his being thus left a prey to harpies of the Tweektea genus, restrain her from falling at his feet and pleading mercy for his child! Indeed, she would even do so now; but that his countenance is unusually full of sorrow and austerity.

"I am sorry for this trouble of yours, Honor. Go! by all means, immediately. Take what time you need; all the morrow or the next day, if adding to your comfort and convenience. Maltby will be early in the garden in the morning, and can get breakfast for me and Toby; for the rest I can dine at the club, or if too busy to go, good Mrs. Giblett, at the Sun,' can send me in a dish of fish or harico."

"Thank you, sir. I have one favour to ask, which perhaps you will oblige me in. May I take a pillow for the dying creature's head."

"Certainly, certainly, Honor," says Dr. Oliver, with husky voice; "take anything you need, or that will give comfort. Pray take wine, or arrowroot, or anything our house afford. What is more, let me give you money; you may need it."

"Thank you, sir, a pillow for the dying head is all I need."

She is going hurriedly from the room, for her fortitude is well nigh at an end, when her master stays her.

"Honor, please leave me the key of the cellaret, I must have some wine. I cannot tell why, but to night I am unaccountably depressed."

Honor obeys him to the full, as she always does, fetches the wine and glasses, and places them before him. She is going out when her master says gently

"Good night. You will perform your mournful duty tenderly, I know. When it is ended, come back here, where, as ever, an honoured welcome awaits you."

She makes no reply other than a humble obeisance. Were she to speak she must fall upon her knees and cry, "Oh! master, the dying creature is your child !"

Dr. Oliver sits late that night, no wine starts away the shadow over him. When he goes to bed he cannot sleep, but counts one by one, the hours till morning. As he turns to and fro, he finds his pillow very hard. Strange," ," he mutters, "Honor has taken mine I suppose, and given me one in exchange from elsewhere. But she probably thought it softest and fittest for a dying head. Yes! Honor is all tenderness."

66

Accompanied by the by the woman, Honor proceeds to the adjacent public house, where the man and cab await them, the horse having baited in the meanwhile. Thus they are soon on their way.

The distance is considerable, their destination being a semi-rural street in the Edgeware road, near Kilburn. It takes a long time to get thither, as the thoroughfares are all but impassable; but at length the house! is reached, the chamber gained. This latter lies at the back of a little, neatly-furnished drawing-room, and an air of comfort and cleanliness prevails.

The doctor has just left, the woman who took the landlady's place sits by the bed, the child sleeps peacefully in a little cot, the dying lady has sunk into one of those fits of lethargy which so often precede death. All around is very, very still.

Honor kneels and looks within the shadowing curtain of the bed. There she beholds the one whose renewed spring is so near at hand, whose spirit will be so soon again on the mighty pathway of everlasting life, whose virtues may go far to make redemption-on a nobler scene-and with an organization more perfect. Yet the face is very beautiful, even shrunken and pallid as it is-there is a look about it a little like her master that touches the kneeler to the very soul.

"Just before the poor lady dropped into this doze," says the woman who has been watching," she asked if I thought the person she had sent for would come. I said that, judging by the time those who were gone to fetch her were absent, she would. This greatly comforted her."

"We will leave them," says the landlady, with much good feeling. So saying, she and her coadjutor go, and close the door behind them.

Honor rises and kisses the sleeping babe, tenderly, very tenderly! A mother's love already warms her heart.

Then coming back to the bed she kneels again beside it, only wishing that her master knelt here instead of her.

The sleeper's breath flutters between the parted lips, her eyelids flicker, open; the already gathering film of death, clears off a little, she awakes slowly, very slowly, by degrees gains consciousness, then judges who is the weeping kneeler. Slowly, very slowly, she puts forth her wasted hand, it is grasped, warmly, pityingly, lovingly, in the poor, coarse ones of her father's servant. Then it

is drawn away a little, not disdainfully, but in a way which gives expression to the self consciousness of sin.

"You are papa's good servant, are you?" "I strive to do the best I can, madam, for so good a master. But why not have sent for me before, and let me have cherished you a little ?"

She shakes her head as negatively as her feebleness will allow, and the austere look which flits across her face, makes her seem more like her father than she has yet done.

“Does—does,” with the utmost difficulty she speaks the words, "has papa ever mentioned me !" She waits for the answer with an anxiety terrible to see.

Honor's pain is intense, yet she cannot tell a lie, though she soften's the truth with the goodness of an angel, laying, as it were, the humility and burden on herself, “No, madam, but then I am not fitted for such confidence."

