turned quickly round. All was blank and still. An indescribable feeling of dread took possession of me. I expected to see some one standing by my side, ghostly or in the flesh. All was blank and still. I shuddered at the silence. I went back to the dining-room. It occurred to me for a moment that even Beck's man would be a relief to the dead calm which had settled upon the house. I wandered into the kitchen. A calm, red-hot fire was shining upon a sleeping cat. Not even a cricket sang. The cat did not purr. There was no sound in the place. The same sense of fear and alarm which had come upon me in the breakfast-room took possession of me here. I grew hot and cold. I shuddered at my own footfall. At length I pulled myself together, as if for an encounter with some dread shape. If I had heard that terrible "door-slam" described by De Quincey in the "Postscript," I could not have been more unnerved. I crept to the staircase. I crept to my wife's room stealthily, fearfully, with my heart beating and my knees trembling. I went inside. All calm and still; the nurse sitting at one side of the bed, Hannah at the other, the fire settled into a quiet glow, the candles burning steadily. Ruth was asleep. Hannah and the nurse both raised their fingers to impress upon me the necessity of stillness. My heart sunk within me. There was still a shadow by my side. I was afraid. I looked There was no presence. Ruth

round to confront the presence.

opened her eyes; her lips moved. They did not know what she said. I did. I was by her side with a glass of water in a moment: My God! "You will never forget the first time nor the last when you gave Ruth a glass of water." Nobody said that, yet I seemed to hear it.

"Cheer up, Ruth, my dear Ruth," I said.

She did not speak; she hardly breathed.

“Hannah,” I said in a whisper, "fetch Doctor Woods.”

Hannah hesitated.

"At once, Hannah; I am master here. Tell Mr. Woods to come immediately."

I took Ruth's hand in mine and chafed it. I bathed her temples with eau-de-cologne. I gave her brandy. She revived. The nurse silently but emphatically protested against all I did. I saved Ruth's life at that moment nevertheless. Mr. Woods said as much afterwards. Would it not have been better had I let her

go quietly then, free from pain? I grieve to think how much she suffered a few hours later. No wonder women believe more firmly than men in the curse that fell upon Eve. Their sorrow has, indeed, been multiplied.

When the Doctor returned with Hannah he did not disguise his alarm. After a hasty examination of his patient he said

"Mrs. Himbleton is very ill, sir-very ill, indeed.”

"Doctor Woods," I said, "you only confirm my fears. Call in the best assistance you can get."

"The famous Doctor Western has only been in consultation with me half an hour ago. He consented to remain at the Mall until eleven twenty. I told him I feared I might want him. I will bring him here in ten minutes."

"Thank you, Doctor, thank you.”

All my hopes were in Doctor Woods. I shook his hand with a grateful grip when he showed me that he had not forgotten my wife when he left the house to see his other patient. I went back to her room. I talked quite cheerfully to Ruth. The Doctor said we were not to say or do anything that tended to depress her.

"You will soon be better, dear," I said.

"Do you think I shall, George?" she replied, with a touching eagerness.

"Think! dear; I know you will. Mr. Woods says so. He is very kind and pleasant, Mr. Woods, is he not ?"

"Very," said Ruth, with a languid but inquiring glance, as if she knew I was only acting.

"Mr. Woods is going to bring Doctor Western to see you. Doctor Western is such a nice fellow. You do not know him; no, but you soon will, dear. You will be at home with him in a moment."

"He will not come to-night?"

"Yes, dear, he will come presently."

"Come here?"

"Yes, my pet; he happens to be at our neighbours' at the Mall, and I asked Mr. Woods to bring him in.”

"You think I am very ill, George," she said, turning towards me her full brown eyes.

"No, no, not very ill, love; you will soon be better, dear. There, there, you must not cry, darling; you must be brave for my sakebrave and courageous like my own dear wife.”

"Yes, I will, George, I will. Have you sent for my sister?"

"She is coming to us at Christmas," I said, "when you are well again. You must be brave, darling, and get better for Christmas, you know. I have invited all our friends to come-our sister, Fenton, Desprey, the Canon; everybody, in fact. There, you are better already."

"Yes, dear," she said, smiling sadly.

Poor dear soul, she knew I was playing a part. I would not let a doubt about her recovery enter my mind, though I was sorely afraid.

"I am quite happy, George; we are all in His hands; but I should not like to leave you yet."

She whispered this to me as I went over to kiss her and say I would return to her in a moment; for I heard the Doctor's coach rumbling under the trees on the Mall. It pleased Heaven to afflict my poor Ruth with pain and anguish before His messengers came to conduct her to the golden land. This was a keen shaft in my heart for many a weary day. It drove me into the thorny paths of doubt and unbelief, until all my happy future was in jeopardy. My heart stands still when I think that I had nearly thrown away all right to that perfecting of our hopes and aspirations which lies in the gift of immortality.

CHAPTER XXV.

"BUT OH! FOR THE TOUCH OF A VANISHED HAND; AND THE SOUND OF A VOICE THAT IS STILL."

