CONTRARY WINDS.

jj F ob the "Star" Christmas r supplement.]

CHAPTEK I,

BY THE SEASIDE. 'v us lies'a broad and noblo firth. On Opposite Bhore, rising abruptly from the towering mountains hid thoir rugged in clouds of mist. Passing and I 10 fog on the wide expanse of waters "'Csela of .every description. Mighty "* erß steam rapidly to the docks of the d city of the greatest empire in the ij Sailing ships aro towod slowly *° till the freshening breezes from the n gil thoir sails, and carry them °^ly away on their long voyages. pLsure yachts and coasting craft, under j^iosiid under canvas, fill up the picture t ,t visible on the horizon, the gigantic . 0 [ Ailea towors above the waters in litary grandeur. Not far off along the t is tie ancient and thriving town of _ Around us is a somewhat level trT) dotted over with fnrm-steadings, 'udjtour feet is a rough, rocky beach, standing on a ledge ol rocks, a youth of . ee venteen summers is dreamily watch v tho motions of a small rowing boat, 2L and falling on the waves about a "ntrter of a mile away. He is evidently ia brown study, for ho has been standing in fat position now for half-an-hour. flia ffrtig aetriking one, although one could at call it handsome. The lines around tho mouth show a more than usual amount of determination, and the sharply-cut features b«peak intelligence of no mean order. The Kj3 high and bioad, but the eyes.though Lj. ue dull. What they would bo when £ sallow cheeks are lighted up in conver sion we do not know, but just now they k, ve a vacant expression. The mind is busy siftln, «n^ curious thoughts are passing tough that young head. Pind Kaylor was the eldest son of a jjipectable but not very prosperous farmer the neighbourhood of A .At .jj 9 parish school he had received a iit eJucation. Being "quick to learn, jad opt to know," the dominie had con ggned him on, with his father's permis fa'tot two years longer than tho or-. jiiury course of instruction. From the winning the boy was restless; he had a contemplative turn of mind, and did not tie well with the routine of farm labour. li this matter his extra schooling did not fo him any good either, but his father waa jjjroue to lielp him as far as he could. Ha could not send him to college, neither mold he have an idler on tho farm, but bi allowed him to study oa far as the pii.h schoolmaster could put him, and hen David must take his share of hoeing u d reading. If he was ever to get beyond tint, it inuat be by his own exertions. for three years the lad wrought manfully a the farm, stifling bis dislike, till at lut he had come to think there was no lopoof amending matters, and insensibly be (jda begun to interest himself in the prices d bushels of wheat and loads of hay. }o this glaring, hot August day, idea work was slack and the golden corn id rapidly whitening to harvest, he had nndered down to the beach. First, the (bite sails of a large merchantman lying totaled a dozen miles away bad attracted kii attention, and then the little boat with Si tiro occupants turned his thoughts in mother channel. As he strolled down the neb the white ports of the clipper called i! his remembrance the tales of the other tads and other peoples he had read of at lira!, He knew that many of his country tea had gene to those lands, and returned lilh plenty; he know that in those strange bods the sky was fair, and the earth more huntiful than in his own, and he know fat that shapely hull resting so stately on lie waters had just returned from those Mr climes, and in a few months would return to them again. Why could he not Jiiaothers had done? He was young and tang, and the world was aa open to him utoany other. Thus he mused, till, turn bg a boulder of rock, he espied the little txkle-sholl dancing on the waven, and snediately his thoughts went off at a kigent in another direction. Inside the kali were two girls, aged 14 and 16 years spectively, the daughters of a wealthy ■reliant prince in Glasgow. It was Ur custom to come down to this part ilia coast in the season, and they generally tyed six weeks or so at a neighbour's farm in to. Materf amilias always came with itgirls, bub this day she had gone visit tj, and the pater was busy in the smoky fy testing his yarns and calculating the pt» of his cloth. His only recreation con ked of the period between 12 o'clock on today and ten o'clock on Monday araing, and a goodly portion of that was pat in the close, beatoi atmoaphore of a aluray carriage. Seizing their opportunity, ie girls had gone fishing in a little dingy Uonging to the farm. There was no danger i suoh a day; the boat was found, the jtla could each handle an oar, and the sea wlike a mild pond; nevertheless, acci kti will happen. David stood watching tarn, and their merry laughter smote on lea like heavenly music. Both of them li knew very well; although far re ined from them in station, and out iis the pale of their society, yet living so iw it waa but natural they should often Ml in their ramblings, and it was only tarous and mannerly that they should npan notes on the weather when they Mi The two young ladies, although town- Mi had not been spoiled, as yet; they did lit tarn up their nose at every country tanpkin they met, nor establish at every kp their ignorance of things rural by Wg questions which would maka the Ml dull-headed lout grin from ear to ear. tarie, the eldest, was a rather full and My girl, not remarkable for beauty, ht with a pleasing cast of countenance. 8» waa of a mild and gentle disposition ; "fta1 sedate, and of a philosophic turn of sad, with a penchant for literature. Eva, h youngest, was the antipodes of her *r in every respect. • Always gay and Wng, she partook more of the romp, Js to witty sayings were the delight of vfather. She was blesßed with many tan, wheh gave abundant promises lißuchief in days to come. Even now could notice the coquettish glance in •'eye, as aho strove to give expression to "»tibe waa saying. As yet she waa but ityto b the art of dissembling, bat all the Jtarial for producing an expert was there. *™J Naylor they both took some interest *i Laurie on account of hia grave thoughtful ■»> and-meditative attitudes; Eva, be *s when they met she always noticed fwpeat eyea of his looking into hers, as '1% would penetrate to the bottom of «heart. The elder sister found food «W pbilosophio reflections in that face •Jifchwehave had a look into already; ■»»» younger, confident that in her JH contemplative ploughman took more J* • common interest, strove with all fwttand eoul to find out tho secret of ?P°wer, and increase it at libitum. Thus thoro was a eortof sym pwuc accord ; each bad some degree of psat in the other, and interest doea not 3 , ™ dormant — it either withers or «Mnsintoßomething elao. By this time it understood why David Kaylor 7*l "to ttat slippery rock, like a marblo £"■ m Grecian attitude. Ho is think- J-»oti of tkat emigrant ship in the Firth, mL?.™B day or the hour he will put his tm 2* the "P6 corD> but of ttose two IMkr ."^FPbs out there, fishing eagerly 11,, Waning nothing. Strange thoughts ffljj^wng through his head ; for the last I CtS i-* 8 y°ungest of those faces has 9sb sloe.P in Bandhiß waking dreama; I DiW Bomet' 1'Ilg about the girl ho cannot ■ hp- ha Bays> and he muat find lt Hihto ' 9ely co' aud for tnia PurPose he ■ |."v" Bnrveying tho hedges in the direc ■ to" to neighbour's farm the laßt feiv S^lttr quite aa u°precodented manner. M by accident, after a careful in n °* 'hose hedges and discovering wWI\ not oven a bit of muslin, or at ■tl™! he had wandered down to the ■ J1 "* a familiar bit of hedge scenery H&.anTJv ingly Preeenta itsolf t0 hiß H t. 8 im 'Qto a vety troubled H^ rlJavid! the glamour is ovor B'//tvu v only natural that he ehould H*"fev • Btrangers onco again, bo- W*ittonR VaDlallf. rom oweyea for another flttol tk " Viaitors are but rare in his ■ 9 Wor!d' and he must make the 9Win? whUethey arothere- uoepiy aß™™ reverie he dota not notice HoCh loßt one of the oars> and is B^er.^^ 6 efforte with tfae other to W*S*l* *loud Piercing shriek from H'Norm i° nee arouses his attention, and ■ 'tteroMf • L" 0'688 statue into a P!ece 9 4rttol; ta°lbl8 and daring mechanism. M?*«J a r 0"811 ™ that the boat has io?!»claS j tnoatl a moment's hesita- Hl^JiikiT 8 dt>wn to whore his father's m HiKS^^Mks tho painter, and in a WM "Kwmnly pulling over the waters.

