meeting her at the door. " Come in and sit down,
my dear. How tired you must be!"

Magdalen smiled, and patted Mrs. Wragge
kindly on the shoulder.

"You forget how strong I am," she said.
"Nothing hurts me."

She lit her candle, and went up-stairs again
into her room. As she returned to the old place
by her toilette-table, the vain hope in the three
days of delay, the vain hope of deliverance by
accident, came back to her—this time, in a form
more tangible than the form which it had hitherto
worn.

"Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Something may
happen to him; something may happen to me.
Something serious; something fatal. One of us
may die."

A sudden change came over her face. She
shivered, though there was no cold in the air.
She started, though there was no noise to alarm
her.

"One of us may die. I may be the one."

She fell into deep thought—roused herself,
after a while—and, opening the door, called to
Mrs. Wragge to come and speak to her.

"You were right in thinking I should fatigue
myself," she said. " My walk has been a little
too much for me. I feel tired; and I am going to
bed. Good night." She kissed Mrs. Wragge,
and softly closed the door again.

After a few turns backwards and forwards in
the room, she abruptly opened her writing-case
and began a letter to her sister. The letter grew
and grew under her hands; she filled sheet after
sheet of note-paper. Her heart was full of her
subject: it was her own story addressed to
Norah. She shed no tears; she was composed
to a quiet sadness. Her pen ran smoothly on.
After writing for more than two hours, she left
off while the letter was still unfinished. There
was no signature attached to it—there was a
blank space reserved to be filled up at some
other time. After putting away the case, with
the sheets of writing secured inside it, she walked
to the window for air, and stood there looking
out.

The moon was waning over the sea. The breeze
of the earlier hours had died out. On earth and
ocean, the spirit of the Night brooded in a deep
and awful calm.

Her head drooped low on her bosom, and
all the view waned before her eyes with the
waning moon. She saw no sea, no sky. Death,
the Tempter, was busy at her heart. Death,
the Tempter, pointed homeward, to the grave
of her dead parents in Combe-Raven church-
yard.

"Nineteen last birthday," she thought. " Only
nineteen!" She moved away from the window—
hesitated—and then looked out again at the view.
"The beautiful night!" she said, gratefully. "Oh,
the beautiful night!"

She left the window, and laid down on her bed.
Sleep that had come treacherously before, came
mercifully now; came deep and dreamless, the
image of her last waking thought—the image of
Death.

Early the next morning, Mrs. Wragge went
into Magdalen's room, and found that she had
risen betimes. She was sitting before the glass,
drawing the comb slowly through and through her
hair—thoughtful and quiet.

"How do you feel this morning, my dear?"
asked Mrs. Wragge. "Quite well again?"

"Yes."

After replying in the affirmative, she stopped,
considered for a moment, and suddenly
contradicted herself. " No," she said, "not quite
well. I am suffering a little from toothache."
As she altered her first answer in those words,
she gave a twist to her hair with the comb,
so that it fell forward and hid her face.

At breakfast she was very silent; and she took
nothing but a cup of tea.

"Let me go to the chemist's and get
something," said Mrs. Wragge.

"No, thank you."

"Do let me!"

"No!"

She refused for the second time sharply and
angrily. As usual, Mrs. Wragge submitted, and
let her have her own way. When breakfast was
over she rose, without a word of explanation,
and went out. Mrs. Wragge watched her from
the window, and saw that she took the direction
of the chemist's shop.

On reaching the chemist's door, she stopped—
paused, before entering the shop, and looked in
at the window—hesitated, and walked away a
little—hesitated again; and took the first turning
which led back to the beach.

Without looking about her, without caring
what place she chose, she seated herself on the
shingle. The only persons who were near to
her, in the position she now occupied, were a
nursemaid and two little boys. The youngest of
the two had a tiny toy-ship in his hand. After
looking at Magdalen for a little while, with the
quaintest gravity and attention, the boy
suddenly approached her; and opened the way to
an acquaintance by putting his toy composedly
on her lap.

"Look at my ship," said the child, crossing
his hands on Magdalen's knee.

She was not usually patient with children. In
happier days, she would not have met the boy's
advance towards her, as she met it now. The
hard despair in her eyes left them suddenly; her
fast-closed lips parted, and trembled. She put
the ship back into the child's hands, and lifted
him on her lap.

"Will you give me a kiss?" she said, faintly.

The boy looked at his ship, as if he would
rather have kissed the ship.

She repeated the question—repeated it, almost
humbly. The child put his hand up to her neck,
and kissed her.

"If I was your sister, would you love me?'*

All the misery of her friendless position, all