had none: comfort and joy were gone for ever-laid, like pale flowers, on that dead baby's bier, perhaps to bring forth future fruits of greater good, but never to bloom again in their former shapes. Long did the desolate mother hold yon fragile corpse to her breast; long did she fight with the conviction that it was indeed a body of death which she kept there close to that loving sanctuary; 'twas only by degrees that her soul could receive that truth-only by slow and painful steps that she descended into the darkness of the grave. At last she loosened her grasp of the false hope flattering her, and nerved herself to bear the agony she could not escape. Yet most terrible as it was of all her trials, she bore it in her own way, evidencing feeling by calmness, and anguish by resignation. Without passionate exclamations, but with a depth of misery that seemed to leave no room for speech, Grace laid the little one quietly in its cot, covered its fair limbs with the pure white of a coffin robe, and strewed pillow and sheet with flowers. She then sat down to finish her work, which had to be returned by a given time, and which, originally destined to buy her baby food, must now provide it with a grave.

Her fingers were busy for a time, but her heart was away; and blinding tears obscured her hand, and blurred her work, so that often she had to do over again what she had already finished. This kept her up long past her usual hour, and to the time when Herbert returned. Returned from whence, and what?

A low chamber, dimly lighted, excepting where the shaded lamps threw a downward glare on a dingy table covered with green baize, sorely stained and much worn; a low chamber, approached carefully, with scouts placed through the passages and against the doors-and they were many-leading to it; a chamber filled with haggard men crowded round the table, and clustered together at the further end, where wine and spirits were flowing like water; a chamber where the rattle of dice was symphony to the burden of oath and jest, and laughter more hideous still, from the feverish lips of the gamblers--such was the scene from which Herbert Ayton passed to the room which held his dead child, sleeping in its cradle grave. There he had been all the day, and for many days before, playing fiercely, now with good and now with ill luck; playing desperately, for he was playing with his all. And this had been his home for many months, his office, and place of business—for gaming had become his sole profession now. 'Lost again!' he cried, with a wild laugh and a desperate oath. 'Here! another glass of brandy! Perhaps that will change the tide of fortune!" and he laughed again in the same reckless manner to his companion who had won his money—a gambler of the real type.

The brandy was brought, and swallowed at a draught; and again the rattle of the dice went on to the frightful sounds that rose from winner and from loser; and again men staked their souls and lost them against pleasure.

Doubled stakes-lost; headlong rushing to destruction; the hope of retrieving something from the present ruin flattering like a marsh-light misleading; the last stake but one-then the last of all-saw Herbert a ruined man. He was a beggar, stripped of. every farthing, without enough to save himself from starvation, or to give his wife a shelter from the rain. His child might cry for bread in vain he could not feed it; his wife might ask him for a home-he had none to give her. He was emphatically a beggar, who had signed his ruin with his own hand, and of his own freewill declared himself bankrupt and outlawed. He rushed from the house with a frantic exclamation, and for hours wandered through the darkening streets with thoughts of suicide haunting him, and visions of despair maddening. He thought of his wife, but not with love; of his child, without tenderness. They were only burdens on him, and he wished he was free of them. He forgot even the remembrance of his past fondness, which, until now, had preserved his feelings from utter corruption, and steeled his heart against all the recollections which might awaken the slumbering spirit of love. His child was a tie that bound him to poverty and slavery, and his wife were better begging her bread from door to door than lying as a perpetual hinderance in his path. He would go home, and make some arrangements that should release him. He could not support such bondage longer.

These were the thoughts with which he returned to his miserable home, this the spirit which went before him as he rushed through the narrow hall and trod heavily up the creaking stairs. Grace heard him come. She knew by his step that something was wrong; that either he was tipsy-as when was he not now?-or that he was irritated, and probably prepared for some miserable scene of reproach and bitterness. A strange revulsion of feeling came over her for the first time-a kind of indistinct loathing, a dread, a horror, a consciousness of desecration in the presence of that polluted man by the side of that holy corpse.

