half stifled, into the bedroom beyond. His eyesight is dimmed; his faculties are deadened. He reels against the smouldering door-post.

Stay! What is that white object before him?.

A

woman's form, with tresses of gold-brown hair falling over the pure white breast and shoulders, clad in a night-gown, lies motionless upon the floor of the chamber. The smoke has almost suffocated her. It is Sybil lying there—so ghastly white -so deadly still.

The flames roar and hiss continuously.

Hubert lifts her in his arms and walks, or rather staggers, with his burden to the window. He moves like one in a dream. He

feels that his brain is whirling round and round.

"Good God!" he shouts, starting back as he gazes out into the garden with horror-stricken eyes. All the people are assembled at the back of the house, watching the window from which he entered, and not ONE is to be seen at the front-to catch the rescued and the rescuer !

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" he laughs derisively. He knows full well that he is losing his reason. "Ha! Ha! Ha! We will die together and roast-and her husband will wait—and wait-and wait for her cremated body—and mine. Ha! Ha! Ha! What a joke it will be!" His laugh is the laugh of a maniac. He feels, aye, knows, that he is going mad.

Then he looks at the frail, unconscious form, lying helpless in his arms, and gradually the fierce glare of madness leaves his blood-shot eyes, giving way to one of sorrow and tenderness, as by an almost superhuman effort he forces his brain to guide him.

The flames roar and hiss continuously.

His iron will has conquered his insanity.

"Back! back!" he keeps repeating to himself, as he plunges through the smoke, dodging the fallen timbers and striving to reach the room beyond him.

The little crowd beneath the window have given him up for lost. "He would have appeared at the window before this. He must have been overcome by the heat," passes from mouth to mouth.

A doctor has arrived upon the scene, but it is feared that he will be useless. He cannot raise the dead! The Reverend

Hallam Hughes, the vicar of Highthorn, is amongst the eager bystanders, who are almost giving way to despair; but he is keeping up their spirits by suggesting that Dashwood may be searching in the wrong room, and other plausible theories.

L'Estrange is pulling nervously at his moustache, and eagerly watching the roadway down which the fire-engine must come. Suddenly Hubert appears at the window with his frail burden in his arms. He shouts incoherently to the group of men. They understand, and quickly have a blanket stretched out beneath the casement. . . . . Hubert leans forward and drops her gently. She is safe. . . . . but consciousness has not yet re

turned.

Then the men glance upwards at the window again.. They see Hubert stagger-his face shows ghastly in the lurid. light-he throws up both his arms, as a man will do who is fatally shot, then falls backwards out of sight-back into the burning house.

The flames roar and hiss continuously.

Horses' hoofs are clanging rhythmically, growing louder and louder as they approach. It is the fire engine; the horses, urged onwards, are dashing at galloping pace to the rescue.

Quickly the escape is placed at the window; meanwhile one of the brigade has already ascended the ladder. A few seconds. later, Hubert Dashwood's burnt and mutilated body is placed by tender hands-the hands of strong men, gentle as women-upon the mattress laid out upon the blackened lawn.

Sybil has recovered. Only her gold-brown hair is singed. Her body is unhurt. But when they tell her who has rescued her, and that he cannot live, and she must not go and see him-will never see him alive to thank him-she wishes that they might have died together, and feels that her heart has broken.

The doctor plies Hubert with brandy, forcing it down the smoke-dried throat. The Reverend Hallam Hughes prays for his eternal salvation-all hope of life has gone. . . And twenty yards away a graceful woman kneels; the silver moonbeams light up the beautiful upturned face, and seem to cast a halo of glory round the shapely head, as with folded hands she prays as she has never prayed before.

"Let me go to him," she pleads. But her husband stands

betwixt her and the man who has given up his life for hers, even as he has stood between them for the past years.

"You must not see such a sickening sight," he says to her peremptorily. And so she kneels and prays-her husband cannot forbid that—a wild and disconnected prayer.

