mot begin his new career by breaKing. his word to the man to whom he owed He must wait. "Oh, Sebastian !" groaned the poor boy, flinging himself face downwards upon a -couch at the foot of his bed, " it was cruel, 'cruel of you! you should not have cheated me thus!"

Men of Hugo's temperament weep some times with almost vroman-like facility, and Hugo, in his new-born anguish and des •pair, wept now; and when the weeping was ■ over, he did not rise, but remained with his face buried in the cushions, repeating to

himself every item of Sebastian's generosity,. -and his own^blind, besotted self-confidence - and ignorant assumption (such it appeared to him). A thousand things rose up in his 'imemory, and he asked himself now he -fcould have failed to comprehend _ their ■ -lueauing, to have some suspicion of his real ■ position. He resolved, with more and more urtpassioned eagerness, to go ; to wait till he-nad redeemed his promise, and then to -saw farewell, and bid Sebastian forget him. HoY his heart ached at the thought! But, mo alternative was open to him. He was a .: gentleman. No gentleman could know ingly continue to live as he had been doing. The time went on; whether long or shod, he could not tell. Ho did not keep count vof the minutes or hours. His whole con sciousness seemed to resolve itself into a -desire to be gone, which had grown over powering and intense, when a quick tap at ■ the door was heard ; then it was opened, - and Sebastian's voice said : ? " I say, Hugo, do you mean to go to this ■entertainment, or not? because if—why, what is the matter with you ?" "I never knew, Sebastian ! Upon my ■ soul and honour I never knew till Mrs Mai* lory told me to-day I" exclaimed Hugo, starting up and confronting his horrified friend, with pale face, scintillating eyes, which bore traces of recent weeping, hair ■wildly tossed up and down his nead, and generally demoralised aspect. "Didn't know what, my dear fellow? What is all this excitement about ?" " Mrs Mallory told me, just'a little while • ago, the truth about myself," said Hugo, speaking rapidly and vehcmentlyin German, as he nearly always did when agitated, and he began to stride excitedly about the room. "It was not right .. no.no! it was very cruel; you should not have done it. I have no right to reproach you, but you should not have laid such a burden upon me—a burden which is greater than lean tear ... — ... aber Gott im Himmel! what do I mean by reproaching you, when I ■ owe you the very clothes I wear! Sebas tian t Sebastian! It was not right 1" he reiterated passionately, coming to a stop, . and standing before the other, upon whose mind the truth began to dawn. His mother had played the traitor—had betrayed the trust which he had been weak ■ enough to repose in her before he had understood her so well as he did now, and the result must be, in any case, a very pain ful explanation, and perhaps failure to ■convince Hugo; perhaps the alienation of -a love which he prized more Uglily at this present moment than he had ever done before. For the moment, the first moment, his heart sank very low; he suddenly ■- seemed to sec everything he most prized deserting him. Adrienne was lost to him, ■ and hh heart was yet smarting under that ■conviction. Yesterday he had seen Myles Heywood depart, expressing his gratitude, but, as he felt, unconquered, untouched at heart. Now, here w*s Hugo, bitterly re proaching him for not having done what was right towards him. One stroke coming upon the other almost unmanned him momentarily, for the men with warm hearts •and cool heads are necessarily more suscep tible both to failure and success than the men with cool heads "arid cold hearts to

boot. .* Then he suddenly gathered himself .to gether. Hugo was not gone; he was only drifting away from him. He would make ..a very strong struggle to still holdfast to him; if he succeeded, he might take it as a good omen for the future—if not the future ■must look after itself v He came into the room and closed the door.

";Yon startle me, Hugo. This is some thing I did not expect. Suppose yon tell me all about it, and we can discuss it; shall we?" "Thereis nothing to be discussed. If it hadbeenfor my promise to you yesterday, I should hot Have been here now. As it is, I waited; but only to say that I am going -at once—to clear myself—to tell you that I never knew " ..•

