always so, giving it as an excuse, that her father, for whom she still wore mourning, was only very recently dead. By degrees she ceased to visit at the few places in her neighbourhood even at Mrs. Wilton's, whom very soon she seemed instinctively to shun; and consequently The Grange became a dull and lonely place indeed.

66

Gradually the young husband sought elsewhere the amusement denied him at home, and, before many months, had entirely returned to his old habits of intimacy with Katty, his real home being at his aunt's place, more than at his own. The old lady was at the time much blamed for encouraging his visits, some even whispering that disappointed as she had been in her own hope, she was desirous of rendering her nephew and his wife as disunited as possible. I much fear such was really the case. If it was, she was afterwards fearfully punished for it.

"About that time," continued my aunt, "I was myself married to your uncle Hendley, and of course less with Katty than I used to be; but rumour, as usual, busy about a place from which people were excluded, soon began to speak of quarrels at The Grange-betrayed as such things ever are by the gossip of servants, as well as by the solitary walks of the neglected wife, who was now sinking into hopeless illhealth.

nocence, but for the happiness of my purehearted darling. Yes, even at this distance of time, I can solemnly aver that I have never in the course of my long life met one so entirely free from even a trace of guile or falsehood as she-that innocent victim of the sins, or at least faults, of others.

CHAP. III.

"It was soon known that Mrs. Ralph Wilton was altogether confined to her own room, dying, and left entirely to the care of her foreign attendant; her husband seldom indeed giving himself the trouble of even inquiring for herhis aunt not at all. She also strictly forbade Katty's calling at The Grange, as she choose to say the illness of the sufferer was low fever, and that she dreaded its contagion for her daughter. I went there two or three times, but was denied admittance: probably her attendant fancied I went more through curiosity than kindness, and so the poor broken-hearted woman was left to die alone. I heard afterwards that she felt this neglect keenly, sometimes blaming herself for her great mistake in suffering herself to be persuaded into a marriage with one so much younger than herself one who, seeking her in boyish caprice, had so soon flung her, like the possessed plaything of a child, wantonly aside, to grasp at another; at other times blamhis relatives for keeping him from her, and yet by her fretfulness and sour remarks always driving him away in anger on the occasions of his rare visits to her bedside. length, as they never met but to quarrel, he avoided her altogether; and it was only as she was expiring, that the clergyman, who latterly attended her, forced him into her chamber; but she was then incapable of knowing him, and died in a few minutes.

At

"Her mother, I knew also, would not interfere. She was evidently looking forward to the death of the Frenchwoman, as she always called her, and so to the marriage she so longed for, and to which she perceived the life (for the close of which she watched so eagerly) was now the only obstacle.

"I have been seldom," went on my aunt, "so unhappy as I was at that period. But do not misunderstand me," she added quickly, as if jealous that even a thought should wrong her whom she so cared for."I did not fear the in

on whom she swore to be revenged. He, in his turn, accused his dead wife of having married him merely for expediency, and the woman of being the cause of much misery between them; and ended a most disgraceful argument, by ordering her to quit his house. This she refused to do, and persisted in staying beside the remains of her late mistress, until they were laid in the family tomb of the Wiltons, in the old Abbey, when she immediately quitted that part of the country. Nor was it ever clearly known whether or not she ever revisited it.

"Mrs. Wilton did not even affect grief at the death of her nephew's wife, but sent Katty away on a visit to some friends. She returned home in about three months; and at the end of the first year of mourning it did not surprise anyone to

hear the cousins were to be married immediately. They were married, to the pride and joy of the old lady, and at once took up their residence at The Grange. The winning and artless manner of the fair young wife soon removed any former prejudice people might have felt against her, rendering her a favourite with all. And, to complete their happiness, the following summer found her in daily expectation of becoming a mother."

Here my aunt became much affected, dwelling again and again on the grace and beauty of Katty, and marvelling much how the sins and faults of others should be avenged on her unoffending head, professing at the same time her implicit belief that the strange occurrence she was about to relate was not a mere trick of the imagination, but a real and true fact.