done an tbe bo"om' , Once-twice -h* has now a thirH fretUi! ned. ""Pty-handed, and This timnh ™h° dlpß b6low the Burfa<* w£«n h j 1B longer in burning, and when he does appear it is evident he £ bnngmg something along with him. Uune works the boat towards him, and hin^° m 0 and troubl° E^a is handed into the dingy, more dead than

h«?f avid S U L mbß in after her> and makes the ™.Bpeed he can for the shore. The accident has been observed from the h1« mf" *£ n the M ghtß abovo- and he can Bee ms father and brothers hastening down to M Wl f th bl- anket? and °ther articles "Keiy to be of use in such an emergency Nosoonor doesthe boatgroundon thebeach than he is roheved of all further trouble in the matter. His father takes charge of the business, and at once sends him off to the house in charge of Laurie, while he and the boys carry Eva between them, David would rather, if his will had been consulted, taken charge of the rear party, but as it was he could not say anything. Be gallantly assisted Laurie up the cliffs to^ the door of the farm-house, where his mother stood waiting to receive them with abundance of dry clothes and hot drinks. Very soon these two were put to rights, but with Eva there was a long and anxious period of suspense before all danger was removed. Gradually, however, she became con' scioua, and by evening ehe was well enough to be conveyed home to her mother.

