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His glance turned to the letter as he had written it out from memory. It lay close beside her hand at that moment.

"It seems a long time since then; everything is lost and gone. That was before the shock, before I knew they had suspected you and taken you. But since, I have come to my right mind again, and can tell it all clear out. Some of the harm can be undone."

"None of the harm can ever be undone," said Daly. "Listen to me now, for time is precious, and try with all your might to understand every word that I am saying to you." "I understand, I understand." Once more she began to rock herself from side to side, and to twist her fingers as if in pain.

"You must do nothing of what you intended to do. You cannot take me out of this, or out of what is to come, by anything that you can do or say. Hush! do not interrupt me by one single word!"

The woman obeyed him; she was cowed by the power and the command in him which she had never seen before, and she was too true a woman not to recognize them, with something like faint, far-off, admiration, even thus, and


"You must go away, and stay away; you, must never make a sign. Everything that can be done for my defence will be done; the gentlemen are seeing to that. I shall have a fight made for me; it will fail, but not through the fault of my friends, God bless and reward them! But you must never be heard of again in any way or anything relating to me."

She looked at him, in sheer blank astonishment, quiet now.

"Until the trial? Do you mean that? But when I tell them, there will be no trial."

"You shall never tell them."

fended. I have told the gentlemen that I am not guilty, and they believe me. I have told them the truth; there was nothing but soda in the powder I put in the letter, and the letter was intended to prevent my poor wife from finding out that I was putting a harmless cheat upon her. The doctor would have told her that I was, if she had let him see the medicine as I sent it. My defence will be the simple truth, and that the poison that killed her got mixed with the harmless powder in some way which I cannot explain. That defence will be quite useless, because there will be the letter- they'll believe their reading of it, and not mine; and there will be the motive"


Still she struggled, until he repeated this several times; at length she yielded, exhausted, and feebly muttering, "Go on, then, tell me what I am to do,” sank down before the table, with her arms spread out upon it, and her face hidden. He spoke from thenceforth with perfect composure. "There will be a trial, and I shall be de

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"Curses or blessings upon it are all one now. I am not going to give it either. All that is gone for ever, like the time that is gone. What we have got now is very short. That letter-there's a copy of it under your arm this minute-and the motive, the talk about you and mee-the talk that I might have hindered, had I been an honest man, and so saved you from all the rest-and the evidence, will hang me, if all the counsellors in the kingdom were on my side."

She lifted her face, and turned it, hardly to be recognized in its mask of livid fear, towards him. His meaning was breaking upon her.

"Hang you! When I did it! When I shall tell them that I did it!”

In an instant she started from her seat, and rushed towards the door. But he caught her, and held her, while she struggled with him fiercely, trying to tear away the folds of her shawl, with which he had covered her mouth. “Let me go! let me go!" she gasped faintly; "am I to kill her and you too?"

"You shall never tell them. This is what I have to say to you. I have known from the first that you did it, and there is no turn which you could have given to circumstances, that I have not been prepared for. Did you think,


You surely will kill me if you don't obey that you were coming here to confess your crime to me, your tempter and your fellowsinner?"

"No," he said, sorrowfully, "it was ours; and I am the guiltier. It was a terrible day for you when you saw me first."

"My curse-no, no, my blessing be upon that day!" murmured the woman.

"No, no, my lover; oh, Dominick, my lover!"

"Did you think, I say, that you were coming here to confess it, because you and I too are utterly beaten, and then to go and tell it to the world and take the penalty of it, letting me go free? Free to what? Did you, in your

womanish folly, when the madness of murder | small, there's always some chance, and God is
had passed away from you, think such a thing
as that?"

above all. Who knows, he may have mercy
upon me, if mercy it would be. Tell your
story, and you destroy my chance; you are the
minister of his justice to me. Anyhow, I have
told you what I will do. Make
up your mind
-there's very little time, we shall be inter-
rupted soon-what you will do."

Scorn of her, horror of her, pity too, were in his voice and in his face, and also the power which forced her to reply with the truth.

"I did. I think so now. It shall be so." "It shall not be so. You shall not tell that truth, and before we part for the last time in this world you shall swear to me, your lover, as you called me, the only oath I want from you-that you will never tell it till your death is near to you, nearer than mine to me to-day, or for many days to come. You shall swear this to me, if you don't want to know that the blackest despair of all comes to me from you, blacker despair than jury or judge could sentence me to, if I had ten lives for them to take from me. Listen to me, Katharine," the vehemence of his tone changed to a solemn earnestness; "by the living God, who shall be our judge, if you do not swear that oath to me, or, having sworn it, if you do not keep it, I will go into the dock and plead guilty." "And what good would that do you," she stammered, "if I was there, and told them the truth?"