" Why, Hugo, how could you know? If you had known; you> would not" have been what you are to me, thefrank, open-hearted ■comrade, whose friendship and companion ship have made me so happy." " If I had known," said Hugo, "I should not have behaved myself like a mountebank, such as I must have seemed to you many a time, with my impertinences and fancies. 'Mrs Mallory is quite right—for me to be thinking of balls, and amusements, and enjoyments is folly—madness. What an ape I what a confounded, conceited, self important ape I must have seemed all these years! Acting as if I had great prospects before me, while all the'time lam a beggar. It is hideous i" ■■ / He was getting excited again. His eyes "began to flash, anihis foot to beat the floor restlessly. Sebastian noticed that he had ' not once looked at him during all this scene, ~ •but'ttway from, him; anywhere rather than meethis Byes; , . U;< ■• ■, "Letme go!" he added, in a choked voice. '"Let me go, and forget me. • That is all you and I can do, and it must be done at ■once." • "You will-never leave me, any more than '. I can or shall try to forget you." " Why? Because lam under such obli .-gationssto you* that you r caij iorce me to . obey you from very shame ?" asked Hugo bitterly. ■ ; i ■, ; " Not at. all,. Hugo, but because you love vine, and I love you (if it were not so, after all these yeara, it would be strange), and you • could nerernhd' ii in your heart to wound iney as such a proceeding. would wound trie/1;* -' r '.,;,.','..i) '■■■■hr":■:,':,-[I „> • »-•?<:"*! .>- ; <r.:-::.i

</t At lastiHugo's:eyes turned to him; at Jast he stood stiU and "looked at' Mm, and .Sebastian returned the look from his inmost heart. TJiis soulto soul- searching ■ gaze was 'a,prolonged;one, and • ,Hugo, at.: last, ; tnrningaway, sat down on the sofaagain, i put his hand before his face, andsaiaina I broken "voice :.;<; ■■■./■' . i ';:■■ : ■ -"You could always do what you liked •.with me,1 and you can now. What do you

want?" ■ ;J • .-' ■ ■■]'■' "''■ ' '; '•'; ■V : , : .; ' i "I only want you to listen to me and ■ believe me," said Sebastian. "If you will ■only believe me all will be, well." , , A movement of .the head showed that Hugo was listening. ■ '•"- ,■' ■ < >:; "You have called me cruel—you have said that what I have done was not right. I cannot bear' such accusations tinmoved. Why have I been cruel?" . •''ln putting me into a false position— '■makingmebeßeve myself tobewhatlamnot. . '' Somewhat insincere it may have leen, : but I do. not see how I could well have .acted otherwise.' When your mother •■"died you were equally badly off, so far as worldly circumstances go, as you are now. Fiwdidnot know it. It was her weak ness that she could not bear you, whom she t adored; to know it. She had a horror of . your learning that the institution at which .you. were being educated, was a eh—l .mean—-".;. ■: ••■ ■ ; ■■■

"A charity school—yes." "That's right, old fellow! Put it as spitefully as you can. If < you like, it was a charity school—and a poor, coarse, inadequate place too; not the place for you. When I think of you there, it is horrible; I simply took the place of the authorities of that school towards you. They had nothing to bind them to you; no single tie existed. I had everything. I had been your mother's intimate friend; she gave me, in her goodness, that which no service of mine could repay. I reverenced her in her lifetime, and I reverence her memory now. She knew what I wished; I discussed it with her fully and freely, and she ga\e her unqualified Consent. She trusted you to me—gave you to me. Have you any right to impute wrong motives to her memory?. You remember her perfectly well. You know what she was. You must know that she never acted but, as she thought, from right and pure motives." "I know; that alters it. But all the same it is very hard." "Ifeel it so," said .Sebastian. "Year by year I have been more glad that I had you as my firm and faithful friend, who would never desert me, whatever anyone else did. I firmly believed that it was so, and you—you who hare so little regard for me—quit me hero at an hour's notice, and why? Because you cannot, or will not, rise above a few miserable, material inte rests ; because you let a few paltry, sordid coins (that is ■what it comes to) raise them selves between you and me, and make them into a wall which neither of us can pass. Yet you told me the other night that you could not bo fickle—to me. Which am I to believe—your words or your actions?" "You may believe both now, when I tell you that I will do whatever yon please. Shall I stay? I will do whatoyer you liko —just whatever you like," said Hugo, in a dull, toneless kind of voice. "Youcall that doing what I pleaso—re maining, though you hate it. I thought —last night I was sure that it would have caused you pain to leave me." "It will—would, I mean, cause me agony; but what am Ito think, when you have told Mrs Mallory, who hates me, my whole story, and kept it from me, whom you say you love?" "There I was wrong, Hugo—utterly wrong, I own it. Had I known—but I must not say that. If I had it to do now I should keep silence. But as you will not allow me one mistake, take your own way. Leave me alone. My mother opposes my wishes bitterly. The girl I love won't have a word to say to me. I have no one left but Hugo yon Birkenau—and ho begs to decline my acquaintance. So be it!" He turned to leave the room. His hand was on the door-handle, when Hugo over took, him. • :;

'"Stop!" said ho, almost in a whisper. "You know me better than 1 know myself. I cannot leave you thus. If I thought I was of any good to you —-" "I suppose I should go through all this to keep a thing I didn't care for. That is so like me !" observed Sebastian.

