which they had taken for the parliamentary
season. But the mere offer of a choice seemed
to irritate Victorine inexpressibly. She looked
upon the proposal as a sign that Theresa
considered her as superannuated—that her nursling
was weary of her, and wished to supplant her
services by those of a younger maid. It seemed
impossible to dislodge this idea when it had once
entered into her head, and it led to frequent
bursts of temper, in which she violently upbraided
Theresa for her ingratitude towards so faithful
a follower.

One day, Victorine went a little further in
her expressions than usual, and Theresa, usually
so forbearing towards her, turned at last.
"Really, Victorine!" she said, " this is misery
to both of us. You say you never feel so wicked
as when I am near you; that my ingratitude is
such as would be disowned by fiends; what can
I, what must I do? You say you are never so
unhappy as when you are near me; must we, then,
part? Would that be for your happiness?"

"And is that what it has come to!" exclaimed
Victorine. " In my country they reckon a building
secure against wind and storm and all the
ravages of time, if the first mortar used has been
tempered with human blood. But not even our
joint secret, though it was tempered well with
blood, can hold our lives together! How much
less all the care, all the love, that I lavished upon
you in the days of my youth and strength!"

Theresa came close to the chair in which
Victorine was seated. She took hold of her hand
and held it fast in her own. " Speak, Victorine,"
said she, hoarsely, " and tell me what you mean.
What is our joint secret? And what do you
mean by its being a secret of blood? Speak out.
I WILL know."

"As if you do not know!" replied Victorine,
harshly. "You don't remember my visits to
Bianconi, the Italian chemist in the Marais,
long ago?" She looked into Theresa's face, to
see if her words had suggested any deeper meaning
than met the ear. No; Theresa's look was
stern, but free and innocent.

"You told me you went there to learn the
composition of certain unguents, and cosmetics,
and domestic medicines."

"Ay, and paid high for my knowledge, too,"
said Victorine, with a low chuckle. " I learned
more than you have mentioned, my lady countess.
I learnt the secret nature of many drugs
—to speak plainly, I learnt the art of poisoning.
And," suddenly standing up, " it was for your
sake I learnt it. For your service you who
would fain cast me off in my old age. For you!"

Theresa blanched to a deadly white. But she
tried to move neither feature nor limb, nor to
avert her eyes for one moment from the eyes
that defied her. " For my service, Victorine"?"

"Yes! The quieting draught was all ready
for your husband, when they brought him home
dead."

"Thank God his death does not lie at your
door!"

"Thank God?" mocked Victorine. "The
wish for his death does lie at your door; and
the intent to rid you of him does lie at my door.
And I am not ashamed of it. Not I! It was
not for myself I would have done it, but because
you suffered so. He had struck you, whom I
had nursed on my breast."

"Oh, Victorine!" said Theresa, with, a
shudder. "Those days are past. Do not let
us recal them. I was so wicked because I was
so miserable; and now I am so happy, so
inexpressibly happy, that—do let me try to make
you happy too!"

"You ought to try," said Victorine, not yet
pacified; " can't you see how the incomplete
action once stopped by Fate, was tried again,
and with success; and how you are now reaping
the benefit of my sin, if sin it was?"

"Victorine! I do not know what you mean!"
But some terror must have come over her, she
so trembled and so shivered.

"Do you not indeed? Madame Brownlow,
the country girl from Crowley Parsonage, needed
sleep, and would fain forget the little child's
death that was pressing on her brain. I helped
the doctor to his end. She sleeps now, and she
has met her baby before this, if priests' tales
are true. And you, my beauty, my queen,
you reign in her stead! Don't treat the poor
Victorine as if she were mad, and speaking in
her madness. I have heard of tricks like that
being played, when the crime was done, and the
criminal of use no longer."

That evening, Duke was surprised by his wife's
entreaty and petition that she might leave him,
and return with Victorine and her other
personal servants to the seclusion of Crowley Castle.
She, the great London toast, the powerful
enchantress of society, and most of all, the
darling wife and true companion, with this sudden
fancy for this complete retirement, and for
leaving her husband when he was first fully
entering into the comprehension of all that
a wife might be! Was it ill health? Only
last night she had been in dazzling beauty,
in brilliant spirits; this morning only, she had
been so merry and tender. But Theresa
denied that she was in any way indisposed; and
seemed suddenly so unwilling to speak of
herself, and so much depressed, that Duke saw
nothing for it but to grant her wish and let her
go. He missed her terribly. No more pleasant
tête-à-tête breakfasts, enlivened by her sense
and wit, and cheered by her pretty caressing
ways. No gentle secretary now, to sit by his side
through long long hours, never weary. When
he went into society, he no longer found his
appearance watched and waited for by the loveliest
woman there. When he came home from the
House at night, there was no one to take an
interest in his speeches, to be indignant at all that
annoyed him, and charmed and proud of all the
admiration he had won. He longed for the
time to come when he would be able to go down
for a day or two to see his wife; for her letters
appeared to him dull and flat after her bright
companionship. No wonder that her letters came
out of a heavy heart, knowing what she knew.

She scarcely dared to go near Victorine,