"Which I would swear was a lie. Who would believe your word against mine, do you think? I would tell them: here is a girl whom I have deceived, an innocent girl, with a good character, and respectable people to swear to it, and I, a married man, made love to her, and tempted her, and promised to marry her when I should be free. And she loved me, and trusted me, and now she wants to die for me. D'ye think they'd believe your story, when I'd tell them mine from the dock, with the letter, and the remains of the powder, and the evidence to back it; and nothing to back yours but the love of a villain like me to account for your tremendous lie, and the old belief that there's nothing a woman won't do for her lover, to make them think mine the truth? There would not be a chance for you. There's not a man from Donegal to Cape Clear would believe your story, or doubt mine. So, if you want to hang me, as surely as if you put the rope round my neck with your own



“And what else have I done?" she moaned. "Go and tell your story. At least it would make a quick end. There's little trouble with a murderer who pleads 'Guilty,' and tells them all they want to know from the dock. It will have the same ending, anyhow, as I believe, but there are my chances in a trial. Great or


"I will swear, and keep my oath."

She stood up, trembling, but her face was calmer, less death-like, and she touched a crucifix upon the table-"I swear to obey you in this; but, but, the chances, there are chances?"

"I have said, there are chances. I don't count upon them: don't you count upon them either. You have no more to do with this, or with me. You have only to go away, and to keep silence, in any case, and to-to repent."

His voice faltered, and his eyes dropped from her face. She laughed.

"That's all!" she said. "In any case, whether you are saved from the punishment of my act, or whether you suffer for it, I-I who did it, wicked as it was, devil as I am, for your sake, and because I could not live without you, I have only to go away, and keep silence, and repent. I must obey you, for you are stronger than I am, and you have beaten me by your threat, because I never thought of what you could do, only of what I could do myself; and now I know you would keep your word, so you have conquered me. It's done with. It's over; but I'll tell you, at least, what was in my miserable mind. It was, that when I had told the truth, when you knew that my wretched ignorance had never taken in the notion that the death she had to die could be a hard one, or the most distant dread that it could harm you;-an awful fool, Dominick, a miserable fool;-when I was going to give myself up to my righteous doom, and you were going to be cleared of suspicion, you would tell me that you forgave me, because it was all for your sake; that you would let me rest for one moment in your arms again; that you would say to me, 'I loved you once.""

She made the slightest possible movement, as if to approach him, but he stepped back. She went on rapidly-"That can't be nowyou have beaten me. You know better than I, and your ingenuity would make anything that I could do useless. The punishment must come to me in its worst shape. You told me once that you would die for me, Dominick, and I believed you; but you, you could live for me yet; there are those chances


you spoke of, you know. There's that one gleam in all this black, dreadful night!"

She drew a little nearer; a wild light came into her eyes, her white cheeks were streaked with crimson. Her hands fluttered like leaves, and her gown stirred with the trembling of her knees.

"I will repent, I will repent, if the chances are for you; and, and, if you will give me a chance then, Dominick, my darling, my lover --I love you-how shall it be, since you have beaten me, and I cannot die for you, if the chances are for you?"

would rather be hanged twice over than see your face again."

She uttered a sharp cry, like that of an animal caught in a trap. The next instant the step of the jailer sounded on the flags outside. She drew her shawl around her, she lowered her veil, and she said, between her shut teeth, as the key turned in the lock-

"I shall never repent. You never loved me, and the past is a lie.”

The prison official had brought Daly's dinner.


She clasped her hands, and stretched them towards him. A terrible yearning, half madness, half memory, all anguish, was in her beautiful, dreadful face. He recoiled still farther, and answered her thus:"Woman, if the chances were for me, I man joined her.

[It has been the good fortune of Mr. Wills to have written several plays which have the double merit of being acceptable on the public stage and at the same time readable in the closet. To a knowledge of theatrical effect he joins much poetic fancy, graceful and sometimes highly vigorous diction, and a fine eye to telling dramatic situation.

"I am ready to go now," said Katharine Farrell, with perfect composure. "Perhaps you will kindly take me to the gate."

