the dictates of my own heart when we were both
young, how different now would have been my
condition!" had all the metallic resonance which
had jarred out of tune for ever the finest chords
in Mr. Burfield's breast. I could not help feeling
annoyed that he should have so often complied
with the clamorous demands of this mercenary
woman. She wearied him by her importunity.
"From William Gabriel's widow, for money—
Sent her £50," occurred again and again. But at
length there came one letter, simpler in expression,
briefer, and more natural, upon the enclosure
of which was written, " Anne's last letter, two
days before her death, 1838." "Dear friend,"
she said, towards the end of it, " I have not
strength to write much to you now, beyond
begging you to be kind to my boy, and humbly
entreating you to pardon the great, great wrong
I once did you. I have long known how it
poisoned your life, though you have been so
nobly good to me, who deserved nothing at your
hands but scorn. I see now how wicked and
cruel my conduct to you was, but I did not see it
then, and I have suffered for it sorely since. I
pray you and the Almighty to forgive me. If I
had my life to live over again, I would live it very
differently."

This brought me to the end of the assorted
letters; there were a few of no moment lying loose
in the desk, and a thick bundle of newspaper
extracts, which I kept for leisure perusal, seeing
they were contemporary accounts of events most
of which have passed into the obscurity of ancient
history. Then there was a packet of mourning
cards, which showed that Mr. Burfield had
outlived many friends and acquaintance; then there
was a dog's brass collar, engraved with his
master's name and place of abode; and there was
an old faded red silk huswife, with rusty needles
and threads in it still, and within the pocket was
a card and a lock of tarnished yellow hair—the
card was a common visiting-card, with "Miss
Anne Cardigan" printed upon it, and across one
corner was written, " Come early to-night." The
last thing was a flat case of miniatures painted
upon ivory; each portrait being set separately in
a narrow rim of gold, with a ring attached for a
chain to be passed through. They are family
likenesses: our grandfather, grandmother, and
probably great-aunts and uncles—they are quite
old by the costumes, and I do not recognise
any.

When my task was accomplished, I stretched
my arms above my head with a grateful sense of
relief; then leaving the bureau open to air, after
its delivery of its musty secrets, I descended to
the drawing-room, to indulge a brief spell of
reflection over my discoveries. Do I weary you,
dear John? Have I gossiped long enough? But
consider the greatness of the occasion and I have
nearly done.

When I came to inquire of Mr. Worsley, I
found that the son of Mrs. Gabriel is still living,
and in good repute as an artist; if you read the
Art criticisms in our papers and magazines,
which probably find their way out to Melbourne,
you must know his name. Mr. Burfield brought
him up after his mother's death, though without
future expectations from himself, but he left him
a legacy of a thousand pounds. With the exception
of bequests to his old servants, and the gift
of two valuable paintings to his physician, no
name besides my own occurs in the will. But
though our uncle did not choose to remember you,
my dear brother, it will be all the same as if he
had made us equal; for what is mine is yours. I
am alone in the world, with few friends and no
ties of kindred but yourselves—will you come
home again with Mary and the children I have
never seen? I shall be very restless until I hear
from you, and for myself I shall neither do nor
devise anything. When I can escape from the
lawyers and the inevitable business entailed on me
by my heiress-ship, I shall return to my lodgings
at Mrs. Jacques's, and there stay until news of
you reaches me. Think of me as unsettled and
anxious meanwhile, and do not delay to write. It
is much to ask of you to break up the connexions
and habits of twenty years, but to those born and
bred in dear old England, methinks it must
always be felt as Home. My dear love to Mary
and all your darlings, and every blessing on
yourself.
                                MARGARET STANSFIELD.

         Now ready, price FOURPENCE,
              SOMEBODY'S LUGGAGE.
                         FORMING
          THE EXTRA DOUBLE NUMBER
                  FOR CHRISTMAS.
CONTENTS: His Leaving it till called for. His Boots.
His Umbrella. His Black Bag. His Writing-Desk. His
Dressing-Case. His Brown-Paper Parcel. His Portmanteau.
His Hat-Box. His Wonderful End.

Early in January NO NAME will be completed; when
a New Story by the Authoress of " MARY BARTON" will be
commenced, entitled
                   A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.
This will be followed, in March, by a New Serial Work
                            of Fiction by
                   CHARLES READE, D.C.L.,
   Author of " IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."

                             NO NAME,
                     By WILKIE COLLINS,
          In Three Volumes, is now ready.
   SAMPSON LOW, SON, and Co., Ludgate-hill.