"She means Arthur!" thought Anita; "and I refused him yesterday. If I had only waited I might have had the opportunity of refusing his wealth also."

Then she heard a door closed with decision, and immediately afterward a bell rang loudly. It was the hall-door bell that rang, and standing in the open hall was Mrs. Basil, with her chin in the air, and a look of triumph on her face.

"Oh, good-morning!" said Miss Ruffner to her as she came down-stairs. "I didn't imagine it was you. Mother is gone shopping, and Cousin Elizabeth is very particularly engaged; but come in."

Miss Ruffner had been Mrs. Basil's guest one whole summer, yet no warmer welcome than this did she ever give her.

"It is of no moment," said Mrs. Basil, cheerfully. "A call is out of place these warm mornings, I know; but I rode with Arthur to the station-he is called away suddenly on some business connected with that unfortunate road "Anita laughed to herself at the supreme good faith with which Mrs. Basil made this announcement - she knew better)-"and at Miss Hawkesby's request I came by to take Miss Anita home with me"-and here Mrs. Basil gave a hand in absent fashion to Anita-"in my poor carriage."

By this token Anita knew that Mrs. Basil too must have overheard Mrs. Stargold's words; when had she ever called her belong. ings "poor" before?

"Oh, I protest!" exclaimed Miss Ruffner; and, "Oh, thank you; but I must go, I think," said Anita, glad of an excuse to get away; whereupon an animated contest ensued, in the midst of which Mrs. Ruffner entered, breathless and fanning.

"It's horrid, perfectly horrid!" said Miss Ruffner, remorselessly. Why will you buy such odious things, mother?"

"Well, now, I don't know," said Mrs. Ruffner, good-naturedly, holding the purchase off at arm's length for unprejudiced inspection. "I call that chaste. There were other styles; but I couldn't give my mind to them clearly, for that queer Miss Crane was trying to explain a curious vision she had about us all."

("After my tragedy of 'The Secret of the Oleander-Walk,' comes the farce of 'The Milliner dreamed a Dream,'" thought Anita; but she looked as innocent as a fair, white lily.)

Mrs. Basil smiled with dignified superi ority, as though she had never been imposed upon by Lydia Crane. Miss Ruffner saw the smile, and said, loftily:

"She wished to tell me something of the 'kind, but I checked her."

"Certainly, my dear Jane," said Mrs. Basil, approvingly. "The poor creature is insane on the subject of 'visions.""

"But this really was so singular," continued Mrs. Ruffner, unabashed. "It actually amounted to a prediction of fortune; and, though I can't myself state it distinctly, it seemed to show that Ruffner is a very lucky name, because it takes seven letters to spell it."

"My dear Mrs. Ruffner," said Mrs. Basil, with an indulgent smile, "if there is any thing in the number of letters that compose a name, Hendall is as good as Ruffner.-Pray, Jane," she added, rising, "give my love to Cousin Elizabeth; I would not interrupt her on any account." It was seldom that she was permitted to see her cousin, but this was no longer a grievance.-" Miss Anita, I am at your service."

"I am ready," said Anita; and, after what seemed to her an endless five minutes of adieux, she was at last in the carriage with Mrs. Basil, and driving away.

BASIL'S FAITH.

A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF BITTER FRUIT."

(From Advance-Sheets.) CHAPTER II.

THE battle that Mr. Bradley fought on the 1st day of September, 1873, was not fought in the open country in the sight of men-it was fought in the recesses, wheresoever they have local habitation, of his own conscience -so, as far as the outside world was concerned, there would be no shout of victory and no shame of defeat; but none the less in that same conscience of his would be felt the silent thrill of moral triumph, or the chill sense of shameful discomfiture. Mr. Bradley's battle, the one battle of his life, ended in defeat.