"It was a warm summer day," she continued, "the very bloom of the year. The Grange garden was one flush of roses, while already the mowers were busy in the meadows with their swift gleaming scythes. I loitered more than once on my way to visit my dear friend, looking at their pleasant labours, until meeting Ralph Wilton in one of his fields, not far from the house, I stood to speak to him. He told me he was waiting for Katty, who had promised to join him before now, adding, laughingly, she was growing lazy. I told him my stay would be short, as the people were also busy at my own home; when he said, "Then I will wait for her here. Bring her with you, on your return.'

"I walked on, but as I reached the end of the shaded path leading to the house, I met a servant running breathlessly towards me. The mistress was ill. Messengers had already been sent for the doctor and her mother. She was going to tell the master he was wanted at once.' "It was a thing to be expected any day; and yet I felt as startled as if such had not been the case. But hastening on, I passed quickly through the hall, glancing through the open door of the pleasant parlour, around which were scattered so many tokens of her late presence, and went at once up-stairs to her room. I found her lying on the bed, still dressed as she had been in the morning. She must have been out of doors too, for her bonnet, gloves, and a large shawl lay on the floor, as if hastily thrown off; while an elderly woman, one of the servants, was bending over her, speaking some words of encouragement. She did not seem to heed her; neither did she notice me as I spoke to her, kissing her fondly. Young and inexperienced as I was, her face frightened me; the fairsoft features were pinched and wan, and there was a look of stony horror in her eyes, for which I knew no amount of physical suffering incidental to her situation could account.

"As I was yet bending over her, the door opened; a hand put me hastily aside, and the next moment she was pressed fast to her husband's heart. I saw at once he had some strange presentiment of evil. Yet, true to the one love of her life, his very presence seemed

to rouse her; for, unnoticing any one else, she clung to him, as if his close embrace was a safe refuge from all danger, but still in total silence. He drew her head upon his bosom, kissing with passionate love her soft mouth, her eyes, and rich golden hair, as he implored her to speak to him even one word. She evidently heard him, and tried to do so; but her white lips had no power to obey her will: they either remained dry and apart, or moving convulsively, gave forth no sound. It was clear she had received some terrible shock, and was still under its influence.

"I asked Ralph to leave her to me, while he sent another messenger to hasten the arrival of the doctor; and laying her back on the pillow, he was about to do so, when the terror of his quitting her, even for a moment, apparently overcame whatever other fear had so paralyzed her, for with a wild shriek the power of speech returned, and springing upright, she hung upon his neck, crying out, Do not leave me; do not leave me, ever again.'

"My love,' he said, 'I will be near or with you always.'

"Always!' she repeated. My always, here, will be short. She came to me; she, the Frenchwoman-your wife. She spoke to me from among the trees, as I passed down the walk, to meet you in the meadow. I am to die, to-night. I am never to see the face of our child.'

"He started, and grew pale, although he made an attempt to speak cheerfully to her. My darling,' he said, 'you are nervous. What could have made you fancy such a thing?'

"It was not fancy, Ralph,' she answered, speaking in a low appalled tone. "How could I feel nervous in the broad noonday, going to meet you? It was very warm; and I walked slowly. I remember now; I was thinking, as I often do, when alone, of our child. But, Ralph, Ralph,' she cried out, again growing wildly excited." "Tell me, it was not true what she said-that I had no claim on you; that you did not love me; that you rejected me, at first, for her. Oh! if my child lives, shall I not, even in my grave, have a stronger claim on you than she had? Shall I not have been the mother of your child?'

"My wife, my love, now and ever my love,' he exclaimed, even when in boyish wilfulness I cast you from me. Do not speak so of the grave, to me. I will not part from you. God will not take you from me.

"And, in their agony, unconsciously, each clasped the other in an embrace, which seemed to defy even death to sunder, his face hidden on her shoulder; while upon the sweet-scented summer air which filled the otherwise silent chamber, arose the fearful sound of a strong man's sobs. I stood looking on, the big tears half-blinding me, longing anxiously for the arrival of those who had been sent for, as I knew it was right they should be separated, and yet possessing neither heart nor courage to attempt doing so.

