Widgery and the Widgery fortune had always been acknowledged to be handsome, there was no room left for the suggestion. And it would have been very much out of place in every sense, for since, in our country, matrimony so much resembles the game of stagecoach, where somebody must inevitably be left out, it is only a pity it could not always fall to the lot of those who like being "the one" as well as Miss Widgery. "There are a great many single women in England," said Aunt Esther. Just as she pronounced the word 'England' the church clock struck nine, and every one knew that supper was at that instant placed upon the table in the dining-room. Every one, at least, but Cousin Leafy and the friend she had been so assiduously entertaining; they quietly continued their conversation, until just as the words "always so provided for," and "now that she was going home again to-morrow, she did not doubt something else would be arranged," were buzzed into the momentary silence, they became aware of what was going on, and joined the general movement, arm-in-arm.

Miss Widgery's hospitality, unlimited as it was in most respects, had still one boundary, fixed and immovable as the eternal hills. Her father, Dr. Widgery, was long regarded as the most skillful physician in the community, and although it was now some twenty years since the great enemy whom he had driven from so many homes turned and slew him in his own, she still remembered with remarkable clearness those articles of diet which he had considered unfavorable to health, and never under any circumstances had she been guilty of placing one of them before her guests. No proper estimate can probably be made of the detriment they were accordingly spared by his disapproval of ice-water, and ices in all forms; but, fortunately, his fondness for strong coffee was equally marked, and its innocence being thus established, they were sure of finding it on her table in unrivaled quality. Miss Widgery herself always took hot water, on account of its great advantage to the complexion, although she seldom persuaded any of her guests to join her in this refreshing beverage.

"I-ah-think tea is excellent if you happen to have a headache," said Mrs. Collycibber.

Very possibly," said the doctor: "Similia similibus curantur."

"I-ah-don't know anything about that variety," said Mrs. Collycibber-"I

always use Oolong. You know, Doctor, we always use Oolong, and I certainly shouldn't like to use any new brand. They say they are never anything more than a mixture of very poor articles."

"They drink a great deal of tea in England," said Aunt Esther. "They always make it on the table there, however. It is really delicious."

any

The Doctor did not seem inclined to make further remark just here. Joining Cousin Leafy on the other side of the room, he begged his friend to go and tell Miss Widgery that he had had some acquaintance with her nephew in Manilla, while he took a saucer of Miss Yetton's blanc-mange. Nothing could exceed the beautiful simplicity of faith with which the Doctor always accepted articles of food placed before him-mysteries he never aspired to solve, and which he received with more or less pleasure as they happened to reach his palate. But this time, as a most unusual circumstance, a question seemed to arise, and he looked up suddenly at Cousin Leafy.

"I wonder very much what this is composed of! Can you tell me, madam? What is the fundamental substance?"

Cousin Leafy was delighted with an opportunity to meet the Doctor on her own ground, and replied that it was isinglass.

"Isinglass, madam! That seems hardly possible. I have isinglass inserted in the apertures of my stove, and it becomes harder and dryer the more it is exposed to the heat."

"Oh, you don't bake it," said Cousin Leafy. "You take three pints of water-”

Unfortunately for Cousin Leafy's recipe, their mutual friend returned, tube and all, and not perceiving that she was saying anything, remarked that Miss Widgery seemed very much engaged, and if Miss Yetton would not take anything more, would she do him the favor to walk into the back parlor and look at the picture the Major had been criticising? The rest of the company soon followed them as far as the front room, when Mrs. Collycibber took the opportunity to remark that it was such a pity for a man with a nose like that to be obliged to spoil it by putting on a pair of blue glasses.

"And so remarkably like a Widgery nose," replied Miss Widgery; "the only one I ever saw out of the family that really resembled it."

"I do hope it is nothing very serious," pursued Mrs. Collycibber.

"I trust not," said the Doctor; "the organ of vision is the avenue of blessings so

innumerable, that it seems almost hopeless to face the poverty consequent upon its destruction."

"I-ah-think he did it reading Greek," said Mrs. Collycibber.

"My dear," said the Doctor, "this gentleman never knew a word of Greek."

This remark, instead of changing the current of Mrs. Collycibber's reflections, seemed only to float like a feather upon it, as she went on with the same little staccato to Miss Widgery.

"Yes, I-ah-feel sure he did it reading Greek, for I remember so well that was the way poor Mr. Pilkington destroyed his sight, and was obliged to go out to the heathen, because he couldn't write sermons any more at home."

"My dear," said the Doctor, "I assure you this gentleman never read a word of Greek— never saw a Greek book in his life."