That night when David went to bed he could not sleep. Ho felt elated. He was well pleased with himself, not because his father called him a brave fellow, nor yet because he had saved two young ladies from drowning; but, of course, simply and solely because he had rendered a service to two strangers in whom aa neighbours he took some interest. It was his duty, so he artfued, and he would have done the came "for anybody |else, but nevertheless it seemed to him a most fortunate accident. Hia modesty, his pride, and his vanity had a terrible combat that night; overall hia imagination ran riot, and his brains whirled in the vainest endeavours to account for the strange feelings within him. For hours he puzzled his head trying to fathom the specific cause of that unmingled happiness of which he could not so much aa give one reason. But hisefforta were uselese. Perhaps some reader who has been in like circumstances will be able to explain the myßtery—we cannot. Two days afterwards M r and Mrs Seymour came over to Mossvale to pay their respects to the Nay lore and thank our hero in poraon for his bravery. The great merchant waa anxious to do something for David; he was aware of the lad'a peculiarities, and did not wish merely to present him with a £5 note, and ten minutes' fulsome praise ; be wished to do him a lasting and substantial benefit. He had thought the matter over and bad spoken to David's father, who approved of his scheme, and now he went to the chief person interested. Alter acknow ledging his deep indebtedness and gratitude to our hero, he made a proposal which al most took David'a breath away, It was nothing leas than that he should go to Glasgow and be initiated in all the mysteries of cloth manufacture until he be came of age ; when, if he had been diligent in business, he would be taken into the firm, and if he chose otherwise he could please himself. Meanwhile, he would receive a competent salary to start with. Davis was nonplussed for a moment: it seemed too like a dream; but recovering himself, he answered, if his father and mother were willing he was ready to go. So it was decided after due consideration amongst all parties that David should go to Glasgow when harrest was over. His mother was reconciled to theatep principally upon the assurance that she would see her boy at frequent intervals, and that he should have in the autumn season a whole fortnight to visit the scenes of his child hood. His father rejoiced that such an opening had been made for his eldest eon in the world; his brothers envied him his good fortune in going to the great town, and hia sisters were delighted at the thought of the many grand presents they would now get from Glasgow. Before leaving for their town home, Laurie and Eva paid a visit to Mossvale to thank their deliverer in person, and as cir cumstances would have it, they found that individual busy repairing fencea on their way thither. They had the benefit of a quiet interview, without apectatora. Laurie being tho eldeat,acted as chief speaker, and w as dignified and quiet in her expressions of gratitude. She spoke tenderly, and with a warmth of expression which puzalod David. Quite different was Eva ; she was more gushing and voluble, and gave vent to her feelings unrestrainedly. Such a torrent of praise nearly up9et poor David. He felt bewildered, while he endeavoured to explain that- he had only done what any body olse would have done in similar circumstances, and that he did not see the necessity for so much thanksgiving. He had an idea hidden somewhere in his mind that he ought to thank them for giving him such an opportunity, but it did not seem right that he should tell them this. He waa glad when they shook hands and left him to hia meditations. At parting, Eva expressed a hope that they would often see him in Glasgow, to which Laurio kindly joined inacquiesence, and David hesitatingly replied that he would see. Whether he did or not we shall afterwards see.

CHAPTER II IN GLASGOW.

