had been rolled back like a curtain, and I lived
over again that moonlight night, when in that
very room I had told Anna of my love. Poor
changed pale face! Drawn, and haggard, and
aged, how altered from the lovely girlish
countenance which had lain on the pillow blooming
out of its nest of soft dark curls!

I glanced at the black dress that lay beside the
bed, and I read in it all the history of her return.

As I sat gazing on my sister's face, the large
dark eyes opened and looked at me.

"I have been very ill, Margaret; at death's
door. That is why I am so weak. O, I have
suffered much, in mind and body!"

She followed my glance to the black gown,
which lay by the bed. "Yes," she said, slowly,
in a faint hoarse voice, "I have lost him. I
have come home desolate, with my fatherless boy.
If it were not for the child, I would pray that
this hour might be my last. You think I speak
calmly, while you are weeping. How I envy
you those tears! Mine are all spent, I think."

She closed her eyes again, and lay silent for
a long time. Then her lips moved, and I heard
her whisper,

"Margaret, bend down your face to me."

I leaned over her, and touched her cheek with
mine. I believe the same recollection rushed
into her mind that had been in my own, for,
suddenly, she threw her arms around my neck,
burying her face upon my breast, and burst into
a flood of hysterical tears. I let her weep,
holding her in my arms, and speaking no word,
until the fit had exhausted itself. The tears
eased her heart, and at last she lay, weak but
tranquil, holding my hand in hers. Far, far
into the night, I sat beside her bed, and listened
to the broken story she told at intervals.

"No! Let me speak," she said, when, in
consideration of her bodily weakness, I would have
urged her to try to sleep: "I cannot rest until
I have told you all my misery. You know that
we were poor, but you cannot imagine how poor
we were. Failure met us at every turn. Horace
struggled and suffered bravely, but I know now,
and I knew then, that he felt it was all in vain.
As long as we remained near Madame de Beauguet
and her good husband, things were not so
bad. They helped us in a hundred nameless ways.
When my poor little Lily lay sick, Margaret, I
could not have procured the necessary help for
her, if it had not been for our old governess. I
know," she added, hastily, "I know what your
face says. But I could not take the money
from you then. My heart was hardened against
you, Margaret, because I knew how much better
you were than I, and because I knew that it
must be so with him. Every kind act of affection
coming from you, stung me; for I thought, in my
jealous heart, Horace will love her the better
for this."

"O, my sister!"

"Yes, I did. It is the truth. I was poor,
ailing, worn. I rose early, and went to rest
labouring feverishly to help in the daily
struggle, with all my feeble strength. I tended
the old man—my husband's father—till his
death. I saw my little children, born in sorrow
and poverty, fade, and languish, and die. But
my wicked, proud spirit was not softened yet."

A spark of the old fire blazed in her eyes as
she spoke.

"I could have endured it all and more, without
flinching, if he had only been spared to me.
But I would not bend, so I was broken—ground
into dust by the only blow that could utterly
overcome me. Horace, weak in body and weary
in spirit, fell into a fever. We were in a wild,
almost barbarous, place, helpless—penniless.
Then, Margaret, when he was struck down
in his youth, and lay on a sick bed, then I was
humbled and afraid. I would have gone on
my knees before you, to get him the least one
of the comforts he needed. We were
hundreds of miles away from the only friends who
cared for us, on all that vast continent. I wrote
to Madame de Beauguet distractedly, imploring
her to send me help. The good creature came
to me herself."

"God bless her!"

"Amen! God bless her! Yes; she made
that long dreadful journey alone, travelling day
and night, to reach us. Horace brightened when
he saw her, but it was the last flicker of life. He
would have our boy, our only surviving child,
lifted onto his bed, and he would lie holding the
tiny hand in his, and gazing on the wistful face.
The little fellow, barely two years old, would sit
mute and still, nestling by his father for hours.
If we attempted to take him away, he struggled
and sobbed until none of us had the heart
to remove him. Many times we have waited
until he dropped asleep, to carry him to his
own little crib. One night I had fallen into an
uneasy slumber from exhaustion, and I lay
stretched on the floor at the foot of my
husband's bed, when, in the dead silence of the
night, I was awakened by hearing your name
uttered in a loud clear voice. I started to my
feet, and saw Horace gazing intently in the
direction of the door. 'You are come,' he said,
with a smile; 'I knew you would come!'
Margaret, before the avenging God, I believe that
the anguish I endured at that moment might
expiate even the great wrong I did you. 'My own
love, my Horace!' I cried, frantically, clasping
his poor thin hand, 'don't you know me?
Speak to me, my husband, or my heart will
break.' His gaze never wavered from the door,
but he pressed my hand with a feeble clasp, and
whispered, 'Look at Margaret!' and so he died.

"Well! Grief does not kill, for I am here.
I lay for six weeks, raving in brain fever, and
insensible to everything around me. Our good
friend nursed me, and took care of my boy, and
fed us, and clothed us, and, when I could be
moved, carried us both to her own home near
Quebec. And then she urged me to return, and
cast myself at uncle's feet, and supplicate for
pardon and reconciliation. She spoke firmly and
openly to me. She probed my heart, and
fearlessly showed me what a wretch I had been, even
when I had most gloried in my strength. She
told me that it was a duty I owed to my dead