prison, and the kindly Loris had taken his place pending the arrival of Mouravieff's Irregulars. Loris had not looked for checkmate from his wife.

The Indian Mutiny followed hard on the conclusion of the struggle in the Crimea, and Frank Hooper, as I have already stated, met his death in the task of stamping out the rebellion. I did not once meet him in the interval. As the best means at my disposal of fulfilling my compact with Zelia, I had written him an elaborate account of these occurrences. I received the following reply: "I am very sorry for Zelia Schelye. She deserved a better fate than seems to have befallen her. Something tells me that I have looked my last on the white cliffs of Albion. I'm not exactly a poor man, as you know, and I've made a will. In it there's a bequest (on Zelia Schelye's behalf) to you, of a thousand pounds. Do what is best for her. I trust you."

When there was no longer room for doubt that Frank's presentiment had been justified by the event, I set about fulfilling my melancholy duty. I went to Glité. But no Zelia could I find. Her stepfather was dead, and his household broken up; and this was the sum even of the information that came to hand, for it was scarcely material to my quest to learn, as I did, that Loris Schelye had divorced his first wife and married a second, precisely in accordance with Zelia's prophecy.

Five years went by. It was Christmastide, and I was at a friend's country-house in England. The family seat of the Hoopers was in the immediate vicinity, and the association brought the gallant young soldier much into my thoughts. I did not yet know that my pilgrimage into Lincolnshire would place me in possession of the last chapter in a touching history, and revive the past yet more distinctly. But it was so.

A Christmas treat had been arranged for the waifs and strays in the workhouse. In company with my host, who was Chairman of the Guardians, I went a round of inspection.

"Sad case in the Infirmary," said my guide, "mysterious case too; a woman from the East of Europe, refined, has been beautiful, I fancy asking everywhere for a 'Mr. Brown.' Hopeless search, of course, with no better clue than so common a name. Her wanderings are at an end, though. The doctor says she is dying."

Trained dissimulater as I was, my agitation did not escape notice.

"Do you know anything, Brook?" my friend asked, in astonishment.

"I must be allowed to see the patient before I reply to that," I said.

And see her I did. It was Zelia, but woefully changed and emaciated. And I was recognised in my turn. The frail frame shook with a convulsive sob; a wild hope gleamed in the sunken eyes. Zelia's question was put in a word, and that word, my old comrade's Christian name: "Frank?"

How did she know it? Had he himself whispered it to her, and bidden her speak it to none other? These questions remain unsolved.

"Frank is-is dead," I answered simply. It was enough. The lips quivered, but no other sound came through them. And I heard after, that that ringing appeal echoing yet in my ears-was Zelia's last utterance. She passed away ere daybreak. Medical science gave her disease a scientific name; I call it a broken heart.

The poor woman was buried by my directions in the quiet country churchyard, where a simple slab of freestone bears the name of Zelia. Within the church an elaborate marble tablet records the gallant death of Frank Hooper. And these are the last relics of a forgotten story. Stay-I still possess a little gold locket with a broken link, which was found upon the woman when her body was laid out for the grave. It contained Frank's portrait, and it confirmed the idea I had conceived that Zelia's love had not been bestowed unsought.

And to-day a ward in a foreign hospital bears Zelia's name. Frank Hooper's money has sufficed for that.

THREE DEAR GIRLS.

CHAPTER I.

CERTAINLY, if anyone had told us that Mervyn Saltoun thought of getting married, we girls just fresh from school, with heads and hearts full of all the foolish, beautifui fancies of untried girlhood, would have received the intimation with amused contempt. He seemed so old to us, though in reality he was barely forty; he was so gloomy, with something forbidding, even mysterious in his stern, reserved manner. He was a widower-what school-girl who dreams that she is to be the first who ever stirred the heart of her coming lover, could believe that a widower was to be the king of her own! His sister said he had gone through great trouble, and that we girls must not worry or disturb him with our laughter and chatter.

him the night before, as he had dined out, and returned after we had retired. He greeted us in his cold, grave way, showing no sign of what had passed on the previous day. I am afraid I was too indignant even to be commonly polite and return his greeting. I do not know if the others did. I only saw when we sat down to table that a hot flush was fading from Myrrha's face, and that the anxious, frightened look that had come into Flo's face the day before was there again. It made me cross with her, and I spoke to her angrily as I had never done before. Then she began to cry, and Myrrha was angry with me for making her cry, and I, resenting her anger-for it was only for her sake I had been cross-and feeling ashamed of myself too, became still more disagreeable.

After breakfast I went out alone into the garden, feeling very much inclined for a good cry, but too proud to begin. I went down towards the copse, where I could wander about without being seen; but just as I was turning into it, Flo came running down the path after me.

"I saw you coming here," she said. "I wanted to tell you that I know you were right, dear. I am a coward, I know; but, perhaps if I tell you something you will understand me a little better. You know how silly and nervous I always am. Come," with a quick, frightened glance about her, "where we can't be heard-out into the road. I'll tell you what I heard some weeks ago. I had been reading in the recess in the library one afternoon, and I fell asleep. I pulled the curtains across to shut out the firelight which flashed on my face, and so I suppose Miss Saltoun and her brother did not see me when they came into the room. I woke suddenly, hearing them talking in low voices.