Three years have come and gone, with the usual changes. In the respected firm of Seymour and Co., David Naylor now holds an important position. He haa not belied the promises of his youth, but on the contrary has shown an adaptibility to busi ness pursuits his kind and grateful bene factor had not given credit for. David's pros pects in the world are bright, and he ia fuU •f hope and youthful energy. The manners of the city have considerably improved his outward appearance, and altogether he is a promising young man. Still, wo could identify him with the Grecian statue of three years asro, for he has not lost tho original bent of his mind, and his face very often wears that same puzzled expreaeion we have seen on it before. He has not allowed the acquaintanceship of his em ployer's daughter to fall into desuetude, but has regularly paid hia visits to Woodside Terrace. This night he is bent on one of these errands. Under his left arm w a book—the latest production of the Poet Laureate-with sundry of the sublime pas sages marked off for the benefit of the literary-minded Laurie ; m his right hand he carries a splendid bouquet of autumn flowers for the frolicsome nature-loving Eva. He walks quickly, and is soon at tbe door of the Seymour mansion, where the servant girl, accustomed to his viaits, ad mits him without any ceremony. He is shown into the drawing-room, where he deposits his precious burden, and throwa^imaelf down upon a lounge, but only to rise in a few seconds again. It is the twilißht hour, and the bright fire in the grate throws black shadows across the room. On the mantelpiece a crayon draw intr attracts his attention, and he rises to get a better view. The lights uncertain^ But surely he recognises in that picture Home well-remembered scene. He snatches Z poker ,Ld rakes the ribs of the glow ing fee til they sent forth a land flame thf t illuminates every corner of the room. Yes it must be so; that is himself without a doubt. It is a sketch of marine scenery; fn the foreground is a ledgs of rock running sharply doln to the sea, and standing upon it watchine the motions of a little fishing SE d£win« W hedisco^ers in a corner the letters" L.S., worked in a tangle of sea weed He is surprised. Had it wmm into their wonted attitude, as he gazed on %rw« beJTnSt m"in thought that .he WMtSS

was in the room, but she did not expect to find him in such an attitude. And the nT 6 f - WaAA Br pioture- And h*l Bhe not put it in that position so that it would be sure to attract his attention ? Yes, but she had not calculated on him discovering it in this manner. Now he was alone, and the omotions of his heart were not concealed l»f kje e. x.Preßßionß of the face. She watched him eagerly, and with the thought him handsome. Waa he think ing of her? I« waa hardly likely, but it waa almost certain that he was thinking of her sister, and a bitter thought welled up in her heart. She did love him, and yet to her he waa cold and reserved Her sister, whom she knew he loved with a great passion, had for him, ahe believed, but a slender affection. Why could not he see how her heart yearned to him? Perhaps even now this picture had struck a chord in his heart that would vibrate to her Perhaps; but her dresa rustles in a sudden draught of wind, and too figure by the fireside la suddenly startled back into life again. Turning hia head quickly he catches sight of that other motionless figure in the doorway, and forth with the spell is broken. " Miss Seymour " —"Mr Naylor," and the conventionalitiea of life are all in full operation again. What haa gone before was a glimpse of nature, true and reliable; but what is to follow is a veiling of nature, a covering of the truth, language ooncealing thought, and the tongue speaking the impulses of the heart in a vague, indietinct, and equivocal manner. " What do you see in my picture to interest you so?" said Laurie. " Why, it is so life-like," said David. " But that would not make you stare bo long at it"

"Ah I you have been watohing me t" "And if I have?" " Well, I was thinking of various things that happened long ago." " What made you stand watching us on that rock ?"

"Well, now, I had nothing to do, so I came down the rocks, watching the barque that lay becalmed in the Firth, and then I could not help seeing you." "Ah! you rogue I I believe you came down on purpose." " And supposing I did?" " Well, never mind, let us look at Tenny son,"

And together they read their favourite passages from the "Idylls," and from that branched off into a conversation on litera ture generally. They got enthusiastic, and their hearts began to warm one towards the other, as they discoursed on the grandeur of Milton, the satire of Swift, or the mar tial style of Scott.

Miss Seymour thought Mr Naylor was a very intelligent young man indeed. She thought she bad never met anyone she oared so much for, or whose tastes had fitted so well with her own.

Mr Naylor thought Miss Seymour much more interesting than ho had ever before suspected. She waa a much nicer girl altogether than ho had thought her i much more censible than hei sister, and he almost thought quite as good-looking. What thoughts like these might have ended in we leave the reader to guess, but at this moment Eva's voice was heard in the lobby, carolling forth " There came a young man to my daddy's door," while at the same time the front door bell rang violently.

