definite series of giggles and shrieks ;-a not very surprising reaction from my enforced matronhood and excitement during the past few hours.

I spare you explanations and further particulars, only assuring you that never was baby, "borrowed" or otherwise, so brooded and made much of as was mine. The little monkey seemed not at all to miss its mother, and indeed it had as many mothers as it could properly attend to in mamma and Aunt Fanny and me. But I must wind up my story. Before dinner next day, as we were having a grand frolic with Miss Baby, papa marched in triumphantly, with the air of a conqueror and a philanthropist rather than the culprit he was, and accompanying him was not only the sweet-faced little woman in black (and the right woman, for a wonder) but my own wraps and beloved | Russia-leather bag!

Mamma says that papa's absent-minded blunders have a way of ending, after all, so satisfactorily as to fail of making any salutary impression on his delinquent mind, and of driving him to mend his ways.

And so it proved in this case, if you will believe it. Mrs. Simms (that was the little woman's name) was really intending to come to G., only five miles from us, where some connections lived, who she thought might give her shelter till she could find work to support herself and child.

Her husband had died three weeks before in Minnesota, and as soon as she could settle up her small affairs she had started for the East. At the time when papa made his atrocious descent upon her possessions she had been traveling several days and nights without rest, and having laid her baby down on the seat opposite her for its nap had, as father surmised, cried herself to sleep.

Unluckily she slept on after reaching the junction, where she ought to have taken the same train with ourselves and the abducted baby.

She had wakened later to find that she was on the wrong route, and-horror of horrors that her baby had mysteriously disappeared.

The conductor was of the humane species, and as soon as he could collect her story from her agonized confusion he had put her in the way of speedy return to the junction, and telegraphed a statement of her case before her. And so it came to pass, after the lapse of two or three terrible hours of resultless search and inquiry, in

which she was aided by kindly officials, that the news of her baby's safety and father's approach reached her.

An aggravation of her case lay in the fact that she had not only lost her baby and her bag, but her purse, containing her ticket and about three dollars (every penny she had in the world), had been filched from her pocket while she slept, or during the frenzy of her search for her baby! So it is well that she had father to care for her during the remainder of her journey.

Now of course it would be in vain for a man who steals bags and babies to resent being suspected of picking pockets: and, to this very day, mamma can always bring papa to terms, whenever he rebels against her gentle, wise guidance, by the simple inquiry, 'My dear, are you sure that you haven't Mrs. Simms's pocket-book somewhere about you?" ·

66

We had noticed that the baby's clothes, though simple, were made with exquisite. nicety, and mamma was delighted to retain Mrs. Simms, baby and all, as seamstress; and here the grateful little soul has remained ever since. Papa obviously quite plumes himself on this acquisition to our household treasures, and frequently goes into the sewing-room to beam complacently upon Mrs. Simms and little Moses, as I named her. At first, as we observed, whenever papa appeared on the scene Mrs. Simms watched him and her baby with vigilantly suspicious eyes, fearing probably a second attack of his singular kleptomania. This apprehension was somewhat justified, it must be confessed, by the fact that when any visitors came to us who had heard the baby-story (and it went far and wide wherever the chief actor was known) papa felt called upon to demonstrate before their incredulous eyes how inevitably the haste of changing cars amid the maddening noises of Y-. junction being understood-a thoroughly wrapped-up infant must be mistaken for a bundle of wraps, and unsuspiciously tucked under the arm and made off with.

For a time, Moses lent herself graciously. to this exhibition and saved papa's reputation for sanity again and again. She long ago outgrew her role, however; but we still boldly champion her against the infantile world as the soundest of sleepers when sleep is in order, and the sweetest and merriest of wide-awakes. And whatever else poor papa's mind may let slip, he never forgets the claims of our Borrowed Baby.

CHAPTER XII.