"Yes, it was somewhere in the Polynesian islands where he went, and he never came back. It must be the same trouble. I-ahthink he did it reading Greek."

"But, my dear, I have already assured

you—”

"A dreadful affliction," said Mrs. Collycibber. "I don't know how any one can live without their eyesight. He-ah-must have done it reading Greek."

"I frequently met with blind persons among the poor when I was in England, but I did not always learn the occasion of it," said Aunt Esther, and before the question could be pursued, a sharp little wail, upward and then downward, interrupted, and Mr. Gilligan had commenced to play the violin. Although he had not added anything new to his list of tunes for a good many years, they were the more welcome to the company for old acquaintance sake, and he played steadily on, one air after another, until he brought his audience so much into the spirit of the thing that they had forgotten Cousin Leafy and the stranger entirely, when Miss Widgery happened to glance toward the folding-doors, and there they certainly stood, it was no

optical illusion, and Cousin Leafy's hand was on his arm, and her handkerchief was a good deal wet, and the spectacles had disappeared from a pair of very handsome black eyes.

"Dear Cousin Widgery," she said, as Mr. Gilligan, his eyes following in the same direction, cut a wail short in the middle and dropped his bow, "dear Cousin Widgery, did you ever know anything so surprising in your life! To think that it was Sam himself all the time, and his eyes are as good as any one's, only he wanted to play a trick, and not let us know him for a little while, and he is just as delightful as he always was, only he really is a little deaf, and he has only a few days to stay, but he has remembered me ever since he went away."

A habit of punctuality, established for years, will bear a great shock without yielding, and when the last stroke of ten fell upon the air, the Doctor's friend had confessed that he was Sam, and that it was Cousin Leafy herself he had come in search of, and that he must sail again within a week if possible, though he was not going back to Manilla but only to England, where they should be most happy to have Aunt Esther spend the remainder of her days with them, if agreeable to her, and Miss Widgery had begged her friends to come again day after to-morrow, and make another evening, when the violin should play the wedding march; and every one's congratulations had been offered, and the last guest had passed down the gravel path, and under the line of black knobs along the sidewalk.

"I-ah-felt sure he did it reading Greek," Mrs. Collycibber nodded back at Miss Widgery, as she passed the threshold, and in another moment Miss Widgery, with a plate of lady's fingers in her hand, vanished through the garden gate "to tell Wiggy," and Cousin Leafy was seated on the foot of the bed, the fountain in full play, and a handkerchief in each hand. "Just as I always am provided for," she said, "and to think that he had that conversation tube after all!"

"THE end shall crown the work "

Ah, who shall tell the end! It is a woesome way,

And clouds portend.

The work is all we know—
Enough for our faint sight.
The end God knows. Press on!
The crown-is lig..t.

CHAPTER XLII.

MRS. BURTON took her new problem away with her into the quiet of her room. It was a question which had never occurred to her before. Some few first principles even an inquiring mind like hers must take for granted, and this had been one of them. She had no love for money, and no contempt for it-it was a mere commonplace necessity, not a thing to be discussed; and though she had a high natural sense of honour and honesty, in her own person, it had not occurred to her to consider that in such a matter she had anything to do but to accept the arrangement which was according to law and common custom, an arrangement which, of course, had been made (theoretically) in view of a calamity such as had just happened. It was the intention of her settlement, and of all settlements, she said to herself, to secure a woman against the chances of her husband's ruin. She, in most cases, was entirely irresponsible for that ruin. She had nothing to do with it, and was unable to prevent it. She had married with the belief that she herself and her children would be provided for, and the first duty of her friends was to make sure that it should be so. Up to this point there was no flaw in the argument. Mrs. Burton knew that she had brought her husband a good fortune; and her future had been secured as an equivalent. It was like buying a commission-it was like making an investment. She had put in so much, she had a right to secure to herself absolutely the power of taking it out again, or recovering what had been hers. Mrs. Burton had not incurred his liabilities with her knowledge or consent; he had never consulted her on the matter. He had never said or even hinted to her that her expenditure was too great, that he could not afford it. True it was possible that fastidious persons might blame her for proceeding so long on her splendid course, after hints and rumors had reached her about her husband's position; but these were nothing more than rumors. She had no sort of official information, nothing really to justify her in making a sudden change in her household, which probably would have affected Mr. Burton's credit more than her extravagance. She was in no way responsible. She had even protested against the re-introduction of Golden

VOL. V.-14.

into his affairs. She would no blame herself for anything she had done; she had always been ready to hear, always willing to give him her advice, to second him in any scheme he propounded to her. She put herself at the bar, and produced all the evidence she knew of, on both sides of the question, and acquitted herself. The money she would have saved by economy was not worth considering in the magnitude of Mr. Burton's affairs. She had done nothing which she could feel had made her his accomplice in what he had done.