She rose hastily, she scarcely knew for what, and stood by the side of the cradle. She was deathly pale, her eyes sunk and discoloured, her hair pushed far back from her face, and her wan hand raised as one standing in expectation, yet in terror. Herbert entered the room roughly, but started on seeing his wife, so ill and wild as she looked. He spoke savagely to her asking why she was not in bed, and why she stood there like a spectre to disgust him. Had his home so many attractions, that she must keep the balance by making herself the reverse?

His bloodshot eyes and parched lips, his haggard looks and disordered mien, shewed Grace that he had been drinking, if not so as to make him drunken, at least enough to make him sinful. The evidences of this dissipation by her child's death-bed maddened her. She forgot her love, and saw only his crimes; knew only her own sorrow which had borne its last bitter fruit in death, and could keep no terms with peace.

'Shame, shame, Herbert!' she cried. 'Burning shame on you, degraded, brutalised, unmanly as you are!'

She made a gesture of reproach, pacing wildly through the

room.

'Go home, if you are tired of me,' said Herbert in a loud voice, startled, yet irritated still further by her voice and manner: 'I shall only be too glad to be rid of you on any terms. You may go whenever it suits you.'

Grace continued her feverish walk, pressing her hands on her forehead, and sometimes uttering a sharp cry, sometimes a low moan, as of one in extremest agony; yet doing her best still to control herself.

'I tell you, you may go. Go, Grace,' repeated Herbert in the same angry voice, and with a peculiar coarseness of accent: ‘I am tired of you-have long been tired of you, and I wish to be rid of you. I married you for your pretty face, and it has palled on me; and for your silly laugh, which had a certain charm of girlish freshness in it then, which it has long since lost. You may go; you have lost all your power of fascination over me. You are only a burden on me, more distasteful every day we live together, and I want to be rid of you-you and your brat. Curse you both!'

Angry words-drunken words as she thought them-but sharp as steel to the poor young woman's heart! She stood and listened with parted lips and upraised hand, holding her breath with horror as one listening to damning blasphemy, and feeling a heavy agony at her heart, as if it was breaking. She went nearer to him, as if for protection against the strange thing between them; she did not speak, but only crept closer, looking at him with a terrified glance, her pale face turned towards him in wonder and dread. The very brutality of his words brought back her love. They formed such a sudden and such a frightful contrast with the past, that all minor causes against him were swallowed up in this; and this was something so monstrous, she could not accept it as a reality. It seemed to be some one else who spoke while wearing her husband's form: she could not understand that it was Herbert who said he loathed her-Herbert who wished her divorced, and who cursed both her and her child. It was a dream that a struggle would dispel-a spectre that a touch would annihilate. She came nearer and nearer, still silent, and looking at him inquiringly.

Something in her face and manner irritated Herbert beyond his power of endurance. He was half mad, and that was his sole excuse; but a sorry one at the best. He forgot himself, his manhood and his honour, his vows, his love: he raised his hand, and struck her once-twice-and cursed her bitterly.

She did not scream nor faint, nor turn to anger nor to tears. She only rushed forward, and threw herself on his breast, crying: "Herbert! Herbert !-your wife-your own Grace!'

God bless the patient heart of woman's love! God bless the

mighty soul of woman's endurance! Of all grand attributes of humanity, these are among the grandest and the best!

The plaintive accent of that voice!-the pleading touch of those trembling arms!—the patient prayer for mercy in that upturned face! Herbert shivered with agony as the villainy of that blow made itself felt, now that his blood was calmer. He tried to put her away, but Grace clung closer and closer, taking his hand and kissing it as in days of old.

'Herbert! Herbert! you are all that is left to me now; you must not thrust me from you; you must not be angry at my first impatient word! I have suffered much, darling-suffered where you have been spared, and I thought you might have been more tender to me and more considerate. Look here, Herbert: we are alone now, and you must not hate me or be cruel to me!'

Broken with grief and terror, and exhausted by the unusual passion of her late excitement, Grace sank, weeping, by the side of the covered cradle, sobbing with such violence that even Herbert was alarmed to see her. A pang passed through him m; the cold hand of death was before him; he tore off the coverlet, and saw the baby as it lay-a dead pale bud broken for ever.