"Yes," said Hugo, with a half-laugh, half-choke, or sob; " I never thought of that"

"Of course not You wish to repay mo, as you calT itT'HpfJo. The only way in which yon can do it is to let mo watch your future, as I have always hoped to do, till you are famous, and I am known as your greatest friend, eh?" Hugo smiled faintly. "Yourmother despises me,"he began. ' Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. ■ "My dear boy, you must have Seen that my mother is by ho means'graciously dis posed towards anyone or: anything that I may have the misfortune to be fond of. As Ilike you better almost than anyone, she dislikes yoii proportionately. 'Itis not a pleasant thing to have to say, but is true. Surely.if you and I understand each other, .it does riot matter what outsiders think of

" No," Baid Hugo, and-once more there was Heartiness and confidence in Ms tone. '' Forgive me my folly. It is over now." _ " I thank you for making such a sacri fice tome. .. . When I came into the room it was to see what you were doing as you did notappear at dinner. . And, behold, nearly an hour has passed. The carriage will be here in ten minutes." :

" I don't think I shall go." ■ . "Pray do, though, or I shall have to think that this reconciliation is only a sham one after all. Besides, Helena's beaux yeux will not turn very amiably towards'me if I come without you." . " It depends upon yourself how Helena's beaux yeux regard you, ''said Hugo. "But I will go. It would be insulting to her if I did cot. I'll get ready now." " I will do the same, said Sebastian, leaving the room. ' \ ' Hugo proceeded to dresg himself.. He found himself looking back upon the afternoon, when he had. sat playing waltzes, as it it had been separated by years from the evening, and his present self was a stranger to himself of yesterday. It was quite true. These few short hours had transformed him from a boy to a man. The process, which in some cases is one of such prolonged", lingering growth, had been with him effected at a. leap, a single bound. The change proved itself most in the fact that he accepted the cross laid upon him; he felt himself possessed of that goodly manly virtue, the ability^ to wait; two days ago he would have tried to rush away from pain and difficulty—now he could shake hands with them. As he dressed, he planned his course as it should be, subject to circumstances; not with the furious, fitful temper of an hour ago,_ but with calm, manly reasonableness and judg ment. , , . .

When the carriage came round they stood in the hall, and Mrs Mallory looked curiously at his pale, altered countenance; but she saw in,an instant,;by the look that passed between him and Sebastian, that all was perfectly clear between them. The sweet accord of two noble, natures was a thing beyond her power to grasp'; -but she saw that she had not succeeded in sepa rating them, and recognised that she had done her,cause no service by her inter ference.'';,' ~' ',".'.■'•■..'.''■.:'.',!•'.''..: ,' (To beContifiuea. V , ■■..

The Ballad of "Fair Rosamond."

The story of the love of King Henry 11., for the beautiful Kosamond has been a prolific theme for poets and historians. Higden, the old chronicler ot Chester, states that Kosamond was the. daughter of Walter,, Lord Clifford, and that she died at Wood stock a.d. 1177—poisoned,as some thought, by Queen Eleanor. The king had con structed for her a wonderful secret residence so that none might come to her save those who had been instructed by him. This house was afterwards called^'1 Labyrinthus, or Dedalus Worke," being constructed with its grounds into amaze. Queen Eleanor, is alleged to have found out her rival by a silken thread which the king had drawn after him out of her chamber with his foot, and that she "dealt with hir in such sharpe and cruell wise, that she lived not long after." Other methods of discovery, how ever, are related, and the ballad indicates that the clue was gained by surprise, from the knight who waa left to guard Kosa mond's Dower.

Shakespears on Dress.

