He explained that he had been delayed in tho City, and that he had been buying chemicals. • I'Chemicals! always chemicals! Alas! what a trial it is to have a learned father ! See now, I had packed our littlo baskot, and I was going to carry you away for a tea-picnic somewhere under tho trees.". . . «I am sorry to have disappointed you, my pot," said Conway, passing his hand fondly over her hair. " Will you like to take a turn by-ond-by in the gloaming ?" "Impossible- I havo a vory particular eneacement this ovening. Does that sur "ge r you ? Don't you want to know what Ft is' Woll, I have to go .round to tho church at half-past seven, to try my solo -ith the organ accompaniment !" » Your solo?" ho repeated, absently. "Yes; my solo. I presume you do not mean to toll me that you have forgotten all about it ? Forgotten that 1 am to sing the lo ; n tho Anthem to-morrow, and that you have promised to come to church in the mornin", on purpose to hoar me ?" i'My memory is so bad, my child. I have so much to think about! And I am so tired I" Tired 1 At that word, she forgot walk, disappointment, solo, everything. Of course he was tired! How should he not be tired at tho close of six days' work in that horrid city ? Ho must have his tea at once-and his slippers—aud lie back in the ■ensy-ehair, and be waited upon and taken cave of, this poor dear petit pen:.' And sec, here was one of his favourite cakes, made by her own hands—and here was a r0 _i for his button-hole—and his news paper, ready cut, to be read presently, when he was refreshed and rested ! Per haps, if ho was very good indeed, sho would even roll him up some cigarettes, to console him by-and-by while she was away. Thus chattering, sho flitted to and fro, a ■graceful, girlish figure, ministering to his comfort, stooping every now and then to kiss bis forehead or his cheek, and almost ivitinin" his thoughts for a moment from liis own wretchedness. Watching her, he shaded his eyes with his hand that she might not see bow his tears kopt rising. "Child," ho said, "one would think you ■did not know poverty I" ■'Then one would think rightly. I have heard of it, petit pert', a good many times ; but I have never yet succeeded in finding out what it really is. I presume it is a

chemical ?" " I am quite serious, little one.' "And so am I, father. You aro always saying that wo are poor. I don't believe it. Tell me what it is to be rich ! Is it not to liave everything in tho world that- one wishes? Well—l havo everything—every thing 1 A queen could say no more."

" Poor child !"

"If we had a big house, should we love each other moro than we do in a little one ? Suppose we owned a grand private park ; could wc enjoy it more than we enjoy the Mass and the trees in our dear old Regent's Park, close by ? If we had ten thousand a year, would it make the books, anil the music, and the (lowers 1 am fondest of, one "bit more delightful ? By-the-way, petit pc'ee —you who know everything—tio you believe in the transmutation of metals ? " " The transmutation of metals ! What do you know about the transmutation of metals ?" " Nothing at all, except what I havo just been reading in a novel of Harrison Ains worth's. That is why I ask you. I want to know if there is any truth in it—l mean, in the art and mystery of alchemy ?" "You ask if metals are susceptible of transmutation? They are." " Then the old alchemists were right, after all, and the Philosopher's Stone was not a dream of the Middle Ages ! But this is delightful I Did you find out the great secret yourself, father ? Have you tried it?" And, leaving her own tea untasted, she Tan and sat herself down, all eager interest, at his feet, "I hare tried it," replied Conway, gloomily. " How did you do it ?" "Well—l began by transmuting my gold into silver ; then I transmuted my silver into copper; lastly, I resolved my copper into its elemental condition. I evaporated it." " You are laughing at me, petit pice .' " " I never felt less like, laughing." She looked up, inquiringly. " But one never knows whether you are in jest or earnest!" she said. "Besides, you have not answered my question about the secret of making gold." " Because my experience has been con fined to making away with it —to my sorrow, Ethel! To my sorrow ! " " Oh, darling father, don't look and speak like that ! Why do you fret for your past losses? Why think of them? Why remem ber them ? I know it is for my sake that you grieve; but that is folly. As long as we have enough, dear —enough for our daily needs—what does it matter ? I should not know what to do with more money, if I had it!" "My Ethel, you talk like a child ; you do not know . . . you do not understand." "I know that you are a dear, over-anxious petit pire —and I understand that you are tired and out of spirits, that I ought to stay at home this evening and sing you the old songs that you love, instead of going to practice at the church ! " But he would not hear of this. She was right in supposing him to be out of spirits ; but the old songs would not tend to make him more cheerful. Old songs brought back the memory of old times, nnd he did not wish to be reminded of old times this evening. He had, in fact, a business letter to write—a letter of great importance ; and all he wanted was quiet. It was really better, as far as he was himself concerned, that his little girl should be going out for an hour or two. Better for him, better also for her, that she should not be sitting alone in one room, while ho was writing in an other. Her life was dull enough already, without that!