It waa opened by Eva, who admitted a young man well enough known in the Seymour's house, and not unknown by fame to David Naylor either. He came of an aristocratic family who prided them selves on their lineage, and in consequence disdained all plebeian society; unless, indeed, it happened to have wealth attached to it. Handsome and tall, he was the ad miration of a very large circle of young lady friends, all of whose favours be sought to win, not placing one higher in hia estimation than another. He waa always dressed in the fashion, and had a suit of clothes for every day in the week; parted hia hair in the middle, and carried a gold-headed cane in his hand; ao that he was without doubt a perfect lady-killer. He was one of those satellites who were beginning to hover around the new rising star of beauty, and his attentions to the youngest of the Sey mour daughters was already a subject of comment amongst afternoon tea-parties. And in truth they would not have made a bod match, if outward appearances were all that were required. So David Naylor thought as his eyes fol lowed their every movement. He had never seen £>va look lovelier than she did this evening, and she was so gracious in her manner.

She introduced her friend Mr Harrison to their dear friend and preserver, Mr Naylor, In such a manner as to make the blood rush to David's face.

" What a fortunate fellow you are," said the fascinating Harrison; "how I should have liked to have been in your place." But David only stammered an answer. He was not at his ease while this rival of his was in the room. Rival be knew he was, and it pained him to see that Eva took his attentions so willingly. But he could not help it. He had not the easy nonchal ance of his rival, nor could his tongue utter such smooth, sweet words as the dandy poured into the ears of hia fair listeners. " How dull you are to-night, Mr Naylor I" said Eva. " You mast surely be in love." " Does that make one sad ?" asked David, looking straight into the eyes of his ques tioner with an expression that plainly said, " Yes, I am; over head and ears in love."

" Well, now, I declare 1" said Eva, turn ing to Harrison, " what do you think of it?"

"Oh, I think," drawled the dandy, "it must be a very pleasing sensation to be in love. Don't you think so, Miss Eva t" "Oh, I don't know," said the young coquette, turning ber head and laughing merrily. Yet David thought he could notice the eyes droop and a shy glance which seemed to say, " Yes, 1 believe it is." " Will you favour us with a tune, Miss Eva? You are such an exquisite player," said the flattering Harri son, as he placed a chair in front of the piano. " I will turn the music for you, and you shall play what you choose." "Thank you," wid Eva, as she placed herself before the instrument, and imme diately began strumming the lively ditty, " I'm owre young to marry yet." Harrison officiated aa leaf-turner and critic, occasionally mixing, hia praise of the tong and the player in rather a lud icrous fashion, but always coming out of his difficulty with easy facility. David kept his eyes fixed on Eva, except when he glared at Harrison to take stock of that worthy's manner of courting. Laurie was extremely quiet and reserved, and narrowly watched the changing emotions on the face of his literary companion, who sat close to her. It was a study for an artist. What cross purposes were at work in that room under such a harmonious sur face; what devious measures being adopted to compass plain ends. But the hour is getting late. The accomplished Harrison takes nis leave, with a profusion of compliments and flattering sentiments, Buch as young ladies are supposed to be specially amenable to, and bows himself out of doora with all the servility of a pro fessional courtier. David rises and follows his example, but his words are few, although his looks count for much ; his leave-taking has nothing stately about it, but the grasp of his hand ia warm and kindly. Out on the street he ia glad of the cool breeze to fan hia hot cheeks, and glad of the long walk to exercise his mind and calm the tumult within. This night haa been a strange one. Can it be possible that he ia in love with both these girls ? He knows he likes the ono, bnt the other seems to be far from unlikeable also. And Eva ; does she think more of Harrison than of him? Verily, his mind is in a quandary. He is in a tortuous path, and the end of it ia by no means plain. Time no doubt will help him to see clearly.

CHAPTER 111.

YES OB NO.

Other two years have gone. David Naylor's visits to Woodside Terrace have continued as frequent as formerly, but his aims are clearer and more decided now than they were then. He is now an acknow ledged Buitor for the hand of his employer's youngest daughter. Mr Seymour himself is quite agreeable, as it will tend to strengthen his business operations. Mr Naylor is such a keen business young man, and he could not find in 100 miles one more fitted to become his son-in-law. . Mrs Seymour, of humble origin herself, has not those fantastic notions of gentility which utterly scout the idea ef a penniless though talented young man uniting him self in marriage with the daughter of a very rich merchant. ~ All things are favourable to Davids pretensions. The only difficulty is with the young lady herself. Deeply con scious of her own personal charms, she delighted in enslaving the amours of the other sex. It pl«a«d her vanity, and,