The more he reflected upon all he knew of Mrs. Milburn's character; the more he pondered on the modest, blameless tenor of her life since she bad resided under his roof -the more improbable appeared the charges alleged against her by a wicked and vicious husband, and consequently the greater the justice and duty of affording her an asylum in his family. But against this sense of justice and duty was arrayed the strong feeling of expediency-it was decidedly expedient that she should go. Mrs. Bradley had so ruled it, and society supported Mrs. Bradley; could he be fairly called upon to draw the sword against his wife and society in combination? Then, again, on religious grounds, and Mr. Bradley was not a man to ignore religion in its relations to secular conduct, the course of action was very fairly clear. Mr. Bradley's theology was mainly of a prudential nature; the grand precedents of a defiance of the world for the sake of duty and justice did not appear in his mind pertinent to the subject in debate, but it did appear that the right of a wife to select the inmates of her house was very conclusively established by the precedent of Abrahaın and Hagar. Besides all this, he might chance to be wrong and Mrs. Bradley right in her estimate

of facts, in which case the expulsion of Mrs. Milburn would become a positive duty to themselves, their son, and society; and then, after all, putting it at the worst, he would remain passive, the error of action, if error it were, would rest on Mrs. Bradley's shoulders, not on his. So Mr. Bradley gave up the fight, struck his flag, and surrendered to expediency, and he laid the flattering unction of sophistical extenuation thick upon his soul, but none the less in his heart of hearts did he feel that Mrs. Milburn was innocent; and that he, John Bradley, Esquire, with moneys, divers and sundry, at due interest in safe and prudent investments, with all the esteem and respect of the world-nay, with the positive approval of the world in the act he was about to permit-was nothing better than a mere cowardly, contemptible being, scarcely worthy of the name of man.

Mrs. Bradley's battle, on the other hand, might be called a victory; it was splendid and soul-stirring in all the attributes of triumph-splendid in self-confidence, splendid in the conviction of a righteous cause. Alas! this conviction was only built upon prejudice, anxiety on behalf of Basil, fear of the world, and that womanly power which has not been entirely denied to men, of converting false inferences into absolute facts. Dr. Manley's friendly words of caution were clear proofs of this woman's guilt-clear proofs of the just condemnation of society-could any thing more be required? What! a woman of this character an inmate of her house? oh, dire infection, beyond all power of disinfectants! A woman of this character holding daily intercourse with her son, striving insidiously, no doubt, to ingratiate herself with a young man of total inexperience in the wiles of women-a young man endowed with a generous and even a Quixotic soul! So, the inference being accepted as an incontrovertible fact, the consequences of the fact accumulated with frightful rapidity. Mrs. Bradley was almost panic-stricken with visions of the terrible dangers, moral and otherwise, that beset her son. Thank Heaven, the woman was to leave that very evening! Mr. Bradley had faithfully promised her that much; and she, on her part, had promised a scant and grudging courtesy to Mrs. Milburn for the few hours she was to remain in the house.

Thus it was throughout that day with husband and wife; nevertheless, both in Mr. Bradley's shameful defeat and Mrs. Bradley's delusive victory, lay the seeds of a bitter repentance.

It had been arranged that Mr. and Mrs Bradley were to spend a friendly evening with their neighbors the Sharps; they were about to start, when the maid, a young girl who had been accustomed to attend on Mrs. Milburn, entered the room with a request from that lady that she might be permitted to see Mr. and Mrs. Bradley before they left for the evening.

I don't want to appear harsh while she remains here."

"No! Hang it, Maria," replied Mr. Bradley, with increased emphasis, "I must be spared this. I can't face her, and that's the truth of it."

"Nonsense!"

"If I believed in Dr. Manley's opinion, I'd see her at once; but I don't believe in it. The more I think the matter over, the more convinced am I of her innocence."

"Marvelous incredulity!"

"Be that as it may, with this faith strong in me, I have agreed to her being sent away, knowing full well that this act in the eyes of the world means our condemnation-that's why I can't see her. I shall be in my study, engaged there; mind, she's not to come to me. I shall be ready when you are ready."

Mr. Bradley left the room. There was a certain point in minor matters at which he was capable of becoming doggedly obstinate, and Mrs. Bradley felt that that point had been reached.