All this he said somewhat confusedly and nervously, but at all events with a sufficient show of reason. So, when tho time of her appointment drew near, the girl put on her hat, gathered up her music, and prepared to be gone!

" The anthem practice will not take more than an hour, if so long," she said, coaxingly. " I wonder if it is at all likely that a good petit pere will chance to be strolling in the direction of Emmanuel Church somewhere about half-past eight o'clock? The letter will surely be finished by that time !" But Conway shook his head.

"It is* a very difficult letter to write," he said. "It will take mc all the evening." Then, answering the question in her eyes, he added :—

"It is to Mr Barnard, my child. He i.s away at Tunbridge Wells, and I have some thing to communicate to him—a matter of great importance connected with the affairs of the firm. You would not understand it, if I even explained it to you." This satisfied her. This accounted for his worn and worried look and his preoccu pied manner. But it was hard that he could not leave tlie cares of business behind when ho left the City ! It was hard that he should have to bring Barnard and Son's affairs home with him to Camden Town ! Let him, however, write his tiresome letter, and have done with it! So she kissed him, and bade him good speed with it, and went horwnv.

I At the gate she turned and waved hor hand ; the golden light of the summer even ingtailing full upon her fair young face, and brightening the pale chestnut of her hair. IS ever, he thought—never had she looked and smiled so like her dead mother. And then, out from tho darkness of the past there Hashed upon him the remembrance of another summer evening, fivc-and-twenty years ago, when he and his lost love, linger ing hand in hand, parted for the first timo as declared and promised lovers. Just so sho smiled at him, when ho looked back from the turn of tho road. Just so she waved her hand, fivc-and-twenty years ago 1 Only fivc-and-twenty years ago It seemed like a century. But he must not think of these thin-s He had much to do and to think of to-ni-ht —and first of all, his letter. CHAPTER V. Robert conway's lkttkr. There was a little back room up stairs, overlooking the garden and the canal, which was his own private den, and to which Ethel had given tho name of " The Wizard's Cave." In this den—a mere closet some twelve feot by ten—ho kopt his papers, his chemicals, his books (the remnant of a once valuable library), and somo few curiosities, as fossils, minerals, Indian spears, carved paddles, shells, and the like, picked up in those long-past days when he was wont to indulge his fatal passion for foreign travel. An electrifying machine and a shelf laden with oddly-shaped jars and bottles, repre sented bis chemical leanings ; while among the books, which wero in all less than a couple of dozen, a collector would have noticed a tine old Italian edition of Marco l'olo and an original copy of Coryat's "Crudities." It was in this littlo closet that Conway pursued what ho called his "studies;" though no one knew what thoso studies were, or with what object he was constantly experimenting ,in liquids that stained and burned, and produced appa rently no results. It was, however, generally understood by the neighbours that Mr Conway was elaborating a great invention, which must ultimately lead to fame anil j fortune.

It was to this little room that he retreated to write his letter to Mr Uarnard ; and here, sitting down face to face with his despair, he asked himself in what words ho should put the st.uy of his guilt? How could ho begin, how end it? It was not a letter ;it Whs a confession that he must write. It was iiol merely a confession; it was, in some - use, bis will—his last will antl testa-

lie forced himself to sit down to his desk —to tako J.ii and paper; but his thought .-

were all confused, anil bis hand slick so that he could not write a word. Then, le steady himself and make his task easier, he look 'from a drawer in the desk his wife's miniature, and from his packet of purchases the little half-ounce bottle of atropine, and placed them before him en (he table. After all. he was but going, voluntarily, to pass that dread gate which she had passed, ah, so reluctantly ! in the springtide of thoir wedded life; and here—here was tho key that should open it ! A few seconds of physical suffering—what were they to tho week of mental agony which he had just endured '.' No—he was not loath to go. The leap did not alarm him, though it was a leap into eternity—his only hesitation was for his child. He dared not think of the sorrow he was about to inflict upon her. That sorrow, however, like all other sorrows of earthly loss and earthly parting, would pass with timo. The sorrow of seeing him disgraced and degraded would bo far more bitter ; and from that, at least, he hoped to save her.