The dying lady seems to have expected this answer; nevertheless, it strikes her down with wild despair; she moans and wrings her hands as one utterly desolate.

"Oh! father-father! Oh! husbandhusband! Oh! child-child! Oh, God! pardon me—pardon me!"

“He will, madam : for He pities and forgives the frailties of his erring creatures. As to dear master-I am sure that in his heart he loves you, and yearns to you, though pride stands in his way."

These words shed a little comfort on the otherwise utter desolation.

'Oh! that papa were by me-his arm about me-it would give me strength to die."

Honor's grief cannot be subdued. Her sobs make her voice inarticulate. sently, her broken words are audible.

Yet, pre

"In his absence, madam, there is something here the pillow from his bed-on which his head nightly rests; it will be soft to yours." She rises, brings it, lays the dying head upon it; there, as she knows, it will find rest.

No thanks are given-no words comeonly the poor face nestles to it as an eager infant to its mother's breast; only tears wet it, that lessen-and lessen--and lessen-till, like summer rain, they are gone.

Presently, her poor hands are folded in those of Honor-her face comes closer-it need, for she is sinking.

"I have little breath-can say but little

-be a mother to my little babe-find it a home-lead papa's heart to it-let my little Isabel know it is her sister."

"That I will, madam, and God hears me; I will love it in my heart of hearts-be its mother to the best of my poor power, and place it in the hands of my dear master."

No answer comes; only the poor dying lips are pressed down fervently upon the horny hands! Presently, very feebly is whispered

me.

"Bella-my darling child."

This

Yes, madam; she loves you very dearly." "Soften my sins, by-and-bye, to her and little Dora. Ask papa to pity and forgive Tell my husband-Bella's father—that I die loving him in spite of all. Thank you -thank you; be good to dear papa. pillow is very soft; papa's dear head will— will rest upon it soon. I am getting cold; put your arms about me; there-there". A lengthened pause-a half formed word or so a fluttering across Honor's cheek as though a butterfly had winged its way, and the broken heart is still!

Alarmed by the lengthened and profound silence which follows, the women steal gently in; Honor has swooned with the dead within her arms.

When this

It takes long to recover her. is so, the dead lay stretched out in beautiful placidity; no care rests upon it now!

Weeping-weeping still, for she is very human-very womanly. Pitying her master for the grief that will yet be his-this the deeper for his unforgivingness; nothing comforts the honouring servant but the baby pressed against her breast. This is full of love and life-a bud unsullied in its baby innocence; she will lead it to her master's arms, and ask him to love it for its mother's sake.

Honor rests a few hours; then, as day grows, the kindly, gentlemanly doctor comes to speak to her, as the poor lady has left all matters but that of her funeral in her hands. There is a trifle for the child's keep till something can be done for it, her clothes, a few articles of jewelry, and some other things, all methodically packed, and left with strict injunctions, that Honor shall take them home with her. Moreover, every one has been kindly thought of, as far as means permitted; thus, as ever in all things human, good and evil have been blended.

Honor now arranges that the little child shall remain with the good landlady a few

days till she can make preparations for its home. She then settles all remaining business, and only awaits the dusk to go. She prefers going home at that hour, because her master will be absent at his club, and the boxes and few other things thus escape his observation. Not that he would inquirenot he he is too noble for a meanness; but she has her own human womanly sense of delicacy, and to this she must do her poor and humble justice.

As the dusk steals on, she takes the little child, and goes with it gently into the chamber of the dead. This is very hushed and orderly, and decked and scented. The dead yet unshrouded, lies wrapped and covered in spotless linen like rigid marble beneath a gauzy veil; this uplifted, shows how beautiful is death. The hands are folded-the face all serenity-the ebon hair cast about the pillow. Of this hair the pitying servant must take a tress, even for the master that she serves. She finds the richest have been cut away already; still she takes one reverently, and places it within the bosom of her gown.

"Will baby kiss mamma," she says, gently, "and say good-bye, for Honor must be now baby's mamma, though so poor a one?"

The little child has been wondering all the while, looking from the living to the dead, from the dead to the living, half inclined to cry with fear, to smile in baby wonder, till presently, rising on its tiptoes, it puts out its mouth to be kissed, its arms to be taken, and lisps, "Mamma, mamma, p'ease." "Mamma cannot, my dear one; she is gone."

"Where-where ?"

Not able to realize this, the child timidly stretches out its hand, and lays it on the the face of the dead. Then appalled by its marble coldness, it cleaves weeping and terror-stricken to Honor.

"Hush, pretty! mamma cannot hear or speak, or take baby now, but Honor can; Honor will be its mother, if baby will."

