"Ah—your uncle's property was in those
miserable streets?"

Chiefly.—I planned great benefactions,
I imagined gigantic schemes of improvement.
In my mind I looked on the same places—
and the people in them ten years hence. I
thought how we would work together to help
them—minds and bodies."

"And we will—we will!" cried Rosamond,
with unconscious apprehension giving
poignance to her tone.

"Ay, love, if it please God." He stopped
a little after those lowly-uttered words.
Then he resumed.

"From thoughts, dreams, plans like these,
I went back to Woolthorpe, the old house
where my uncle lived his latter years, and
died. I went back, thinking of these poor
souls' misery, which I was to alleviate through
my great happiness. That was last night,
darling. Last night, at this time, I was
thinking to myself of this night's joy of
return."  He went on more rapidly. "And
I set to work, tying up papers, arranging the
deeds and parchments with which the old
bureau was full, and which the lawyers and
I had been busy over for many days. I had
just finished; I was closing one of the
small inner drawers, which slightly resisted
the effort. I pressed it harder, and touched
some secret spring, it seems, and a side
drawer sprang open."

"How strange!" said Rosamond.

"A paper lay there, carefully folded, not
very long since written. I saw my uncle's
bold signature at the bottom of the page. I
think I knew what it was before I opened
it and read." He paused an instant and
drew breath. "It was my uncle's will, which
they had vainly sought, and could not find."

"Yes—but—I do not understand—" She
faltered, for she saw in his face ample
interpretation of all the rest.

"It was a will in his own hand writing, dated
a very few weeks before his death. A will,
by which he leaves all his property in the
charge of trustees for the benefit of charities
in Blishford, and elsewhere; but especially to
found institutions, hospitals, and asylums in
that wretched town. You see, Rosamond
my schemes were anticipated. Remorse
came to the poor old man, and a yearning to
do something by his death that might
alleviate the wretchedness he had helped
to increase during his life! God knows
the secrets of his heart; it was not all
hard."

"But, you?"

"I and Agnes are mentioned in the will
—five hundred pounds is left to each of us.
Also, enclosed with it was a letter to his
former partner in Calcutta, recommending
me to him. It was always his wish that I
should go there."

"Leonard! don't speak in that manner!
Leonard! Leonard!" She turned upon him
her pale, agonised face. She caught his arm
feebly, looking round with an imploring,
searching look. "Wait a little, I cannot,
cannot understand yet."

"Rosamond!"

"No, no," she cried hastily, "don't try to
tell me."

He put his arm round her, but, in the
action, his calmness fled from him. He leaned
his head down on his hands; he hid his face.
One sudden, passionate groan escaped him.
Then was silence, through which they could
hear Mr. Bellew's voice, grave, deliberate,
and decided, and the children's musical treble
blending with it. Twice Rosamond tried
to speak, but the words died away, unuttered.
A strange, almost fierce look, unnatural to
see on her girlish face, quivered about every
feature. At last she whispered:

"Will this separate us? Do you mean
that?"

"Do I rnean it?"

"Because," she went on, hurriedly, but still
in a whisper, "if it is done, it will be done by
you. There is no one else to do it; no one—
no one else who could—" She stopped.

Leonard looked up. With her two little
hands she clasped his brow so that he could
not look at her. And the mutinous, half-
frenzied look still grew, and grew.

"It is not right, it cannot be right,'' she
said mechanically. "God could never
intend—"

"Hush! Let us look steadily at our
fate; let us meet it, since it must be met,—
submissively."

"What is our fate to be, then?" she asked,
abruptly; "it is for you to decide."

He did not understand her meaning, though
he thought he did.

"No, Rosamond, it is for neither you nor
me to decide. It is already fixed."

"Does anyone know of—of this will beside
you?" she said, quickly.

"No one. The person who must first be
informed lives in London. I shall go to him
to-morrow."

"No!" she said, imperatively, and paused.
"No," she said again, imploringly, frightened
at Leonard's silence.

"Rosamond!"

"We—we could do all he wished," she
whispered, while a burning spot rose on each
cheek, "even as you planned before, before
you found—. It would be no wrong done
to any human being. Leonard, Leonard? "

He drew her closely to him, and kissed her
forehead with a sad, tender pain expressed in
his look.

"Leonard! O, speak to me!"

"Wait. Think a little."

"Think!" She broke from his arms, and
looked up in his face in cold reproach. "Can
you think of what is the issue of all this? Do
you love me less entirely then, than I love you?
Anything, everything, is to me better, nobler,
truer than that we should part. We! It is
not one little month since we first learned to