And then he thought how he could do this deed in such wise as to spare her, if possible, the knowledge that he died by his own hand. Ho would do it so that she should think he had made some fatal mis take as to the contents of the bottle or tbe nature of the drug ; and Mr Barnard, to whom he would confess all, would surely spare her that knowledge, as well as all knowledge of the rest ! Pondering how to devise this, he carefully cut the chemist's seal from the top of the cork, and ground the wax to powder with his heel ; and then, leaving the " Poison " label on the bottle, ho removed the other label winch contained the printed address of the seller and the written name of tho drug. No trace of when or where he bought; I it must remain. This done, he felt steadier and more com pos.:.! ; and so took paper and pen and ! began his letter. 1 Having- made three or four beginnings, i and torn up three or four sheets of note : paper, this was what he wrote :— "ToG. Barnard, Esq. I "Sir, — Under other circumstances I should apologise for troubling you with a | private letter ; but this which I now write .is not merely alette is a confession. I Moreover, it is the confession of one who. by the time you receive these lines, will ! have expiated his misdoings with his life. j A criminal, sir, does not apologise. He | implores forgiveness ; and, having humbly I fulfilled the lust duty that remains for him 'to perform, he commends his soul to God and his memory to the charity of those j whom he has wronged. j " Sir,—By the same post which brings I you this, if not earlier, you will, probably 1 receive a communication fro m Mr. John Wells informing you of the extent to I which the firm has been defrauded, and charging me with the offence. I wish I # could hope that my letter might reach your hand before you hear from Mr. Wells ; for j Mr. Wells will tell you I am a criminal undeserving of compassion; whereas, though guilty, I am neither base nor hardened. Being terrified and confused, and not know ing what, to do at the moment, I denied my guilt when accused by Mr. Wells this after noon. But, Sir, I deny it no longer. With bitter grief and shame, I acknowledge to you that I have, in truth, betrayed the trust which for so many years the firm has reposed in me.

" Yet, though you may find it difficult to credit the assertion" . . .

Here, finding himself at the bottom of a page, he laid his pen down, and lit the lamp ; for the daylight was gone and the dusk was gathering fast This clone, he resumed at the point where he had broken off—

. . " I most solemnly protest that I never meant to wr. >ng the firm of a shilling. Iswear toyou,Sir,asonestandingonthebrinkof the grave, that,however wrongly and mistakenly I regarded myself as your debtor. Those sums stood to me for borrowed money, and that borrowed money I firmly intended to repay. A thief would have kept or spent it; but from first to last I neither kept nor spent one penny of it. It went the way of all my own poor savings—that is to say, in hazardous and fatal speculation. " Mr. Wells demands that I shall be prepared on Monday with a statement as to how far I can make restitution to the firm. Sir, lam ruined and penniless—l can but cancel my debt with my life. For myself, to die is easy ; hut I leave behind mo alone, unprotected, unprovided for—one for whom I implore your charity and your pity. My daughter "... When ho came to this part of his letter, his hand began to shake and his eyes to grow dim ; but he forced himself to go on. "My daughter is motherless and friend less. It was for her sake "...

He could got no further. His grief choked him ; and, burying his face in his hands, ho

laid his head down upon the desk, and broke into a passion of heavy sobs. Meanwhile the house-door had been opened with a latch-key, a light foot had stolen up the stairs, and a cautious hand —careful not to wake him if he sliould chance to be dozing—had softly turned the handle of the iloor behind his back. The face that peeped in smilimr became suddenly fixed and pale. The figure that appeared upon the threshold stood motion less.

