Again they gazed at each other. Mrs. Cumberland thought it out of his pocketbook. I never spoke of it to a single soul, her friend must be dreaming. and as soon as I had the opportunity I gave it up to him. If it "But you are quite mistaken, Mrs. Gass; the paper, note, or was found in Captain Bohun's desk afterward, why-Doctor whatever it was, could not have been on this carpet at all-Rane, or somebody else, must have put it there. Ma'am, if, as not in your house, in fact. Captain Bohun discovered it in his I conclude, you've heard about the paper from your son, I wondesk three days ago, and he has not the slightest notion of how der he did not tell you this." it came there. Mr. North took possession of it, and has never let it go out of his hands since."

'My dear lady, they have been a-mystifying of you," cried Mrs. Gass. "Seeing's believing. The paper was first found by me-by me, ma'am, on this here carpet, and it was the same night that Edmund North was first took-not an hour after the fit."

Mrs. Cumberland made no reply. She was drifting into the conclusion that she had not yet had all the circumstances related to her.

"I picked the paper up myself," continued Mrs. Gass, anxious for the truth, as straightforward people are apt to be. "I kept it safe here for a day and a night, ma'am, waiting to give it back to your son; what I thought was, that he had dropped

"What paper was this?" inquired Mrs. Cumberland, a dim notion arising that they could not be talking of the same thing.

It was the copy of that anonymous letter."
"The copy of the anonymous letter!"
"Leastways, its skeleton."

Rapidly enough came the elucidation now. Mrs. Cumberland sat listening, still as a statue.

And you thought that-this rough copy of the letter-it was Oliver who dropped it?" she exclaimed at length, moved out of her usual apathetic calmness.

"What else could I think?" debated Mrs. Gass. "Doctor Rane had let fall some papers from his pocketbook five minutes before; I picked this up as soon as he had gone. I'm sure I

never so much as gave a thought to Molly Green, though she had come straight from the Hall. Doctor Rane said it might have dropped from her petticoats; but it was a puzzle to me how, and it's a puzzle still."

A keen, inquiring sort of glance shot from the speaker's eye with the last words. It was but momentary and not intentional; nevertheless, something in it caused Mrs. Cumberland's heart to quail. A cold hue spread over her gray face; a cold shade of recollection deadened her heart. Captain Bohun had told her of Mr. Alexander's theory-that the letter was written to damage him.

"I am sorry I spoke of this, ma'am," struck in Mrs. Gass. "More particular that it should have been you; you'll naturally tell Doctor Rane, and he will say I know how to keep secrets-just about as the jackdaws keep theirs. It was your telling of the other paper that misled me."

"I am quite safe," answered Mrs. Cumberland, with a sickly smile. "The matter's nothing to me, that I should get speaking of it again."

the coffin, as yet scarcely sprinkled with earth. Jelly and her friend got close, and the former read the inscription:

Edmund, son of John North, and of Mary, his first wife. Died May 3rd, 18—.”

"I should not have put 'died,' but 'murdered,' if it was me had the writing of it," spoke Mrs. Ketler.

"And so should I, Susan," significantly replied Jelly. "Here! let's get out of this throng."

The two women elbowed their way out, and passed back along the broad highway to Ketler's house in Dallory.

Ketler was in the parlor, sitting up for the first time. He was a short, dark, honest-looking man; a good husband and father. Jelly sat talking for a short while, and then rose to leave.

But she was not allowed to go. To let her depart at that hour of the afternoon without first partaking of tea, would have been a breach in the obligations of hospitality that the well-todo workpeople of Dallory never wished to hear of. Jelly, all too easily persuaded where sociability was concerned, took off

"Of course, it's not, ma'am. After all-halloa! here it her bonnet to be comfortable, and the tray was brought in. comes !"'

The sudden break was caused by an interrupting sound-the roll of a muffled drum, first advent of the advancing funeral procession. Edmund North had belonged to a local military corps, and was to be attended to the grave with honors. Mrs. Gass drew up the white blind an inch above the short Venetian one, which enabled them to look out unseen. The road suddenly became lined with spectators, men, women and children, collecting one hardly knew from whence.

women.