Gradually the patient recovers consciousness. "Is it well? .. Would it not be better for him to die unconscious? Am I right in bringing him back to pain?" the doctor asks himself.

The flames are becoming less and less. The brigade men are working hard, subduing them with their hose, which throws jet after jet of water over the roof.

The clergyman leans over Hubert and supports his disfigured head, whilst the doctor hastens to prepare an opiate. "Youyou are very badly hurt," says the former, as the wounded man opens his eyes for the first time.

He ignores the remark, but, trying to raise himself upon his elbow, says, "She?" questioningly.

"Is safe and unharmed," answers the clergyman. "But youare you in great pain ?"

"Bah!" Hubert makes answer, waving the doctor away. "She is unharmed!"

Then a great sigh escapes him, and he sinks back, with a glad smile upon his face, into the clergyman's arms; and the film of death covers over his eyes, and the spirit flies away from its fleshly tenement.

The hissing ceases, the flames are subdued, the last spark of fire has gone out.

The daily papers faithfully record Hubert Dashwood's death -the great artist's heroic end-and the enormous loss sustained thereby in artistic circles. And ere many days have passed away another has reached the zenith of the dead man's fame.

It is summer. The laburnum tree in the shadiest corner of Highthorn churchyard is shedding its petals, which fall like golden tears upon the grassy mound beneath. It is Hubert's last resting-place. In his will he expressed a desire to be buried there, in "God's acre," down the narrow path of which he once had hoped to lead Sybil as his bride.

She is kneeling beside the headstone, thinking of the price which she has had to pay for her mother's brief sojourn abroad. Her blue eyes are dimmed by unshed tears; her heart feels cold as the marble headstone-yet her thoughts are far away from the earth.

A man is leaning on the little white gate, stamping his feet restlessly. It is Arthur L'Estrange. His voice breaks harshly in upon the solemn silence, which hovers over the hallowed ground, bringing her thoughts suddenly back to the present. "Come, come," he says. “You have been long enough snivelling over the fellow's bones. I am sick of waiting."

Sybil's wan face flushes red, her little lips tremble, as a cutting retort flies to them; but it is killed in the birth, for they meet the cold stone in one soft, silent kiss.

Then turning round she leaves all hope, all love, all happiness, all save memory behind her, and silently passes through the little white gate, and wanders up the leafy lane with her husband, into the dreary world beyond.

But the laburnum still sheds its golden tears upon Hubert Dashwood's grave.

In Town for a Week.

By C. E. H.

[From the Hon. Laura Tredennis to Lady Bodkin.]

"DEAREST MOTHER,

"Hotel Métropole,

"June, 1893.

"You will want to hear all we have been doing since we left home on Monday. It was fortunate that you telegraphed for rooms, for the hotels were all very full, though we heard yesterday that comparatively few furnished houses are let this season. Perhaps it is because of that that the hotels are so full. What a change all this bustle, commotion and noise is, after our quiet country life. It is very amusing and delightful, but I should soon grow tired of it. We spent yesterday in shopping. You would hardly recognize Jay's Mourning Warehouse, so great are the changes that have been made in it. The rooms all look twice as large, owing to the beautiful scheme of decorations, all carried out in the French style. The whole of the back is in glass, white with leaded tracery, which has a very refined effect. The walls are cream-coloured, a rather warm shade, which gives value to the black, grey, mauve and purple fabrics. Some of the most swagger costumes in London come from Jay's. We saw the Duchess of Sutherland in the Park yesterday, wearing a black chiffon bodice with sleeves all frills, the counterpart of which in heliotrope we had selected at Jay's in the morning. There is a peculiarly soft, rose-like tone of heliotrope, which is correct halfmourning wear, though often called pink, and they make a wonderful use of this in dresses, hats, bonnets and sunshades. We saw there a marvellous garden-party gown, all white silk with a satin-like sheen on it, ruches of rhododendron silk and black lace and chiffon. As they fitted both you and me so admirably with our mourning, I asked if they could possibly make us some coloured gowns when we leave off black, and