There was a moment's bewildered hesita tion whether to go or stay—whether to speak or be silent, Then, gliding noiseless as a shadow, the girl drew nearer; stood behind her father's chair; bent with frightened eyes over the smeared and tear blotted page; and — unheard, unseen, unsuspected -stretched out a swift hand for the phial whose message wns death. In another minute she had tied out again into the twilight. CHAPTER VI. SIU .lull.V VKLUH AT HOME, Tin: stars wore already beginning to show intftopalo twilight sky ; the street lamps were already mapping out city and suburb in lines of li ro ; and in the crescent where Mr John Wells resided there were pleasant sounds of music, and bright glimpses of lighted rooms through open windows here and there. Each houso had its garden plot iv front and its balconies full of flowers ; and there was a perfume of mignonette, upon the air, and the red lamp ovor the doctor's door at the corner glowed through a serene of bronzed foliage like a lui'i-o carbuncle. Ethel Conway, breathless with haste and terror, noted nothing, thought of nothing, but her father's misery and peril. She had road tho last unfinished page of the letter, and had gathered ' from it, hastily and imperfectly, a part only of the truth. He had borrowed money ; and because he could not repay that money —because Mr Wells was merciless —he was about to die by his own hand. To her it seemed that Mr Welis was her father's creditor, and that he demanded payment on Monday. But Mr Wells would not surely be merciless if ho knew to what an extremity of despair his fellow-cashier was driven ! Mr Wells would give him time- Mr Wells would relent ! She bad seen him frequently, going lo and from church on Sunday mornings; she had spoken with him once or twice, when he had chanced lo meet her with her father in the park or in the street; and though he might lie harsh and exacting, he did not look cruel. Hor heart sank, nevertheless, when, on reaching the house, she found herself face to face with the man himself, standing in the porch, his hands in his pockets aud a cigar in hi.-, mouth. Opening ihe gale, she went timidly up the path.' " Mr Wells," she faltered. "All light: I am Mr Wells." He answered roughly. A young woman asking for him at ibis hour could only be a servant bringing a letter or a message. " My name is Conway," she said. "Conway?—Conway?" Then, compre hending all at one who his visitor must be, ho added — "Oh, Hubert Conway's daughter !" " Yes, sir. May I speak to you for a moment ?" Ho neither moved out of the middle of the porch, nor took his cigar from his mouth. " Yes," he said, shortly. " What is it ?" Hut that which she had to say could not be said out there, in hearing of all who might pass by. "If—if I might speak to you indoors" . . . she pleaded tremulously. "I am in great trouble." Kough and repellent at the best of times, especially with women—for he was, in his way, a bit of a voman-hater—Mr John Wells happened tbis evening to be in an especially bad temper. Things had "gone contrary" with him all day. That l'.obort Conway hail not confessed when accused of his guilt had disappoined and battled him. Coming home from the city, he had found two annoying letters awaiting him—one from a poor relation, begging for money, and the other from his tailor, defending an exorbitant charge, whicli he, the customer, had declined to pay. Lastly, hi- dinner hail been ill-cooked, and, being angry ami out of sorts, he had washed down his vexation with an extra tumblerful of cold brandy-and-water, which invariably had the effect of making him morose and quarrelsome. Muttering something between his teeth, he, however, put out his cigar, led the way to his sitting-room, turned til) the gas, and, without asking his visitor to be seated, saitl :— " Well—what do you want with mc ?" i Intimidated by his manlier-and trembling very much, she stood pressing her hands together, not knowing how to begin. " My father" . . . "Ho ought not to have sent you here. He should have come himself," said Wells, frowning. " He did not send mo—he docs not know that I am here . , . nor that , . . that I know anything. . . . Ob, sir !he is in despair ! " " I don't wonder at it." " But you will have pity—you will give I him time !" "Time! Timo for what ?" "To pay back what he has borrowed." "Borrowed ! He hasn't borrowed," said Wells, angrily. "Call things by their right names, young lady. He has stolen." "Stolen!" "It is not a question of time. It is a question of transportation." The girl looked at him with flaming eyes. "How dare you say these things to mo?" sho exclaimed, brcnthle."My. .."How dare you tell me that my father has robbed you ?" " He has done worso than rob me—he has robbed his employers." "It is false !" " Oh, very well. Oo home and tell him what I say, and ask him if it is falso or true." There was not much in the words them selves ; but in the way they were spoken there was a surly contempt that exasperated her. "You wicked man," sho said, trembling no longer with fear, but with indignation, " You hato him —you are his enemy—you aro seeking to ruin him !" John Wells burst into an angry laugh. "Now look hero, my girl," he said, in solently, "you havo no business to thrust yourself into my house in order to insult me. I advise "yon not to provoke mo any further. lam not the man to bear it. Do you see this book '.' It is ono of our private ledgers. Do you see those figures—seven hundred and fifty-nine pounds twelve—at the bottom of that column ? They are forged. Do you want to know who forged them ? Mr Robert Conway. Do you want to know why he forged them ? That he might pocket the difference between seven hundred and seventy-nine pounds twelve, which was the original figure, and seven hundred and fifty-nine pounds twelve, which is the figure he contrived to substi tute. Your father made twenty pounds by that ingenious little piece of penmanship, Mis.s Conway, lie found it an easy way of making money, antl he did if pretty fre quently. He has robbed Barnard and Son to tlie tune of upwards of two thousand pounds. Now aro you satisfied ?"