Cups of beer induce men to a long sitting; cups of tea, Jelly (who drank four) sat on, oblivious of the lapse of time. The chief topic of conversation was the anonymous letter. Jelly found that the prevailing belief here was, that it had been written by a clerk named Wilks, of somewhat loose habits, who was in the office of Dale, the lawyer, and might have become cognizant of the transaction between his master, Mr. Alexander, and Edmund North.

"Who told you that, Ketler?" sharply demanded Jelly, after

The lady of the house, her eyes glued to the strip of open a pause, fixing her indignant eyes on the man. window, made her comments, and suspected nothing.

"Mr. North in the first coach, with his white handkercher neid to his nose; and well he may hold it, poor berefted gentleman! There's Mr. Richard sitting by the side of him. Captain Bohun's on the oppersite seat; and-who's the other? Why it's the young one, Sidney North. Then they've sent for him from college, or wherever it is he stays at; madame's doings. I'll say. What a little whipper-snapper of a fellow it is! -like nobody but himself. He'll never be half the man his stepbrothers be."

Mrs. Gass's tongue ceased with the passing of the coach. In her plenitude of curiosity she did not observe that she had no response. The second coach came in sight, and she began again.

"An old gent, upright as a dart, with snow-white hair and them features called aquiline! It's a handsome face, if ever I saw on his eyes be as blue and as fine as Captain Bohun's. There's a likeness between 'em. It must be his uncle, Sir Nash. A young man sits next him with a white, unhealthy face; an' the other two-why, if I don't believe it's the young Dallorys!"

There was no answering comment. Mrs. Gass turned round to see the reason. Her visitor was sitting back in a chair, an awfully gray shade upon her lips and face.

"My patience! Don't you feel well, ma'am?''

"I can't rightly say who told me," replied Ketler; "it's the talk of the place. Wilks, he denies it out and out; but when he's in his evening cups-and that's not seldom-he does things that next morning he has no recollection of. Doctor Rane laughed at me, though, for saying so a laywer knows better than to let private matters get out to his clerks, says the doctor. But he don't know that Tim Wilks as some of us do." "Well, I would not say too much about it's being Tim Wilks if I were you, Ketler," cried Jelly, in suppressed wrath. "You might find yourself in hot water."

66

Jelly tore herself away at last, very unwillingly gossip and tea-drinking formed her idea of an earthly paradise. Night was setting in; a light, beautiful night, the moon sailing majestically in the sky.

Just past the gates of Dallory Hall, in a bend of the road where the overhanging trees on either side gave it a lonely appearance at night (and by day, too, for that matter), no dwelling of any sort being within view or hail, stood a bench on the sidepath. It was a welcome resting-place to tired wayfarers ; it was no less welcome to wandering lovers in their evening rambles. As Jelly went scuttering on, a faint sound of voices broke upon her ear from this spot, and she stilled her steps instinctively.

Stealing softly along on the side grass, went she, until she came to the turn, and then she looked cautiously round. The bushes projected there and favored her. What was her aston

"I am a little tired, thank you," replied Mrs. Cumberland, smiling languidly, as she roused herself. "Looking out at pass-ishment to see-not a dying swain and his mistress, side by ing things always fatigues me."

Now, don't you stir, ma'am; I'll tell it off to you," came the rejoinder, spoken with warm sympathy. "There's only one coach more, and that have got but two inside of it-which is the doctors from Whitborough," added Mrs. Gass. "I wonder they didn't invite Mr. Oliver-the first called in to the poor young man and Alexander. Not thought gool enough by madame, perhaps, to be mixed with all these here dons."

She looked after the swiftly-passing pageantry with lingering admiration. Mrs. Cumberland sat still in the chair and closed her eyes, as if all interest in the funeral-and in life, too, for the matter of that-had passed away.

side, but her own mistress, Mrs. Cumberland, seated on the bench in an agony of grief, and Doctor Rane standing with folded arms before her!

Jelly comprehended the situation easily. Her mistress must have staid to take tea with Mrs. Gass, and encountered her son in walking home.

To come down upon lovers was one thing; to burst upon her mistress and Doctor Rane would be quite different. Jelly wished she had not gone stealing up like a mouse, and felt inclined to steal back again.