She passed through the door without another word, and stood in the passage until the

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William Gorman Wills was born in 1828 in county Kilkenny. Sent to Trinity College, he passed through the entire undergraduate course, but did not trouble himself to take a degree a piece of neglect which doubtless led to many gloomy prognostications of an unfortunate and unprosperous future. The first love of Mr. Wills, as of so many littérateurs, was art, and he devoted himself for many years with great assiduity to portrait-painting. In this branch of artistic effort he has attained considerable distinction, and in recent years-for he has never wholly forgotten his pencil while busy with his pen he has had, among several other distinguished sitters, the Princess Louise.

in 1871-is, in our opinion, the best of the dramatist's plays, full of splendid situations, of clever character-drawing, and of stately language. It was not, however, suitable for the English public in its present temper, and did not prove particularly popular. Charles the First, on the other hand, was one of the most successful plays put on the stage in this generation. Brought out at the Lyceum (1872), it gave Mr. Irving a most popular part, and it had-exclusive of revivals—a run of two hundred nights. Eugene Aram, produced in the same theatre, and with Mr. Irving again in the chief rôle, also had a lengthened run. In addition to the plays mentioned, Mr. Wills has also written Mary Queen o' Scots-in which the beautiful and hapless Mrs. Rousby made one of her last public appearances; Jane Shore, an historical drama-produced at the Princess's Theatre in 1876, where it ran for five consecutive months; England in the Days of Charles II.-founded on Scott's Peveril of the Peak, and not a wholly undeserved failure; Olivia, in which the Vicar of Wakefield's daughter has her familiar story once more told in poetic and touching language; Nell Gwynne, and Ninon.

The Man o' Airlie was the first drama of Mr. Wills which attracted a large amount of public attention. This work-produced at the Princess's Theatre, 1866—is a striking picture | of the degradation and misery brought on a Mr. Wills is also the author of many novels; great poetic genius by drink, and some of the of these the best known are Notice to Quit and soliloquies and scenes are deeply moving. the Wife's Evidence, both of which have been Hinko-brought out at the Queen's Theatre | republished in America.]



Whitehall Palace. CROMWELL discovered seated.
Cromwell. On me and on my children!
So said the voice last night! A lying dream!
This blood-this blood on me and on my chil-

It is my wont to feel more heartiness
When face to face with action. But this deed
Doth wrap itself in doubt and fearfulness.
Do I well to confront him at this hour,
Even when yon scaffold waiteth for its victim,
And his pale face doth look like martyrdom?
I will not. Out upon my sinking heart!
The standard-bearer fainteth, and my followers
Grow slack. I'll hie me to them,-
And yet, if by the granting him his life
He abdicate-no shifts-he abdicate!
Then-then this offer of the Prince of Wales-
This young Charles Stuart-he is in our absolute

As he doth promise if we spare his father.
Why if he come-I had not thought of that,-
Both son and father given to our hands:
Then have we scotched the snake!

Enter an Attendant, who hands CROMWELL a
Cromwell (reads the letter).

"Declines to see

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The brightest jewel ever set in crown
Were worthless to the glisten of one tear
Upon thy lid-one faint hope-star of mercy.
Be merciful! A queen doth kneel to thee.
Cromwell. Not to me! Nor am I now
A whit more moved because thou art a queen!
Queen. I am no queen; but a poor stricken


On whom this dreadful hour is closing in.
(Chimes the half hour.)
Dost hear the clock? Each second quivering on
Is full of horror for both thee and me.
Endless remorse thy doom, and sorrow mine.
Cromwell. Madam, no more. I shall have no


For an unhappy duty well perform'd.

Queen. Thou call'st it duty; but all heaven and earth


"His last hour disturb'd!" It shall be thy last Shall raise one outraged cry, and call it murder; hour. It shall be written right across the clouds In characters of blood till Heaven hath judged it. Cromwell. Nay, you forget: the righteous cause

doth prosper.

"As touching the Prince of Wales' noble
Offering of himself for me. Look back
On my past life, and thou art answer'd!"
Past life! full of deceit and subtle courage.
"I pardon thee and all mine enemies,
And may Heaven pardon them!"
What now doth stay to send away this patch
On our new garment?
England! one hour-gray tyranny is dead!
And in this hand thy future destiny.

Enter the Queen.

But in the dying moans of those we treasure,
And in the silence of our broken hearts!
Thou hast a daughter, and her check is pale;
Her days do balance between life and death,
Whether they wither or abide with thee.
Let him be cruel who hath none to love;
But let that father tremble who shall dare
Widow another's home! She loves the king.