frolic-loving girl as she was, she amused herself much at the expense of her various Buitors, To David Naylor her bearing was a little exceptional. Bhe never forgot the service he had ren dered her, but that in itself did not attract her attention. She knew the state of Uavids feelings to her very well; they could not be hidden, and in her inmost soul she reciprocated them ; but in her conduct to him she did not give him much room for hope. She had a constant throng of admirers, all of whom she kept in play, promptly checking the advances of the more daring, and treating all to a full measure of her unlimited banter. In this reapect David fared no better than the others, rather worse, as he was esteemed to be sure and certain, while the others might fly away at any moment. In many w»ys he had tried to find out whether his affection was returned in any degree, but had always failed. Eva showered her atten tions profusely on ail her admirers, and it seemed to David that amongst all of them she cared for him the least. Frequently he would chide hia heart's blind devotion to one who did not seem to care for it, but his passion was strongest, and these times of doubt served but to exalt the idol of his dreams more firmly in its place. Long ago he had cast out of his heart all thoughts of Laurie's graces; frith that perversity of human nature go common to us all, he stroro after an object that was by no means easily attainable, while he left behind and despised one easily within his reach. But he was blind to the kind ways and pleasing looks of the elder sister; in them he only saw friendship and gratitude, wn n e j n tne coquettishsmiles and artful manners of the younger he nought to trace the pure flame of love. Laurta bbw it all, but she could do nothing; it is not permitted to young ladies in society to act more than a negative part in such affairs, and David Naylor's case wanted a much more effectual treatment than any amount of negation could offer. But the crisis was soon to come. This tantalising suspense waß more than David could bear; he was determined to know the beat or the worst of his case, and that before long. He had often tried to get a private inter view with Eva, but that wary nymph, divining his purpose, always contrived to slip away whenever a favourable oppor tunity presented itself for his design. But an accident, trivial in its origin, served to give him the needed oppor tunity.

He hod gone to business one morning as usual, but becoming indisposed had gone home for the day; in the afternoon, fouling better, he went out for a walk, and, like the needle to the loadstone, he un consciously began to tread the street in the direction of Woodside Terrace. His mind waa heavy, tor hia heart waa aa much indisposed as his body, and he did not recognise where he was till he found him self at the entrance to a handsome park, in tbe immediate vicinity of his fair en slaver's abode. He entered and wandered leisurely along the footpaths in a quiet fit of abstraction, till in a quiet nook, overhung by trees, he discovered the object of his thoughts busily engaged read ing ono of Black s novels. She bad not noticed hjs approach, nor did she suspect be was in the neighbourhood, until he stopped in front of the seat she sat upon and called her by name. At once she started in Burprisa; he came upon ber too suddenly to allow of any dissembling.

"David," she said, hastily, and the colour rose to her cheek, but at the same moment her self-possession returned, and she quickly began to question him how he came to be there.

He explained, and seated himself beside her.

" Let us have a talk together, Eva," he said.

" Oh, bother I" she replied, " let me read my book." He looked pained, and took her hand in his. "Eva,' fhe said, "I want to tell you something."

Uis excited look and passionate utter ance made her dread what waa coming, but she made one effort, nevertheless, to check it.

" Let us go for a walk," she said, " and examine the flower beds. There is suoh a nice one over by the fountain, Let me show it to you.'

" No, Eva," he said; " stay here a little," and ho put his arm round her, and held her to the seat.

"Do you know that I love you, darling ?" he said.

" Oh, nonsense," she replied. "But I do," he answered, "and I can never rest till you say you will be mine. Say you lore me, Eva." " How can I say so, Mr Naylor ?" she

replied. " Eva, you are unkind. You do not care for mo, then ?"

"I am very thankful to you for your kindness, and I am your sincere friend." "No more ?'' asked David. "Oh, Mr Naylor, why do you ask me such questions ? let us go home." " Call me David," pleaded our hero. " Well then, David, don't be foolish."

"I am not foolish," returned he. " Tell me, Eva, do you care for me a little bit ?"

" Why, certainly I do," replied she " how can you doubt it ?" " Eva," he said, " you know that I love you as no other man does, and can you thus trifle with me ? Say whether you love me or not. If you do, I will cherish and protect you all my days, and we shall be very happy together, love; but if you say no, I will go away this night to foreign lands, and I will not return again. Say, love, will you be mine f"

. Ho held her in hia arms, and she drooped her head upon hia shoulder; but she re plied, " You only jest, David. We are too young." " You are not too yountr to say whether there ia any hope for me, Eva. I cannot bear this suspense any longer. lam afraid you care for another more than me." " David, you were always a friend. I can never forget you. You will always bo near my heart, but do not talk to mo of love just now," " But I must," he said, almost fiercely. " You can fix my doom to-night, whatever it ia to be. lam at your feet. 0, Eva, do not mock my misery ; say you will be mine, and you can fix your own time."