But the attitude and appearance of Mrs. Cumberland riveted her to the spot. Her face, never so gray as now, as seen in the The procession wound along. In a corner of the large church-moonlight, dim here, was raised to her son's, its expression one yard lay Mrs. North, Mr. North's first wife and Edmund's mo- yearning agony; her hands were lifted as if imploring some ther. The new grave was dug by her side. boon, or warding off some fear. Jelly's eyes opened to their utmost width, and in her astonishment she did not catch the purport of a few low-spoken words.

It was soon over; our burial service is not a long one; and the coaches and mourners moved away again, leaving the field in possession of the mob. There ensued a rush to get a view of

"I tell you, you are mistaken, mother," said Doctor Rane,

in answer, his voice ringing out clear enough in the still night; | honest, and did not affect to feel the grief for Edmund that she though it nevertheless had a hushed tone. "Is it probable? would have felt for a son. Is it likely? I drop the copy of the letter out of my pocket- Sitting disconsolately before the open window of his parlor book! What next will you suppose me capable of?" was Mr. North. His new black clothes looked too large for him, "But-Oliver "--and the voice was raised a little-"how else his slippers were down at heel, his whole air was that of one could it have come upon her carpet?"

"Is it you, Jelly? Waiting for your sweetheart?'' Jelly rose. "Standing about to look at funerals, and such if the parlor was in itself dingy, the capacious window and the things, tires one worse than a ten-mile run." prospect on which it looked, brightened it.

"One fool makes many," returned Jelly, with composure. of many-colored flowers, Mr. North's only delight for years "Sir, I'd like to know who wrote that letter."

past. In the cultivation of these flowers he had found a refuge, a sort of shelter from the consciousness of disappointment that was ever upon him, from life's daily vexations and petty cares. Heaven is all-merciful, and some counterbalancing interest to

They are so sharp upon us at times, are women," he con- grievous and long-continued sorrow is often supplied. tinued, smiling. "Men don't attack one another."

"She wants me to give up my garden; but I should die—I "And what woman do you suspect, sir?" cried Jelly, in her should die, Dick," Mr. North said one day, imploringly, to his insatiable curiosity. son Richard, after a dispute with madame. Such disputes were "Ah, there's the rub. I have been speaking of women in frequent. And yet, could it be properly called dispute when general, you see. Perhaps it was you?''

But there is a limit to all things-I don't know what would become of some of us if there were not-and the mind cannot dwell forever upon its own bitterness. Unhappy topics, as if in very fatigue, gradually drifted away from Mr. North's mind, | and were replaced by loving thoughts of his flowers. How could it be otherwise, when their scent came floating to him through the broad open window in a delicious sea of perfume. The assorted colors charmed the eye, the sweet aroma took captive the senses. Spring flowers all, and simple ones. It was like a many-hued plain, and further on, beyond the trees that bounded the grounds, a fine view was obtained of the open country over Dallory Ham. Hills and dales, woods and sunny plains, with here and there a gleam of glistening water, lay underneath the distant horizon.

Sir John looked not at the landscape, which was a familiar book to him, but at his flowers. The spring had been continuously cold and wet, retarding the appearance of these early flowers to a very remarkably late period. For the past week or two the weather had been lovely, but with a summer brightness, and the flowers seemed to have sprung up all at oncehyacinths, blue, pink, white, purple; gillyflowers in all their rich shades, white daffodils, primroses, double and single, cowslips and polyanthuses, and so on.

Just as he chose the most simple flowers to cultivate, so he called them all by their more simple and familiar names. Madame turned up her nose at both in contemptuous derision, sometimes speaking in society of Mr. North's "vulgar cottage garden." A little later, the tulip beds would be in bloom. A rare collection that, a show for the world to flock to. Great people came boldly inside, small ones would peep through the shrubs and over the railings, sniffing the sweet scent, and saying the ground was like a many-hued carpet of gorgeous colors. Later on still the roses would be out, and many thought they were the best show of all. And so the year went on, the flowers replacing each other in their loveliness.

ness.

Sadness sat on them to-day, for we see things, you know, in accordance with our own mood, not with their actual brightMr. North rose with a sigh, and stood at the open window. Only that very day week, about this time in the morning, his eldest son had stood there with him side by side. For this was the eighth of May. "Poor fellow!" sighed the father, as he thought of this.