"P'ease, p'ease," is all it says, but it cleaves lovingly to the tender creature.

"There-there-Honor is its mother now, though a humble one." And she soothes

the child with the most endearing of kisses. Hushing it, she steals gently forth from the chamber of the dead; in a little while her tender words have soothed it into slumber. Then, putting it to rest she goes on her way home.

She has conjectured rightly-Dr. Oliver is not at home. The boxes and other things are, therefore, got up-stairs unobserved.

Half an hour has gone by, and she is down stairs with Toby and the other pussies purring about her, when the old gardener comes in.

"Well, Maltby! and how is master."

"Mazing bad, Missis Honor. I don't exactly know for why. When I went in with the General Post letters this morning, his face was buried in his hands. I didn't 'pear to notice, however, and went out again directly."

"Poor master!" She says this with deep feeling, and turns away her face to hide the tears which gather in her eyes.

"He will, perhaps, come home in better spirits this evening. His dinner at his

club will do him good."

"Oh! he isn't gone there at all. He did not go out till long after dinner-time. He is gone to Foss, the bookseller's, I think; for something he be wanting. No; he wouldn't let me fetch any dinner for him -he said he conldn't eat it."

"I must prepare him coffee, then." She adds " He should have some supper if I felt able to cook it, or he in spirits to eat it."

"That'll be best for him, Missis Honor. It isn't often he has a low fit, but this is an extraordinary one, and I don't think he would like such a thing as feasting."

"Nor could I proffer it."

By-and-bye Dr. Oliver returns; he knows by the signs in his study that Honor is home; he rings his bell. He looks at her very keenly as she enters; he sees she is depressed, pale, and worn.

"I am glad to see you back, Honor. I have been out of spirits, and seem desolate without you!" Then he pauses, and adds very quietly, "Is your solemn task over." "Yes, sir."

His voice, as he speaks, sounds so like that of the dead, that she cannot forbear bursting into tears; and as she buries her face in her apron, she asks him to forgive her.

"I ought to ask forgiveness for inquiring so abruptly. We all have solemn minutes

in our lives-this seems one." She steals from the room; she dare not look or speak again.

When she clears coffee away, he seems more cheerful. He is absorbed in the contents of a little book, which he often reads, and which always lies upon his table. She knows it has been his daughter's, for she has seen her name written therein. She is just closing the door, when he says quietly :

"I missed my pillow last night; I shall be glad, if convenient, to have it restored." "It is already in its place, sir; you will not miss it again."

"It is odd," he thinks to himself, "that she took that pillow for the dying head. But my own will not rest, I daresay, less peacefully upon it. It was the pillow, too, my erring child's mother died on."

In the morning Dr. Oliver is better. When Honor goes in to speak to him after breakfast, about some household matters, she says in her old quiet way, which is always so pleasant to her master's ear :

"If you please, sir, I have a favour to ask."

"What is it, Honor?"

"My good old mother, sir, will need to come to London about the business which has just occurred—” her voice falters as she speaks, "might I shelter her here for a day or so- -she is quite a stranger."

"Most certainly, Honor-for as long as you will. But why ask my concurrence in what is an obvious duty on my part. Do not think it needful to do so on any future occasion. Any one bearing your name, or in whom you are interested, is welcome to the best my house affords."

"Thank you, sir. I shall always feel happier to ask your leave."

So, when her household work is done, and her master quiet at his studies, she sits down and writes a long letter to Alice Charnwood, asks her to go and prepare her mother for the journey, and encloses an order for two pounds for that purpose.

"If you can arrange," she writes to Alice, "to let the child be with you, I shall be very glad. She would thus be trained up in your sweet way of life, and grow like you, for it may be many years before I be able to break out the secret to my master. will gladly pay you what you need for its keep and education. I will find it in clothes; my mother shall wash for it; and Ruth take care of it till it is past its babyhood.

I

For

one thing is certain, it must be brought up as a lady, even for dear master's sake; and for this reason, too, all about the child must be kept very secret, as I think that Mr. Minehead has some friends in Warwickshire. Though, perhaps, from keeping this matter secret, folks will be apt to say that the child is mine; but I am willing to suffer for so good a cause."

If Alice thought well of Honor before this, she does so now. So, after weighing the matter fully in her mind, she resolves to take the child as soon as its babyhood is past, but, till then, to let it remain at the Freelands. Then she goes to the cottage, explained everything, and prepares the good old mother for her journey.

At the date Honor has appointed, Mrs. Freeland sets forth. Her husband drives her to the country station in their light cart; and as they jog on, he unburdens his mind of a little trouble which oppresses it.