"David, how rash you speak; you frighten me. I will always be your friend." " Nothing more!" he asked. She hung her head, but he could hear her whisper, ". No," in a slow, hesitating way. "Eva, he said, " I am going," and he flung his arms round her neck, and kissod ber passionately; then gently disengaging himself he took the seal from his watch, and placing it in her hand said, "Keep that for my sake, Eva Good-bye;" and in a moment he, had vanished into the opon pathway. "David, come back," she cried, rising from her seat; but her voice was bo low he heard her not, and she sank back on the seat exhausted.

The daylight was beginning to fade ere she gathered strength enough to return to her father's house. Bitterly she repented of what she had said and done; but Burely ho would never go away. Yet, he was bo determined. Oh, if only he would come back she would treat him otherwise. How she deplored ber stubbornness; yet she tried to think she had not done much wrong, but her conscience smote her. She passed a miserable night upon her bed, and next morning she would fain have gone to David Naylor's lodgings to see if he were still there. But she could not summon courage for that; she could not trample her womanly dignity under foot in that way. Dreary as she did feel, she must wait in patience till her father came home in the evening, and then she would know the worst. But how she dreaded that hour while she longed for it. Her father would be sure to upbraid her for her conduct, her mother would not pity her, and she could havo no sympathy from her sister. Truly, it was a miserable day, and it was a relief to her in the evening when she did know the worst; for all her bad anticipations proved well founded.

David Naylor was gone, and had not left a clue of hia whereabouts behind him. That be did not intend returning, he had made plain by letters which he left. The merchant fumed and raved, first at his clerk for allowing a woman to have such influence over him, and then at his daughter for daring to refuse such an estimable young man, ana losing him his right-hand man of business.

There was little peace in the Sey mour mansion for one week. Anyone entering the house would have thought an inmate was dead or dying, so morose and cloudy were the faces of everybody therein. Happily such a state of affairs doos not last long. Like the sea that close* calmly over the wreck of a noble ship, and many priceless lives, time smooths tbe furrows of the heart; and, although the old scars remain, like the wreckage at the bottom of the sea, the front presented to the world is smooth.

While Eva recovers as well as she can her wonted joyousness of spirits, we must take a flying leap to the other side of the world, and bs introduced to new sight* and an old face.

CHAPTER IV. IN A FOREIGN LAND,

The scene is changed. No longer do we tread the noisy streets of the mighty com mercial metropolis, nor look upwards amid towering buildings to catch a glimpse of the meridian sun, veiled and shorn of- his glory by the pall of sooty smoke that en velopes us on every hand. We walk now where the sky is clear, and the earth luxuriantly covered by the bountiful hand of Nature. That same sun looks down upon us; but his rays are fiercer, and hotter than in the country we have left, and here there are no grimy smoky clouds to hide his majesty. It is a fair and beautiful scene. Nestling in deep valleyß,and spread over many a grassy slope, gleaming amidßt their evergreen setting, the bright houses of a great town extend themselves. Swels upon swell they rise, from the broad waters of the harbour to the highest hightl crowned by many a spire and noble dwelr ing. Rising in lone grandeur,, and towei ing high above the sparkling panorama, is a hugo volcanic mass, whose rugged flanks bear ample testimony of terrible and awful commotions in days gone by. But every thing is quiet and peaceful now. The rugged rents and fissures of its earlier days are all smoothed over, and in the crater iteelf the green grassy carpet of nature has spread its covering mantle over the once active scene of fierce and fiery destruction. Instead ot a hot auffosating blast from the internal fires beneath, the fresh and breezy winds of the ocean blow upon ourcheeks. Behind and before usßtretch the waters of the Pacific; at our feet lies a wonderful isthmus, studded with volcanic cones in all directions; on the right hand and on the left long, low ranges of moun tains stretch into the interior, at no con siderable distance. Seaward, where the ocean sparkles under the rays of an almost vertical sun, numerous islands strike the eye ; some bold and high, others long and low. In the foreground a long peninsula, soothing the ejo by its rich green verdure, stretches across the harbour and forms a mighty breakwater. At its extremity two sentinel-like mounds rise above the level, on the highest of which a signal station is placed. Without a break tho eye sweeps over a panorama of Bea and shore, of hill and plain, bo fair and beauteous that with out effort it photographs iteelf upon the mind, to be remembered with pleasure in after days, when eye and sense are far re moved.

