'THUS WAS THE TRAGEDY OF HER LIFE PLAYED OUT.

seemed almost too much for him. The smile faded from his face, and his lip trembled.

'Say good-bye to me, my darling,' he whispered hurriedly. Once more their lips met in a kiss wherein there was no longer any joy nor any passion, but only the blank despair of an eternal farewell. 'God help you, my child,' he said; and turned from her suddenly, and left her standing there, a dark, silent, motionless figure, alone by the white swift river.

Not looking after him, she stood there listening-listening with every faculty within her-to the sound of his footsteps as they gradually died away upon the gravel path. Fainter and fainter they came to her ears, till at last a total silence succeeded to their irregular sound. It was the last of Hugh Fleming! So had he passed away from her for ever. Thus was the tragedy of her life

played out!

With a long, shivering sigh, Juliet turned and walked a few steps in the opposite direction; then stopped again, feeling strangely weak and feeble, and, leaning against the trunk of a tree, looked out again across the river.

As she stood there, a boat dropped noiselessly down the stream, close in to the shore. A man was rowing, a boy stood up in the front of the boat, and in the stern was a woman muffled up in a shawl, crouched down with her head bent forward upon her knees, her face buried in her hands.

Afterwards Juliet recollected noticing this silent boat-load, and speculating with something like a keen interest upon what was the history of this little family, whose faces she could not see, and whose forms alone stood out in chiara oscura' against the white background of the water. Whence did they come? Whither were they bound? What sorrow had bowed down that poor woman into that attitude of dejected grief?

'God help her, whatever her trouble may be, poor soul!' murmured Juliet half aloud, as the boat passed out of sight round a bend of the river. And who knows whether that short prayer from the woman who knew her not, yet felt for her with that keen sense of human fellowship with suffering which sometimes, with a flash of God-like pity, seems to sweep away all distinction of class and caste, and to make us one with the beggar in the streetwho can say that that prayer was not indeed heard and answered to that other sorrow-laden woman, who did not even see the dark pitying figure of her who prayed for her upon the river bank as she passed by!

In those first moments, Juliet hardly realised her own trouble. She could not have shed a single tear. If you had asked her the

most trivial question, she would have answered you in her usual voice, as if nothing had happened. A numb feelingless apathy was upon her; she could not even fix her thoughts upon what had passed. She wondered vaguely if she was heartless, if she had turned into stone, if she had lost all power of sorrowing!

'He is gone!' she kept on repeating to herself. I shall never see him in this world again; never hear his voice; never see him smile; never, never, as long as I live!' And yet the words seemed like so many meaningless empty sounds to her as she uttered them.

All at once the voices of her every-day life broke in upon her. Some of the gay party amongst whom she had sat at dinnertime-ah, how long ago it seemed now! and what a lifetime she had lived through since she had last seen their faces!-came laughing and chatting along the river-walk, talking about some of the hundred little topics of daily life, about the bets upon the last week's cricket-match, the plans for next week's gaieties, the prospects and arrangements for Goodwood. Juliet shrank closer under the shadow of the tree against which she leant, until the talkers had gone by. Everything was going on just as usual, the world was hurrying on gay and careless from one bright scene of enjoyment to another; and she herself—ah, God! how utterly alone in it she was!

With a sudden pang of suffering she roused herself, and walked hastily back to the house. She found Flora and Captain Hartley lingering together among the rose-beds.

It is getting late, Flora; we had better go home. Do you think my carriage is here? Captain Hartley, will you kindly go and inquire for it?'

'Are you tired, Juliet?' asked Flora, in a sort of dreamy voice, as Jack Hartley hurried off.

'Yes, dear, very tired; I have a headache. Has any one of our party gone yet?:

'No, I think not; but all those other men have left who were dining in the next room.'

Ah!' and she drew a long breath. Then he was gone!

You are not half clad, Flora, in that thin muslin dress. Come, child, fetch your cloak, and let us go.'

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CAPTAIN HARTLEY RETIRES GRACEFULLY.

SOMEBODY tapped at Mrs. Travers's bedroom door at about eleven o'clock the following morning.

May I come in, Juliet ?' said Flora, half opening it. Is your headache better?'

Juliet lay on the sofa wrapped in a white dressing-gown; her dark hair fell in thick masses on the cushions behind her head, and her face was as white as marble. There were heavy circles round her lustreless eyes, which made them look as if they had been open all the night. Her appearance was sufficient to have attracted notice to her wan and miserable face, but Flora did not seem conscious of it. Something else was on the girl's mind.

I have come to tell you something-a piece of news,' she said, standing a little behind her sister-in-law, so that her face was hidden from her.

'Well, what is it?' said Juliet listlessly.

Juliet, Captain Hartley proposed to me last night, and I accepted him.'

And then Juliet sat bolt upright on the sofa and looked at her. Flora hung her head; there was none of the exultant joy, none of the shy gladness of a girl who has won a longed-for lover, in her face, only white cheeks, and heavy eyelids that were swollen with tears and sleeplessness.

6

'Accepted Jack Hartley, Flora!' cried Juliet. Why, you don't care for him any more than I do. What can have possessed you?' 'I have accepted him,' repeated Flora with a certain doggedness, and looking away from her sister-in-law out of the window.

And then Juliet got up and stood in front of the girl, and, taking both her hands in hers, forced her to look into her face.

'Flora, my dear,' she said gently, 'you have got yourself into a great scrape, for you know very well that you care for Wattie Ellison and for no one else.'

'You have no right to say that, Juliet,' she cried impatiently, eyes filling with sudden tears; that is all at an end. I have promised to marry Jack, and I must abide by my word.'

You shall do nothing of the sort,' cried Juliet passionately. All at once she seemed to see in herself almost a divine mission to save this young, ignorant girl from the consequences of her own folly. In the old days no one had put out a hand to save her from a loveless marriage, but it should not be her fault if Flora fell into the same fatal error that had shadowed her own life. Here was a duty and an occupation even such as Hugh had told her she would find in her life; something to do at once for another that should leave her no time for vain and selfish repinings over her own fate.

'Listen to me, Flora,' she said in a voice that was solemn from the earnestness of her meaning; 'never, if I can prevent it, shall you be guilty of the sin of marrying one man whilst your heart belongs to another.'

'Sin, Juliet!' faltered Flora,