No longer a girl-no longer a novice in luxury and wealth-long ago accustomed to all that dress and homage, and the flattery of passion can yield, what was left her? Vanity, the sustaining principle of her life, wounded-Pride crushed-alone, with the mighty sense of her inexplicable wrong-palpitating beneath the sense of injustice she could give no voice tosuffering how much more that no human ear could ever listen, no human voice give comfort, to her anguish.

She started up suddenly, as if some sound had reached her. By what sense unknown to others do those so bereft supply, to some extent, the place of more perfect organization? She hurriedly approached a small recess near the couch where she had been sitting, drew yet closer a heavy curtain which fell across it, instinctively looked into a mirror, and smiled as she adjusted the flowers twined in her wealth of golden hair.

The smile was yet upon her lips, as she turned at the opening of the door. It is not in the nature of mortal man to resist the magic of such a vision of beauty as advanced to meet the new-comer; every word of impatience must have perished even in intent, as, admiration lighting up his features, he hurried to embrace' her.

"Ma belle, you grow more lovely every day!-you do, by Jove; I am glad I am come-glad that ass Dumesnil didn't come. Eh, what have you been doing to make yourself so surpassingly beautiful? By Jove, there is nothing like you in all Franceno, nor England either."

He had seated himself; and she close to him, with

a studious empressement of attention, replied in her own mute language of signs and caresses.

"So fearfully hot it is, ma belle, a perfect sirocco; I've ridden like fury, too; and I am just done up— I'll have some wine."

But she had anticipated him. Wine was at hand upon a side table, with fruit and numberless delicacies. She signed to him that she had eaten nothing that day, that she might eat with him-she poured out and handed him the wine, which he drank lavishly and with a sort of desperation, as though nerving himself to something he had resolved upon.

"Dear Beauty," he said to her, you are a perfect queen to night-I never saw you so lovely: but I say, why couldn't you be so with the Marquis ?-you know he is a good fellow, and he's fond of you."

She started as she caught his meaning, and half drew her arm from about his shoulder.

"Hey! by Jove!-good Heaven! here!-why it's blood!-oh from your arm-see, it's bleeding on to my vest too!"

Beauty, with a slight gesture of impatience, fixed the bandage and stopped the bleeding.

"By Jove it turned me sick! Some wine, ma belle. Ah that ride under the broiling sun did me no good: -I'll rest my head here so-that's capital. Eh I wish there were no countesses, nor money, nor sisters, nor interests-bother it all. Ma belle! you are worth 'em all. You shan't go; confound it all, you shall stay with me, queen; so you shall."

The woman smiled bitterly as he made her understand; she poured out the wine for which he asked, full and deep draughts; she only sipped.

The twilight came on, the air grew hushed and heavy with the perfume of night. An imprisoned insect droned in the network of the curtains.

Over

come by wine and heat, the young nobleman dozed, one hand locked in that of the woman as she sat beside the couch, with drooping head and eyes half closed.

In a while she gently unclasped her hand, softly she rose, locked the door, drew over it the heavy velvet hangings, and across the closed windows. The grate was already covered by lace and silken drapery. Then from the recess she took a small brazier, or chafingdish filled with charcoal. Still moving like a shadow, or fairy presiding at a mortal's dreams, she set it on the floor close to the couch, cast into it one of the smouldering pastiles, watched for a minute the lurid glow spread and kindle slowly through the mass, then softly placed herself upon the couch, beside the sleeper, and laid his head upon her breast. He muttered "Ma belle "-" some wine;" but with a whisper she soothed him. Gently she drew around the couch the canopy which hung above it, thus closing in effectually the atmosphere of death.

As she laid her head back upon the cushion, with a sudden movement she pulled from her hair the flowers they had dressed it with, and flung them down; they fell upon the burning charcoal and were consumed.

The twilight deepened, the night-fly buzzed heavily. Suddenly there was a gasp-a sob; but the woman's arms drew closer, and a breath passed her cheek, as the head rested passively on her breast.

*

Now spur horse! draw not rein! and spare not pro

mises, Will Darby!-while there is life there is hope, and she you seek yet lives. Yes, that is the goal of your journey, that is the prison paradise, and the peri avenged is still of this world, that breath which stirs the dead man's hair *

*

*

Darkness falls, and the droning night-fly has it all to himself; the air is heavy with more than the perfume of night.

Stand we aside, as the curtain is undrawn; for he remembers her when she was a little child—and sinless.

Passive, too,

Good Chris

Poor, lovely clay! it looks full pure and stainless now; the deep eyes half unclosed, the lips apart, as though it lingered for a parting word. and calm-the turbulent fire gone out. tians do not see it so, and righteously visit their indignation upon the senseless limbs and body that have suffered punishment-the real culprit having escaped their vengeance.

So, in a foreign land, Rose Steyne's grave was made, and Will Darby stood beside it. May tears of as true sorrow fall into yours and mine, and memories as sacred be ours, as bore that secret out into the waking world, to share the days and nights of that man's life to come.

380

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURTH.

DEAD SEA APPLES.

"Shake hands for ever-cancel all our vows;
And, when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen on either of our brows,

That we one jot of former love retain."

DRAYTON.

IF ever man had cause to congratulate himself upon the accomplishment of all his desires, and the fulfilment of more than his hopes, Philip Steyne, at this time, certainly was that man. Fame, wealth, distinction waited upon him. The love of a girl who seemed calculated to answer even the fastidious requirements which a man-jilted in his first attachment, a dweller in the world, and a keen observer of the feminine portion-invariably comes to entertain-without obstacle or hindrance, was to be his. Within his reach he held the coveted object of his life-the power of revenging himself upon the man he mortally hated-though attained, as Steyne had told Kate, at the cost of a large portion of his newlyacquired fortune.

For Crichton, soon after the death of his wife, whom he lost while their child was yet an infant, disappointed in obtaining the handling of the property which his wife's mother bequeathed absolutely to her granddaughter, had entered somewhat rashly