shake Zillah's determination. Hugh,
was greatly distressed by it. But wise,
kind Nelly Sheardown consoled and
comforted him.

"My dear Hugh," she said, "your mother
will be happier in following this life than
in any other which you could give her.  I
do not know Mrs. Lockwood's history; but
she gives me the idea of a woman who has
suffered much, and who is continually
tormented by the contentions of pride with a
very singularly sensitive conscience."

"You describe my mother with wonderful
accuracy.  How could you learn to
know her so well?"

"Well, you know, Maud has talked to
me of her much.  Maud is as clear as
crystal, and the impression she received of
your mother she faithfully transmitted to
me.  Your mother has been accustomed to
reign paramount in your affections; when
you are married, that could, of course, no
longer be the case. Indeed, it has already
ceased to be the case.  Mrs. Lockwood, in
living near you, would be continually
tormented by a proud jealousy of Maud's
influence over you; and equally tormented
by a conscientious sense of the wrongness
of such a feeling.  In her convent, in her
care of the sick, and her devotion to good
works, she will feel that her life is not
useless and wasted, and that if even only by
her prayers, still by her prayers she may
serve you and yours."

So Zillah had her way without further
opposition, and her two children, as she
called them, were surprised by the air of
serenity and cheerfulness which had
succeeded to her old repressed look: the
expression of one who had indeed resolved to
be calm, but who paid a heavy price for the
carrying out of her resolution. But the
chief secret of this change in her was,
that her new creed recommended itself to
her notion of justice, always throughout
her life unsatisfied.  According to this creed
her sufferings would count in her favour.
Every prayer, every privation, every
penance, would be registered to her credit in
the records of the Great Tribunal. She
would suffer perhaps; but she would not
at least suffer in vain. And this thought
conciliated Zillah's rebellious soul with the
decrees of Providence, and in it her weary
spirit found peace

CHAPTER XIV.   THE LAST PLANK.

VERONICA was more wretched than she
had ever yet been after the scene in which
Cesare asserted his masterhood over her
and her fortune. She had fancied a week
before that she could hardly be more
unhappy than she then was.  But she was
doomed to taste a yet bitterer cup. It was
bitter, with a bitterness at which her soul
shuddered to see herself so treated by one
who had been the slave of her caprices,
and had sworn that he loved her better
than his own life. Men were all tyrants;
all base, and fickle, and cruel. All, all,
all——  No, stay! Did she not know
one man who was none of these things?
One obscure, humble man whom she had
disdained and derided in her old happy
days. Happy days? Oh yes, how happy,
how heavenly, in comparison with these!
And she had been discontented and
complaining then? How could it have been?
She must have been mad. Why had no
one taught her, warned her, helped her?
Oh, if the past could but come back!

"Come back, come back, come back!"
she cried aloud, with outstretched arms;
and then crouched down sobbing and
wailing in her misery.

The thought of Mr. Plew, however, came
to strengthen an idea that had been vaguely
floating in her mind.  What if she could
be separated from Cesare! She would give
him half her fortune—— Give him! Had
he not said himself that all she had was
his?  No; she could give him nothing.
But might he not consent to some arrangement
being made?  She did not love him
now.  She detested him, and she feared
him. It was dreadful so to fear one with
whom one lived one's daily life! She could
not appeal to her father.  He would do
nothing.  He would reproach her, and
would not help her. She doubted even if
he could. He seemed to have lost all
energy.  But Mr. Plew! Perhaps! She
would write to Mr. Plew. When she had
half finished her letter, she remembered
that his mother was recently dead, and
that he, too, must be in affliction.  She
tried to say some word of condolence. But
it was flat and unmeaning.  She could
think of no grief, she could feel no sorrow
save her own.  Would the fact of his
mother's death prevent his attending to
her letter?  No; surely not.  It might
even leave him freer to serve her.  In any
case she must send the letter.  It was her
last chance.  Three days elapsed, and no
answer came.  She had reckoned that she
might receive an answer on the afternoon
of the third day.  When the time passed,
and brought no reply, her heart sank
woefully.