that Count Fosco was to meet me at the
terminus in London?"  " He did, my lady."

She sighed heavily when I answered that last
question, and said no more.

We arrived at the station, with hardly two
minutes to spare. The gardener (who had driven
us) managed about the luggage, while I took
the ticket. The whistle of the train was sounding,
when I joined her ladyship on the platform.
She looked very strangely, and pressed her hand
over her heart, as if some sudden pain or fright
had overcome her at that moment.

"I wish you were going with me!" she said,
catching eagerly at my arm, when I gave her the
ticket.

If there had been time; if I had felt the day
before, as I felt then, I would have made my
arrangements to accompany her— even though
the doing so had obliged me to give Sir Percival
warning on the spot.  As it was, her wishes
expressed at the last moment only, were expressed
too late for me to comply with them. She
seemed to understand this herself before I could
explain it, and did not repeat her desire to have
me for a travelling companion. The train drew
up at the platform. She gave the gardener a
present for his children, and took my hand, in
her simple, hearty manner, before she got into
the carriage.

"You have been very kind to me and to my
sister," she said— " kind when we were both
friendless.  I shall remember you gratefully, as
long as I live to remember any one. Good-by
— and God bless you!"

She spoke those words, with a tone and a
look which brought the tears into my eyes—
she spoke them as if she was bidding me
farewell for ever.

"Good-by, my lady," I said, putting her
into the carriage, and trying to cheer her;
"good-by, for the present only; good-by, with
my best and kindest wishes for happier times!"

She shook her head, and shuddered as she
settled herself in the carriage. The guard
dosed the door. " Do you believe in dreams?"
she whispered to me, at the window.  " My
dreams, last night, were dreams I have never
had before. The terror of them is hanging over
me still."  The whistle sounded before I could
answer, and the train moved. Her pale quiet
face looked at me, for the last time, looked
sorrowfully and solemnly from the window— she
waved her hand— and I saw her no more.

Towards five o'clock on the afternoon of
that same day, having a little time to myself
in the midst of the household duties which
now pressed upon me, I sat down alone in
my own room, to try and compose my mind
with the volume of my husband's Sermons. For
the first time in my life, I found my attention
wandering over those pious and cheering words.
Concluding that Lady Glyde's departure must
have disturbed me far more seriously than I
had myself supposed, I put the book aside, and
went out to take a turn in the garden. Sir
Percival had not yet returned, to my knowledge,
so I could feel no hesitation about showing
myself in the grounds.

On turning the corner of the house, and gaining
a view of the garden, I was startled by seeing
a stranger walking in it. The stranger was a
woman— she was lounging along the path, with
her back to me, and was gathering the flowers.

As I approached, she heard me, and turned
round.

My blood curdled in my veins. The strange
woman in the garden was Mrs. Rubelle.

I could neither move, nor speak. She came
up to me, as composedly as ever, with her
flowers in her hand.

"What is the matter, ma'am?" she said,
quietly.

"You here!" I gasped out. " Not gone to
London! Not gone to Cumberland!"

Mrs. Rubelle smelt at her flowers with a
smile of malicious pity.

"Certainly not," she said. " I have never
left Blackwater Park."

I summoned breath enough and courage
enough for another question.

"Where is Miss Halcombe?"

Mrs. Rubelle fairly laughed at me, this time;
and answered in these words:

"Miss Halcombe, ma'am, has not left
Blackwater Park, either."

—————————————————————

A PLEA FOR COAL-MINERS.

A THOUSAND men are killed every year in
coal-mines. Upon the last eight years the annual
average of deaths by accident in coal-mines is
one thousand and two. This death rate is about
eight times greater than that of death by accident
among the whole population. For insurance
against death by accident the charge
actually made in the case of miners is, therefore,
eight times the ordinary rate. A collier's wife
becomes a widow, on the average, fourteen years
sooner than the wife of an agricultural labourer.
Perhaps it is a justification of this state of
things to assert the fact that a greater proportion
of persons are killed in the metalliferous
mines than in the collieries, and that the average
duration of metalliferous miners' lives throughout
the kingdom is not above thirty-three years.
Perhaps it is a justification of this state of
things to say, Miners are ignorant, their blood
be on their heads! Perhaps it is a justification
of this state of things to say, Coal-miners
are under inspection, and what would you more?
We, knowing that a large number of these deaths
— we say nothing, here, of the burnings, maimings,
and crushings short of death— are
preventable, consider that they have to be
prevented, and not justified. A certain degree of
risk is, indeed, inseparable from the miner's
occupation; but the preventable character of a
great number of the accidents that happen can
be easily demonstrated.  If we can save only
three hundred and sixty-five lives out of the
yearly thousand, that will be a life a day. It is
within the truth to say that in our coal-mines a