in London. It was therefore to Lumley Park that Arthur took his wife from the Eaves House. Did no thought of the wrong he had done to her and to another enter his mind as he brought her back to the place which was now her home? I cannot think so. When he met Laura, there was hardly a blush upon his cheeks : he was far more composed, looked happier, and in every way more at ease than she did. He had won all that he wanted in life. His estate was now his beyond the possibility of dispute, and the wife whom he really loved as much as it was in his nature to love anything but himself, was once more reconciled to him. As to the falsehood which he volunteered to her when, upon one occasion. only, the cause of their separation had been referred to, it produced scarcely a qualm of conscience. He found it so easy to tell a lie-he, who had once believed himself to be the soul of honour— and the telling of it was attended by such successful results, that he could only regard the matter as one in which he had acted with commendable prudence and foresight. Moreover, he could salve his conscience, if it were to become uneasy, with a hundred flattering excuses. Had he not made matters far more pleasant for Laura as well as for himself, by bringing about this reconciliation through his solemn assurance that he had seen nothing of Grace Heaton since the day on which she left Lumley Park? Was it not even more for his wife's benefit than for his own that she should be living with him again, instead of dwelling forlorn and desolate at the Eaves House; and had he not in the first instance been hardly used by Laura, by her father, and in fact, by everybody? Arthur felt as complacent and as confident when he reviewed his conduct as though he had been the most virtuous of men.

For Laura the times were not quite so happy. She had forgiven her husband, but she would have done so more completely if she could have seen any trace of remorse or of real repentance in his conduct. As it was, his entire self-satisfaction, his apparent determination that his sin and its consequences should simply be put aside and forgotten, as an unpleasant episode in their life, to which it was at once useless and disagreeable to refer, showed his character to her in a new light. Aud it was not a pleasant light. Nevertheless, she believed his pledged word, and resolved to let by-gones be by-gones, as the old saying expresses it; she made up her mind to think as little about them as possible.

Thus it was that Lumley Hall was once more tenanted, after a dreary winter of emptiness and desolation. When Arthur found his way back to his splendid home, he was delighted to learn that his old enemy, Dawson, had disappeared. He had left the cottage

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in which he lived so long, and with his wife had departed for Northumberland. Peter Dawson's case, as the reader has seen, was a pitiable one. He had cherished one idea so long, and had scen that idea so completely frustrated by the hand of inexorable fate, that now in his extreme old age he had become nothing more than a waif upon the sea of life. And yet, even now he was not without a purpose. Through the old man's torpid mind there was constantly passing the thought that time would, in spite of everything, bring him his revenge. Arthur, however, knew nothing of this; he only saw that the cottage at the park gates was empty, that Grace Heaton was disposed of, and that his wife had returned to him. So he believed that this opening spring, the flowers and breezes of which the world was now enjoying, marked the beginning of a new life of happiness and prosperity.

Yet, even now there was a worm in the opening bud of this new life. All had gone well with him, but one thing. There was no heir to bear his name, and to inherit from him the vast estates which he himself had acquired so strangely. Many times during these days did he ponder over this circumstance regretfully; and when he did so, he never failed to wish that his cousin, Gerald the illegitimate, was still on friendly terms with him. Had he been, Arthur would have liked during this period of his life to make some reparation for what he now knew to be the meanness of his conduct in former times. But his regrets were unavailing. His pride would not allow him to summon Gerald to.Lumley, and without such a summons it was quite certain that Gerald would never seek to force himself upon his notice.

Away in grimy Moorfell there have been some changes since we last saw Mary and Nellie seated beside Gerald in his unpretending home. Grace Heaton was duly brought down to the quiet village, from her temporary refuge in London; and she was now living in suitable lodgings procured by Gerald. Here, watched over by Mary's unceasing care, the unhappy girl ought to have recovered some measure of her spirits and self-control. But she regained neither. It seemed as though the shock she had sustained when she learned how Arthur had deserted her, had completely overthrown the balance of her mind. Day by day, as the time approached when she must become a mother, she grew more and more restless and miserable; and not even Mary's gentle ministerings were effectual in laying a balm upon her bruised and wounded spirit.

One day, when she was taking a sad and lonely walk in the bare fields round the pit-village, she met Peter Dawson. The old agent was not living in Moorfell itself, but he had occasionally

visited it since leaving Lumley. Peter professed extreme surprise when he saw Grace.

"Eh! lass," said he, "I thought as you were living up in London, and quite the grand lady."

Peter thought nothing of the sort, for he had heard nothing and knew nothing of the girl since her flight from the park; but he had his own reasons for wishing to obtain such information with respect to her movements, as was to be had.

Grace blushed. She knew better than to expect from Peter Dawson any of the delicacy which her new friends, Gerald and Mary and Nellie, had exhibited in their conduct towards her. She essayed to speak, but could not. Something in Peter's face, or in the tone of his voice, brought back to her mind the day at Lumley, when she was still innocent and happy, and she burst out crying.

"What! then thou isn't such a grand lady after all. Well lass, well; it's the way of the world. But you've had your fling anyway, and that's more than some poor girls can say. Ye've seen London with all its sights, haven't ye?"

Our poor Peter attempted to adopt a tone of gentle persuasion in asking this question. Alas! as well might the raven attempt to convert its croak into the clear, sweet warble of the thrush. Grace only looked frightened, and continued to sob-making her facefrom which the lines of beauty were fast fading away-plainer than ever. But Dawson was bent upon getting an answer to his question.