Clara Milburn had nerved herself to make one last appeal for mercy-nerved herself to encounter once more the cruel words of Mrs. Bradley; she had crushed down with violent effort the pride of her heart which was counseling her with fierce counsel to set Mrs. Bradley at defiance, and repay scorn with scorn. A dangerous guide, and she knew it; she saw clearly whither such counsel tended, and she shuddered at the terrible sight. Nay, nay humility must be her friend-long-suffering endurance must be her counselor; surely her last earnest prayer for countenance and support would be crowned with success!

She entered the room with beating heart and trembling steps. Mrs. Bradley's manner was sadly cold and distant. Could there be any hope?

'Well, Mrs. Milburn, we are about to start, but at your request I have remained to see you."

"But Mr. Bradley?" she asked, eagerly. "He declines seeing you again."

"At last he has come to believe in those lies!"

"I don't say that," replied Mrs. Bradley, evasively; "you leave us simply because Dr. Manley advises it."

"I feel I must have been a great burden to you," urged Clara; "but if you could only know the value of your support to me-every word, every act, acquired a tenfold significance-mere trifles to an ordinary guest stood to me as vouchers of faith and confidence." And then, in tones of great vehemence: "I swear to you, I'm innocent! Oh, bear with me a little longer-don't send me away until after that trial-"

"Really, Mrs. Milburn, I am not accustomed to this excitement."

"O Mrs. Bradley, do give me one word of kindness! I'm too weak to battle it out and defy the world without some support. Oh, for one blessed word of confidence! If you could only realize the fearful position in which I stand-cast out of the pale of respectability; no protection, no safeguard; the last friends shunning me as a vile thing; nothing to hope from respectable persons but contempt and scorn!"

sue.

Mrs. Bradley endeavored to change the is

"You do me great injustice," she observed; "I have never despised or scorned you. I trust I never despise or scorn any one; really, if you keep talking in this exaggerated strain, my palpitations will come on, I know they will; try to be calmer, pray.”

Calm in the midst of a terrible struggleoh, bitter mockery!—with one last, despairing effort, Clara threw herself at Mrs. Bradley's feet.

"Say you believe me guilty; say you believe-knowing me as you do-that those monstrous stories are credible, and I will not utter another word of importunity. O Mrs. Bradley, you cannot say so-you cannot say so! have mercy and patience, then, for a little longer!" and she clung to Mrs. Bradley with fervent grasp.

Ere this, Mrs. Bradley had never beheld human nature in its phase of passion and despair; the dark storms of life had never clouded her sunny existence; she did really feel very uncomfortable, and rather alarmed. In a weak, sentimental manner, she was deeply moved by Clara's appeal; not by its justice, but by her own uneasiness of soul. At this critical moment, however, the balance was thrown into the adverse scale by the return of Martha.

Martha's presence completely restored Mrs. Bradley's moral force.

"Here's Martha, Mrs. Milburn; we must hear what she's done."

Clara started to her feet; she felt that the presence of that woman sealed her doom. Well, Martha, you've had a long day?" said Mrs. Bradley, briskly. "Yes, ma'am." "You've arranged with your sister about Mrs. Milburn?"

"Sister sends her respectful duty to you and master-there's few things she wouldn't do on her knees if you asked her-but-" and Martha hesitated significantly-"her apartments are engaged."

The color flew into Clara's face, but with resolute effort she held her peace.

"Then what have you done, Martha ?" "Me and sister tramped about all day; at last we found just the very place, six doors lower down-Mrs. Jenkins."

"Your sister knows Mrs. Jenkins?" inquired Mrs. Bradley.

"Oh, yes, ma'am; goes to the same chapel-if any thing she's more prayerful than sister-but is just now rather short in rent and rates."

"Every thing is arranged, Mrs. Milburn. I wish you could have gone to Mrs. Johnson's, but-"

"I am evidently not fit to go there," replied Clara, reproachfully; her manner was fast changing under the influence of despair.

