said he would remain with me for some time and await the message from Monsieur C. He had sent for his own carriage from the theatre and it was waiting at the door. Mrs. Vivian was to go home in that, while he determined to remain with me and see what would next happen. We had not been long sitting (although to me it appeared a century) when a knock at our door announced a visitor. A young man appeared with a note requesting us to go immediately to the private entrance of the house of one of the ministers of police. We obeyed, found that we were expected, entered a small chamber in which sat Mr. Vivian's friend of the Rue Malherbe, with a large volume open upon the table before him. Without a word he beckoned me to him, placed his finger upon an entry in one of the pages, and I read-Received a passport for Italy, M. and Mdme. Lee, English (see description number 725). Not public significance -but M. Lee properly Everett. Madame unknown.' Under this was the date of entrance, and the signature of one of the police.

"When he saw that I had read it, he closed the book, rose, held out his hand, took mine with much warmth, and said, 'Sir, I am sorry for you, but I am entirely at your service. Three days is a good deal of start, but I have known even that made up.'

"I have not much more to tell you, Dr. Vane," said Sharpe, when he had come to this point; "but, although it is late, I may as well finish what I have to say. It is a matter so much of the past, and the living have so softened the memories of the dead, that I am able to go even to the end of the sad story.

"You may be quite sure I did not rest much that night. M. Cplaced three of the most skilful of the police at my disposal, and Mr. Vivian and myself, with these men, had made out, before the morning, the track which the fugitives had taken. We discovered that they had gone on the south road, and some little circumstance made one of these men conclude that they had made for Marseilles, and thence would cross by steamer or vessel to Italy. Follow them at once,' was the advice given me. They do not expect that you will have returned so soon, and, therefore, will not, perhaps, travel with all the haste possible. There is just the chance of your arriving at Marseilles before they leave.

"I determined upon starting at once. Mr. Vivian offered to accompany me, but I declined. I felt that I should prefer being alone if I were to encounter my wife or Everett.

"M. C- gave me letters which I was to use at certain points upon the journey, and as I left him in the morning, he said, 'Can you ride well?'

"I replied in the affirmative.

"You hunt much, I suppose?'

"Yes, often,' I answered. Every day for a week.'

"Then,' he replied, in those parts of the journey where there is not the railway-for it had only been opened in parts-ride, do not drive-you will save many hours. That'-putting into my hand a peculiar-looking card, will procure you the swiftest horse in any neighbourhood.'"

"I will not tire you by the incidents of that terrible journey, but suffice it to say I got to Marseilles on the evening of the second

day from Paris, and went straight to the docks and inquired about
'One sails to-morrow for
the steamers for the Italian ports.
The steamer for Civita Vecchia left this
Genoa,' said the clerk.

afternoon.'

"Do you know what passengers were on board of her?' I said. "He handed me the list, and I read at the bottom of the page, M. et Malle. Lee.

"I left the office, made my way to an hotel where I had stayed when in Marseilles the preceding year; and of that time I remember no more, until I woke up from a profound sleep to find Mrs. Vivian sitting by my bedside, and a Sister of Charity quietly I had been seized by fever the night of working at the window. my arrival, was tended by the people of the hotel very carefully. who, finding my letters to the head of police, had sent for him, and The Vivians, when they he at once notified my illness to M. Clearnt it, came on to Marseilles, and for a week Mrs. Vivian and the Sœur de Charité never left my side. I raved and wandered; I called for Frances, my father, Monsieur C, and at length, falling into a deep sleep, awoke to consciousness and the return to health. My recovery was slow, but a good constitution soon made itself felt, and in a few weeks I was able to walk out alone with but the aid of my stick.

"One day Mrs. Vivian referred to my wife. The subject had not been touched upon by us, and I saw she had something to communicate. I told her that I could then bear anything, and whatever she might have heard about my poor Frances I should prefer knowing it. She rose from her seat, and opened a desk that was lying on the table, and taking out a newspaper gave it to me folded down upon one of the columns. It was a Marseilles journal of the It contained the account of the week following my coming there. wreck of the steamer in which Frances had sailed, and all on board had perished except six of the crew, who had escaped in an open boat just before she foundered. I read the paragraph through, and when I looked up I found that my friend had left the room, and I was alone. The blow was a terrible one, but I kneeled down, and prayed, Dr. Vane, perhaps for the first time truly in my life, and rose calm and refreshed, though a broken-hearted man.

"I spent some time after this in the south of France, and then made my home in one of the universities of Germany, where I took to music as the most healing occupation for my mind. My father wanted me to return to England, but the idea was so distasteful that he did not press it. I received the kindest letters from my wife's relatives. They felt the bitterness of the blow only less than Frederick came over to France to see me, and nothing myself. was wanting on their part to alleviate my sorrow. You will perhaps think me foolish, but there was one circumstance upon which I dwelt with constantly recurring thought. It was the fact that my wife's name was entered in the Marseilles dock books as Mademoiselle. It occurred to me that there was still some hope that she was not Why there faithless, but was travelling with Everett as his sister. should have been that change from the Madame in the Paris passport I do not know, but still I clung to that little fact, and trusted

that she lost her life at least not having altogether thrown away her

character.