Some one went sauntering down the path that led round from the front of the house, and disappeared beyond the trees -a short, slight young man. Mr. North recognized him for Sidney, madame's son as well as his own, and he heaved a sigh almost as profound as the one he gave to the dead Edmund. Sidney North was dreadfully dissipated, and had caused already a good deal of trouble. It was suspected, and with truth, that some of madame's superfluous money went to this son. She had brought him up badly, fostering his vanity, and indulging him. in everything. By the very way in which he walked now, his head hanging moodily down, his gait slouching, his hands thrust into his pockets, Mr. North judged him to be in some dilemma. He had not wished him to be called home for the funeral, no, though the dead had stood to him as half-brother; but madame took her own way and wrote for him.

"He'll be a thorn in her side if he lives," thought the father, his reflections unconsciously going out to that future time when he himself should be no more.

The door opened, and Richard came in. Mr. North stepped back from the window at which he had been standing.

"Dick, I suppose I ought to have been at the breakfasttable."

"Not at all, dear father, not at all. Your remaining in privacy is perfectly natural, and I am sure Sir Nash feels it to be so. Don't disturb yourself, they will come to you here." Almost as he spoke they came in, Captain Bohun with them. Sir Nash was a very fine man with a proud face, that put you in mind at once of Arthur Bohun's, and of the calmest, pleasantest, and most courteous manners possible. His son James was not in the least like him-a studious, sickly man, his health delicate, his dark hair scanty. James Bohun's time was divided between close classical reading and philanthropic pursuits. He strove to have what he called a mission in life, and to make it one that might do him some service in the next world.

"I am so very sorry! I had no idea that you would be going so soon; I ought to have been with you before this," began Mr. North, in a flutter.

But the baronet laid his hands upon him kindly, and calmed the storm. 66 'My good friend, you have done everything that is right and hospitable. I would have staid a few hours longer with you, but James has to be in London this afternoon to keep an engagement."

"It is an engagement that I cannot well put off," interposed James Bohun in his small voice that always sounded too weak for a man. "I would not have made it, had I known what was to intervene."

"He has to preside at a public missionary meeting," explained Sir Nash. "It seems to me that he has something or other of the kind on hand every day in the year. I tell him that he is wearing himself out."

"Not every day in the year," spoke the son, as if taking the words literally. This is the month for such meetings, you know, Sir Nash."

"You do not look strong," observed Mr. North, studying James Bohun.

"Not strong in appearance, perhaps, but I'm wiry, Mr. North; and we wiry fellows last the longest. What sweet flowers those are!" added Mr. Bohun, stepping to the threshold of the window. "I could not dress myself this morning for looking at them. I longed to put the window open."

"And why did you not?" sensibly asked Mr. North. "I can't do with the early morning air, sir. I don't accustom myself to it."

"A bit of a valetudinarian," remarked Sir Nash. "Not at all, father," answered the son. "It is well to be cautious."

"I sleep with my window open, James, summer and winter. Well, well, we all have our different tastes and fancies. And now, my good friend," added the baronet, taking the hands of Mr. North, "when will you come and see me? A change may do you good."

"Thank you; not just yet. Thank you all the same, Sir Nash, but-later, perhaps," was Mr. North's answer. He knew that the kindness was meant, the invitation sincere; and of late he had grown grateful for any shown to him. Nevertheless, he thought he should never accept this.

"I will not receive you in that hot, bustling London; it is getting to be a penance to myself to stay there. You shall come to my place in Kent, and be as quiet as you please. You've never seen Peveril it cannot boast the charming flowers that you show, but is worth seeing. Promise to come." "If I can. Later. Thank you, Sir Nash; and I beg you

"Sir Nash and his son are going, sir. You will see them first, and Mr. Bohun to pardon me for all my seeming discourtesy. will you not?"

It has not been meant as such."
"No, no."

They walked through the hall to the door, where Mr. North's carriage waited-the large shut-up carriage. Some dim idea was pervading those concerned that to drive to the station in an open dog-cart would be hardly the right thing for these mourners after the recent funeral.

Sir Nash and his son stepped in, followed by Captain Bohun and Richard North, who would accompany them to the station. As Mr. North turned in-doors again after watching the carriage away, he ran against his daughter, Matilda, resplendent in

"That lace hood is not mourning," resumed Miss Matilda could hear as well as see. Before she had quite gained this North, defiantly viewing madame from top to toe.