Shakespkahk does not disdain the details of dress, where he puts these strongs words into the mouth of Polonious to his son :— Costly thy habit as thy pursG can bur. But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man. And then, as if not content to be mis understood in this matter, he says again :— It ia the mind that makes the body rich; For aa the nun breaks through the darkest clonds, So honour peeroth In the meanest habit, Other poete have also set their seal on this important subject. Oliver Wendell Holmes, with his keen poetic insight and exquisite humour, says : — The outward forma the inner man reveal. Wo guoes the pulp before we eat the peel. And an old English poet, who had evi dently studied human nature first-hand, puts himself on the record thus : — Only because I wore a threadbare Bait I wan not worthy of a poor Balute. A few good clothes put on with small ado, Purchase your knowledge and your kindred too. On all hands it is conceded that it is better to be well-dressed than ill-dressed, and that the chancos arc all in favour of suitable, becoming apparel. The only question is what is suitable and becoming ? Manifestly, that which is suitable and be coming to ono person is not to another; and what is suitable and becoming for one occasion is not for another.

A GHOST STORY.

The " Pall Mall Gazette " has received the following extraordinary narrative from a correspondent for whose good faith and pro fessional acuteness of observation it can vouch. Ho substantiates his story with full details of dates, names, and places, which, however, for tho sake of the survi vors, he does not wish to be published :— As my wife and I were sitting at break fast ■with a guest whom I will call Mr A— then on a visit for tho first time to our house and neighbourhood—our maid-ser vant passed out of the room on her way to tho kitchen. As she closed the door, Mr A. startled me by saying, "I saw a spirit of a man following that woman, who, as he passed, said distinctly in my hearing, ' God jndgeth not as man judgeth. I was innocent of the murder for which I have been hanged. I was there, but I did not strike the blow.'" " What is it like I" I asked. He replied by describing a youug Irishman, whom I recognised at once as the husband of my domestic, whoa ysar or two before had been executed on the cbargc of murder. A., a complete stranger to the locality, had only met me for the first time two days before, and he was totally ignorant of the crimo inwhiebmy setvant was so deeply interested. For obvious reasons the subject was never alluded to in our household, where the widow was re garded with feelings of sympathy, which led us to avoid as much as possible all reference to her husband's fate. I had previously good reason to doubt whether the evidence against him justified his execution. Ho had died protesting bis innocence. His wife and friends were firmly convinced that, although he had been in the fight, it was not by his hand the fatal blow had been dealt. In addition to this. I had good reason to believe that the real murderer was still at large. You can easily imagine my astonishment when Mr A. thus sud denly ventured upon forbidden ground, and abruptly declared that thespirit^of a man who had suffered the capital penalty, and whose personal appearance exactly coincided with that of the' unfortunate Irishman, was actually following the servant about the house, proclaiming his innocence in accents. which, although inaudible to me, my guest declared were perfectly audible to him. I had heard that Mr A. had been a " seer," but I was not a little startled at this strik ing illustration of his peculiar laculty. I remarked that it was very strange, and informed him that tho woman whom ho had just seen for the first time with her ghostly companion was really the widow of an executed felon. Some time afterwards he exclaimed: "There heis again, repeating the same words !" Intensely interested by this sudden and apparently supernatural confir mation of my suspicions, I determined to put the seorship of my guest to what I regarded as a crucial test. I told Mr A. that shortly afterwards I was going into the town, and as I should bo passing the spot where the murder was committed perhaps his ghostly visitant might indicate the place where the dead man lay. Some time after wards we started for the town. When we left the house Mr A. remarked, " There he is following us," alluding to the "spirit." When wo had proceeded part of the way along the road, which was quite unknown to my friend, I made a devour to make a bnsinesa call and went along another street, Mr A. following me. Just as, without a word on my part, we were turning out of the main road, Mr A. said, " The spirit U standing at the corner. He says we are not going the right way towards^ tho place where the murder was committed, and which he has promised to point out to me." I replied, "Oh, we shall come; out in the main road again byand-by before we reach the spot." We proceeded on about a quarter of a mile, and having done my business and struck the main road again— which differed, I may remark, from none of the other roads we had traversed—Mr A. soon after declared, " There is that man just on there, waiting for us." As we continued our walk, I purposely refrained from uttering a word, or even from think ing, as tar as I could, about the murder, so as to prevent any possibility of my com panion obtaining any clue. As we were passing through one of the lowest parts of the town Mr.A. suddenly exclaimed :— " He tells me that it waR here the murder was committed. '■ It was just there (pointing to the place in the road where the murdered man fell).. I see the.hubbub and confusion rise up before me as a picture, with the people round. He, however, again tells me that he did not, strike the fatal blow. He does not excuse himself from being morally guilty as being rsixed up with tho»e who accomplished the death of the man, but strongly maintains that he was not the mur derer." I will only add in, relation to the last incident that Mr A, described the exact spot where the. murder was committed, aodthe circumstances ,in connection therewith. How can you account for that? Mr A. had never been in the town before ; he had never lived within a couple of hundred miles of it j he did not know till within a day or two before he arrived that he would ever visit it; he could not by any possibility have known that the poor woman in my employ was the widow of a man who was hanged. He had no conceivable interest in deceiving me, nor was he concerned to prosecute the matter any further. I have in vain attempted to account for his story, nor can I on any of the popular hypotheses explain to my own satisfaction how he saw that ghost at noonday. That he did see it he assnred me, much to my surprise, when no one expected any such revelation;_ and, whatever he saw, it certainly led him to the exact place where the murder w*s committed.