And she had no right to balk her father in his care for her-to establish a bad precedent in regard to the security of marriage settlements-to put it in the power of any set of creditors to upbraid some other woman whose view of her duty might be different. She had no right to do it. She had to think not of herself only, but of all the married women who slept serenely in the assurance that, whatever happened, their children's bread was secure. She reflected that such a step would put an end to all security--that no woman would venture to marry, that no father would venture to give his child to a man in business, if this safeguard were broken down. It would be impossible. It would be a blow aimed at the constitution of the country-at the best bulwark of families; it would be an injustice. Of all a commercial man's creditors surely his wife was the one claimant who had most right to come first. Others might be partially involved; she put everything in his hands. Without this safeguard she would not have married him, she would not have been permitted to marry him. Going over the question carefully, Mrs. Burton felt, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had right on her side. She had right on her side, but she had not Ned. This was a very different matter-an argument such as she had scarcely ever taken into consideration before. Mrs. Burton did not disdain the personal argument. She knew that in the confused state of human affairs, in the intricate range of human thoughts, it was often impossible to go upon pure reason, and that personal pleas had to be admitted. she had never consciously done this before. She was almost scornful of her own weakness now. But she could not help herself. had to suffer the entrance of this great personal argument, if with a mental pang, yet

But

She

All

without resistance. She loved her son. that reason could do for her, all the approbation of her own judgment, the sense of right, the feeling that her position was logically inassailable, would not be enough to console her for the illogical, unreasoning disapproval of her boy. For the first time in her life, with a great surprise this certainly seized upon her. Up to this time she had gone her own way, she had satisfied herself that she was right according to her own standard, and she had not cared what any one said or thought. But now all at once, with wonder, almost with shame, she found that she had descended from this high eminence. A whole host of foolish, childish, unreasonable principles of action, inconsequences, and stupidities were suddenly imported into her mental world by this apparition of Ned. Not the most certain sense of right that reasoning creature ever had would neutralize, she felt, that pained and wounding look in her son's eyes. If he disapproved it would be a cold comfort to her that reason was on her side. If this indignant, impatient, foolish young soul protested against her that what she did would not bear comparing with some fantastic visionary standard which he called honour, what would it avail her that by her own just standard of weight and measure she was not found wanting? Thus all Mrs. Burton's principles and habits, her ways of thinking, the long-exercised solitary irresponsible power of her intelligence, which had guided her through life for forty years, were all at once brought to a sudden standstill by the touch, by the breath of that thing called Son, which, she knew not how, had suddenly come in upon her like a giant. This new being paralyzed the fine, delicate, exquisite machinery by which hitherto all her problems had been worked out. She tried to struggle against it, but the struggle was ineffectual. It was the first time she had felt herself, acknowledged herself, to be acting like a fool! What then? She could not

help it. Even in the clear, cold daylight of her mind the entrance of this new form, all shadowy, mysterious, wonderful, could not be contested. She threw down her arms once more. She had been beaten terribly, miserably in the battle of her life-she was beaten sweetly, wonderfully, in a way which melted her hardness and made the drained heart beat and tremble strangely within her, in the other world where none hitherto had reigned supreme.

But nothing more was said on the subject for some time. Next morning brought letters, which roused the little party once more into

excitement. There was one from Mr. Burton, informing his wife that he had got safely to France by a way little used, and was now in the small seaport of St. Savan, awaiting letters from his family, and their advice as to what was best. He had not meant to go there, but a chance encounter with Golden at the station had driven him to take the down-train instead of the up-train. He would remain there if he could, he added, until he heard from home; but if any alarm came would hasten across the country to Brest. from whence he could get off to America. Mr. Burton did not say a word of apology or explanation, but he begged to have news "of all," to be told "how people were taking it," and to have the newspapers sent him. He added in a P.S. the following question: "By the way, what could Golden be doing at Turley Station, seven miles from Dura, at four o'clock in the morning? And who could the lady be who was with him? know anything on this subject, let me know."