The girl stootl looking at him, wh_o and silent, as if tamed to .stone. His brutal words had a terrible ring of truth about them Were they true? Or was he him. self the guilty nm_, and was he striving to tnsten the crimo upmn another? Her bead swam. She felt a dead sickness and chill stealing over her. She tried to speak ; but she could not utter a sound. John Wells, meanwhile, was purplo with anger. He had gone on raising his voice and working himself into a fiercer passion with e-rery word ho spoi _, , "And if your father thought to gain anything by sending you bore to-night to beg tor time, he never made a falser movo in his lifo. That sort of thing don't answer with, mo—l know too woll what, it is worth." _I_.it he did not send mo !" ■\\ells mado a contemptuous gesture of disbelief.

" He has either got the money or made away with it. If he has mado away with it, let him prove where and how it is cone If ho has it snugly invested, let him restore it. One thing or the other he must do— instantly. Thero is no middle course open to him—he must prove or pay." The girl looked at him, no longer tremb ling, no longer pleading, but calm with the calmness of despair. Her belief in her father's innocence was shaken, and nothing else seemed now of any real moment "My father was preparing to pay his debt—just now—when I left the house," she said, in a hard, strange voice "With this."

And she holdout the phial, which hud not left her grasp since sho.snatched it from the table.

Ho took it with.a scornful laugh, anil ex amined it under the light. "No chemist's label—no seal upon the cork. Absurd ! The thing's a farce.'" "Oh, Heaven!— you do not sup-

pose " No more, if yoir please, Miss Conway wo have had enough of this. Co, home Co homo, and toll your father that, bavin. said I would give him fill Monday, I bad no intention of being worse (ban my word; but, since ho does me tho honour to take me for a fool, by Coorge ! I'll go down myself to-morrow to Tiinbritlgo Wells, and tell Mr Barnard everything. Now, I hope you're satisfied ':"

"But, sir . . . but, Mr Wells" . . . " Miss Conway—good evening !" "I beseech you, hear what I havo to say !"

"Not another word—l have, beard too much already." Then, changing Irom con temptuous politeness to sudden fury, he shouted, "Now, will you go, or must 1 send for your lather lo fetch you"

The girl shrank back as if he hn-bslruek her Then, turning en the threshold, she said, solemnly ;- -

"Mr Wells, you are a cruel mini—you 'ire a wicked man. Cod forgive you !"

With an oath he locked'tho'room-door behind her; and so. trembling ami frightened, she let herself out, and hurried in ihe direct ion of her home.

Unfortunate that sho was, she told herself, alas! that she bad done her father's cause more harm than good ; and that I hero now remained nothing for her (o do but to stay by him—to protect him from himself—to share his fate, whatever his fate might be.

In those quaint illustrated legends of the Dance of Death which we find grimly decorating the margins of old missals, the walls of ancient German cemeteries and cloisters, and the inner panellings of old cov ered bridges, we see the ghastly hero of the tableaux using his power with malicious caprice ; passing by the sick and claiming tho sound ; wresting tho babe from its mother's arms and sparing the white boarded octogenarian ; carrying oil' tho bride from the embrace of the bridegroom, yet turning a tloaf ear to the prayers of the wretch who craves for release. It was a monkish style of art, and we are tempted to wonder in these days why it was once so popular. Yet it needs only a little imagination to put the old drama on the stage again ; or rather, it is permanently upon the stage, in modern costume, and with modern scenery, only we have no eyes to see it.