Madam, my daughter hardly did prevail
That I should grant you this last interview.
It must be brief and private, or I warn you
I cannot answer for your safe return.
Queen (aside). Sainte Vierge, aidez moi! This is Take now his sacred life, and hie thee home.
the man who holds
Smile on her, call her to thee, she will linger.
My husband's life within his hands. Ah! could Ask for thy welcome, she will give it thee!
A shudder as she meets thee at the door;


Sainte Marie, inspirez moi, mettez votre force dans A cry as thou wouldst think to touch her lips; mes prières.

I see him as the drowning swimmer sees
The distant headland he can never reach.

A sickening at thy guilty hand's caress!
The haunting of a mute reproach shall dwell
For ever in her eyes till they both be dead!

If this be crime, the hand of Heaven not in it,
Then had thy husband flourish'd; on our side
God's heavy judgment fallen, shame and slaughter!
Queen. God speaketh not in thunder when he

Cromwell (moved). Silence! You speak you | 'Twas thou who with a fawning cozenage
know not what. No more!

Lured thy good master to undo himself,
To doubt where all his hope was to confide,
And blindly trust where every step was fatal!
'Twas thou, when the repenting Parliament

Queen. Oh! yield not to that voice, hearken to Were fain for reconcilement, brought thy sol


Thou voice within, why dost thou seem so far?
Shine out, thou fiery pillar! Bring me up
From the dead wilderness-


And I will join my prayers to thine henceforth

That thy Elizabeth may live for thee.

Cromwell. Madam, I came here with intent of And packed the benches with thy regicides!

Cromwell. What, madam, is the purpose of this railing?

Queen. Thou think'st to make the mother a decoy,

And, holding the lost father in thy grip, Queen. No-no-he shall not. I am somewhat Secure the son who yet may punish thee! faint;

(Chimes.-Three-quarters.) Cromwell. Madam, the clock! say, what dost thou intend?

The hope thou showest striketh me like lightning.
Life! didst thou say his life? Ask anything.
Cromwell. If he would abdicate and quit the

Queen. To choke my sighs, to hide each bitter

Queen. And he shall do it. I will answer for it.
Give me but breathing-time to move him, sir.
Cromwell. Stay, madam. If we spare your
husband's life

To keep a calm and steadfast countenance,
To mask my anguish from his majesty.

Cromwell. So! it were well; and then-
Queen. Then we will both be faithful to our-

Your son has offer'd to submit his person
Into our hands, and set his sign and seal
To any proposition we demand.

Queen. Thou strikest a fountain for me in the

And ere my lips can touch it, it is dry!
My husband first must abdicate, and then my


What was the answer of the king to thee?

Cromwell. He doth refuse our mercy, and elects To carry to his death the name of king.

Thou child of many prayers, Elizabeth!

Queen. When all was lost at Newark, and thy I'll to the General's. Fairfax relents,


And with a hope of life.

Queen. Of life!—of life!

Cromwell. I offer'd him his life-he scorn'd my


king Was bought and sold by his own countrymen,

Thou (jealous stickler for the Commons' rights)
Arrested every true man in the house,

[The Rev. William Arthur, author of one of our most popular biographies, was born in Ireland in 1819. He received his education at Hoxton College, and in 1839 went to India, where he was engaged for some years in missionary labour. In 1847 he published A Mission to the Mysore, which was favourably received, a critic in Bentley's Miscellany declaring" the whole work so enlivened by anecdotes and descriptions of men and things that the attention to it never for a moment flags. Macaulay himself never wrote a chapter more worthy of a Christian statesman's perusal than

Even unto death!

Cromwell. Will you not, madam, use your influence!

Queen. Never! My husband, sir, shall die a king!

Cromwell. Thou shadow of a king, then art thou doom'd! I wash my hands of it. (Aside.) What melancholy doth ravin on my heart?

That will not I. My hand is on the plough;
I will not look behind.
[Exit Cromwell.



| is the seventh chapter of this volume, entitled India, what is it?"" In 1851 the death of the well-known Mr. Samuel Budgett of Bristol suggested to Mr. Arthur the idea of a work "wherein an actual and a remarkable life is traced in relation to commerce-a familiar book for the busy, to which men from the counting-house or the shop might turn, and for which they might possibly be the better here and hereafter." Accordingly in 1852 The Successful Merchant appeared, and the immediate popularity which it attained amply justified the idea of the author. Some

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