"After a time, Ralph raised his head; and Katty, speaking again, but very gently, said,

'Remember, dearest, to love our child. Remember, always, how I would have loved it, if I had been spared; but, remember also,' she added, as with her hand she put back the thick dark hair from his brow, and gazed on his face, as if she would impress its every lineament on her memory for eternity, that if we had spent a long life together, bringing up, not one, but many children, dearly as I should have loved them all, the first place in my heart should ever have been their father's. I have heard it said,' she went on, in a sort of dreamy absent manner, that some women love their sons and daughters better than their husbands; but I do not think it can be so. I love my little unborn child, and have often endeavoured to picture to myself its pretty baby-ways. I have often been, as it were, jealous of myself for you, lest I should love it better than you; but I know now I never could love anyone, not even my poor mother or my child, as I love you.'

"Her words seemed to pierce his very soul; for with a sudden change in the manner of his anguish, he put her away from him, almost with violence, crying, 'Girl, how dare you torture me so? How dare you tell me you are to die? It is all mad folly. You are much better now than when I came in.'

"As he spoke, I looked with wonder on Katty's face; the expression of horror had completely passed away; but a cold unpitying smile now played round her lips, as she lay watching her husband: she seemed rather pleased than grieved at his agony. I think, indeed, that it did please her, as it seemed a proof of the love which had been so lately called in question. But such a feeling could not remain long in the sweet unselfish mind of Katty; and soon again she had drawn him to her, soothing and consoling him as if he had been a child, yet ever impressing on him her unalterable conviction that she was to die that night-that she was never to see the face of her child. She also gave him much calm advice as to his future conduct, which only the more clearly proved to me the simple, unpretending good sense which I always knew lay veiled beneath her playful, childlike manner. But he heard all her loving words without making even the slightest effort to strengthen or console her in return. Hers was, indeed, the stronger spirit. Where she was resigned he was despondent, completely stricken down and unmanned. He had no pity for anyone but himself; and looking on his selfish grief, unchristian as the feeling may seem, I felt that I scarcely pitied so much as I despised him.

"At length, to my great relief, the doctor and her mother arrived, when, with a manner from which all terror had now passed away, she desired that a clergyman (the Wiltons were Protestants) should be also sent for. After some useless remonstrance it was done, when she again repeated, in his presence, her unvarying and clearly-told tale. She was going to meet Ralph walking down the shaded walk near the house, when, from the midst of the trees, she

heard the voice of the Frenchwoman, Ralph's wife. She could not have been mistaken; it was her foreign tone and peculiar manner of pronouncing English words. She did not see her; but the voice said distinctly, Go not farther on your way to meet the husband on whom you have no claim, who never loved you, rejecting you as he did for me; return to the home you are never again to leave alive—to give birth to the child whose face you are never to behold.'

"She said she could not recollect how she got home. She only remembered flinging off her bonnet and shawl, but nothing more, until Ralph came, when the dread of his leaving her again, even for a moment, roused her from her stupor.

"It was in vain her mother argued with her, endeavouring to persuade her all this was a mere trick of her imagination. She remained steadfast in the belief, as I do to this day, that it was really the Frenchwoman who spoke to her. Some very wise people," said my aunt, "would have it that it was her maid who imitated the voice of her late mistress on the occasion, for the purpose of avenging her death, as she had sworn to do, particularly as a halfwitted boy, who lived near the Abbey, said he had seen her in that neighbourhood on the day in question; but I do not believe anything of the kind, and am still perfectly certain it was really the spirit of the departed foreigner addressed her.

"The doctor, from the beginning, did not seem to think the case would go on well; real or fancied, he said the prophecy had made such an impression on her mind, that he feared much it would fulfil itself. And he was right. I had early sent home to tell of Katty's trouble, and that I would not return until it was over. Alas! it was over soon. Her illness now came on quickly, and after a few hours of sharp suffering the Ralph Wilton of your acquaintance was born; and in half-an-hour after, she being during that time totally insensible, the young mother lay dead, while the unhappy father was by main force torn from the body, and taken raving mad from the room. She was, indeed, dead before night. She had never looked upon the face of her child.