Summoned by Robert Conway, Death stood beside his desk that night while he was writing his letter of confession ; but passed him by, and knocked at John Wells's door. CHAPTER VII. Till; IRONY OF FATE. By one of those strange and unexpected turns of fortune which it is just now fashionable to call "the irony 'of fate," Robert Conway, while yet his letter of con fession (o Mr Barnard lay unposted in his desk, received a message early on Sunday morning from John Wells's landlady, to say thai her lodger was dying. Ho had been heard in angry conversation the evening before with some visitor whom bo bad himself admitted, ami whom no one in the house had seen. After that visitor left, ho had locked himself into his sitting room, neither opening the door nor answer ing, when the housemaid went to ask whether he required anything more that evening. Supposing him to be busy, or perhaps dozing in his chair, they "then bane I up for the night, and the household went to bed. 'When, however, (be maid came down in the morning, she found the door still fastened. Being alarmed at this, sho called her mistress ; whereupon they fetched round a pair of steps, and so, looking in at tho window, they saw the lodger lying on his face on the Iloor in the middlo of the room, apparently dead. To open the unhasped window and get into the room by way of the balcony was but the work of a moment; and then they found that Mr John Wells was not dead, but breathing heavily and quite in sensible.

The nearest surgeon was instantly sent for, tho case was pronounced to bo apoplexy, and tho patient was forthwith bled, but without any perceptible relief from the operation. Consciousness had not yet re turned, and it wns feared that he would die beforo any of his relatives, who wcro all Yorkshire folk, could arrive to see him alive.

Such was the substance of the story brought by a frightened maid-servant to Lebanon Lodgo that bright Sunday morn ing. Wearied and worn out after a wakeful night, the last of many such, Conway still slept; and ere he waked, tho man who hold 'his secret had drifted out upon " that dark and unknown sea which flows round all the world."

And so Robert Conway was saved ; twice saved, indeed—first by the hand of his child, and then by tbe hand of Fate. How that bottle of atropine had disappeared was, however, a mystery, and ono about whicli he dared ask no questions. And Ethel was silent.

A week wont by thus. There was an in quest; thero was gossip ; (here wero para graphs in tho local papers ; there was a somewhat pompous funeral ; and then Mr John Wells's rooms in the highly-respect able crescent were to lot, and the little parochial world, in which ho had been a busy man in his day, went on as if no such person as Barnard and Son's principal cashier had ever existed.

Barnard Senior meanwhile had returned from Tollbridge "U'ells : Barnard Junior had " wired " his safe arrival at New York ; and the business of tho (inn was transacted

almost as well without Mr John Wells as -villi hiro. Robert Cony/ay, doing extra work, wondered sometimes when, and by whom, thai other desk would be occupied— wondered also, with a dreadful sinking at his heart, whether Mr Barnard really did know anything of the frauds that had been committed, and, if so, whether ho would ever mention t;iem. But, as tho days went by and nothing happened, he gradually became reassured ; and being sincerely and earnestly penitent, he resolved to be hence forth a true and honest and faithful ser vant, and to tio his best, though in never so small a way, tw pay back a part, at least, of the money lie had taken.

At length, when a month had elapsed, young Barnard came back from his trip, snd for two or three days, before thoy started together fo? their autumn shooting, the father and sen were both attending daily at the house of business in the city. Ono morning they sent down for Robert Conway.

.ilemcmbcring bis last interview, in that very room, with Mr John Wells, he went up, reluctant and nervous.

Barnard Senior, standing on the rug, wilb his back tc the tiro-place, nodded gravely and pleasantly. Barnard Junior looked iqi from hi.s desk and smiled.

"MrConway,"sa«t Barnard Senior, "you have been with us now for more than ten years, and wc have every reason to believe that you havo served the firm with fidelity and ability. Wo havo, therefore, much pleasure in offering you the situation of principal cashier. And I may say that wo have the more pleasure in doing so, because we feel I hat we, perhaps, owe you some re paration."

" Lloparntion, Mr JBarnard !" Conway re peated, contused and trembling. "Yes, Mr Conway—reparation. It was not altogether our fault, perhaps; but we did yon a grave injustice—in our thoughts. Observe, only in our thoughts. And, as wo are now convinced that it was an injustice, we feel a sincere pleasure—l am sure, How ard, I may say that wo both feel a sincere pleasure—in substantially recognising your merit."

