times; but you must confess that, for me,
death is best. You cannot look me in the
face and not say so."

"I can! I do! you have made your life
so rich in good deeds and good influences,
that no one could honestly echo such a
sentiment."

"The end is coming, I feel. There is
only one thing, Paul, you must promise
me:" she now spoke with feverish excitement.
"After my death, do not condemn
me, whatever you may hear of me, until
you have read a letter which I have
written, and which will then be given to
you. There are mysteries in my life which,
while I breathe, I cannot disclose; but I
could not rest in my grave without justifying
myself to you. Until I am laid in it,
have faith in me."

I sealed my promise by kissing the hand
which lay outside the coverlet.

"There is another thing; will you take
my dog home with you to-night?"

I answered, yes, with a tightening at my
heart which taught me that her emotion was
contagious. After a time I tried to rouse
myself to cheer her, and our succeeding
conversation was not wholly sad. She
said she had known unparalleled sorrows,
but had also known most exquisite joys.
By-and-by, after a silence, she repeated,
with a return of that uncommon agitation,
half raising herself from her couch:

"Mind! If you hear me accused,
suspend your judgment. Within the last
six weeks a hideous doubt has sprung up
in me, that I have done wrong—but—I
was deeply grateful to him, and I had
sworn obedience——"

She sank back and was silent for a few
minutes; then I saw her lips part, and heard
her murmur faintly, "Father, forgive me,
I knew not what I did." There was silence
again, and then she said, with a shudder,
"It is cold; let me be carried in."

I rang the little silver bell, and her
attendants came, and she was carried back
into the drawing-room. I followed her.
The couch was placed, as usual, in the
centre of the room. The lamps were not
lighted, but the faint moonlight struggling
in at the windows fell on the couch. It
might have been a tomb with the white
indication of a recumbent effigy on it. I
sate near her with Sorrow (strangely quiet)
at my feet. The quiet was intense. I do
not know how many minutes were so passed
when I heard a distant door open abruptly
and voices speaking hastily. Then, with a
quick step, Madame de Beaufort entered.

"I am glad I find you here, Mr. Eden:
you will witness what I say. I have long
suspected what I now know. Seizing the
clue given me by your remark that this
paper, picked up by me in the garden
below, had been torn by the dog, I showed
it to the dog. He recognised it, and piece
by piece brought me all that was missing
of the document of which it is a part. I
told you that I would master the cipher in
which it is written, and I have mastered it.
Its writer—that woman who hears me—
will contradict me, if what I charge her
with is false. I charge her with being a
Russian Spy. She has deceived, she has
entrapped, she has betrayed. It has been
her infamous trade to deceive, entrap, and
betray. She has broken my heart, but I
fear her no more, for she is a Spy!"

The scorn of her voice was terrible.

No word of reply. The hand I held did
not tremble, there was not a quiver in
the frail form.

At this moment the door was again
opened, and M. de Beaufort rushed in. He
did not see his wife, or me.

"Irene, rejoice! the news is confirmed,
France has made peace with the Czar!"

"She has fainted," I said.

The servants had now entered with
lights. I took one in my hand and bent
over her. Good God! what look was that
on the still, pale face! Was it appealing,
imploring, upbraiding? Be it what it might,
it was the last look of the Dead.

Madame de Beaufort asked me, "Have
I killed her?" I answered "No! She
was so nearly dead when you came in, that
I think she did not even hear you speak."
She rose, drew down her veil and left the
room.

I took De Beaufort's nerveless hand and
led him from the room. I closed the eyes
that had so enchanted and entranced me.
The face was as the face of the Angel of
Death.

This a Spy!

With throbbing brain and beating heart
I recalled our intercourse, so brief in time,
so long if counted by the power of its
influence over my soul.

O look upon her, look upon her! This,
a Spy! And I loved her. Yes, at this
supreme moment I knew I had loved her.
I loved her with a love which had so little
of earth in it that Death had no power
over it. Selfishness, Passion had no part
in it. But as I over and over again
repeated, without meaning or purpose, the
shameful words "A Spy!" an overwhelming