Eliza, impugned his wife's honour, Alexis
fought and fell.

It all happened in one night, when their
blood was fiery hot.  By daylight, the Colonel
stood, cold as death, pale as a shallow, by
Alexis' bedside.  He had killed him, and
he loved him!

No one thought of me. They let me weep
near him— unconscious as he was — doubtless
believing them the last contrite tears of an
— adulteress!  I did not heed or try to
deny that horrible name — Alexis was dying.

Towards evening he became stronger, and
his senses returned. He opened his eyes and
saw me. but they closed with a shudder.

"Alexis — Alexis!"

"Isbel, I am dying. You know why. In
the name of God — are you" —

"In the name of God, I am your pure
wife, who never loved, even in thought, any
man but you."

"I am satisfied."

He looked at Colonel Hart, faintly
smiling; then opened his arms and took
me into them, as if to protect me with his
last breath.

"Now,"  he said, still holding me, " my
friends, we must make all clear. Nothing
must harm her when I am gone. Hart, fetch
your wife here."

Mrs. Hart came, trembling violently.
Woman-like, seeing my misery, even she
caught my hand and wept.  My husband
addressed her.

"Who did you see? Answer, as to a dying
man who to-morrow will know all secrets.
Who was the man you saw in my wife's
chamber?"

"He was a stranger. I never met him
before, anywhere. He lay on the sofa,
wrapped in a fur cloak."

"Did you see his face?"

"Not the first time. The second time I
did."

"What was he like? Be accurate, for the
sake of more than life — honour."

My husband's voice sank. There was terror
in his eyes, but not that terror — he held me
to his bosom still.

"What was he like, Eliza? " repeated
Colonel Hart.

"He was middle-aged; of a pale, grave
countenance, with keen, large eyes, high
forehead, and a pointed beard."

"Heaven save us! I have seen him, too,"
cried the Colonel, horror-struck, " It was no
living man you saw, Eliza."

"It was M. Anastasius!"

My husband died that night. He died, his
lips on mine, murmuring how he loved me,
and how happy he had been.

For many months after then I was quite
happy, too; for my wits wandered, and I
thought I was again a little West Indian
girl, picking gowans in the meadows about
Dumfries.

The Colonel and Mrs. Hart were, I believe,
very kind to me. I always took her for a
little playfellow I had, who was called Eliza.
It is only lately, as the year has circled round
again to the spring, that my head has become
clear and I have found out who she is, and —
ah, me!  — who I am.

This coming to my right senses does not
give me so much pain as they thought it
would; because great weakness of body had
balanced and soothed my mind.

I have but one desire: to go to my own
Alexis; — and before the twenty-fifth of May.

Now I have been able to complete nearly
our story. Reader, judge between us — and
him. Farewell.

ISBEL SALTRAM.

Post-Scriptum. — I think it will be well
that I, Eliza Hart, should relate, as simply as
veraciously, the circumstances of Mrs. Saltram's
death, which happened on the night
of the twenty-fifth of May.

She was living with us at our house, some
miles out of London. She had been very
ill and weak during May, but towards the
end of the month she revived. We thought
if she could live till June she might even
recover. My husband desired that on no
account might she be told the day of the
month — she was indeed purposely deceived
on the subject. When the twenty-fifth came
she thought it was only the twenty-second.

For some weeks she had kept her bed, and
Fanchon never left her. Fanchon, who knew
the whole history, and was strictly charged,
whatever delusions might occur, to take no
notice whatever of the subject to her mistress.
For my husband and myself were again
persuaded that it must be some delusion. So
was the physician, who nevertheless determined
to visit us himself on the night of the
twenty-fifth of May.

It happened that the Colonel was unwell,
and I could not remain constantly in Mrs.
Saltram's room.  It was a large but very
simple suburban bedchamber, with white
curtains and modern furniture, all of which I
myself arranged in such a manner that there
should be no dark corners, no shadows thrown
by hanging draperies, or anything of the
kind.

About ten o'clock Fanchon accidentally
quitted the room, sending in her place a
nursemaid who had lately come into our
family.

This girl tells me that she entered the room
quickly, but stopped, seeing, as she believed,
the physician sitting by the bed, on the further
side, at Mrs. Saltram's right hand. She
thought Mrs. Saltram did not see him, for
she turned and asked her — " Susan, what
o'clock is it?"

The gentleman, she says, appeared sitting
with his elbows resting on his knees, and his
face partly concealed in his hands. He wore a
long coat or cloak—she could not distinguish