tered the room, and everybody enquired where he had been, he rather increased than diminished curiosity, by his eager and evasive manner of disposing of their questions. It was late, and Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood soon retired. Wallace and Agnes remained below, and as soon as they were alone, Agnes gently reproached the Unbeliever for neglecting to call for her at the Rectory.

"My dear Agnes,"-Wallace began, "Yes,-I am afraid that you will have thought me very unlike myself this evening, but-the fact is, I have become acquainted, within the last few hours, with circumstances which will require my immediate attention at B. It is not a great distance-and I ordered the carriage before I came in, for".

He had spoken so calmly,—so dispassionately,—that Agnes was only startled when he came to the last sentence.

"What!" she exclaimed, rousing herself at once; for she had begun to feel excessively sleepy. "You are not going now!"

66

Directly," replied her husband, retaining the same self-possession as before. "I must leave you in a few minutes. Have you anything particular to say to me?" "No!" said Agnes, thoughtfully, and enquiringly. "You are joking, Wallace-You won't go to-night?" Agnes,-Have you been to the Rectory this evening?" he asked.

66

Agnes replied that she had; and she trusted that he believed her, as she believed him. "But you won't go yet;" she added, "Wait till the gray dawn looks in upon us, and morning mists begin to rise; it is nearly

twelve o'clock, already,-I should like to go with you. and watch the sun rise."

Wallace turned away, and a cloud passed over his countenance as he answered, "No, it is something very urgent-about that case-I-mentioned to you,”"What case?"

"Never mind, you do not understand these things." He rose up quickly, and left the room; in a few seconds he returned again, came close to Agnes, and placed his hand upon her head.

"Wallace," said his wife, enquiringly; "your hand is so cold," and she again urged him to remain with her.

"Ask me to stay once more," replied the Unbeliever, "and neither Heaven nor Hell shall move me from you!"

Alarmed at his earnestness and emotion, and much mistaking the cause of it, Agnes at length consented that he should go, only begging that he would tell her all about it, when he returned; "and you will come back again in a few hours," she said, embracing him.

"I will try," said Wallace, "Good night," and he left the room,

Agnes felt lonely, and depressed-she scarcely knew. why-and before the sound of the carriage wheels had died away in the distance, she opened the room window, and sat, breathing the damp cold air, and watching for her husband's return: but no,-one o'clock-two o'clock came-and she heard the church clock chime slowly, and die away; and then, she retired to her own room, and-little thinking what dark events hinged in the transactions of those few short hours-she soon fell asleep

K

CHAPTER XI.

"So quick trode sorrow on the heels of joy!"

MORNING rose over the pretty village of Clifton.

The sun shone merrily, and the earth looked green and beautiful; and again, man came forth to his daily labor, until evening.

The morning was not what might have been predicted from the quiet of the preceding night. The smiling landscape, indeed, lay there in her sunshiny robes-as if in all the pride of conscious beauty; but a rough north breeze came sweeping over it from the hills in the distance,-fleecy summer clouds were shifting about the blue heavens-like pilgrims seeking for a resting place, -while every tree, from the slender sapling in the plantation, to the stern oak that stands like a patriach in the forest, was moved; and even the stately yew sighed from its dwelling among the tombs, and shook its bushy head to the blast.

A strange rumour had reached the ears of the good people at Clifton that morning;-it was but a rumour, a vague, indefinite story that had been carried to them as if by a bird of the air, or in the hollow murmuring of the wind,- Heaven only knows how;-and although it excited amazing interest among them, there were few

that did not shake their heads when they repeated it, and breathe a fervent wish that it might be "but a tale -a village tale !”

But the rumour soon reached the inmates of the Old Hall, and Agnes was awakened at an early hour, by the confused sound of voices in the adjoining room. She opened her eyes-and before she had time to recall the circumstances of the past night-rose up, hastily, and rung the bell for her maid. There was a gentle tap at her room door, in the same moment, and Mrs. Fleetwood entered, with a note in her hand, which, after a little hesitation, she presented to her sister. Although it was defaced and blotted, Agnes recognised at once the handwriting of her husband, and eagerly broke the seal. The epistle was briefly expressed, thus,—

"Montarre is dying at the Green Lion, and, before you have received this, I shall have embarked where I defy human effort to follow me. I leave you to speculate as you please upon the cause of the quarrel which has terminated so fatally.

WALLACE ARNOLD.”

Agnes read it, she spelt every word, she perceived that it was, in very deed, Arnold's own writing; yet she could not at first understand him. She could not believe, or rather she could not realise, even in imagination, the event that had transpired;-a mist was before her eyes, and she felt like one in a dream. At length, the truth,-the dark, appalling truth sunk into her heart, like a death warrant. For a few seconds she

stood-pale as an image of alabaster-and clasping Arnold's note-like a sinking mariner grasping a life preserver;-but soon, her hand relaxed its hold, and, as one smitten with the breath of the destroyer, she sunk again upon her bed, and was mercifully relieved with a fit of unconsciousness.

The village surgeon was called, in all possible haste ; for her friends were alarmed for her reason. Various were the restoratives that were applied, and for some time, without success. But Agnes was not destined to end her days in insensibility; and after the interval of about an hour, she evinced symptoms of a return to consciousness, the consciousness of her misery.

Poor Agnes!-sorrow had stricken her even in a moment, and in the sunshine of her bridal days, and she sunk beneath the stroke; but though crushed and bruised, her heart was not broken. There was yet life in her. She believed that there was a God in Heaven; and looked up in holy trust. She believed that there was truth in man; and although appalled at the crime in which his suspicious and passionate temperament had involved her husband, and despite his strange and unnatural conduct, she never for a single moment doubted his affection. She forgave him all, and feared only lest, in the tumult of his conflicting feelings, he should die by his own hand, and die in distrust and unbelief.

The surgeon remained at the Hall some time; and afterwards left his patient, desiring that she should be kept perfectly quiet. Agnes was then alone, and with