FOR THE LADIES.

Some exquisite stockings, suitable for a bride, ana very costly, are of white silk, with Chantilly lace let in from the instep. Some otheni, also in white silk, are em broidered in floss silk, the design being pale blue forget-me-nots and pink roses. Xhe most fasnionable. stockings have the orna mentation on the instep, this mode having superseded the clock. Shoes embroidered to correspond should be worn with them. Black silk stockings with an alternate plain and open-work stripe are new. If crinoline comes upon us, heads must perforce grow larger, or all proportion will be lost between that and the body in its unnatural amplitude of circumference. With the farthingale of Queen Elizabeth's time, the stiffened ruff aided the head to be symmetrical. With the crinoline of recent years the chignon came to light, and in most hideous prominence. All these woes, and many others, threaten us in the de tested name of crinoline.

Home.—Happiness between husband and wife [can only Tbe secured by constant en dearedness and care of the parties for each other, which are based upon warm de monstrative love. The heart demands that the man shall not sit reticent, self-ab sorbed, and silent in the midst of his family. The woman who forgets to note and provide for the peculiarities of her hus band's tastes and wishes renders her home undesirable for him. In a word, cver demonstrativo gentleness must reign, or else the heart starves.

The English game of !' Kiss in the King " has been introduced into Paris in a very queer shape. Ladies and gentlemen sit round a table, and the one who gets the ace of hearts is entitled to a kiss from the opposite partner. A correspondent who witnessed the game says:-"It was quite a study to watch with what perfect sang froid the gentleman stood up to receive the stake lie had won, and with what consum mate grace the lady bent her head to one sido, so that her lucky opponent across the table should receive his full allowance." Thcro sui-ely must have been some cheat ing in tho game, for ho adds:—"How it camo about I don't know, but I saw one gentleman win the game several times in succession, and kiss the same lady." Married Women's Slavery.—ln what respect is tho position of many a married women better than a slavo 1 She works hard year after year, and has a roof over her head, and she is provided with food; so is the slave. She must beg her master for a little pitttance with which to buy the clothing for herself and children. The slave master looks after such wants of his cattle without their asking. She has no freedom or independence; she dare not buy a single article at the store until she gets the consent of the tyrant whom the civil law has made her husband. She can have no will about even household affairs that her husband disapproves of; she is a slave in both body and mind during his life ; and at his death, if she survives him, she cannot, under the unjust and tyranni cal laws of nearly every country of the world, sell tho property which she has helped to accumulate, nor control her own children, without employing a lawyer and getting a special permit from 4he Court. The other evening over our tea, wo dis cussed the question of fringes. "To bo or not to bo V Beginning with the highest members of society, we recalled the fact that tho Princess of Wales has for years worn curls on the forehead and covering the top of the head. These curls never in vado tho eyebrows, howevor, and by no means stand out from the rest of tho coiffure with that startling abruptness of outline that characterises the arrangement commonly called a fringe. It is this which has brought it into such disrepute, and now threatens its very existence. The Princess Louise now wears her hair rather low upon the forehead, and so does tho Princess Christian. Taking all this into considera tion, we cams to the conclusion, that it is only the rampant, obtrusive fringe that is to go out, and that those who have lnar tistically high foreheads may continue to veil the upper portion with soft little rings of hair. ■ i ' Advice to Young Womex.