested in it. Help him to work, convince him that you have will and ability to become a good business man, and all will go well. What is a year, after all?' asked the girl lightly; for though she was impressionable, she was, as has been said before, of a light nature, with no particular depth of character or feeling.

'A year is an eternity when one really loves, Ethel,' Bernard remarked reproachfully. I believe time is the natural enemy to love.'

'And I think it is the sunshine that ripens a blossom into more delicious fruit,' she said, laughing.

You have learnt that from my mother. You have no poetry in you, Ethel.'

'Of course I haven't; and I did learn that pretty sentiment from your mother. Everything I think or feel that has good in it comes from her.'

'I am glad you love her, dear.' 'Love her! Isn't she a part of you, Bernard?'

'And do you love me so much ?' 'Can you ask me that? Bernard, there is no one in the world like you. I love you with all my heart.'

They passed the maples, and

paused a minute in the earnestness of conversation.

Lennard, hid under the sheltering trees, looked through the clustering leaves, and saw Bernard with Ethel's hands in his, his lips on her lips.

The two passed on, and Lennard fell to the earth, and lay there with his face buried in the grass, from out of which some gasping sobs came minute after minute, leaving him perfectly still and motionless at last.

It must have been a full hour before the boy sat up and looked round him. Then his face was white as the driven snow; and it seemed as if some deep-hued violets, hidden in the grass, must have left their impress on his lips, they were so blue and cold. On one cheek, near his mouth, was a deepred stain; and the bent blades of grass where his face had been lying rose up slowly from the pressure which had held them down, and each spire was tipped with blood.

Lennard turned his gaze on the reddened grass. He knew now for sure that he was 'going home to mother.'

After a feeble effort or so he rose to his feet, and crept slowly along the footpath that led to the shanty. When he reached home he lay down on his little bed, and remained there with his eyes closed. A little while after Nell went in. Thinking him asleep, she stole up to him on tiptoe, and kissed his forehead lightly as the shadow falls from a flower. She was wont to kiss him thus, and hoard up the kisses as memories for the hereafter. She looked down upon him, and saw a faint spasm of pain pass over his pale face. Then she crept away, fearful of having disturbed him, and sat down in a corner.

At length the boy rose to a sitting posture, and called her name.

'The Cremona ?' she said, fol

lowing the direction of his wild bright eyes, and taking the violin down from the wall.

He reached out two thin feeble arms for the instrument; but the smile upon his face nearly broke Nell's heart.

His hand trembled as he took the bow, and the first notes it drew were uncertain and quivering; but the spirit within the fragile form was stronger even than Azreal. Once more the little slender hand passed over the strings, and music that seemed an expression of more than mortal anguish went through the hut. It was the slow piteous cry of a human soul hovering on the brink of eternity.

Mrs. Keane, sitting alone in her room, heard it and wondered, then stole to the door of the cabin to listen. The lovers, strolling homewards, paused near, but feared to enter.

As Ethel's foot touched the threshold, the magnetism of her presence made itself felt even in the music. That cry of the soul softened from anguish into pathos. It sounded like a spirit at the gates of Paradise entreating to be let in. Ethel's shadow fell across the open door. Her eyes, wet with unconscious tears, met the sad sapphire eyes that turned that way, yearningly and wistfully.

As the girl crossed the room a heavenly smile broke over the boy's face, the strings of the violin quivered under one wild expression of joy that was not fully uttered, and the instrument dropped from the lifeless fingers to the floor.

One wail it gave before it fell-a wail that seemed human, as it broke with the young life it had inspired.

CHAPTER LII.

'NEW YORK HERALD.'

THEY laid Lennard to sleep at the foot of a tall locust tree that shed its delicate misty white blossoms like fragrant snowflakes over his grave, and Ethel and Nell wove wreaths of wild violets-the very same shade as the boy's own eyes -to adorn his quiet resting-place.

They missed his exquisite beauty, his gentleness, and his music; and a shadow hung over the shanties that those who dwelt within them did not try to dispel; and yet even Nell did not grudge the boy his proper place in heaven where she

was.

'How happy it must make her to have him near again! the child murmured to Mrs. Keane amidst her blinding tears, and with a firm belief evidently that 'mother' was no disembodied spirit, but only just gone to live among the blessed angels.

Meanwhile the tenor of the betrothed couple's existence went on its even way. The days rolled calmly by, and Bernard forgot to count the time of his twelvemonth's probation in the content and happiness of the present.

'How much longer have we to wait, Ethel?' he asked one evening, as, with his arm clasped round her, they strolled in their favourite spot close to the river.

'Don't you know, Bernard? Papa said that-' She stopped and coloured-that-'

She grew so wonderfully pretty in her bloom and her shyness that he liked to prolong the picture.

'We were to marry on the 20th of March, and this is the 20th of February.'

'So that in another month I shall have the loveliest little girl in the world for my own, own wife, eh, Ethel ?'

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Will it make you very happy?

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