THEY seemed to have shut me out of the room for hours, the two doctors. Once I heard her cry and call my name. The door was locked. I went into the next room, and prayed in an agony of heart I had never felt before. I appealed, I raved, I demanded mercy. I went back and listened. I heard her voice. She was suffering much. Presently all was calm. I wandered about the house. I looked at her pictures. I counted the minutes. How they lagged on the dial! Hannah ran down stairs in a hurry. Her face was white. She said I could go into the room presently. I followed her. The door was shut and locked again. Our other servant was in the kitchen weeping. Her sobs drove me back when I would have spoken to her. I went into the studio and sat down. Presently the doctors came into the room. Doctor Western informed me that Mr. Woods had done everything that was right and proper, and he could leave the case entirely in his hands. He confessed that the situation was grave; but, the lady being young, he thought Nature might be relied upon to bring about a satisfactory result. If Mr. Woods sent for him again he would come with all expedition. For the next six or eight hours it was necessary that Mrs. Himbleton should not be allowed to sleep. I might go to her. She wanted quiet and repose, but not sleep. I went to Ruth. The nurse was sitting on one side of the bed, Hannah on the other. My poor Ruth lay there white and

motionless. She smiled faintly as I crept by her side, and tried to put out her hand, but she was too weak. Mr. Woods came into the room, and after a few instructions to the nurse, left us, promising to return in an hour. When he returned he thought Ruth was a little better. He gave her half a glass of brandy. She spoke to me a little while afterwards.

"You will not leave me," she said.

I kissed her forehead, and whispered in her ear, and prayed inwardly that God would not part us. As the night wore on into morning we found the desire to sleep became stronger and stronger. It almost seemed cruel to check it.

"Only a minute, dear; let me close my eyes a minute." I could only tell what she said by watching her lips. Hannah fanned her face; the nurse talked aloud; I patted Ruth's hand; we raised her up for a moment. It was a continual fight with sleep. "You will not leave me," she said.

I raised her in my arms, and talked to her, and called her by her

name.

"We had better send for Mr. Woods," the nurse said.

Hannah poured eau-de-cologne on my wife's head, and fanned her temples. She opened her eyes.

"Thank God!" said Hannah.

"Yes, thank God!" said Ruth, in a low whisper; "is it nearly morning?"

"Yes, dear," I said, "you must try and keep awake until morning, love," and I moved her gently.

She looked at me tenderly, with a glimmer of the old soft, sweet light in her eyes-looked at me with a last effort of her great, good, noble soul; the tenderness of it, the pity, and love, and sorrow of it seemed to break my heart. Oh, my dear, dear Ruth!

She lay in my arms with a sweet, calm smile on her face; she lay and slept. A faint glimmer of daylight stole in through the curtains. It was morning to all the world but me. The light of my day in this world had gone out for ever.

Sitting here alone in the firelight, it seems to me as if the Christmas bells burst out into wild melodies of joy while Ruth was sleeping in my arms. But this is a confusion of time. I remember, when I gave her up to the women who dressed her for her long-continued sleep, that they laid aside upon the toilet table some tiny clothing, as if they had angelic company for our darling. I saw a little pair of woollen shoes and some rosettes of narrow ribbon. I think I was light-headed at the time, just as I had been years and years before, when I saw

the Dean go into the cloisters before he died. I cannot dissociate those bells of Yule with Ruth's last sleep in the cottage on the Thames. They ring out in my memory now as if they had welcomed the new angel in heaven-my angel, my Ruth. Between the jubilant music which my spiritual hopes fling in upon my memory there are intervals of earthly wailing, and sadness, and sorrow. There is a passing bell, a mournful, sorrowing, heartbreaking wail, like the moaning of the sympathetic winds in Ossian. It drowns the Christmas bells; it fills the air; it cries to heaven; it raves, and cries, and curses. A dark procession moves through the echoing pauses. There is a coffin. Isee the name upon it. I hear the dust rolling upon the lid. I am alone-alone-an outcast-a broken-hearted outcast-a scoffer, a railer at God, an unbeliever, a wanderer, a misanthrope, a weird, haggard vagabond about the London streets. The days come and go. I heed them not. It is night with me, dark, impenetrable night— darkness with a death knell in it. Then once more the bells peal out, and I am a man again-brave, courageous, resigned, hopeful, with my heart and soul in the glorious future.

Mary Oswald came to see me. I know not how we met, or where. I think she came at Christmas, as she promised—at Christmas, that time when Ruth went on before to make heaven and eternity worth the having. She was good to me, my sister of Wulstan, and we talked of other days—the minor canon of the old cathedral, Canon Molineau. He became a bishop, and it was he-heaven rest him!--who brought me to the Valley of Poppies. How the years have sped! It was but yesterday that I walked with Ruth in the Wulstan meadows. To-morrow we shall meet again in Paradise. I am at peace with all men. Pensax has gone before. Mary is an old woman, wedded to her foreign home-a good, merciful benefactress to the poor. I had a letter from her this morning. The words were difficult to decipher. Her hand trembled. She talks of our next meeting; it will be in heaven. My heart leaps with joy when I think of the coming day. My poor people in the valley! If the disembodied spirit can plead for the prisoners on earth, it shall go well with you; for I have loved you much, and my hair has grown white among you. There is a memorial window in Wulstan Cathedral; "Pensax" is written on it, and the time of his death. I know not if the river of his life purified itself at last as Ruth had pictured it; but he is splendidly remembered in Wulstan, though Desprey is member for the city. I hoped to tell the story of Desprey's battle with Pensax, but all things in my life end with her death. My notes are numerous. They are tied up with Trigg's confessions. My literary executor, Fenton's youngest