'It is dead!' sobbed Grace, as she heard his sudden groan. 'It died in my arms to-day, Herbert, and I have had no one to comfort me, or to speak a kind word to me. O that I were dead too! God, O God! take me to my child!'

To-day!-this fatal day of grief and sin! While he had been, by the gaming-table, drowning thought in loud oath and horrid jest, his child had breathed out its gentle soul in its sad mother's arms, and the last act of his fatal tragedy had been played by that sinless death-bed. What a contrast!-madness, intoxication for him!-for her the pale shroud of all her happiness-misery, solitude, and despair! He could not but remember the beauty of their first months; he could not but recall the sunny days and golden dawnings that had raised earth into heaven; he thought of the full hearts which had received this little one, of the mighty love that had baptised it into being, and now all was over! The golden morning had deepened into a twilight of eternal gloom, across which at times flashed streaks of burning fire; the blessed babe, which had come as a flower from the gardens of heaven, had withered on its stalk-too pure to remain near him; the wife, whose smallest tear he once had kissed away, had suffered the agony of death uncheered and unsupported, and he stood there the sole cause of all!

He raised her gently from the ground, and placed her on the sofa, seating himself by her, but without speaking. Proud, yet touched, he turned away his face sullenly, but left his arm round her. He would not confess that he had done wrong-he could not harden himself entirely against her. A mysterious kind of remorse, as if he alone had been to blame for this sad fate-as if his mere wish had produced its own fulfilment-made him like a

C Shame, shame, Herbert!' she cried. 'Burning shame on you, degraded, brutalised, unmanly as you are!'

She made a gesture of reproach, pacing wildly through the

room.

'Go home, if you are tired of me,' said Herbert in a loud voice, startled, yet irritated still further by her voice and manner: 'I shall only be too glad to be rid of you on any terms. You may go whenever it suits you.'

Grace continued her feverish walk, pressing her hands on her forehead, and sometimes uttering a sharp cry, sometimes a low moan, as of one in extremest agony; yet doing her best still to control herself.

'I tell you, you may go. Go, Grace,' repeated Herbert in the same angry voice, and with a peculiar coarseness of accent: 'I am tired of you-have long been tired of you, and I wish to be rid of you. I married you for your pretty face, and it has palled on me; and for your silly laugh, which had a certain charm of girlish freshness in it then, which it has long since lost. You may go; you have lost all your power of fascination over me. You are only a burden on me, more distasteful every day we live together, and I want to be rid of you-you and your brat. Curse you both!'

Angry words-drunken words as she thought them-but sharp as steel to the poor young woman's heart! She stood and listened with parted lips and upraised hand, holding her breath with horror as one listening to damning blasphemy, and feeling a heavy agony at her heart, as if it was breaking. She went nearer to him, as if for protection against the strange thing between them; she did not speak, but only crept closer, looking at him with a terrified glance, her pale face turned towards him in wonder and dread. The very brutality of his words brought back her love. They formed such a sudden and such a frightful contrast with the past, that all minor causes against him were swallowed up in this; and this was something so monstrous, she could not accept it as a reality. It seemed to be some one else who spoke while wearing her husband's form: she could not understand that it was Herbert who said he loathed her-Herbert who wished her divorced, and who cursed both her and her child. It was a dream that a struggle would dispel-a spectre that a touch would annihilate. She came nearer and nearer, still silent, and looking at him inquiringly.

Something in her face and manner irritated Herbert beyond his power of endurance. He was half mad, and that was his sole excuse; but a sorry one at the best. He forgot himself, his manhood and his honour, his vows, his love: he raised his hand, and struck her once-twice-and cursed her bitterly.

She did not scream nor faint, nor turn to anger nor to tears. She only rushed forward, and threw herself on his breast, crying: 'Herbert! Herbert !—your wife-your own Grace!'

God bless the patient heart of woman's love! God bless the