save the breath drawn hard on the other, and then
the two men sprang together in a grapple that
seemed for life or death. A long and silent and
deadly grapple: Laura's one wild shriek before
she fainted lost in the wilder noises of the
night: a struggle that meant more than the
mere physical mastery of the moment, that was
the antagonism of spirits and the fight of fate
with will; a struggle that might leave the bad
triumphant over good, and destroy the very life
of the household for ever. That long, fierce,
silent struggle!— only the sound of the men's
breaths drawn hard and fast, and the slipping of
their feet on the floor, and the heavy bruising of
the flesh as blows were struck and met by
blows again; only the sound of a deadly strife
breaking the terrible anguish of the night. But
for once fortune went over to the other side;
and after a long and heavy contest, Gordon had
the man down on the ground and was kneeling
over him, with his hand on his throat.

Then came two quick and lightly-stepping feet,
and Mrs. Broughton, fully dressed, slid round to
Gordon's side, and whispered something in his
ear. Laura never knew the word then whispered
— never, to the last day of her life. That was a
secret which her husband bore about with him
always, unknown and unshared; the splash of
mud which he kept covered up for ever from both
wife and children. Whatever it was, it made
him stagger back as with a sudden faintness—
his grasp on the man's throat relaxing, and
his pressure loosening. Taking advantage of
which momentary weakness, Sam slipped away
from under him, and, rushing down the stairs,
went out, a detected criminal, bare-headed,
bleeding, and bare-footed, into the cruel fury of
the night.

Two years after, there died in Millbank a
prisoner convicted for a burglary in the country,
under the name of Roderick, but known as No.
710, who used to talk mysteriously at times,
when his brain was a little affected, of his
grand connexions, and especially of his daughter,
"one of the finest young women in the country,
and married to a real Highland chieftain;"
though nobody gave much heed to his boastings,
or, indeed, for the matter of that, believed in
them. But when news of his death— sent by
a nameless outsider who had facilities— came
to a certain Mrs. Lascelles, then acting as lady
housekeeper to a widower of independent means
in the country, that lady shed tears of joy;
almost the only tears she had ever been known
to shed; and ever after might have been
observed— had any one known of the circumstance
and cared to connect events together— to dress
with even more than her ordinary care and taste;
and to be more than ever sweet and gracious to
her patron, who, indeed, was minded to like her
well enough, and might have liked her better,
even to irrevocability, but for the interposition,
one day, of a friend of his, a Miss Mary Johnstone,
who happened to call and see Mrs. Lascelles.
And after this visit the poor lady's flaxen ringlets
and bright-coloured ribbons, her light-blue
eves with the badly-cut corners and the
occasional squint, her trim figure and her marvellous
preservation of youth and freshness, failed in
their effect. She was never more than Mrs.
Lascelles to Colonel Garth, her master; never
nearer than "My housekeeper, who answers my
purpose very well, but who is, I must say it,
deuced expensive, somehow, though I cannot
exactly call her extravagant."

"You are not afraid of me now, Laura?"
Gordon said this two years after that
memorable winter's night; indeed, it was just the
two years; when they were both sitting by a
gracious little bed done up as a nautilus-shell,
in the depths of which a tiny face, flushed with
warmth and sleep, lay like a rosebud among
the lace and down.

"No," said Laura, and hid her face in his
arm; but she lifted it up directly after, and
looked at him tenderly, if bashfully, in the eyes.
"Never again, Gordon! never again consenting
to the smallest act of deception towards
you! never again more afraid of truth than
of sin!"

"No, not if you love me as I love you, my
wife! Where love is real there must of
necessity be trust. What is that word— one of
the truest of all the true words written there,
'Perfect love casteth out fear'? And our
love, now made perfect," and he looked at the
tiny face in the nautilus-shell, "has cast out
fear and distrust for ever."

"For ever! dearest Gordon," said Laura, and
put her arms round him, and clung to his breast.
And an Angel of God wandering through the
homes of men to bless the loving, blessed them
both that night with a blessing that never
departed or faded away.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS.
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," "Copperfleld," &c.
Now publishing, PART XI., price 1s., of
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

Just published, bound in cloth, price 5s. 6d.,
THE TWELFTH VOLUME.