attention be centred in my children. Do you
understand?"

"Perfectly, ma'am," said Esther; "and I
have to thank you for this most opportune visit,
which has enabled me to decide upon a point of
distressing difficulty. I am going to leave
you."

"How! What! leave me, child?" exclaimed
the alarmed lady. "Whither could you go?"

"Not to Mrs. Margesson's," said Esther,
quietly. (The name brought a slight colour
into Mrs. Grimble's cheek.) "I am going to
my aunt, who is now residing at Rosedale."

"And—and the chil——Nonsense, Esther.
I was only joking."

"/ am not" said Esther, steadily. "I should
not hold such jesting fair. I love your children,
and am indebted to you, and even more to
Mr. Grimble, for an amount of kindness not
always shown even to those who can give
something in return. But my mind is made up.
I will remain, however, for a few days, if you
think fit, that my pupils may not be deprived of
such inefficient teaching as I can still afford;
for, indeed," added Esther, rather appealingly,
"I am not so well as you persist in believing."

Poor Mrs. Grimble was fain to accept this
concession, and the interview terminated, leaving
on her hands the unpleasant duty of
informing her husband that not only had Miss
Vann refused to be kept "up to the collar," but
had slipped out of it altogether.

Rosedale, whither the last scene of this
strange eventful history conducts us, was a
pretty sequestered village, in and around which
more than one of George's ancestors had held
property. Hence, though it was somewhat
nearer to The Haie than George would have
preferred—about four miles—he had selected
it as an eligible residence for his faithful old
servant, and provided her with the prettiest
cottage-dwelling in the district. Everything
requisite for comfort—even many elegances—
had been liberally supplied; for George trusted
it might prove the temporary nest of a brighter
bird than she whom he sent forward to prepare
the way.

He was not disappointed. Esther came; and
the third meeting in the world of these singular
lovers took place in the little pleasance George
had caused to be planted, regardless of expense,
in imitation of that at The Graize. Happy
beyond expression, they lingered in the autumn-
tinted wood-walks, or sat beside the chattering
brook, while Mrs. Turnover, in her glory,
superintended the preparation of those marriage
garments, &c., to which her darling could be
prevailed upon to give but slight attention.

Esther's new-found peace seemed to impart
a new beauty to her charming features; but
there were still times when the feverish flush
would reappear, and a quickened pulse and
glistening eye indicated some morbid action
lurking in her sensitive system.

One day, when George, who had been absent
a little longer than usual, meeting her in her
walk, leaped from his horse, and clasped her
hand, she gave a little involuntary cry of pain.
George eagerly inquired the cause, and, in
doing so, noticed the peculiar feverish and
excited expression we have mentioned.

He learned that she had yesterday struck her
hand accidentally against a bookcase, exactly
upon the scar left by the rose-thorn at Gosling
Graize. It had given her more pain than was
easy to be accounted for, seeing that that
famous wound had long since healed; and,
besides an extreme tenderness on the spot
itself, she had since suffered from severe shooting
pains, following the direction of the
surrounding nerves, up to the very shoulder and
neck.

George looked at the scar. It was no longer
white, but a dark livid red, and that not only
at the seat of the recent bruise, but throughout
its entire length.

"My darling, this must be looked to," he
said. "The blow has touched a nerve. This
terrible wound! When will it cease to reproach
me, I wonder?" He kissed it softly as he
spoke.

"Do you know that even the touch of your
lips gives me a twinge of pain?" said Esther,
laughing. "But, what matters, dear? After all,
a mere scratch!"

George lingered long that day, as if he could
not tear himself from the side of his betrothed,
whose spirits were higher than common. Wit
and fancy sparkled through her merry talk, and
when George reluctantly departed, the night
through which he rode seemed dark enough.

When he was fairly gone, Esther turned deadly
pale, and burst into tears, trembling, and, at
intervals, sighing heavily. A reaction had taken
place. Mrs. Turnover, frightened, insisted upon
her going instantly to bed; and, to make sure,
saw her thither.

But Esther could not sleep. Something
oppressed her breathing. The shooting pains in
her hand and arm became more frequent and
acute. Soon, the very silence seemed to grow
intolerable, and she rose and opened the window.
The moon was near the full, and, as Esther
gazed upon the shining mystery sailing smoothly
and dumbly through the fields of air, a sudden
and violent shiver darted through her frame.
Afraid of a chill, she closed the casement, and
once more sought her pillow. This time she
slept, indeed, but it was only to be the victim
of frightful dreams.

Wretched and unrefreshed, she rose almost
with the dawn, and was shocked at her own
strange looks. With a strong mental effort she
threw off the morbid uneasiness that tormented
her, and, calmed with prayer, walked out into
the pleasance. The morning was dull and
overcast, but this, perhaps, from harmonising with
her present condition of mind, seemed more
soothing than sunshine. At all events, she felt
herself growing better, when a little girl, who
was proud to act as her special attendant,
tripped up the garden, and placed a letter in
her hand.

The writing was strange. She opened it,