"Of what use is it now to dwell on the wild ungoverned grief of the husband-on the hopeless woe of the mother? At that time, in my own deep sorrow, I neither sympathised with nor pitied them. I thought of her, the helpless, friendless stranger, whom his obstinacy had brought among them, and whom his heartless neglect had hastened, after much unhappiness, to the grave. I thought of the cold calculation with which the old woman had watched that declining life-the triumphant joy with which she hailed its close; and, gazing on my darling as she lay in her still pale loveliness, so young and so innocent, so beautiful and so good, in the depth of my heart I accused them of her death. Yes, upon her head I knew had fallen the punishment of their selfish sins;

and yet, after all, perhaps her fate was the best -better than that of her husband; his was not a character likely to be improved by griefaffliction, far from softening, on the contrary rendered him fierce and rebellious against the Almighty hand which smote him; and immediately on his recovery from the fever which at her death had stricken him down, he again, and for ever, quitted his home; nor could anything on earth, not even the memory of Katty's dying words, prevail on him even to bestow one look on the poor little child. The rest of his short life was one tale of the wildest dissipation-of the most reckless extravagance; so that on his death, in about five years after that of his wife, all his own property being entirely gone, he left little Ralph altogether dependent on his grand

mother.

"She also led a sad and lonely life. She did her duty in all things by her grandson, but, I think, never felt any warm or genuine affection for him; all the deep love of her nature had been bestowed on the two she had lost. She could never again feel even towards their child as she once did to themselves. Her cold manner had an effect on the boy as he grew up, rendering him strange and retiring. She caused him to enter into holy orders, because it was usual to have a clergyman in the family: her own

husband had been one; but he soon withdrew from the duties of the ministry, and lives, as you see, the life of a plain country gentleman, which his present means just enable him to do. He resembles his father in person, but possesses all his mother's kindness of manner and great benevolence of heart. I have often wished he would marry," said my aunt; but that is not likely; with him I think will die the last of the Wiltons."

So was satisfied my longing desire of hearing something of the old house and its inmates. She who told me their unhappy story has been for some time dead, but not before the death of the son of her old-I had nearly written of her young-friend. He obtained permission to assist the clergyman of his parish the dreadful year of the last famine in Ireland, and died of fever caught in his attendance on one of the many sufferers from that malignant disease during that awful period. His small property has passed to a distant relative bearing another name; and I am told many alterations have been made in the old place; while the gateway, against which I have so often leant to look in, has been wholly taken away. I was sorry when I heard of this, though there is nothing less likely than that I shall ever look upon that spotagain.

ARTHUR'S VISIT.

(A True Tale.)

"Do let me have Arthur home with me for a little while," said Miss Maude Collinson, a kindhearted young lady who was very fond of children. She had been paying a pleasant visit in the outskirts of London; and was about to depart by rail the following day for her quiet home in Yorkshire.

"Ah!" said his mother, "you do not know what trouble you are bringing upon yourself. However, since you seem so desirous of being plagued with my naughty boy, I will tell Wilkins to have his clothes ready, and he shall go with you."

Arthur, who was a fine boy of seven years of age, was not long in hearing of the treat in store for him; whereupon his spirits rose to a tremendous pitch; and before half-an-hour had elapsed he had broken a pane of glass in the nursery window with his hard ball, overturned a large jug of water on the nursery carpet, smashed sundry of little Flora's china tea-things and doll's furniture, and, altogether, had created such a commotion, that it was well for his promised visit that the nursery was separated

LITTLE ONES.

from the drawing-room by a long passage and double folding-doors, otherwise Miss Maude Collinson might have repented of her kind proposal.

Nurse was an uncommonly good-natured woman, and did not acquaint his mamma with half his boisterous frolics and unlucky accidents, so that Mrs. Sanderson really did not know what she was entailing upon her young friend by committing the headstrong boy to her charge for a prolonged visit; otherwise it might son should find himself the next morning in a not have happened that Master Arthur Sanderfirst-class carriage belonging to the London and North-Western Railway Company, together with his kind entertainer, Miss Collinson, and a new patent-leather travelling-case, of which he was immensely proud; and which contained the numerous shirts, collars, neck-ties, and other et-ceteras, that form the usual belongings to a little boy possessing wealthy and generous parents.