"I tell you what, missus, say what we may, folks will be sure to have it, when the child comes, that it is our Honor's. Now, though I wish to do my simple Christian duty as well as any man, and please our darling girl in any honest wish she has, still if folks the country round-say it be her's it'll wound me to the heart-that it will."

"Nay, they won't, William. They know our girl too well. Besides, we shall tell Mr. Seddon the truth; for the rest we need not care. Let them gossip, and tell Ben Southam if they will; he'll believe it fast enough, I daresay; he's jealous enough."

66

"That may be. But Ben's turning over a new chapter in his life. The missus at the Oak," says he aint had a pint in there since Honor left; and as for his farm, it's beginning to look right another thing."

At a little distance from beyond where this is said, they see a woman, accompanied by a girl, crossing a stile from some distant fields; she has a large butter basket on her head, this covered with a snowy cloth, and adorned with winter flowers. She stops, curtseys, and addresses Honor's mother, who, in turn, inquires how she is getting on.

66

Right nicely, thank ye. Mr. Southam's a right good master, and has been so good as to let my little Patty here come and be with me. Eh, Missis Freeland, it wur right good of thy Honor saying as she did, that I should make Mister Southam a tidy housekeeper, for, ye see, it came to his ear, and he rode

twenty miles to the union where I'd just gone, because o' my sore poverty, and took me home. Eh, it wur right good on her; the Lord bless her; and depend on't, master loves every hair on her head, as he does nothing else in this world."

"Well, I'm right glad, Peggy, that thou art happy and doing so well. But, thou wert the best dairywoman for miles, I know, in thy young days, and wur mighty painstaking before thou married so badly."

It

"Ay, that I wur, Mrs. Freeland. seems like old times to me, now I'm off to market. You see, this is just a busy week wi' me, for maister's out. He said he'd only be gone to Birmingham, but my 'pinion is that he be right off to London to see your Honor; for that old chap, Pinpatch, made him a new coat, and then, I'd to get up his best shirts wi' frills. But, good day, missis."

She steps on, and the cart proceeds.

"Peggy's quite right, I daresay. I don't doubt but what Ben's off to London, and if he comes across me and the child, there'll be rare work with his jealousy. He'll be sure to think it is Honor's."

He "though

On the evening preceding her mother's arrival, one of the waiters at a respectable tavern, hard by, bears a message to Honor, that a person wishes to speak to her. will send no name, the waiter says, he is certainly from the country, as he has a fresh, farmer-like look." Forgetting Southam for the moment, and conjecturing it to be her brother William, whom she has not seen since the time of the trouble at home, she obeys. Being ushered up-stairs into a small private sitting-room, she finds it to be Benjamin, looking much changed for the better, and smart in the new coat of Pinpatch elaboration. He hastens apologetically and humbly to tell her that, having striven to mend his ways as she advised, having given up drink, and worked at his farm early and late, and having need to come to London, he wished to let her know these things, and now does so.

"I am glad you have done this, Southam; it will always please me to hear of your well-doing.

This is cold; but her manner and voice are very kind, and he is emboldened.

"Will you not say a little more, Honorwill you not say that if I go on thus for a time-if I get the farm in order, that thou wilt come home to me for ever? I tell thee

I am sorry for the past, and I will do the best I can to show thee my repentance."

He says this gently, and with an expression of earnestness and deep feeling that touches her to the soul.

"If I cannot answer thee, thou must not be angry, Benjamin. Of late a new duty has fallen to me, and I less than ever, can fix an ending to the service which lies before Tell me.

me.

"Eh! what is it.

"I cannot; the secret is not mine." His face darkens; his old fierceness comes back again.

"Is it this master again, eh? Is it to him that this secret belongs? Is it his and thine together? or is it some plan o' thine to say you hate me ? If so, tell me at once; I can then choose the shortest road to ruin, and gallop there, and get it over."

"Fie, Southam. You who have an immortal soul, and can be a good man if you will. For the rest, did I ever give you proof that I hated you?"

"Do you love me, then ?"

"Benjamin, a good woman who has answered such a question, answers it for ever. I have told thee so once; is not this suffi cient?"

"What, then? Thou dost love me? Dost thou?-dost thou ? Oh, woman, bless thee for thy words-thy charity at last! Now add to it; say when thou wilt marry me-say?"

He listens, as though his life depended on the answer.

"Let me repeat what I have said. I love you as I love no other living man; and that if I ever marry, you will be my husband. More at present I cannot say. Do not press Think well of me, and

me-do not ask me. have faith."