— Learn to work, and not to bo dependent upon ser vants; to make your bread, sweep your floors, and darn your own stockings. Above all things, do not esteem too lightly those honourable young men who sustain them selves and their aged parents by tho work of their own hands, while you care for and receive into your company those lazy, idle popinjays, who never lift a finger to help themselves as long as they can keep body and soul together, and get sufficient to live in fashion. If you are Wise, you will look lit the subject as we do, and when* you are old enough to become wives, you will prefer the honest mechanic with not a penny to commence life to the fashionable dandy with a capital of five thousand pounds. Whenever we hear remarked, "Such a young lady has married a fortune," we always tremble for her future prosperity, Kiches left to children by wealthy parents often become a curse instead # of a blessing. Young women, remember this, and instead of sounding the purse of your lovers and examining the cuts of their coats, look into their habits and their hearts. Mark if they are sensible, prudent men of business, and can depend upon themselves; see if they have minds which will, lead them to look above a butterfly existence. Talk not. of the beautiful white skin, and the soft deli cate hand, the splendid form, and the fino appearance of the young gentleman. A little New Hampshire , girl — quite mature at six—went into a store where her father was lounging, and, slyly approach ing him, said, "Papa, won't you buy me a now dress?" " Well, I'll see.. 11l speak to your mother about it.", A sad look came over tho little maiden's face, until, looking up with a smile into the paternal eyes, she said, "Well, papa, i! you, do speak to mamma about it, touch it easy or she may want it herself !" He bought it-for the daughter.' ' :':. ,; .'■. • •-.;-.,,■. .. \■ The best sketch of the said-to-be-deceased Lady Ellenbor'ough—who, after her divorce from Lord. Ellenborough, went from hus band to husband until her ninth was an Arab scheikh, with whom she managed to get along very well, because he was so often ana so long absent from her—is to be lound in a curious French novel, "Miss Eovel," by Cherbulliez. Her character is there described as only a Frenchman dares to describe a lady's character, and her madly wayward career is exceedingly well sketched. In default of a true biography, the fiction serves very well. But we shall not have long to wait for the true biography. The Lady Hester Stanhope of a later feneration years ago gave a sketch of her fo to Mrs Captain Burton, who knows well how to make use of it, and will pub lish it presently, along >vith descriptions^! Lady Ellenborough herself, her strange life in Damascus and in the desert, and such explanation as may be necessary to illumin ate the dark parts of her life. Lady JSllen borough seems originally to have been a woman of the grandest character, -whose loss of position was due, in great part at least, to the very courageousness and strength of her womanly temperament. She wanted both life and love; and she ran away from -the cold peer who gave nothing but seclusion and repression. From that point all was over. Her subsequent career was an attempt to drown conscience in the excitement of adventure. .

REGGY'S WIFE.

"She was only a ballet girl at the Lyceum Theatre in London," said ray old brother officer, Cyril S , to me the other night," but she killed poor Reggy.died her self, and brought on me the one great blight of my life." Cyril and I were great friends, and I knew vaguely the story of his brother throwing up his commission and going to Paris witli a coryphee^ "He never cared for her really,"he con tinued, "because he was a gentleman and she was nothing but a fairly built girl of seventeen, with a lovely head of blonde hair—and poor. Just such girls as Mary Smitli drift into the ballet, though she was better than most of them. She was so clever and pretty, andlearnt a pas so easily, that soon her name was on the bills—not as Mary Smith, but as Mile. Marie L'Etoile, from Paris; and that's where lieg first saw . her and went to his death. .

" How he came to throw up his commis sion ? I don't know—God only knows. But for three months, morning, noon and night, he was with her, pleading with her to marry him, begging her to leave the stage and to go away with him as his wife. "We did not know about it at home until after he left, and then, of course, we felt it was a family disgrace. My father would not write to him, and forbade my mother to communicate with him. I only knew where Rcggy was by little scraps of letters sent to the Club, but no entreaties Erevailed with him to come back, and per apsit was best, although it is so terrible." "How did he support her?" I asked, " after his family disowned him, and he was left all alone with his girl wife in a foreign country ?" "Ifyou have patience to lilieu," said Cyril, "I'll tell you his short story—the history of lleggy's punishment and ours. You see that lleghadafew hundred pounds when he made this misstep, and for a time none of us knew where he had gone. You remember the advertisement in the Times, • when we thought ho had been murdered or drowned ?