"Arthur, my dear, you must not do that," said Miss Maude, as Arthur leaned half-way out of the carriage window, on their arrival at the first station. And then, as he drew back unwillingly, and reseated himself, she told him tales of little boys who, leaning with all their weight against the door of a railway carriage, had burst

D

it open, and had fallen out, laming themselves perhaps for life; also of others who had been killed while leaning through to look out, by their heads coming with violence against the side of a viaduct or bridge over the railway, the train being in motion at the time.

These warning stories were less fearful than amusing to a youngster of Arthur's reckless disposition. That they made very little impres-, sion was evident at the very next station, where he suddenly jumped up to look out, while his companion's head was turned the other way, and only escaped a bad tumble by falling into the arms of a stout gentleman who opened the door at that moment in a great bustle.

"So-ho! my little man," said the stout tleman, returning Arthur to Miss Collinson, and looking smilingly at the latter; "you should take better care than that, your mamma must hold you by the skirts."

"She is not my mamma; and I am not a baby to want holding," replied Arthur indignantly,

The stout gentleman laughed at his assumption of manliness, and they were soon excellent friends; so much so that, before arriving at the next station but two, where the gentleman was to get out, Arthur had put his stout friend's hat on his own head; and leaning out of the window in a great hurry, as usual, when the bell rang, a gust of wind carried off the bran-new shiny silk hat, and deposited it on the centre of the line before the engine, which swept majestically over it.

Miss Collinson was excessively annoyed, and declared that Arthur should not stir from his seat again the whole of the journey; but the old gentleman good-humouredly made the best of the occurrence, and on getting out at the station, sent a porter to fetch the unfortunate hat, which was covered with dust, and singed in two places by cinders that had dropped from the engine. Arthur himself was vexed when he saw the damage he had occasioned; and his high spirits being now somewhat subdued, he was tolerably quiet and submissive for the rest of the journey. It was quite dark when they reached the quiet house in Yorkshire; and when Arthur had been treated with tea and a plain plumcake, he went to bed.

The next morning Miss Maude, according to custom, rose early to breakfast with her brother, and to see him off to business. Meanwhile she had directed the servant to dress Arthur. The girl was gentle and timid; and as Miss Collinson descended the stairs to the breakfast-room, she heard a piercing scream. It proceeded from the head of the kitchen stairs, which were exceedingly long, steep, and dangerous. What a sight was there to be scen! Master Arthur descending head-foremost, his feet clinging to the wall on either side, his hands helping him in front, while the servant stood at the summit, transfixed with horror, watching him. Miss Maude became equally mute when she saw what was going on, for she feared by an excla

Poor Arthur did not think of this, and so he was never either half so good, or half so happy as he might have been. However, as I have said, he behaved pretty well for a time.

One beautiful morning he was in great delight because he was to go by railway with Miss Collinson and Miss Herbert, to some very fine ruins a few miles distant from the town in which they lived. The day was rather threatening for showers, so Miss Maude took her silk umbrella, and gave it to Arthur to carry.

You would not have believed-would you?that the little boy, being in an obstinate humour, refused to oblige in such a trifle as this. But so he did; and Miss Collinson had to be quite angry, and refuse to go to the ruins at all unless he would obey her; for she had set her heart upon returning him to his mamma a much better, and more docile boy than he had come.

So Arthur, at length, sullenly took up the umbrella, and set out. Miss Collinson stepped into a shop for a moment, and when she came out again, Emmeline was awaiting her, umbrella in hand, while Arthur was scampering off, halfway up the street.

"You should not have consented to carry the umbrella, my dear," Miss Maude gently observed; "Arthur will not care for my authority at all."

However, it turned out that the cunning and determined boy, decided in his opposition to the small kindness of carrying the umbrella, had placed it leaning against Miss Herbert's wide skirts as she stood waiting for her friend, and had immediately run off out of hearing; so that the young lady had no option but to take up the umbrella, and carry it herself.

"This will never do," thought Miss Maude to herself; "I cannot give this untoward child any