HELEN had not remarked that postscript | to her husband's letter, but Dr. Maurice had done so, to whom it was addressed; and while she was hiding her head and bearing the first agony of her grief without thought of anything remaining that she might yet have to bear, many things had been going on in the world outside of which Helen knew nothing. Dr. Maurice had been Robert's true friend; and after that mournful morning a day and night had passed in which he did not know how to take comfort. He

had no way of expressing himself as women have. He could not weep; it even seemed to him that to close out the cheerful light, as he was tempted to do (for the sight of all that brightness made his heart sick), would have been an ostentation of sorrow, a show of sentiment which he had no right to indulge in. He could not weep, but there was something else he could do; and that was to sift poor Robert's accusation, if there was any truth in it; and, if there was, pursue-to he could not tell what end-the murderers of his friend. It is the old savage way; and

Dr. Maurice set his teeth, and found a certain relief in the thought. He lay down on the sofa in his library, and ordered his servant to close his doors to all the world, and tried to snatch a little sleep after the watch of the previous night. But sleep would not come to him. The library was a large, lofty room, well furnished, and full with books. It was red curtained and carpeted, and the little bit of the wall which was not covered with book-cases was red too, red which looked dark and heavy in the May sunshine, but was very cozy in winter days. The one spot of brightness in the room was a picture of poor Drummond's-a young picture, one of those which he was painting while he courted Helen, the work of youth and love at a time when the talent in him was called promise, and that which it promised was genius. This little picture caught the doctor's eye as he lay on his sofa, resting the weary frame which had known no rest all night. A tear came as he looked at ita tear which flowed back again to its fountain, not being permitted to fall, but which did him good all the same. "Poor fellow! henever did better than that," Dr. Maurice said to himself with a sigh; and then he closed up his eyes tight, and tried to go to sleep. Half an hour after, when he opened them again, the picture was once more the first thing he saw. "Better!" he said, "he never did so well. And killed by those infernal curs!" The doctor took himself off his sofa after this failure. It was of no use trying to sleep. He gathered his boots from the corner into which he had hurled them, and drew them on again. He thought he would go and have a walk. And then he remarked for the first time that though he had taken his coat off, the rest of his dress was the same as he had put on last night to go out to dinner. When he went to his room to change this, the sight of himself in the glass was a wonder to him. Was that red-eyed, dishevelled man, with glittering studs in his shirt, and a head heavy with watching and grief-was that the trim and irreproachable Dr. Maurice? He gave a grin of horror and fierce mockery at himself, and then sat down in his easy-chair, and hid his face in his hands; and thus, all contorted and doubled up, went to sleep unawares. He was good for nothing that day.

The next morning, before he could go out, Mr. Burton called upon him. He was the man whom Dr. Maurice most wanted to see. Yet he felt himself jump as he was announced, and knew that in spite of himself his counten

ance had changed. Mr. Burton came in undisturbed in manner or appearance, but with a broad black hatband on his hat-a band which his hatter had assured him was much broader than he had any occasion for -"deep enough for a brother." This gave him a certain air of solemnity, as it came in in front of him. It was "a mark of respect " which Dr. Maurice had not thought of showing; and Maurice, after poor Haldane, was, as it were, Robert's next friend.

"I have come to speak to you about poor Drummond," said Mr. Burton, taking a chair. "What a terrible business this has been! I met with him accidentally that morning-the very day it happened. I do not know when I have had such a shock!" "You met him on the day he took his life?"

"The day he died, Dr. Maurice. I am his relative, his wife's nearest friend. Why should we speak so? Let us not be the people to judge him. He died-God knows how. It is in God's hands."

"God knows I don't judge him," said Dr. Maurice; and there was a pause.

"I cannot hear that any one saw him later," said Mr. Burton. "I hear from the servants at St. Mary's Road that he was not there. He talked very wildly, poor fellow. I almost thought-God forgive me!—that he had been drinking. It must have been temporary insanity. It is a kind of consolation to reflect upon that now."

The doctor said nothing. He rustled his papers about, and played impatiently with the pens and paper-cutter on his table. He bore it all until his visitor heaved a demonstrative sigh. That he could not bear.

"If you thought he spoke wildly, you might have looked after him a little," he said. "It was enough to make any man look wild; and you, who knew so well all about it

"That is the very thing. I did not know about it. I had been out of town, and had heard nothing. A concern I was so much interested in-by which I am myself a loser

"Do you lose much?" said Dr. Maurice, looking him in the face. It was the same question poor Robert had asked, and it produced the same results. An uneasy ush came on the rich man's countenance.