Young Barnard nodded acquiescence.

Mr Uarnard then went on to explain how the errors iv the books were discovered ; and how, since the deed could only lie be tween the two cashier.-;., ho (Barnard Senior) had, while exonerating Mr John Wells, in evitably suspected Mr Robert Conway.

"Hut," ho added, "some very strange facts connected with Mr Wells's death have come to our knowledge. He died, il is true, of apoplexy ; but WO have reason 10 think that he 'contemplated suicide. A bottlo labelled 'poison,' was found in his room; and one of our private ledgers on his table. Also, bis manner, it is said, had been singularly moro.-e, and occasionally violent for several days before the catas trophe. Everyone here remarked his sin gular gloom aiul silence all the week 1 was away at Tunbridgc Wells; you probably, among others. The contents of the bottle, I should (t.ll you, proved to bo atropine; —a deadly, but somewhat uncommon poison : and, singularly enough, the seal had been cut off the top of tho cork, and the address of the chemist had been re moved, in order, evidently, to destroy every trace of where it had been purchased. In short, we are driven to conclude that the poor man was on tho brink of a great crime, whon death mercifully interposed. I do not wonder that you look shocked, Mi- Con way."' Robert Conway heard, and, hearing, re mained silont, his hands clasped tightly together,, his eyes fixed on the ground. The Barnards, father and son, exchanged glances. Ho had received the offer of a situation which was not only a situation of great responsibility, but which would more than double his salary ; yet he showed no satisfaction. He did not even express a word of (hanks. "Well, Mr Conway?" said Barnard Senior. Then, in that supreme moment the guilty man cast out fear and falsehood from his soul, and lifted op his face, down which tho tears were running, and said ;— '• (loci forbid f it.ii the memory of the dead should suffer for the sins of the living! it was I who robbed you. ' Barnard and Son were generous, it: is needless to say. and forgave the man who, when there was neither suspicion nor proof .of his c.tinie. confessed it, and placed him self at their mercy. To promote him. or even to keep him in their London office, was, of course, impossible : but they sent him out to ono of (heir brunch bouses in Canada : and there he and his "little girl " arc spending their first Christmas (this very Christmas of the good year ISSJ) in peace and love, and in the enjoyment of a fair share of this world's prosperity.

A Father Hubbard.

The other day, when old Major Solman announced his readiness to proceed in the direction of church, his wife appeared wear ing a Mother Hubbard dress. The old man intently regarded her for a few minutes, " M.'irv, what sort of a coat do you call that '.'" " It's a Mother Hubbard, .Teems." " Air voir goin' to wear it to church ?" " Why, certainly. Jeems. The Mother Hubbard is all the fashion now." "Well, I'm glad to know it," the old man replied. "Just wait till I get ready and we'll go." Tho old man went out into the kitchen, took a couple of meal sacks, cut the bottoms out, sewed the tops together, and put them on in imitation of pantaloons. When he re turned his wife uttered a loud cry of astonishment, and exclaimed :— "Croat goodness, .Teems, what's that ?" "Father Hubbard," the old man replied. "You're not a goin' to wear them sacks, are you ?" "I've got to be fashionable to keep up with you. I've got as much right to wear theso meal bags as you have to go in that bran sack." "I'll take it off." " All right, off goes the Father Hubbard," and turning away, he added to himself; " Only ono way to beat a woman, and that is by agreein' with her. Ef it hadn't been fur the Daddy Hubbard I'd been in a mighty bad fix,"

The End of the World.

Tin.; lime produces the man ; antl whenever there is a period of wars and rumours of wars antl epidemics and earthquakes, a prophet always arises to tell us that'tho cod of the world is at hand. The winning comes on this occasion from Africa, and is supported (the "Figaro" tells us) by a "well-reasoned, if not very reasonable proof." li appears that thero is an i>kl pro diction, which says :— (.itntul Georges Dion crucifera, Que ..hire le ressuscileru, Xt (|tie saint .loan le portera, La Un tin mon do arrlvera. The year 18SII is the appointed time spoken of iv this prophecy, for then Good Friday falls on April -.'5 (St. George's Day), Easter Day an April 25 (St. Mark's Day), and Corpus t'bristi on St. John the Baptist's Day. What can be more clear? —"Pall. Mall Gazette."

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, DECEMBER 22, 1883.

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