character to Mr. Goodricke. He has known me for
more than six years; and he will bear witness
that I can be trusted to tell the truth.

(Signed) Jane Gould.

THE NARRATIVE OF THE TOMBSTONE.

Sacred
TO THE MEMORY OF
LAURA,
LADY GLYDE,
WIFE OF SIR PERCIVAL GLYDE, BART.,
OF BLACKWATER PARK, HAMPSHIRE;
AND
DAUGHTER OF THE LATE PHILIP FAIRLIE, ESQ.,
OF LIMMERIDGE HOUSE, IN THIS PARISH.
BORN, MARCH 27TH, 1829.
MARRIED, DECEMBER 23RD, 1849
DIED, JULY 28TH, I850.

THE NARRATIVE OF WALTER HARTRIGHT,
RESUMED.

I.

EARLY in the summer of 1850, I, and my
surviving companions, left the wilds and forests of
Central America for home. Arrived at the coast,
we took ship there for England. The vessel was
wrecked in the Gulf of Mexico; I was among
the few saved from the sea. It was my third
escape from peril of death. Death by disease,
death by the Indians, death by drowning—all
three had approached me; all three had passed
me by.

The survivors of the wreck were rescued by
an American vessel, bound for Liverpool. The
ship reached her port on the thirteenth day of
October, 1850. We landed late in the afternoon;
and I arrived in London the same night.

These pages are not the record of my wanderings
and my dangers away from home. The
motives which led me from my country and my
friends to a new world of adventure and peril
are known. From that self-imposed exile I
came back, as I had hoped, prayed, believed
I should come back—a changed man. In the
waters of a new life I had tempered my nature
afresh. In the stern school of extremity and
danger my will had learnt to be strong, my
heart to be resolute, my mind to rely on itself.
I had gone out to fly from my own future. I
came back to face it, as a man should.

To face it with that inevitable suppression
of myself which I knew it would demand
from me. I had parted with the worst bitterness
of the past, but not with my heart's
remembrance of the sorrow and the tenderness of
that memorable time. I had not ceased to feel
the one irreparable disappointment of my life—
I had only learnt to bear it. Laura Fairlie was
in all my thoughts when the ship bore me away,
and I looked my last at England. Laura Fairlie
was in all my thoughts when the ship brought
me back, and the morning light showed the
friendly shore in view.

My pen traces the old letters as my heart goes
back to the old love. I write of her as Laura
Fairlie still. It is hard to think of her, it is
hard to speak of her, by her husband's name.

There are no more words of explanation to add,
on my appearing for the second time in these
pages. This final narrative, if I have the strength
and the courage to write it, may now go on.

My first anxieties and first hopes, when the
morning came, centred in my mother and my
sister. I felt the necessity of preparing them
for the joy and surprise of my return, after an
absence, during which it had been impossible
for them to receive any tidings of me for months
past. Early in the morning, I sent a letter to
the Hampstead Cottage; and followed it myself,
in an hour's time.

When the first meeting was over, when our
quiet and composure of other days began
gradually to return to us, I saw something in
my mother's face which told me that a secret
oppression lay heavy on her heart. There was
more than love—there was sorrow in the anxious
eyes that looked on me so tenderly; there was
pity in the kind hand that slowly and fondly
strengthened its hold on mine. We had no
concealments from each other. She knew how
the hope of my life had been wrecked—she
knew why I had left her. It was on my lips
to ask as composedly as I could, if any letter
had come for me from Miss Halcombe—if there
was any news of her sister that I might hear.
But, when I looked in my mother's face, I
lost courage to put the question even in that
guarded form. I could only say, doubtfully and
restrainedly,

“You have something to tell me.”

My sister, who had been sitting opposite to
us, rose suddenly, without a word of explanation
rose—and left the room.

My mother moved closer to me on the sofa,
and put her arms round my neck. Those fond
arms trembled; the tears flowed fast over the
faithful, loving face.

“Walter!” she whispered—“my own darling!
my heart is heavy for you. Oh, my son! my
son! try to remember that I am still left!”

My head sank on her bosom. She had said
all, in saying those words.

II.

IT was the morning of the third day since my
return—the morning of the sixteenth of October.

I had remained with them at the Cottage; I
had tried hard not to embitter the happiness of
my return, to them, as it was embittered to me.
I had done all man could to rise after the shock,
and accept my life resignedly—to let my great
sorrow come in tenderness to my heart, and not
in despair. It was useless and hopeless. No
tears soothed my aching eyes; no relief came to
me from my sister's sympathy or my mother's
love.

On that third morning, I opened my heart to
them. At last the words passed my lips which