"Yes? "Well, six months afterward I got a few lines from him. Hero they are in my desk. Eead them to yourself. I couldn't boar to:"

Dear Old Boy—Mary has left me, and I am all alone. She is dancing at one of the minor theatres. I don't know which, and I haven't the heart to ask. I can't come hack and face the shame, and even to you I cannot give my address, lest you should conic and see me. Perhaps, old_ boy, this scribble is a good-bye; and if it in, forgive me all my wilfulness, and ask my mother and my father—if they must forget me— to forget me kindly. I would tell you where lam,butitisno use. Good-bye,dear old boy. Reogy. I confess my eyes were misty after I read the poor boy's last missive. There was something so touching in his pride, false as it was, something so bitter in the cup that he had drained, that I sat silently gazing on the writing long after I had read every word.

The picture that came before mo was a vivid one. There was tho young officer who, in his immature passion, had thrown up worthing for a pretty face and rushed to his ruin. Deserted by friends and rela tives, and even by the woman for whom ho had sacrificed everything, it seemed to mo that I could sec his pale, wan face, and read tho secrets of his troublod heart, as he lay dying in tho Sisters' Hospital in Paris.

"Was this his last letter ?" I asked.

" His last. We tried to trace him up in the many hospitals of Paris without avail. He had' taken some other name, from motives of pride, and it was impossible to lind him. I even doubted whether ho ever was in a hospital, yet he would not mislead me when ho was dying, so I have thrown that doubt overboard.

" And what about his wife ?" I asked. "That is terrible, too," replied Cyril. "It seems that one night when aancing her skirts caught fire, and she was so badly burnt that she died next day. We heard of it because among her effects was _ a marriage certificate, and the authorities communicated with us. She was buried at Paris, and my mother sent over all requi site instructions."

I thought no more of the patter, until one day I received a note, asking me to go out and see a gentleman who saidhc had known, me years ago, and was staying at the Ham mersmith Franciscan Convent.

The note did not say who the writer was, but I was only too glad to saddle up my somewhat aged nag and trot out there. Sending in my card, I confess I waited with some curiosity, wondering what was wanted of me, and who the gentleman was that had favoured me with what might be termed a half anonymous letter. I had not long to wait when a somewhat pale but bright looking gentleman, clad in a tweed suit, entered the room, and, grasping my hand, said : "How is Cyril?" I was paralysed momentarily, for I felt in my heart that I was shaking hands with Keggy, and I tried mentally to grasp with a text something'about a son being lost and found. .

But lie had his story to toll me, and side by side, seated on the coarse sofa; he related the troubles of his life. "Ilook.well enough," he said, "batno sane insurance agent would take my risk at 90 per cent. I sent for you because I wanted to see them all before I go home." "Go home ?" " That's where you ought to be now," I replied, "If you are sick."

" That is not the home I moan," ho answered. " 1 am going to my long home. .

" I arrived here last week, and came here because the Franciscans in Paris nursed me during my long illness, and made me promise to go to this house." "But why," I asked, "do you not go home to your father and mother ? Why do you send for mo instead of to your brother ? Why do you insist on this close and un^ generous lifo? If you are as ill as" you imagine, let me telegraph for your father and mother and brother at once." , Arid then his lips grew white and clammy, and he moaned something aboiit their being all gone, and he cried piteously: "Oh Mary, oh mother, oh Cyril, oh father ! I am left by all, and soon shall leave them all." It was only the work of an hour or two to see Cyril and to telegraph to his parents. What happened when they all met Reggy will never he known. He lived some three months after he was taken home, and among the last things he said to his brother was : " Cyril, Mary, my Mary, died in such dreadfnl agony, and the thought of her suffering is worse than death to me. Cyril, it was I that drove her away and forced her to earn a living on the stage, and oh dear, while the light is going out, while the shadows grdw so dark, remember that it was Reggy who did all the wrong and not Reggy'swife." No one knows the history of his wedded life—no one will. No one knows what Mary suffered—no one will. But Roggy's mother sent to Paris for the remains of her poor boy's bride, and they Jie side by side to-day in the silent tomb, waiting for the call of Him who will unite all weak, erring, broken hearts.

Fair Trade,—The business of catching husbands.

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, NOVEMBER 26, 1881.

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