frantically hesitating on the step of his door.
"What! except I take that pistol, and shoot
myself. How can I tell them? Oh, the
disgrace, the mortification! it will kill her.
And my baseness and treachery! Oh, it was
infamous. I should not have concealed it. And
yet I was not so guilty. I was a boy, only
seventeen, and fell into the hands of this
wretched French family. I never saw her since;
and, for fifteen years, I have been in that slavery.
Now, I thought I was free. I could not grieve; I
could only rejoice. Tell me what is to be done?"

"Nothing," said West, gloomily, "but go
down manfully, and say openly it must be put
off for private reasons. Tell her—tell her father,
but no one else."

"Tell her," repeated Vivian, a little wildly.

"Yes; and here he is now, crossing the
street. It is the only straightforward course.
Go back to your own room. I will go to them,
and tell them you are coming, or some story
to account for delay."

As he went out, he saw a chaise clattering
down the street. Instantly Mr. Dacres came up.

"What the devil is the meaning of all this?
West, are you at the bottom of it?  I'll hold
every man of ye accountable. It's an infernal
insult and disrespect. Come up with me, sir,
and if you don't both make it as clear as
daylight——"

West heard a strange voice beside him. He
felt a hand on his arm.

"What! Mr. West here?" said a familiar
voice.

Gilbert looked round, and remembered Dr.
Parkes-Adams. For a moment he was surprised;
then a light of intelligence flashed into his eyes.

"You know!" he said. "Come in here,
quickly. You have news?"

"News?" said the doctor, "yes!  News
for Colonel Vivian. Where is he? Here?"

"Heaven be praised! you have come at the
right moment."

"Yes! I have travelled all night to bring
him the news."

"Come up, quick; he is here."

Vivian, his face between his hands, was
looking at Mr. Dacres with a dull stare. To that
angry gentleman's  "You shall answer to me at
twelve paces out on the sands for this, whatever
your reasons are," he was beginning to say,
slowly, "It is only right you should know,"
when West rushed in and whispered him
hurriedly. At the same moment Vivian's eyes fell
on the other figure entering at the doorway.

"Ah!" he cried, starting up.

"Yes," said the latter, meaningly, "I bring
you the news." He was a quick, intelligent man.

"He is better," said West, hurriedly, to
Dacres. "I was so afraid. It has all passed off,
has it not? And I think, Dr. Adams, he is well
enough now. We have kept them waiting long
enough."

The bewildered Dacres was looking from
one to the other. "He could not understand it
at all, at all." He did not speak, but followed
mechanically as West, Vivian, and the doctor
hurried down-stairs.

Poor Lucy, pale and trembling, no longer a
blooming rose-bud, but a snowy lily, was ready
to sink as the moments of suspense drew on.
Hark to the steps and rustle. "Here he is!
here he is!"  She had faith in him all through,
and, what was more, in his bright hopeful face
she read no doubt, nor alarm, nor misgiving, but
joy and hope.

Even the disappointed gossips could make
out no sign of reluctance. Out came the
little procession. Mr. Dacres, who had never
spoken, was the only one with an air of
confusion in his face. Then Mr. Penny addressed
himself to his work. The English stood on the
benches, to get a good view. The bride looked
lovely; the colonel, "noble and beautiful."
They were a handsome pair. It was done.
They were Colonel Vivian and Mrs. Vivian at
last.

So does there come an end for all trials and
troubles.

No one in the colony ever solved that curious
delay. The strangest part of the whole, and
which no one could account for either, was the
disappearance of Dr. White. The moment Dr.
Parkes-Adams entered so hurriedly upon the
scene, he had been noticed to turn pale; and
when the quick eye of that gentleman rested
on him, the latter broke out with:

"Why, it's the apothecary that decamped
from Bristol. He dare not wait for the
exposure which I can visit upon him."

Mr. Dacres himself was greatly puzzled by
Vivian's sudden and mysterious sickness; but
he was too sensible a man to give any trouble,
now that things had turned out so well. He
was too full of benediction and genial happiness,
and presided at the little breakfast, giving toasts
à l'Anglaise. It was charming to see The Dear
Girl seated there beside her husband—the man
of her heart, in the old conventional phrase, and
the man of her choice. A bright, bright day.

"Ah! dear," she whispered to Vivian, "poor
Gilbert! if he only were here!"

Gilbert had gone home. The events of that
morning had been a little beyond his strength;
still there was a wonderful change in him. He
could not bring himself to look on at the
marriage, but went home. He had his own sorrow
to hurry back to. This last adventure had
excited him marvellously. He was met at the
door by Constance.

"Oh, Gilbert," she said, "where have you
been? Come in, quick!"

As he entered the room, the dull eyes lighted.
The old grim smile came back.

"Too late!" she faltered. "You were too
late, Gilbert," she repeated, eagerly; "yet I
told you in time."

"No, Margaret, thank God, you have been
saved! Your letter, after all, told the truth. She
(Vivian's wife) died while you were penning it."

The old nature was not to be so easily
worsted. A shade—it might have been the
shade of the great enemy—seemed to spread
slowly over that thin face. It was the herald
of his impatient and deadly grasp. Now he
seized his prey; all was over.