"Come, now thou did'st see London ?"

By a gesture the girl answered the question in the affirmative. "And a fine brave gentleman it was that showed ye the sights? Eh!" Peter grinned malevolently as he put forth this further feeler.

Grace's sobs were re-doubled.

"Aye! thou may'st cry, lass! He is a bad one, if ever a bad one lived. And how did he part with you?"

Now it is probable that from most other persons Grace would have resented this cross-examination. But she did not do so when Dawson was the cross-examiner. The simple fact was that she had a servant's proper reverence for a superior; and Peter, even in his retirement, had rested upon the laurels of his past greatness, and enjoyed among the servants at Lumley Park the consideration which properly belonged to the ex-bailiff. His age too was such as to give him some claim upon Grace's confidence; and although she disliked him, and his style of addressing her seemed truly odious, she could not command herself sufficiently to keep silence; and before long Peter had drawn from her the main facts of her history

in London-the chief fact of all being that she had lived there as the wife of Sir Arthur Lumley for a considerable time after her flight from the hall.

Dawson was delighted with the information he had thus acquired.

"Eh, and the rascal is living with his proud young wife again! Does she know, I wonder, what he was after whilst he was living in London. They said that he had promised my lady never to speak to the girl again. Well, Sir Arthur, I'll be equal with you yet."

Peter, as he indulged in this soliloquy, set his face homewards to the little rural hamlet where he had found a resting-place in his old age. But often after that did he make his way to Moorfell. Sometimes he would call upon Gerald and Mary; but he found so little which was congenial in their society that, in spite of the respectful affection for our hero which he had never ceased to entertain since Gerald's birth, he never stayed longer under their roof than he could help. Grace he met constantly. Mary, puzzled at first by his attentions to the forlorn girl, at length ascribed them to his pure kindness of heart, and rejoiced in them as a means of diverting her thoughts from the subject upon which her mind seemed now to be constantly bent, the wrong inflicted upon her by the baronet. She little knew that the whole object of Peter Dawson was to nurse and feed the flame which was consuming Grace. For a long time it seemned doubtful whether he would succeed. But the girl was weak, and the old man mean and cunning: so that at length he succeeded in instilling into her mind some of his own bitter and burning desire for revenge; and before long the two found that they had at least one object in life, in common, the punishment of Sir Arthur Lumley.

Meanwhile, Gerald, after the long and untiring labour of years -labour at which it has only been possible to glance incidentally in these pages; for what would a novel be which dwelt upon so common-place a topic as hard work-began to reap some of the prizes which he had set before him when he started on his race for wealth. Long ago he would have fallen out of that race, satisfied with a moderate competence and the power to do good to his fellowcreatures; but when the heart and energies of a man who is "thorough" to the back-bone have been thrown into one channel they are not easily diverted. This at least was what Gerald had found. Having entered upon his career as a mining engineer, he found that he could not pause mid-way in it, and as whatever he aid, he did with all his strength, he soon found that he was succeeding, and succeeding even beyond his expectations.

For a long time, of course, it was but a moderate success which

he achieved. Nevertheless, the two or three hundred pounds a year which he received in return for his labours was sufficient for his wants, and as it was all earned by his own hand and brain, it was sweeter than if it had been four times as much, and had been derived from the broad lands of the Lumleys. True there was his marriage to think of. To think of! Why, he thought of little else. By day and by night that blessed, fairy-like, impossible, time, when Nellie was to be his wife-his, actually and absolutely—was constantly floating before him as a vision of glory and of beatific happiness. But even when he indulged in this vision his wishes were moderate. A quiet house in the outskirts of Moorfell, with a garden where Nellie might grow her favourite flowers, and a lawn where poor old "Vic" might chase the sparrows, was all that he aimed at. These would come in good time-in God's time -and meanwhile he was nearly as happy as any man could hope to be, though his estate was lowly. He had Nellie near him, even now; could spend the tender spring twilight in wandering with her through the fields, and the stunted Northumbrian woods; could worship with her on the Sabbath, and could day by day drink deep draughts of love from those pure and sparkling eyes which ever met his so fondly. Had he not reason to be happy even now, good reader? Surely. Perhaps he himself hardly knew how happy he was. He had known trouble in the past, sore and heavy; the Lord who loved had chastened him, and under the grievous chastening he had profited. But despite all his sufferings and his trials, he knew nothing of that heaviest trial which can befall a man-the depth of that desolation which overwhelms the soul, which having loved and been loved, suddenly finds itself alone. If there be among my readers any one who has known this supreme sorrow, he at least will acknowledge that in these days when Gerald was blessed with the presence of his betrothed, his lot, whatever might be its drawbacks, was enviable indeed.

How it came to pass, Gerald could hardly say afterwards. But he awoke one morning and found himself famous. Not with the loud, brassy fame of mere popularity-that trumpery thing which may be won by the writer of books, or the singer of songs, or the actor of plays; and which is just as often conferred by corrupt or incompetent critics, as gained by real merit.

Gerald's fame was much more limited and much more substantial than this kind of renown. The truth was, that during the years he had spent at Moorfell, he had nourished an idea, which had at length assumed form and substance. That terrible calamity in which, so soon after he began his life in the pit-village, he had been an actor, left a deep impression upon his mind. He had seen men slaughtered in scores whilst performing a mere