"Don't blame me, Mrs. Milburn. You see your conduct has closed nearly every respectable house against you—”

"Those lies have. You don't believe them, but you fear them."

Mrs. Bradley felt the necessity of an uncompromising vindication of her own con

duct.

"If you will force me to speak out, I do believe you are not a fit person to remain in this house."

"Enough, Mrs. Bradley," replied Clara, with bitter emphasis; "I am not a fit person to remain here. I will detain you no longer. Good-evening." And she turned from Mrs. Bradley with proud gesture.

"Well, Mrs. Milburn, really! Oh, well, good-evening! I wish you well." And Mrs. Bradley left the room.

Clara Milburn flung herself upon the sofa. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley's brougham drove away. It was all over; the lies had won the victory; the last stronghold was stormed. She was cast out to fight the hard fight to the end with her own weak hands.

"O merciful Heaven!" she cried, "can it be permitted? What! left to stand alone! -left to face the world's contempt without the faith of one single soul to cast a ray of help and confidence on my failing heart? Alone, circled with scorn! O dreary hours -dreary days! No love to cling to for sup port; not even that baby-face-that face pure as an angel's-that face holy with innocence that guardian angel of a mother's heart! O devilish iniquity to drag her from my arms! Her weakness, my strength; her feebleness, my fortitude; her smile, my consolation! No: alone now-condemned!"

Captain Seton stole in cautiously by the window entrance.

"Clara," he whispered.

She started up.

"You here!" she exclaimed, with indig nation. "I told you I would not see you again!"

"It shall be for the last time!"
"I say, no!"

"I will-I must speak!" he answered. "I will not hear you!" She went tow ard the door, but he barred her progress. "Let me go, Captain Seton!" She drew

room?"

Yes, ma'am, by the week."

"Mrs. Milburn will go to town directly our brougham returns," said Mrs. Bradley, with decision. "You needn't wait, Martha; I'm sure you must be tired."

Martha left the room, rejoicing in her own mind that she had prevented Mrs. Milburn from disgracing her sister's house.

"O Mrs. Bradley! is there no hope? must I leave this house?"

But Clara felt there was no hope; her voice had lost its force, and Mrs. Bradley was no longer alarmed or disturbed.

is shameful. If you compel me, I'll ring the bell for the servant to show you out."

"One moment, for Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed.

"Is your love for me," she asked, with indignation," so merciless that you can com promise me in this reckless way?"

"No danger is incurred, Clara. I am free to come in and out of this house as I like. Oh, bear with me now! it shall be the last time."

"Speak, then, for the last time."

"You were forced into that wicked mar

riage?"

"I was."

"You were engaged to me?"

"I was."

"He has cast you off-driven you from society-traduced your character!"

Why these facts?" she asked, impatiently.

"Because they prove that the bond is broken between you; they prove the greatness of the wrong-the misery and the sorrow. You are alone, cast out. I pray you to let me share that misery and that sorrow."

"No-forever no!" she replied, with intense decision.

"Do I ask for smiles? I come now when the shadow is deepest. I prize tears more than smiles. My love is not for sunshine. Mark what I will do. I will give all I possess, and give it gladly. I will throw up my commission. I will break with society; that society which has treated you with such heartless cruelty. I will bear you away from all this misery: happiness in a new land!"

"Shame!" she exclaimed, scornfully. "Shame here, which cannot be averted. Can I-can any one-save you from this misery here in England? But abroad, unknown, we are free; a new land, a new life: that life which should have begun for us four years ago-that hope to which I have been ever true."

"No," she answered; "shame in my own bosom, whether the world be ignorant or not."

"If I give up so much gladly, will you give up nothing?"

"Nothing, Captain Seton? Why, nothing is all!"

"I will live-die for you." "Not die-only weary," she answered, with a bitter smile.

