me in this way. Then I shall not say one word.
I owe it to my dignity."

"Dignity!" said he, with a dismal sneer.

"Neither," she went on, "shall I return with
you, as you propose. Let it end, as you say;
but let it end here.''

"End here!" he repeated. "No; you must
come. It is my duty at least to save you."

"Save me!" she repeated excitedly, "there
is the slander again! But it must end. The
sufferings I have borne for three months I
will not hear for another day. I know the
vile thoughts that have been in your mind all
this time; the cruel, unfair, and unwarrantable
suspicions that you have been feeding on—
unworthy of yourself; unworthy of me. I
could not endure them for another hour. I
understand the whole. I scorn justification.
What reparation can you ever make for all
your suspicions and unworthy plottings and
watchings? It must end, and end here."

She paused a moment, then went on with
fresh excitement:

"Not one word shall pass my lips as to last
night's business; not a single word. I disdain
to make an excuse. If you will, you may find
out the truth from those who know it, and will
tell you; but it will be too late then. Guilt?
disgrace? O, shame on you! If you only knew
the truth, and what a sacrifice I made!"

"O, I know," he said, not indeed trying to
smile, as might be supposed from the form of
words, but with a sad despair. "I know about
that! I found that out early."

"You do not understand yet, and cannot
understand! Guilt? disgrace? I will say this
much here—Heaven is looking down on me
now, and I call on it to listen and judge me
—up to the day I married you I did love him
with my whole heart and soul; and up to the
day I married you, beyond friendship and
gratitude, I had no feeling of what is called love
for you!"

"I know, I know!" he said bitterly.

"A grand admission, you will say," she went
on. "But wait. From that hour, I declare to
Heaven, as I stand here, I set myself to tear
that old affection from my heart. As I live,
there was not a minute that I was not busy
with that struggle! Watching myself; every
day making progress, every day doing violence
to myself until at last I had succeeded. Was
this the disgrace and guilt you charge me
with? I am innocent—innocent! In dream,
thought, word, or deed I am innocent before
God!" She raised her arm to heaven, and the
devout eyes looked up.

Mr. Tillotson gazed at her a little wildly.

"Well, I did not know; I did not see it.
And last night. Ah, last night!"

"Ah, last night!" she repeated; "you will
know of that, never fear. But too late. I
disdain to say a word. There, it is all ended now.
Disgrace and guilt? I know on whose head
rest the disgrace and guilt of this night. I
have borne it too long. My life has been made
wretched by your ungenerous, unmanly,
unfounded suspicion; a morbid, diseased suspicion
that would stop even charity itself—that would
keep me from obeying the despairing call of one
who was, as he believed, in the last extremity;
and whom I did love with all his faults, and
who has loved me to the end!"

Mr. Tillotson gave a groan, and started
forward eagerly.

"What!" he cried; "you did not go down
with him? He sent for you! O, what have I
said!—what have I done? What does this
mean?"

She did not answer; but went on. "An
unhappy wanderer, who has been unfortunate
all his life. I should have blushed had I
refused him."

He put his hands up to his forehead, and
said in a low voice, as if to himself, "O fool—
fool!"

She did not hear, but went towards the door.

"You shall learn the whole," she said, in a
softened tone; "later—after we have both gone
on our separate paths. I shall now go back to
London."

Mr. Tillotson said not a word. He did not
raise his head. He seemed to have been struck
down. He made no protest. A strange change
indeed had come over her. She passed him
slowly, looked back at him, then, as if touched
by compassion for his worn, suffering face and
hopeless prostration, turned and said to him
with the old sweetness, "Why, why did you do
this? He is gone now, I shall never see him
again, and——"

Tillotson gave a start, ran forward, would have
stopped, but she had gone—had floated away.
With a half cry, and the exclamation he had
made before, "Fool, fool!" he sank back into
the chair.

"Gone!" he repeated, "Gone!"

Suddenly he heard outside the door an
unequal footstep that he knew. It came nearer
and nearer, and when Mr. Tillotson turned
round he saw a very familiar figure standing in
the doorway, and heard the familiar voice.

"My God Almighty! Tillotson here!"

In the next Number will be commenced a new Serial
Story, entitled

                            BLACK SHEEP.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," "KISSING THE ROD,"
&c. &c.

              Now ready, In One Volume, post 8vo,
                 AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE.
         London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.