No. She felt by his tone he had not seen her face. Now, if she could only speak that one word calmly, her poor weak, uncertain heart might still rest unbetrayed. She exerted all her energies, and her lips moved, but all that escaped from them was a quick, gasping sob. Now, indeed, she felt those eyes turned upon her, searching her very soul with their keen, fierce questioning. Utterly unable to bear them calmly, and not daring to let them read what she felt must be traced there, she hid her face in her hands. They were torn down almost fiercely, and held in a grasp of iron: "Barbara!" She pushed him off. to keep to her purpose. She would make one more effort tried to call up that picture of her clay-cold babe which had never failed to poison the memory of her love for him; but all that that picture brought now was an overwhelming sense of how she had wronged and misunderstood him. All she could do was to sink into a chair, and clasping her hands in her lap, let her tears fall unrestrainedly, while she murmured,— "Abel! Abel! I cannot say good-bye. O, may God forgive me, but I can keep my vow no longer!" The Inventor heard her words, and half guessed their meaning, but gazed at her a moment incredulous or stupefied. Then, with a cry of "O God, is it true?" dropped at her feet, and his head sunk helplessly on her knees. She pressed it convulsively to her breast; while, amidst tears and sobs, she poured into his ear, in her sweet, trembling voice, her childlike confession, where the tones of the old dialect became again strangely perceptible: "I love thee, Abel. I never loved Mr. Lancelot. I thought I did-but I was wrong. I never loved any one but thee-only thee ever. And O, I have suffered too, Abel. I have wished I was dead many's the time. And now, O, I could never, never have said good-bye. I could have died sooner. Yesterday I was strong and wilful in my resolution, but to-day I have felt like a child in God's hands." When the widow, growing anxious at this long farewell, went into the cottage, she found Abel Drake lying at his wife's feet, with his face buried in her dress, while Barbara, holding back her disordered hair, was weeping passionately over him. "God will forgive me, mother," she said, looking up with streaming eyes, while a vivid blush overspread her face-"God will forgive me for breaking my vow." "Yes, O yes," the widow said, as she bent and kissed them both."Do not fear, my child; it is the vow made in love and broken in hate that is accursed before God; but a vow made in hate and broken in love is a good and blessed thing." Under the harvest moon that night, over little Ailsie's grave, Abel replaced his wife's wedding ring. CHAPTER THE LAST. MR. WOLCOMBE'S LETTER. MY DEAR BARBARA, Coppeshall, Sunday night. SINCE I may no longer hope to call you my daughter, let me at least claim the privilege of a friend. Enclosed is your husband's receipt for the machine: accept it from me. And if he likes to come to me, at the mill, to-morrow morning, I will refer him to a gentleman who is willing to give a considerable sum for the exclusive right to the invention. But I incline to think he might do better by carrying out his original idea of retaining a share. So, if he would like us to work it together, I am ready to go into the matter with him, find the capital, and I don't think we shall disagree about terms. One more word, and I have done. Is it necessary now for you to leave us? I can only say I hope not. There are, as you know, rooms enough, and to spare, which you and your husband can have, and where he may be as much or as little alone as he pleases. I do wish this, I confess, for my own and the children's sake, if there be nothing to prevent. But do as you and he think best. In any case you have both of you-my best wishes for your future happiness and prosperity. I am, my dear Barbara, Ever sincerely yours, THE END. JAMES WOLCOMBE. BOKHARA: ITS HISTORY AND CONQUEST. By Professor Arminius Vàmbèry, of the University of Pesth, Author of "Travels in Central Asia," &c. Demy 8vo. "We conclude with a cordial recommendation of this valuable book. In former years, Mr. Vàmbèry gave ample proofs of his powers as an observant, easy, and vivid writer. In the present work his moderation, scholarship, insight, and occasionally very impressive style, have raised him to the dignityof an historian."-Saturday Review. "Almost every page abounds with com Price 18s. position of peculiar merit, as well as with an account of some thrilling event more exciting than any to be found in an ordinary work of fiction."-Morning Post. 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