well what the consequence would be—for we
know that she has never recovered her memory
of what happened to her in London. Examine
her privately, or examine her publicly, she is
utterly incapable of assisting the assertion of her
own case. If you don't see this, Marian, as
plainly as I see it, we will go to Linimeridge and
try the experiment, to-morrow."

"I do see it, Walter. Even if we had the
means of paying all the law expenses, even if
we succeeded in the end, the delays would be
unendurable; the perpetual suspense, after what
we have suffered already, would be heart-breaking.
You are right about the hopelessness of
going to Limmeridge. I wish I could feel sure
that you are right also in determining to try that
last chance with the Count. ls it a chance at
all?"

"Beyond a doubt, Yes. It is the chance of
recovering the lost date of Laura's journey to
London. Without returning to the reasons I
gave you some time since, I am still as firmly
persuaded as ever, that there is a discrepancy
between the date of that journey and the date
on the certificate of death. There lies the weak
point of the whole conspiracy—it crumbles to
pieces if we attack it in that way; and the
means of attacking it are in possession of the
Count——"

"Not in his possession only!" Marian eagerly
interposed. "Surely, Walter, we have both of
us overlooked, in the strangest, manner, the
letter which Laura wrote to Mrs. Vesey, and
which Mrs. Michelson posted, from Blackwater
Park? Even if there is no date to the letter
(which is only too probable), the post-mark
would help us."

"I remembered the letter, Marian—though,
in the press of other anxieties and other
disappointments on my mind, I may have omitted to
tell you about it, at the time. When I went to
Mrs. Vesey's to inquire if Laura had really
slept there, and when I heard that she had
never been near the house, I asked for her
letter from Blackwater Park. The letter was
given to me—but the envelope was lost. It had
been thrown into the waste-paper basket, and
long since destroyed."

"Was there no date to the letter?"

"None. Not even the day of the week was
mentioned. You can judge for yourself. I
have the letter in my pocket-book, with the
other papers which I always keep about me.
Look. She only writes these few lines:—
'Dearest Mrs. Vesey, I am in sad distress and
anxiety, and I may come to your house
tomorrow night and ask for a bed. I can't tell
you what is the matter in this letter—I write it
in such fear of being found out that I can fix
my mind on nothing. Pray be at home to see
me. I will give you a thousand kisses, and tell
you everything. Your affectionate Laura.'
What help is there in those lines? None. I
say it again, the last means left of attacking the
conspiracy by recovering the lost date are in the
possession of the Count. If I succeed in wresting
them from him, the object of your life and
mine is fulfilled. If I fail, the wrong that
Laura has suffered, will, in this world, never be
redressed."

"Do you fear failure, yourself, Walter?"

"I dare not anticipate success; and, for that
very reason, Marian, I speak openly and plainly,
as I have spoken now. In my heart and my
conscience, I can say it—Laura's hopes for the
future are at their lowest ebb. I know that
her fortune is gone; I know that the last chance
of restoring her to her place in the world lies
at the mercy of her worst enemy, of a man who
is now absolutely unassailable, and who may
remain unassailable to the end. With every
worldly advantage gone from her; with all
prospect of recovering her rank and station more
than doubtful; with no clearer future before
her than the future which her husband can
provide—the poor drawing-master may harmlessly
open his heart at last. In the days of her
prosperity, Marian, I was only the teacher who
guided her hand—I ask for it, in her adversity,
as the hand of my wife!"

Marian's eyes met mine affectionately—I could
say no more. My heart was full, my lips were
trembling. In spite of myself, I was in danger of
appealing to her pity. I got up to leave the
room. She rose at the same moment, laid her
hand gently on my shoulder, and stopped me.

"Walter!" she said, " I once parted you
both, for your good and for hers. Wait here,
my Brother!—wait, my dearest, best friend, till
Laura comes, and tells you what I have done
now!"

For the first time since the farewell morning
at Limmeridge, she touched my forehead with
her lips. A tear dropped on my face, as she
kissed me. She turned quickly, pointed to the
chair from which I had risen, and left the room.

I sat down alone at the window, to wait through
the crisis of my life. My mind, in that breathless
interval, felt like a total blank. I was
conscious of nothing but a painful intensity of all
familiar perceptions. The sun grew blinding
bright; the white sea birds chasing each other
far beyond me, seemed to be flitting before my
face; the mellow murmur of the waves on the
beach was like thunder in my ears.

The door opened; and Laura came in alone.
So she had entered the breakfast-room at
Limmeridge House, on the morning when we parted.
Slowly and falteringly, in sorrow and in hesitation,
she had once approached me. Now, she
came with the haste of happiness in her feet,
with the light of happiness radiant in her face.
Of their own accord, those dear arms clasped
themselves round me; of their own accord, the
sweet lips came to meet mine. "My darling!"
she whispered, "we may own we love each
other, now!" Her head nestled with a tender
contentedness on my bosom. "Oh," she said,
innocently, "I am so happy at last!"

Ten days later, we were happier still. We
were married.

II.

THE course of this narrative, steadily flowing