"We City men do not publish our losses," he said. "We prefer to keep the amount of them, when we can, to ourselves. You were in yourself, I believe? Ah! I warned poor Drummond! I told him he knew nothing

of business.

He should have taken the advice of men who knew. How strange that an ignorant, inexperienced man, quite unaware what he was doing, should be able to ruin such a vast concern!"

"Ruin such a vast concern!" Dr. Maurice repeated, stupefied. "Who ?-Drummond? This is a serious moment and a strangelychosen subject for a jest. I can't suppose that you take me for a fool-—”

"We have all been fools, letting him play with edge tools," said Mr. Burton, almost sharply. "Golden tells me he would never take advice. Golden says

"Golden! where is he?" cried Maurice. "The fellow who absconded? By Jove, tell me but where to lay my hands on him

"Softly," said Mr. Burton, putting his hand on Maurice's arm, with an air of soothing him which made the doctor's blood boil. "Softly, doctor. He is to be found where he always was, at the office, making the best he can of a terribly bad job, looking fifteen years older, poor fellow. Where are you going? Let me have my ten minutes first!" "I am going to get hold of him, the swindler!" cried Maurice, ringing the bell furiously. "John, let the brougham be brought round directly. My God! if I was not the most moderate man in existence I should say murderer too. Golden says, forsooth! We shall see what he will say before a jury"

"My dear Dr. Maurice-listen a littletake care what you are doing. Golden is as honourable a man as you or I——”

"Speak for yourself," said the doctor roughly. "He has absconded-that's the word. It was in the papers yesterday morning; and it was the answer I myself received at the office. Golden, indeed! If you're a friend of Drummond's, you will come with me and give that fellow into custody. This is no time for courtesy now."

"How glad I am I came!" said Mr. Bur

ton.

"You have not seen, then, what is in the papers to-day? Dr. Maurice, you must listen to me; this is simply madness. Golden, poor fellow, has been very nearly made the victim of his own unsuspicious character. Don't be impatient, but listen. When I tell you he was simply absent on Tuesday on his own affairs-gone down to the country, as I might have been myself, if not, alas! as I sometimes think, sent out of the way. The news of Shenken's bankruptcy arrived that morning. Well, I don't mean to say Drummond could have helped that; but he seized the opportunity. Heaven knows how sorry I am to suggest such a thing; it has nearly

broken Golden's heart. But these are the facts; what can you make of them? Maurice, listen to me. What did he go and do that for? He was still a young man; he had his profession. If he could have faced the world, why did he do that?"

Dr. Maurice replied with an oath. I can make no excuse for him. He stood on his own hearth, with his hand clenched, and blasphemed. There are moments in which a man must either do that, or go down upon his knees and appeal to God, who nowadays sends no lightning from heaven to kill the slayer of men's souls where he stands. The doctor saw it all as if by a gleam of that same lightning which he invoked in vain. He saw the spider's web they had woven, the way of escape for themselves which they had built over the body of the man who was dead, and could not say a word in reply. But his friend could not find a word to say. Scorn, rage, stupefaction, came upon him. It was so false, so incredible in its falsity. He could no more have defended Robert from such an accusation than he would have defended himself from the charge of having murdered him. But it would be believed: the world did not know any better. He could not say another word-such a horror and disgust came over him, such a sickening sense of the power of falsehood, the feebleness of manifest, unprovable truth.

"This is not a becoming way in which to treat such a subject," said Mr. Burton, rising too. "No subject could be more painful to me. I feel almost as if, indirectly, I myself was to blame. It was I who introduced him into the concern. I am a busy man, and I have a great deal on my hands, but could I have foreseen what was preparing for Rivers's, my own interest should have gone to the wall. And that he should be my own relation too-my cousin's husband! Ah, poor Helen, what a mistake she made!" "Have you nearly done, sir?" said the doctor fiercely.

"I shall have done at once, if what I say is received with incivility," said Mr. Burton, with spirit. "It was to prevent any extension of the scandal that I came here."

"There are some occasions upon which civility is impossible," said Maurice. "I happen to know Robert Drummond; which I hope you don't, for your own sake. And, remember, a great many people know him besides me. I mean no incivility when I say that I don't believe one word of this, Mr. Burton; and that is all I have to say about it. Not one word-"