""Confound you, Amelia!' he was saying in such fierce, angry tones, that I drew back again, for I had just been going to pull back the curtains and show them I was there. 'I won't marry Beatrice Hillyard!'"

I started, and looked, I suppose, so fiery that Flo held my arm tighter, as if she expected me to fly off and defy him on the spot. I felt like it. The impertinence of his presuming to talk as if he could marry me if he would! But Flo, with her pretty, gentle voice, went on:

"I am only telling you, dear. I think he doesn't understand you. You are always so proud, and with just a touch of contempt in your manner with him. I think he doesn't like it. But he went on: 'I don't care how

rich she is. Even though I'm a ruined man, I'll marry Myrrha-you may laugh at me as you will. I love her!' Oh, you should have heard him, Trix! Then he cursed me for having a share of her small fortune. He said if I were out of the way, she would have my part too. Oh, she might have it all, only too willingly; but, you know, Trix, I can't do anything with it. It is mine, and must remain so unless I die."

I do not know why she dropped her voice and clung closer to me. I do not know why I suddenly felt so afraid. Before, I had been only furious against him; now, I looked into her pale, troubled face, with its childlike, appealing eyes, and such a wave of fear, anger, remorse, swept over me that I forgot everything but that I loved her as a dear sister, and had been unkind. I forgot that I was on the high-road, and that hedges have eyes, and the next moment I had flung my arms round her neck, begging her pardon a hundred times, and crying like a schoolgirl-I was not much more! As we vowed never to be angry with each other again, we were quite oblivious of that hedge on the right. It was only as, lifting our tear-stained eyes to the outer world once more, we caught sight of a head and broad, tweed-covered pair of shoulders rapidly ducking behind that hedge, that we awoke to the fact that to onlookers we had probably presented a foolish spectacle. We turned and fled with flushed faces, never stopping till we found ourselves in the copse.

"He was very handsome," gasped Flo. "I hope he hadn't been listening to all we said."

"Of course he hadn't," indignantly. "He was a gentleman!"

CHAPTER III.

CHRISTMAS EVE came. We three had been busy decorating the house. It amused us and occupied our thoughts. The letter to the father had been written and sent off, and we could do nothing but wait for the answer. The rather gloomy rooms looked pretty when we had finished, and the hall we all felt to be a triumph of art. We had finished it off by hanging a great bunch of mistletoe from the swinging lamp in the middle, and now as we sat drinking our five o'clock tea round the great fireplace, we contemplated our handiwork with much satisfaction.

Myrrha had pushed her chair back under the great bunch of mistletoe, and tilting back a little, was lazily looking up at it. We were alone, Miss Saltoun being engaged

with her lawyer in the library; we supposed her brother was with her. Flo and I sat looking at Myrrha, thinking how lovely she was.

"A dangerous position," I laughed, "if there were any preux knights about. Where would you be if the prince suddenly came?"

"I think I should like my prince to find under the mistletoe," she answered, laughing lightly too. "It is a pretty custom-when not general. The one who finds me under the mistletoe shall be the one and only one. The first man who kisses me shall be my husband."

A footfall on the polished oaken floor made us all start and look round. It was Mervyn Saltoun coming forward from the shadows of the farther end of the hall. I wondered if he had heard, but he did not look as if he had, and asked me carelessly for a cup of tea. I poured it out for him ungraciously, I am afraid. His presence had cast a restraint over us. We were all thankful when some visitors arrived. It was a Mr. James, our nearest neighbour, and he brought with him a friend. It was the owner of the head and tweed-covered shoulders. I have no recollection of the cup of tea I poured out for him. I was overwhelmed with shyness and confusion. He says he shall never forget it, and that the prettiest sight he had ever seen in the world was that oak-lined hall, with its festoons of evergreen and gleaming berries, and set in it as in a frame, three dear little girls, and the dearest-well, that was I But then, that is only what he says.

CHAPTER IV.

I WONDER if happiness makes everyone selfish. I am afraid it was so with me. It was a fortnight after Christmas. I had been spending nearly a week with Mrs. James. Such a wonderful light began there to shine in upon my own life, that it dazzled my eyes and blinded me to the troubles of others. Douglas Hope, the young man Mr. James had brought to call on us that Christmas Eve, was staying in the house too. But when, my visit over, I returned to The Croft, all the old affections sprang into active life again, reproaching me for having been happy when my friends were suffering.

Miss Saltoun was out when I arrived; she was spending the day in the next town. I found Flo in bed. She had been unwell for the last day or two, and had felt so faint and dizzy that morning

when trying to get up that she had gone to bed again; if she were not better in the evening, the doctor was to be sent for. Myrrha had wished to send for him in the morning; but old Dr. Nash, Miss Saltoun's family doctor, was away, and there was only a young man, a stranger, taking his place, and Flo preferred waiting for Dr. Nash. I asked for Myrrha, feeling just a little hurt and disappointed that she had not come down in the hall to meet me. Such a thing had never happened before.

