such a wife are, in their turn, united to heartless women!

And is it not well for humanity it should be so?

If all good people married those equally good, what an inferno the bad and selfish would make among themselves!

Honor's self-imposed task of kindness did not last long. Within a week from the recital of her story, Lady Julia Vaughan died.

The day before her death she put into Honor's hand a pocket-book containing several notes, and said to her

'I have just received the quarterly instalment of the pension which has been paid me since my husband's death. I did not, some time ago, think I should live till to-day, so I laid by enough to pay my funeral expenses. Will you manage all that for me, and keep the remainder? You know I have no one else to give it to.'

When Honor had laid her at rest, and raised above the spot a simple monument, with the initials ‘J. V.,' there remained to her of her friend's bequest enough to pay the rest of her

VOL. II.

Q

debt to Monsieur le Bœuf, with interest; so Conny's trousseau was paid for at last, and Honor breathed freely again.

Sir Edward Wrexhill and his bride did not forget Honor in their happiness. Edith wrote a long letter, telling her friend how, after their quiet wedding, they had set out for Italy, to remain there a year; but on their return to England they hoped they should see a great deal of Honor.

Her heart glowed with joy at Edith's longdelayed happiness. It was a strange contrast to stand, as she did that afternoon, beside the grave of that other loving wife, that poor weary wanderer, who had at length found peace 'where the wicked cease from troubling.'

CHAPTER XI.

'POOR SPENCER BERTRAM.'

wo troubled years had nearly passed since the Blakes left Bayonne, when

Honor was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Bertram. The lady looked anxious and unhappy. She had, she said, found some trouble in tracing Honor's present address— had only at last obtained it from Edith.

'And I want to speak to you so particularly, Miss Blake, the delay has been very distressing.'

Honor signified attention; and her visitor took out a letter, but before opening it, asked'Do you hear often from your sister?'

'Very seldom.

correspondent.'

Conny was never a good

'When did you hear last? Pray do not

think me impertinent.'

'Not at all,' said Honor.-'Mamma had a short letter from Conny about two months ago.' 'And in that did she-she did not-in fact' Mrs. Bertram hesitated, and then went on with an effort This letter is from Mr. M'Intyre, the head of that mercantile house in Brazil where my son is junior partner. He writes to me on the plea of old family friendship, to tell me that things are not going on with the young couple so well as we could wish.'

'Indeed?'

Yes, Miss Blake; and if you will excuse me for speaking openly, I fear that much of it -I do not say all-is the fault of your sister's inexperience. Only her youth and inexperience -I bring no graver charge against her; but you can understand that even those faults may go far to wreck the peace of a household.'

'Of course they may.-Pray, Mrs. Bertram, tell me all about it.'

Honor spoke with a grave sense of terror at her heart. What had Conny done? Nothing in all the conduct of her early life gave her sister any assurance that it might not be something wrong.

(

but

Here is the letter,' said Mrs. Bertram; even when Honor held out her hand for it, she drew it back.

'I thought it best to speak to you frankly, Miss Blake. I hope you will write to your sister, and use your influence for her own and my son's happiness.'

'I will certainly, Mrs. Bertram, but I must first know what has gone wrong.'

Once more the lady held out the letter, but ere she relinquished it she said

'I must tell you that the writer of this, though a friend of our family, and I am sure a sincere well-wisher of my son's, is a cold man, apt to be harsh in his judgment of Spencer. He does not always make allowances for the difference in age and tastes between himself and my son. You must remember that when reading this letter.' The letter was not a long one.

It was, as Mrs. Bertram had implied, evidently written by a cold, sensible Scotchman, who called things by their real names. He told Mrs. Bertram that for some time past her son had been pursuing a course which, if not desisted from, must end in his ruin.