"Weary! O Clara, is this just to me? Is my love a thing of yesterday? This is my first love, true from its birth up to nowtrue, because it has been tested; true, because it courts all that the world can give as nothing in the balance. Sacrifice, no sacrifice-sacrifice the truest joy!"

"Cease. I will listen no more!" she exclaimed, with resolute determination.

"Think well how the matter stands," he urged, vehemently. "My love on the one side, the world's cruel scorn on the other. Why, if your story cannot convince your friends, how shall it convince a jury? Besides, can I wait for a verdict? I must go to India at once, or not go."

"Then go-go, and leave me, for Heaven's sake! Every word you utter is a disgrace.

Hush!" she exclaimed, listening, " some one comes Go, I beg and pray. If you have any consideration left for me, gogo!"

He withdrew into the garden. Martha entered with a lamp.

"Ah, Captain Seton," she murmured, "you have spoken for the last time! If none are true to me, I will still be true to myself. Has the brougham returned?" she inquired of Martha.

"No, ma'am."

"I am going to my room; please to send Jane up to me."

66

O Martha, for Heaven's sake!" she exclaimed, piteously, "this can't be true. Am I so horribly wicked that they are afraid of my saying a few parting words to a girl who has been kind and attentive to me?"

"I can only repeat, ma'am, that I am to wait upon you, and no one else. Jane has been brought up under missus's own care; if she'd been her own daughter, missus couldn't have been more particular about her. I'll say that, if I never say another word."

Enough; Lwon't detain you any longer." But Martha chose to stay, for a purpose of her own.

"If you please, ma'am, I'm only a servant, and you're a lady; but I must make bold to say one word. There's one thing that makes us poor wicked things all equalthat's sin, ma'am-sin. You and I are both dreadful sinners. O Mrs. Milburn, repentrepent!" "Silence, Martha !" exclaimed Clara, in a voice of anger; you forget yourself; leave the room!"

But Martha did not immediately leave the room. She was stubborn by nature; her theology was intense, though not comprehensive; its cardinal principle was hatred. She had been persistently taught to hate sin, and she had included the sinner in the lesson. It was a grand opportunity for the vindication of her theology, and she resolved to be true to the opportunity.

"I will do my duty, ma'am; you sha'n't be lost for want of a saving word; repent, while it is yet time-repent! repent!"

Clara turned away with disgust and indig nation.

"A proud heart leadeth to destruction," Martha muttered in audible tones as she left the room.

And Martha spoke truly; the cruel work was done. Captain Seton little thought, as he skulked behind the bushes, that the woman who a few minutes before had rejected him with so much scorn and indignation, had fallen into his snare. He was resolved, indeed, once more to press his suit, although the effort seemed hopeless. Alas! the pride of Clara Milburn's heart had been evoked at last! a new and desperate spirit animated her soul, declaring its inward presence by an | outward change which wellnigh transformed her whole being; the softer outlines faded from her face, and hard-cut lines of scorn took their place; the eyes lost their veiling of modest depression, and gazed with fixed,

unabashed glance; the lips were close set, each muscle was strung to hardest tension.

"Oh, last drop of degradation!" she cried; nothing spared-forced to my lips to the bitter dregs no more hope, no more faith! the battle's over! I'm beaten at last-let the defeat be on their heads."

Seton stole in from the window-entrance. She hurried up to him.

"Once more, Clara, I pray-"

"No need," she cried, taking his hand; "I accept your offer, I go with you."

He was startled by her words-startled by her strange aspect.

"O happiness!" he murmured; but the word mocked him as he spoke it.

"Not happiness," she answered, scornfully, as she snatched her hand away from him; "bitterness and shame!-take me for that, if you will."

"I will."

"Not love-hate! hate for the social injustice, for the scorn and contempt passed on me; no more meekness and resignationa new heart, a heart of brass. Shame, then be it shame! Guilt, then be it guilt! I'm yours now-yours! yours!" she exclaimed, with fierce emphasis. "What! do you shrink at my words?"

And, almost involuntarily, he did shrink away from the woman he had won.

"Shrink?" he answered, with a forced

smile.

