He had even now, alas! experience enough
to have some skill in the malady, and looking at
Margaret, he shook his head and whispered to
West:

"I'll do what I can. But we can only soothe,
and stave off the pain."

Margaret's grim features relaxed.

"I can't hear you," she said. "But I know
what you mean. I am not afraid, and have
learned never to be afraid of death. I did not
think it would be so soon. Gilbert dear, tell
me about that. Is not this—the day—this the
morning?"

It seemed to him that her voice had softened
—that her manner had grown gentle. There
was a nervous restlessness about her. Gilbert
soothed her:

"You must keep quiet, dearest. Don't think
of those things: that is all at an end now."

She started, and half raised herself.

"No! no! surely not—not so early as
this?"

"No, no," said he, in the same tone. "I
mean, to-day will see it all over. Don't think
of it any more."

The doctor promising to return in an hour or
so, her gaunt eyes eagerly followed him.

"Ah! What o'clock is it now?" she said,
hurriedly.

"Past eight."

"Listen, Gilbert—"

"Now, dearest Margaret, I cannot listen—
you must not talk."

"But you must, Gilbert. I must speak for
myself, and I have little time. What you said
last night, do you know, struck me deeply. If
I had had time, or this had not come on me—
but it was affection—all affection for you—
indeed it was; and I would have gone through
with it—I would, indeed, at all risks, even
facing what I am now in presence of, and what
is coming. But you deserted me, Gilbert. Yet
I suppose you were right."

"Indeed, I know how you loved me all
through," said Gilbert, warmly; "I know what
you have suffered for me."

"That is nothing," she said, "though if you
knew what I have done, and meant to do, I
dare say that love of yours, Gilbert, would not
endure. You will look back yet with repugnance
and terror to your sister's memory."

"I tell you, all trouble, all reproach, is over.
Dismiss it from your mind. You need not fear.
There is yet time," he exclaimed.

"Oh! Gilbert, I must tell you—and it is
humiliating for me—but I am not ashamed of
it—what I have done. That man Vivian, I
discovered, is already a married man!"

"Married!" replied Gilbert, starting.

"Yes. His wife is alive—is alive."

"Alive!" repeated West, and turned
instantly to the door. "Take care——"

"Do not be afraid," she said. "There is
still time——"

"But Lucy and he are to be married—
now—soon. Are you serious? Are you sure,
Margaret? Take care!"

"That is not all. I told you you would not
look back to my memory with affection or
regard——" She half raised herself. "I say,
do you know why they are to be married
today? Listen. It was I who sent them the
news of the wife's death! It did not come
from Dr. Favre. She is not dead."

"Oh, Margaret, Margaret! What have you
done? Mercy! what shall we do?"

She added, painfully, "Beware of Dr. White.
He hates her now, though he did love her."

"He! Lucy!" repeated West.

"Yes. I listened to him. He found it out.
He knows all. He would punish her, and
punish him, for that detection."

"Oh, Margaret!" the brother could only
repeat, "this is shocking! But there is not a
moment to be lost. There!  It strikes nine
o'clock!"  He rushed from the room.

Happy day for Lucy! The morning bright as
a first Christmas holiday at home. Holiday it was
for the colony. A marriage had not taken place
there within the memory of exile. No wonder
Mr. Penny, the English clergyman, was
a little excited, and rehearsed his service
carefully, in which he had grown not a little
rusty. Madame Jaques was in a flutter. Even
the fishwomen knew of it; and some of the
younger ones came with a handsome bouquet,
to Lucy's infinite delight and confusion. This
compliment was, in these days, a simple and
genuine one, and not theatrical and mercenary,
which it would be now. Lucy herself, charming
in her bridal dress, glowing with pride, and
fluttering with happiness, scarcely knowing what
she did or said, looking the prettiest girl Dieppe
had ever seen go up to the altar. No wonder,
too, she was happy; for Galignani, in its latest
impression, had a scrap of news to the effect of
a rumour that the East Indian disturbance had
been quelled on the spot. It was a mere vague
paragraph, but it meant hope. The dreadful
scourge in the town was forgotten for an
hour or two. Harco braved the pestilence
in a new bright blue coat, with gilt buttons,
made on the French model then in fashion.
He was overflowing with song, and love, and
gallantry.

"Mrs. Jacks, the happiest day of our lives,
this is! Ah! but mon cher Jacks knew what
he was about when he chose you."

Then he broke into his favourite strain:

"The light of her eyes,
That mirrors the skies."

Pretty Madame Jaques was not at all displeased
at these compliments. Chabot, too, had done
his part. A charming little déjeuner for a few
select friends had been prepared.

Happy morning, too, for Vivian! Trouble
that had been at his heart for years had passed
away. A new era was beginning. He thought
he had been shipwrecked for ever; but was
now saved—saved for light, and joy, and
happiness. Never had Madame Jaques and her
female friends thought the handsome colonel—
of whom they were such warm admirers—
looking so splendid. That sort of soft interest