came back. She is a nice, pretty, respectable
young thing, and I was glad to serve her.
Besides"—and that genial voice took such a
tone of womanly tenderness, it made Janet's
heart ache to think how sadly misplaced!—
"she was a countrywoman of yours, dear, and I
could not help thinking somehow of your
sister, or—or— your first sweetheart."

When she said this, it seemed to Janet as if
she kissed him.

"You shall see her to-morrow, dear,
perhaps you may know something of her. By the
bye I dare say she came over in your ship! I
never thought to ask her the name. How
stupid of me! but how lucky that I met her.
You may be able to do something for her—
perhaps find her lout of a husband, and teach
him not to lose his wife again. Poor young
creature! It so went to my heart to see her
look so pale and desolate."

Every word of which Janet heard as if a
thousand trumpets had sounded.

There was a dead silence. It seemed as if
her husband was too much startled, too much
oppressed, to venture on an answer. Perhaps
he was afraid of his voice, which would either
betray his agitation to the one, or his existence
to the other.

"Are you not well, my dear? " then said
Bessie, kindly. " How pale you have turned
all at once!"

"It is nothing, dear," anwered Robert in
so low a voice, that had not Janet's hearing
been sharpened to intensity by agony, she
could not have understood what he said. He
seemed afraid of being overheard, she thought,
and spoke almost in a whisper.

"But something is the matter, dear. Tell
me what it is!"

"Nothing, nothing; only a little pain in
my chest. Come! give me another glass of
brandy; that will cure me, I warrant."

After this Janet heard nothing more
distinctly. The conversation was carried on in
a subdued tone, as between people sitting
close, side by side. Only once Janet
distinguished the words, " successful spec—
above a hundred pounds—waistcoat— give it you
tomorrow." Soon after this they went to bed,
and Janet heard them both talking in low
whispers, in the room next her own. She
could distinguish their different steps across
the floor, and hear their faintest movement
through the thin partition. She even knew
when they came to the side next her room,
and could fancy all their actions. She herself
lay as still as death, for she thought that
Robert was listening; she heard him come
to the partition, and stand there for a moment
quite quiet, as if to hear whether she was
astir or asleep.

A few hours passed. They made the fond
wife cast down her fondness as a winter tree
its leaves; they changed the soft heart into
one of stone and iron, and nerved the trembling
hand and stilled the throbbing blood. They
made her blush till her temples burnt with
shame at her gross credulity—with shame at
her childish faith; but they also made her
heart spring up like a strong man's courage
—masculine and resolute, equal to its fate.
And this because of those two sleeping little
ones. By herself she would have sunk utterly
prostrate; as guardian to them she stood like
a lioness at bay. Nothing stronger—nothing
more determined— nothing braver drew breath
in New York than that timid, patient, girlish
wife, transformed into the heroine by maternal
love!

She listened, and by their breathing she
knew that Robert and his poor American
wife were asleep. Even at this moment her
woman's nature yearned in gratitude to that
kindly face and great maternal heart; and
she felt that she would have suffered any
torment herself rather than have caused an
hour's pain to one who had so blessed and
befriended her.

"She shall not suffer by me," she thought,
as she determined on her plan.

Quiet and pale as a ghost she rose—dressing
herself noiselessly, and with incredible speed.
She then took up her sleeping children, and
dressed them, still asleep. Leaving them on
the bed, she softly opened the door of her
room, and stole to that of her husband. A
faint light shone underneath and through the
crevices: it was a night-light, which Bessie
always burnt. She turned the handle and
entered. By the glimmering of the light she
made out the place where Robert had thrown
his clothes, and walked softly to where they
lay. She took up the waistcoat, unstitched
the notes, and placed them in her bosom. As
she turned to leave the room, with one last
look of despair directed at him one loving
look of gratitude at her—her husband opened
his eyes full upon her. She stood and met
his eyes; then saying—"Take the curse of the
widow and the fatherless, the curse of the
deceived and the ruined! " she turned from
him and left the room. He was too much
stricken partly by fear and partly by
inability to escape from the coil of
circumstances which he had woven round himself,
too much awed by her manner, and too much
crushed by his conscience to answer. And
so she escaped from the house without
hindrance, and without disturbing the faintest
dream of its kind hostess.

She took sail by a boat leaving for England
that morning, and returned to her old place.
With her capital of one hundred pounds she
set up anew, in another business, and soon
regained all the friends she had lost. Foolish
as she had been, what could they do now but
pity her; and if they pitied, aid? Even Miss
Harrington scolded her in her old way, and
loaded her with presents as before; and Janet
found that she was happier now than ever
—in her quiet, gentle, saint-like way—since she
had thrown aside her weakness, and been
sufficient to herself. And she was right. In
weakness lies misery; in strength of will and