แ

"You do shrink. Oh, I can pardon you! I'm not the Clara Milburn you thought to win-gentle, soft, loving. I tell you another nature has sprung up in me-hardness, defiance, scorn for scorn-the river is crossed at last; respectability may frown and shrink on the other side. Do you care for me now?"

"If you are changed, I am not," he answered, in feeble protest.

"Kiss me!" she cried, in the mad excitement of her brain-the words hissed from her lips; "give me the kiss of degradation and shame-"

Again he shrank from her, the woman he had won.

"Afraid of kissing a woman!" she exclaimed, with bitter derision and contempt. Nettled by her taunt, he touched her lips with bis.

"Enough!" she shrieked; and, with a shudder of loathing and disgust, thrust him from her. "That's indelible; right through to the soul-an eternal blot. Let's go!"

"My boat is at the bottom of the garden," he answered.

"No, Captain Seton," she replied, with withering scorn; we two leave this house openly. Ring the bell."

Ring the bell?" he exclaimed, with astonishment. "Ring the bell," she answered, with resolute voice.

"But everybody-" he expostulated. "Everybody will know," she replied, exulting in his hesitation and dismay. "I mean them to know; you said you would share my misery and sorrow, you must share my defiance and my scorn. Follow me, or leave me, as you will, there's yet time; go back to society, and join the rest in spurning me."

"I follow you," he replied; and he felt that she was in very truth leading him.

"Don't lightly choose," she rejoined, in scornful tone;" and yet it doesn't much matter if you do fail me, I shall still have one true friend-death. One minute, though, before we go. Mrs. Bradley must know all about this affair. I'll write a few lines to her in requital for all the misery she made me suffer while I clung to her for protection; those smiles of mine which covered anguish; that submission which bent to the lash of her tongue. Oh, my long - enduring hypocrisy, flung away at last-plain-speaking now!" She went to the writing-table.

Was this the woman he had sought so earnestly to win? Was this the sweet, soft triumph of love? He took her hand in his.

"Your hand burns, Clara-"

"My brain as well-it's like a furnace." She wrenched her hand from him. "Quick! a pen-now paper-thanks! My hand's firm enough, and my words shall be firm, too. Read as I write that's bitter!" she exclaimed. "Plain enough, isn't it? She'll understand that, won't she? Black and white-no equivocation. Ah, this will cut her Pharasaic righteousness to the quick! no doubt of shame and guilt now!" She held up the letter, thrusting it in his face, that he might again read it, and see the desperate words she had written.

"Pray make haste," he said, nervously, pushing away her hand.

"No hurry; I must sign my name," she replied, with irritating calmness and deliberation.

"Then sign at once. Good Heavens, that's Basil's voice!" he exclaimed.

"Is it?" she answered, with affected un

concern.

"I'm sure it is."

"What's that matter to us?"

"But he'll come here!"

"Let him come, by all means," she replied, with provoking calmness.

"We must leave before he comes."

What! afraid of a good young man like Basil?" she answered, with taunting voice.

"This is folly, Clara; you really must consider a little what people will say."

"If I don't fear shame, why should you?" she asked, with strong emphasis. "Besides," she added, in sarcastic tone, "society will always forgive you when it is convenient for you to repent-it will never forgive me. An envelope, please."

He impatiently handed her an envelope. "Now for the direction, and I shall be ready to go."

"Confound it, here he is!" exclaimed Seton, with evident dismay. "Quick! follow me." He snatched up the letter, and hurried into the garden.

"I will direct this envelope before I stir from this chair," she said, with determination; and, with careful, exact hand, she wrote: "Mrs. Bradley, Broadmere Villa, Twickenham." She had scarcely risen from her chair when Basil entered the room.

This Basil-this good, virtuous, moneymaking young man-she felt a thrill of vindictive pleasure at meeting him once more.

"O Mrs. Milburn!" he exclaimed, “I was half afraid I should find you'd gone!"

