would not have known the bright, almost rosy
and handsome man that had returned. In those
foreign lands on the Swiss mountains he had
left all his troubles. Her face, too, was full of
trust, calm confidence, and happiness.

On the stairs they were met by Martha
Malcolm. "This," said Mr. Tillotson, all but
introducing her, "is an old servant, as I may
call her—Martha Malcolm, our housekeeper—
all but a friend."

He was so overjoyed at everything, that it
did seem as if he had known her affectionately
from childhood. The golden-haired lady smiled
on her, and said something about her being sure
they would be friends. The other bowed stiffly
and grimly, but did not answer.

"Now we begin our London life," said the
bridegroom, when they were alone. "We are to
have no troubles, and no sorrows; at least I feel
a conviction of this. I had the same as we went
away, and I have been right. I believe there
have not been such happy days upon earth since
the creation." He added, smiling, "You are to
be queen here. Do what you please, what you
like; command, order; we shall all be your
slaves. If you should wish specially to please
me, do give me a treat or a surprise, ask me for
something difficult and almost impossible; recollect
that. Promise me; only I am afraid," he
added, with a sigh, "you care too little for these
things."

She took his hand. "You are too good to me,"
she said, "and I will do what you say."

"You promise me?" he asked.

"I do, and more. I shall begin this very
night."

"This makes me happy," he said, joyfully.
"Come, quick! Money! How much?"

"No," she said, slowly, "not that. You know
we are very happy. But there are others not
so fortunate. What I would ask you about is
poor Ross."

Mr. Tillotson started. She went on faster:

"He is unfortunate; he is miserable. He is,
indeed, not accountable. He has bad friends,
who work on him and excite him. But he is
naturally generous and good. What I would
ask you is to bear with him, and be generous,
as you have always been."

A little shade had passed over Mr. Tillotson's
forehead like a light cloud, and was now gone.
"To be sure," he said, warmly; "just what I
have always felt to him. I promise you."

"But what I mean," she said, doubtfully,
"should he be rough or rude—which he can be,
I fear—and this assisted by a sense of
misfortune."

"I understand," said he, almost gaily. "Let
him say what he please, do what he please, it
never shall make the least difference in me.
There, are you content now?"

"You have made me so happy," she said,
giving him one of those old smiles which had
often come back on him like gleams of light
in his cold chambers. "O, so happy! This
was the only thing that was troubling me. Now
it is gone, all else is gone too."

When they had gone through the house, and he
had shown her everything, the piano, the pictures,
her boudoir, with the harmonium that
was all but an organ, with a hundred little
tokens of care, and consideration, and unwearying
solicitude to consult her tastes,

"You are only too good to me," she said,
with the old look and old smile; "and, indeed,
it will be my fault if I am not as happy."

"Yes," said Mr. Tillotson, "on this festive
night we are both to lay down our cares for
ever, I trust; for I recollect in those St. Alans
days you told me that you had your troubles
also. We have done with that, mind."

She turned a little pale again. "I shall have
no secrets from you" she said. "Just at that
time when I first saw you, I had found out a
dreadful secret, which was long kept from me
from kind motives. They never told me."

"What was it?" said he. "I did remark
at St. Alans that you were suffering, and that
you had some sorrow of your own. Indeed, I
remember you hinted as much to me."

It was about ten o'clock. Mr. and Mrs.
Tillotson were at each side of the fireplace in.
the little boudoir. The softened shade of a
modérateur, used for the first time, was between
them. By its light she saw that her husband's
face was full of a soft sympathy and interest.
She went on in a low voice:

"I had a dear father whom I recollect when
I was a little girl—an image of love and tenderness,
that I have looked back to again and
again. They were the happiest days, like
paradise, abroad under the Italian sunshine and
sweet gardens, and on the edge of the blue sea.
Suddenly all was darkened. It was gone. They
told me that I had a fever for weeks, and that
during that illness that dear father had died.
This was their story, and I believed it; but when
I found that dear soft face taken from me, I
thought I should have died too."

She saw that her husband's face had grown
paler, but through the paleness she could see the
deep overpowering sympathy.

"Ah, but that was not all," she went on.
"I was then but a child. I believed their
story. Years went by. Then came a letter from
a foreign country telling me all, and that letter
told me how my dear, dear father had been
murdered."

Mr. Tillotson's face turned yet paler.
"Murdered?" he said.

"Ah," she said, excitedly, "that is not what
they called it. But it was worse than murder.
A vile assassin—a—gentleman drew him into a
quarrel, and—and—"

She had covered her face with her hands.
She did not see that his face was grown yet
more ashy pale, that his hands had caught at
the arms of his chair, as if to raise himself
up. For some moments both did not speak.
"He was so good," she then went on, weeping,
"and to die in that way! O my God, if I
were one of those fierce women in the stories,
it would be the sweetest pleasure of my life to
go through the world hunting that wretch down