Towards the Spanish shore,
Asleep in sunny folds of summer weather.

Then came the quiet eve,
And stars stole out again like thoughts of home;
Rising and falling, wet with flying foam,
We almost ceased to grieve.
The silver twilight came like quiet rest,
And I was thinking of the huried wreck,
When Wife came creeping up against my breast,
And twined her long warm arms about my neck,
And laid her cheek to mine with love unblest.
And thrice I thrust her from me, but in vain;
She panted trembling to my arms again,
With kisses that seemed burning in my brain;
And so at last I yielded, and she clung
About me, breathing breath that scorched and stung;
My heart was hard and pitiless with pain.
Then as she watched me with her piteous eyes,
Robbed of her scorn and hate, and full of sighs,
While I was thinking of the marriage vow,
That still would chide the blackness on my brow,
"See!" cried a seaman—" comrade, see—she dies!"
I gazed upon her, as she trembled there
Upon my bosom, with a heart that bled;
Her toil-worn-hand was smoothing back my hair,
And the old scorn seemed fled.
Then she, with cheek and hands grown cold as snow,
Crept closer to me, murmuring soft and low,
Half to herself, her breath on eyes and head,
In her new friendship looking very fair,
"Forgive me!" and " Forgive me!"—and I said,
"May God forgive thee, woman!" unaware.
Then one cried out aloud, that she was dead.

My tale is almost told.
Enough to know all touched the shore, worn out
With bitter fear and agonising doubt,
Bearing one dead—a woman, stiff and cold.
And when I laid her underneath the sod,
Close by the singing sea,
I half believed that I had loved her.—God
Forgive the wounded wife, and pardon me!
She was the sinner and the punished too;
And now that I am old and grey, I find
That she, and not the shallow maiden, drew
My footsteps closer unto humankind.
Perchance she perished, as she sinned, to win
Some gleams of better wisdom to my sight;
Perchance her love was greater than the sin
That threatened death that night!

A DAY'S RIDE: A LIFE'S ROMANCE.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

I COULD not hear the loud and repeated
knockings which were made at my door, as at
first waiters, and then the landlord himself,
endeavoured to gain admittance. At length, a
ladder was placed at the window, and a courageous
individual, duly armed, appeared at my
casement and summoned me to surrender. With
what unspeakable relief did I learn that it was
not to apprehend or arrest me that all these
measures were taken; they were simply the
promptings of a graceful benevolence, a sort of
rumoured intimation having got about that, I had
taken prussic acid, or was being done to death
by charcoal. Imagine a prisoner in a condemned
cell suddenly awakened, and hearing that the
crowd around him consisted not of the ordinary,
the sheriff, Mr. Calcraft and Co., but a deputation
of respectable citizens come to offer the
representation of their borough or a piece of plate,
and then you can have a mild conception of the
pleasant revulsion of my feelings. I thanked
my public in a short but appropriate address.
I assured them, although there was a popular
prejudice about doing this sort of thing in
November in England, that it was deemed quite
unseasonable at other times, and that really in
these days of domestic arsenic and conjugal
strychnine, nothing but an unreasonable
impatience would make a man self-destructive—
suicide arguing that as man was really so utterly
valueless it was worth nobody's while to get rid
of him. My explanation over, I ordered breakfast.

"Why not dinner?" said the waiter. "It is
close on four o'clock."

"No," said I; "the ladies will expect me at
dinner."

"The ladies are near Constance by this, or
else the roads are worse than we thought them."

"Near Constance! Do you mean to say they
have gone?"

"Yes, sir, at daybreak; or, indeed, I might
say before daybreak."

"Gone! actually gone?" was all that I conld
utter.

"They never went to bed last night, sir; the
old lady was taken very ill after tea, and all the
house running here and there for doctors and
remedies, and the young lady, though she bore
up so well, they tell me she fainted when she
was alone in her own room. In fact, it was a
piece of confusion and trouble until they started,
and we may say, none of us had a moment's peace
till we saw them off."

"And how came it that I was never called?"

"I believe, sir, but I'm not sure, the landlord
tried to awake you. At all events, he has a
note for you now, for I saw the old lady place it
in his hand."

"Fetch it at once," said I; and when he left
the room, I threw some water over my face, and
tried to rally all my faculties to meet the occasion.

When the waiter reappeared with the note, I
bade him leave it on the. table; I could not
venture to read it while he was in the room. At
length he went away, and I opened it. These
were the contents:

   "SIR,—When a personage of your rank abuses
the privilege of his station, it is supposed that
he means to rebuke. Although innocent of any
cause for your displeasure, I have preferred to
withdraw myself from your notice than incur
the chance of so severe a reprimand a second
time.
     "I am, sir, with unfeigned sorrow and humility,
your most devoted follower and servant,
                                            "MARTHA KEATS.
    "To the—— de—— ."

This was the whole of it; not a great deal as
correspondence, but matter enough for much
thought and much misery. After a long and
painful review of my conduct, one startling fact