"I am going directly, Mr. Basil."
"I'm so glad I've found you!"

"I don't think your mother would be equally pleased," she replied, in ironical

tone.

'Nonsense!" he answered, with a pleasant laugh.

"I beg you to tell her that you have sought me, not that I have sought you; she considers you so good, so excellent, so irreproachable-"

"Bless me, Mrs. Milburn!" He, too, was struck with the strangeness of her face, and the unwonted hardness of her voice.

"I am so wicked-branded with shame -an outcast. Don't come near me; my influence on a young man would be so very pernicious. I should destroy that fair reputation which hedges you round. Why, even to speak to me is to risk your credit with society."

her the letter, and she read it, dazed and bewildered.

"All reproach is done away with by that letter," he continued. "You are restored with full right and all honor to your old position in society. No one can gainsay your husband's written words."

"It cannot be true," she answered; "it must be a dream."

"No dream, Mrs. Milburn-written words, written words!"

"What! innocent!" she cried. "No more reproach-no more coldness-no more scorn -no more bitter contempt! perhaps tenderness, perhaps affection, perhaps confidence and love once more."

And tears rose in her eyes, and the new hardness faded from her face, and the old softness returned, and she was her own true self once more; and through quick-falling tears she declared her gratitude:

"You have done all this-you, whom I despised—you, who seemed to be so cold, so

"It is, thank Heaven!" His words were spoken with marked significance. "What do you mean?" she asked, struck by the tone of his voice.

"I repeat, that time is past and gone. I bring blessed news to you; those calumnies and those lies are at an end! Those vile reptiles which swarmed against you are crushed!"

"Crushed!" she cried, in bewilderment. "No more reproach," he continued; "no more false accusation; no more fear of that wretched court. You are saved from all that misery."

"Your husband bears testimony to your perfect innocence." 'Impossible!"

"With his own hand!"
"A miracle!" she exclaimed.

"Have faith," he answered. "It was not possible that Heaven could permit this horrible injustice. I have been with your husband all day-it was a hard fight. I won't speak of him to you; enough that I have shamed him into truth-plucked away the lies-broken up that vile conspiracy; with his own hand he vouches for your perfect innocence; here's the letter, read it." He gave

Oh, why did you let me feel all this hardress toward you you, who have been striving for my cause as no one else has striven; you, who have saved me at the last?"

"I'm not a fellow to talk much," he answered, bluntly. "If I can do a thing, I do it, and talk afterward."

"Forgive me, Mr. Basil." She took his

hand.

"Yes, yes! fiddlesticks about forgiveness and all that sort of thing;" and he turned from her in his plain, matter-of-fact manner.

"Innocent!" she murmured. "Innocent in the sight of the world!" She heard, or thought she heard, a foot-fall in the garden. "Merciful Heavens! he comes;" and she gazed, as one fascinated, into the outer dark

ness.

"What's the matter? "" "Nothing-nothing."

inquired Basil.

"Do you hear any one in the garden?' "Nothing-nothing, I assure you. Oh, not now, not now!" she murmured to herself. "Not dragged back to that perdition -to that shame! not an outcast now!" In an access of terror she flew to Basil, as if for protection. "I'm not guilty!" she cried, in agonized voice. "Not guilty! If I said I was guilty, it wasn't true that."

"I know it."

- you'll believe

"But I did say I was guilty-I did say I was wicked; I did say I was branded with shame. If any one tells you that, it's false. Oh, you won't desert me, now, at this last moment-you won't desert me?"

Why, you forget your husband's letter!" he answered, in assuring tone.

"Not that not that. Oh, if any one says I'm guilty, you won't believe it?"

"Of course not!" he replied, indignantly. "I should like to see the man who'd dare to say it."

"You'll promise to uphold me still?” "O Mrs. Milburn, try to calm yourself. After all you've suffered, I don't wonder at this revulsion of feeling. Sit down for & minute." He led her to a chair. "You must try to regard the past as an ugly dream—a frightful nightmare-nothing more than the