Flo had not seen her since four, and so I went off to look for her. I found her in the room we girls used as our own sittingroom. She did not rise to greet me, but, turning her face towards the door, sat looking at me. I ran forward, and sank down on the rug at her feet.

"Don't kiss me, Trix !" she said in a dry, hard voice, putting me from her.

"What is it? What has he been doing?" I cried, for I knew that that tone, and that look in her face were of his causing.

She flung out her hands in a wild, passionate gesture, as if thrusting from her some loathsome thing.

Oh, no! You shan't kiss me! I am not fit! I hate myself! Do you know what he has done-Trix? Do you remember what I said under the mistletoe? Do you know that he heard it? He heard it, and—today, an hour-two hours-oh! I don't know how many hours ago he found me there. I was alone in the hall; it was growing dark, and there was no one to see or help me, and before I knew what he was going to do, he caught me and drew me under it and kissed me, not once, but twenty times. Oh, Trix!" she struck her hand across her lips, as if to bruise them for their dishonour. "And he laughed, and said, he had been the first man who had kissed me, and he would be my husband.”

And then she began to cry as if her heart would break. I sat silent. I could not speak. I felt as if there were nothing too bad for that man who had so violated the laws of hospitality, and humiliated the helpless girl under his sister's roof.

The next day, Mr. Saltoun had the grace to go away-for good, for he took his luggage with him.

Flo continued ailing for some time after his departure. Dr. Holt was sent for after all, and certainly, no patient could have had a more attentive medical attendant. He seemed even to me curiously interested in the case, and I felt certain that he understood much better than old Dr. Nash would

have done. When the latter did return from his holiday, Flo was quite well again. January came to an end. February opened warm and wet, and brought on the vegetation so rapidly that the wiseacres shook their heads and said, "Spring comes too soon." Too soon! Not for us girls, with its warm moist breath on our faces, its promises of violet odours and golden primrose wealth, in every shaft of sunlight, and every shower of soft, life-giving rain. But the answer to Myrrha's letter to her father came at last. She read it alone upstairs.

When she came down, her face was perfectly white, her eyes dry and so hopeless, that the question Flo and I would have asked, died on our lips. "I am going to marry Mr. Saltoun," she said.

CHAPTER V.

Ir was out in the copse a little later, that my own life's question was settled. I do not know if I were crying. I must have been looking as miserable as my heart felt, for Douglas, coming suddenly upon me between the trees, was so startled, so disturbed himself, that before either quite knew what we were saying or doing, we were in each other's arms, and he was asking me what was the matter, and incoherently swearing to protect me against all the world in the same breath.

I do not know how long it was before I was able to explain, so overwhelmed was I by the glory that shone in suddenly on my own life. But I am afraid when I did, he swore a good deal, though he tried to do it under his breath. But I did not mind. I felt, if I had been a man, I should have sworn at Mervyn Saltoun myself. But he promised to help us, though he had not much hope. If, as we both suspected, Myrrha's father commanded the marriage to save himself from some peril, he must, in Douglas's parlance, be "too great a cur" to be roused from his fears, to defend her from Mervyn Saltoun. But he promised to go and look him up in South America. I am afraid it was a long time before I could get that promise from him. He did not want to leave me so soon.

Before we left, I found out that Doctor Holt also had a secret. He had fallen in love with his pretty patient; but until he had a good home to offer her, he did not wish to speak. He seemed very anxious and troubled, and made me promise to write to him if she fell ill again.

Douglas had not yet come across the girl's father in South America, for he was always travelling from one place to another. In the meantime, we three girls were unhappy enough in that old-world fishing village on the French coast. To make matters worse, Flo fell ill again. I wrote twice to Gerald Holt, risking Miss Saltoun's displeasure, for she had strongly disapproved of his attentions; but I had had no reply. And every hour brought that hateful marriage nearer. Mervyn Saltoun, who had a house at the other end of the village, came every day. I tried to urge Myrrha to rebellion, but she silenced me; and I gathered that, to save her father, who was in Mervyn Saltoun's power, she would sacrifice herself.

I shall never forget the day before that fixed for the wedding. It was cold, and wet, and windy, and from the windows of the little house where we lodged, we could see a grey stormy sea, breaking in a white line on the beach below. It had poured all night and half the day before, and the ground was sodden. We had been busy all the morning packing, for even this hateful wedding had its preparations. Mervyn Saltoun came, between a break in the rain, to ask Myrrha to go for a walk. I never could understand that walk. I believe he had no principle, no religion. I believe physically he was incapable of fear. But it may have been that his stern, merciless nature was weakened by a tinge of superstition. Who knows what secret there was between him and his dead wife, whose love for him had become proverbial in the little fishing village where she had passed the last year of her life? She had died there, fading away slowly as Flo seemed to be doing.

It was to his wife's grave that he had taken Myrrha. Was it some superstitious atonement he was trying to make her, which induced him to take to her dead side the woman whom he was to put in her place on the morrow?