Clara's letter was from Windermere. It was full of effusiveness and enthusiasm, hoping that dearest mamma would forgive them. Papa, Charles had told her, was not likely to be in a position to forgive any one, but would want it himself, which was very dreadful; but was it not beautiful of Charles, and showed how generous and how true he was, that papa's ruin made no difference to his feelings? This reflection, Clara said, made her so happy, that she felt as if she could even forgive papa-for if he had not been so rash and so wicked she never would have known how much her dear Charles loved her. They were coming back to London in a

fortnight from this heavenly lake, and would start then on a roundabout journey to Charlie's delightful "place" on the Mediter ranean. And, oh! Clara hoped with effusion dearest mamma would see them, and forgive them, and believe that she never had been so happy in her life as when she signed herself dear mamma's ever affectionate Clara Golden. These were the letters that came to the little party at Dura on the morning after Ned's arrival. They were received with very different feelings by the three. Mr. Baldwin, on the whole, was pleased. He was pleased with the "love to grandpapa," with which Clara wound up her letter; and he was glad the child was happy at least. "What is done cannot be undone," he said; "and that is quite true about there being nothing mercenary in it, you know." Mrs. Burton gave a faint smile as she laid the letters down one after another. They were just such letters as she

expected. Had she been alone, perhaps, she would have tossed them from her in scorn, as she had done with their previous notes; but that had been in a moment of strong excitement, when she was not full mistress of herself; and what was the good, Mrs. Burton thought, of quarreling with your own whom you cannot alter; or of expecting sense and good taste where it did not exist? From these two, her husband and her daughter, she did not expect any more.

But poor Ned was utterly cast down by these epistles. He asked himself, as Norah

had done when Mr. Rivers left her at the door of the Academy's Exhibition, was this natural? was this the way of the world? and, like Norah, felt his own distress doubled by the horrible thought that to think of your own comfort first and above all, and to be utterly unmoved by the reflection that you have caused untold misery to others, is the natural impulse of humanity. He was so sad, and looked so humbled, that his mother's heart was penetrated in her new enlightenment by a strange perception of how he was feeling. She was not so feeling herself. The sight of selfishness, even on so grand a scale, did not surprise nor shock her; but she felt how he was feeling, which was as strange to her as a new revelation. The family at Dura during these days were like a beleaguered city-they lived encircled in a close round, if not of enemies, yet of observant, watchful spectators, who might become enemies at any moment, who might note even the postmark on their letters, and use that against them. Whenever a step was heard approaching the door, a little thrill went through them. It might be some one coming to announce deeper misfortune still. It might be some one who dared to be insolent, some one who had a right to curse and denounce. The tension of their nerves was terrible; the strain of watchfulness-the pain of standing secretly on the defensive.

"Let us go, let us go, Clara, I cannot stay here any longer; now that we know where to write to them, let us go," cried Mr. Baldwin after the letters had been read and dismissed; and then the old man went out to take a melancholy walk, and ponder what it would be best to do. Should they go back to Clapham? or should he take his poor child away somewhere for "change of air." If ever any one wanted change of air surely

Clara must.

"Ned, come here," said Mrs. Burton, when they were left alone. He went and sat down by her, listless, with his hands in

his pockets. Notwithstanding the joy of last night, the letters, the shame and ruin and misery, had overome Ned.

66

"I have been thinking over what you said yesterday about my settlement," said his mother. Ned, in one way your grandfather was right. It is the equivalent to my fortune. It was the foundation of our family life-without that I should not have been permitted to marry. I should not probably have chosen to marry. To give up that is to make an end of all the securities of life. speak as arguing the question."

I

'How can we argue the question?" cried Ned. "What have the securities of life mattered to the others, who had no connection with-with my father? He was nothing to them but a man of business. They trusted him, and they have nothing left."

"Yes, Ned; but if one of them had been a secured creditor, as it is called, you would not have expected him to give up his security, in order to place himself on an equal level with the others. The most visionary standard of honour would never demand that."

"We are not secured creditors. We are part of him, sharing his responsibility," cried Ned bitterly, "sharing his shame."

"But we are the first of all his creditors, all the same, in justice; and our debt is secured. Ned, I do not say this is what I am going to do; but I think, according to my judgment, your grandfather is right."

"Then, mother-" He had risen up; his face had grown very pale, his nostril dilated, his eyes shining. She who had never been afraid for anything in her life was afraid of her son-of his indignation, of his wrath. She put out her hand, half appealing, half commanding, to stop him. She caught at him, as it were, before he could say another word.

"Ned, hear me out first! I approve of it as a matter of justice. I think we have no right to set up a new standard to make a rule for other women in my position. There will always be such, I suppose. The settlement itself was simply a precaution against this possible thing-which has happened. But I do not say I mean to act according to my opinion. That is different. I havethought it over, Ned."

"Mother," he said, melting almost into tears, and taking her hand into his, "mother! you who are so much wiser than I am-you are going to let yourself be guided by me?"

"Yes," she said. "I don't quite make myself out, Ned. I have always taken my