anguish, had anointed the aching eyes, and she saw the world around her in its true colorsits false, sinful mockery.

She woke her maid (who had long been sleeping peacefully) with a sort of reluctance, as if sleep, quiet sleep, were a holy charm that she had no right to break during its consecrated hours; as if for such irreverence, she should be doomed to sleep no more.

She let the girl unfasten her jewels, and unbraid the long, soft tresses, and then dismissed her, with a sense of relief from some undefined oppression. She drew a large easychair to the window, and, too exhausted to think or feel, sat looking out into the night. The soft sounds, the sweet, murmuring life of the autumn night, the pure, dewy air--all breathed such repose and peace, that insensibly she was tranquillized; and ere the midnight voices faded into the hush that precedes the dawn, her eyes closed, and she slept.

CHAPTER XIII.

A WRECK.

"Not for me, that hear aghast
The solemn moaning of the past!
Wrecks might line the wasteful sand,
Treasures heaped on every hand:
I should only-ah! that only !
Is there anything so lonely?

See the golden argosy

Which in youth went down with me!"

R. H. STODDARD.

MR. ARTAUD pushed away the cup and spoon he had been playing with, as he read the morning paper, and held out his hand to his nephew.

แ

Ah, my dear Victor, glad to see you. Have you breakfasted? Yes? Well, ring the bell, have these things cleared away, and tell me the news."

But as the old man spoke he saw Victor's face more distinctly, and said no more until

the servant had removed the breakfast tray and closed the door; while Victor sat looking at the paper, of which he read not one single word.

"Now, my son, what has happened?"

The kind, anxious tone nearly overcame the youth's fortitude, but he told his story bravely, neither sparing nor excusing himself, even where excuse would have been justifiablehiding not one act of weakness or folly, even to what he called his most cruel and unmanly conduct to Matilda, the night before. In his genuine repentance, his uncle perceived that he rather exaggerated his fanlts, and easily read, as Matilda had done, in his conduct of the previous night, only an outbreak of excessive excitement and remorse.

"Uncle," said Victor, at last, "I do not yet expect your forgiveness, only give me an opportunity of winning it; but do not cast me from your affection. Let me have some position, I care not how humble and laborious, wherein I may prove how sincerely I repent;

where, in time, I may hope to repay the sum I have robbed you of. Let me hope one day to regain your old loving confidence. I do not say that I cannot reform without that hope, for I will strive even if it be withheld; but it will take from my toil all its bitterness."

At this moment a servant entered and gave a card to Mr. Artaud, who had not as yet spoken one word. He glanced at the card, and closed his fingers on it; then, turning to his nephew, he said—

(6 Victor, wait here until I return, and we will see what can be done."

The words were few, perhaps cold enough; but the voice spoke no harshness, the eye no condemnation; and as the old man left the room he left two consolers to banish from Victor's heart the last trace of despair, and while deepening his repentance, to brighten all his future gratitude and hope.

It was a perfect room, that small library where Mr. Artaud found his early visitor. The windows opened directly into a garden full of

flowering trees and shrubs, with breaks of smooth grass between, leading down to a fountain in the centre of a group of orange-trees. But the lady seemed to see nought of the fair scene before her; and the clear morning light shone full on a face scarcely to be recognised as that of the brilliant beauty of the day before. The gentle eyes looked larger and darker, and wore a new expression of determination; every shade of color was gone from lip and cheek, and the graceful animation of her manner was replaced by a cold tranquillity, as of one to whom life can bring neither hope nor fear.

After the first greeting she began, abruptly"Mr. Artaud, you have seen Victor this morning?"

"Yes," he replied; "and he would gladly apologize, did he know how, for his almost unpardonable conduct last night."

She raised her hand deprecatingly.

"There is no apology needed. It was easy to see that he hardly knew what he was say