"My father at last died, and in winding up his affairs, I found that the last years of his life, owing to my absence, had been years of considerable loss. Indeed, there was little more than just sufficient for my comfortable maintenance, and I found that my study of music might be turned to other account than the mere alleviation of sorrow. I travelled in America, and there met a brother of my present wife. With him I returned to England, and, as time was now healing the wounds of my heart, I was able to visit many of the former scenes of my life. After a while I settled down in one of the southern shires, near to my new friend's home. I gave lessons in music and singing, and played the organ at the Cathedral. Among my pupils was my friend's youngest sister. She won my admiration first of all as a pupil, and at length I found that I loved her, if not with that worship and reverence with which I adored Frances, at least with as deep and tender an affection, which was imspired with care and desire to protect. Her parents were at first unwilling to consent to our marriage. I had, of course, told them all my history; but at length they yielded, and a happy day saw me once again a husband. I had hoped to have remained quietly at work in that old city, but the doctors ordered my wife's removal to a more bracing climate. I saw the notice of this new organ in your town, Dr. Vane, and although I cannot say I particularly admire Market Brampton, and am not quite reconciled to Salem, yet I am very content with my new location, and am beginning to find amongst my acquaintance here friendship and a home such that I hope I need never change."

Sharpe rose as he concluded his story. I could hardly distinguish his figure in the darkness which had closed around us, and, as he bade me good-bye, I heard the church clock strike eleven, and the voice of Mrs. Sharpe in the hall below, who had come to see what had become of her husband.

A SONG OF THE NIGHT.

"WHAT of the night ?" I said,
And the answering sea made moan:

"The red moon rideth from star to star;

The ship sails over the crimson bar,

And the lighthouse lamp is blown."

"Tell me, what of the night?
Is it only a darkened room,
Where day hath hidden cares away,
And, staying awhile to kneel and pray,
Grows young in the restful gloom?"

"The silent angel, Sleep,

Walks unseen the uneven waves;
Touches the eyes of the cabin-boy,

And takes him back in a dream of joy
To the home he waking craves."

"Is it a mighty cell

That imprisons the restless brain?
Which, brooking ill the captivity,
Defaces the walls with imagery,
Till it walks out free again?"

"Flashes amongst the foam,
Phosphorescent, evanishing,
Light that dies as it shimmering floats;
As the sound of harmonious notes
Dies in the uttering."

"Is it an antique sheath,

With the glittering blade withdrawn?
Or is it a swarthy child at play,
Who slyly snatches our tools away,
And brings them again at dawn ?"

"The petrel broodeth warm,
Perched aloft in her craggy nest;
The fisherman's grave is wide and deep;
His widow hath cried herself to sleep,
With her baby on her breast."

"Is it a phantom hand

That beckons us nearer the dead?

But leaves us in some fair border sphere,
Where passion and sorrow disappear,
And our souls are comforted?"

Ir was the evening of New Year's Day, and Bayard and Bessie Knight were at home alone. Bessie, for a wonder, had nothing to do, and so she spent her time in talking to her brother, who was feeling for once too idle as he said to do anything, and who sat by the fire contentedly listening to the ringing of the bells, and to his sister. Bessie was several years older than Bayard, and perhaps that was one reason why he always listened to what she said to him, and generally acted upon her advice. It was not the only reason, however. He loved his sister, not only because she was his sister, but also because there was that in her which would win both love and respect from all who knew her. Bessie was a good girl, true, tender, unselfish, and thoroughly conscientious. was always cheerful too with pleasant, helpful words for everybody; and so we cannot be surprised that people loved her.

She

Bessie had made a number of remarks upon different subjects to which Bayard had listened dreamily, when she said something which caused him to start from his easy position in his father's armchair, with an eager look in his eyes, and a glowing colour upon his cheeks.

This is what she said: "I often wonder, Bayard, what you will do with your life. You are young yet, I know, but I think boys should make up their minds while they are boys, what they will do and be when they are men. You are only a poor boy, brother Bay, but that is no reason why you should always remain poor, and it is a reason why you should not be careless or indifferent about yourself. I think it is time that you thought about the future, and formed some plan for it."

A deep silence fell upon the little parlour where the brother and sister met. Bayard will never forget that time as long as he lives. The music of the village-bells came floating in, and Bayard wondered whether they or his beating heart made the most sound. It was an anxious moment for him; he did not know what to do, only it seemed to him that the clock on the mantel-piece ticked out a little advice.

"Tell her! Trust her! Tell her! Trust her! Tell her! Trust her!"