But let us go down and thread the streets of this suburban town, this city built in the country. Hero we ceo many things familiar to us from boyhood, but at tne same time many that are strange and altogether new. Here we have no cause wayed streets, with every sort ot vehicle thundering over them, like the war of battle. We hare more quiet, and yet ,we must allow, more dust than we have been aocustomed to. We have read of eand showers in Arabian deeerts, but surely they cannot be much worße than those eddying clouds of street dust. Horses and horsemanship we have seen plenty, but never such feats of equestrianism by butchers' and grocers' boys.j Ono might imagine that Turpin's celebrated ride to York or the historic charge of the Light Brigade was being enacted in the streets tor the benefit of the public. Every house baa ite plot of garden, and flower* grow here in wildest profusion that were but stunted and short-lived in all our former acquaintance. Where we look for brick and stone we find woodwood every where-in the houses, over tho houses, and under the houses. In the graveyards, with marble slabs and granite columns; we find wooden fences and wooden tomb stones. The grass grows rank, weeds are luxuriant, disorder and confusion reign throughout; pathways there are none. It is a universal ohaos. We had thought there was & sanctity attaching to the rest ing-places of tho dead ; we haa clung to the idea that in all ages, and amidst barbarian people, special reverence had been paid to doad men's bones, yet it seems otherwise here. A place it looks for houseless speci mens of the cAnine and feline race, for the vagrants of the streets, for the ill-disposed and wanton destroyers of loving memorials from tho living to the doad. On the desert plains of the Crimea, on the sandy wastes of Africa, in desolate places in both hemispheres, tbe dust of Britain's sons Hob mouldering. But never, surely, are their lonely graves, untouched by loving hands, and, maybe, unseen by human Oyes, more desolate or more dreary than these nameless mounds and downtrodden sepulohres in the heart of this beautiful city, where all around blossoms like the roae, and everything is fair as Eden* garden. Sloping down from tho height around to tbe margin of the tranquil waters is a busy street that bears the commerce of many lands. Bustling on its pavements are the eager merchants, the keen men of business, and the traffickers of all descriptions. Jostling each other from side to side are the repre sentatives of various peoples and different climes. Oriental and Occidental are here met together; men of the north, men of the south ; dark descendants of Ham, with the tallow faced sons of Shorn, and tbe white faced progeny of Japheth. Around us tell factories and stately warehouses speak of the wealth and enterprise of the citizens. Rolling along the burdened roadway, ladened vehicles bear tho contents of many a good ship'o hold. Lying snug at their moorings, after the storms of tedious voyages, tbe ships discbarge their precious stores. Out in the stream, their white saila glistening in the sunlight.a brig and well-appointed barque have just dropped anchor. Merrily sing the sailors aa they stow their canvas, and equare their yards for the rest in port. Heedlessly watohing the movements of tho vessel ia a young man we have suroly seen before. That listless attitude, that dreamy ex pression, only belong to one figure that we know of; but the last we saw of him was in different scenes from this. Yea, it might be him ; yes, it muat be him. Two years have passed since that memor able meeting under the trees of the park, and the whereabouts of David Naylor have been a mystery to his friends. Let us look close at him. He is older-looking, and the grave countenance is, if possible, graver. Time has worn a few wavy, indelible lines upon his forehead, but there can be no mistaking that face. It is the same which years ago* looked over another marine land scape, much different from this. But the boyish joyousneas of early days haa in great measure departed, and his face has a ehade of sternness over it. He is thinking again, dreaming ; not so much of things that are, as things that were. Tbe calm sea, the breathless atmosphere, and tho sun pouring his splendour on yonder brown islands, no doubt, have attractions for him. It is a scene of exquisite loveliness. Standing far out amid the blue waters, the lighthouse rsara its graceful form, glancing white in the landscape. Pretty and commodious ferry steamers pass before hia eyea, carrying pleaauro-aeekers of the city to the marine auburbs on the other shore. Ho sees all this, but his heart is not in the scene ; the barque in the stream awakens his memory, and the shouting of tbe Bailors and the bustle aloft bring thoughts of paßt events in rapid succession before his mind. And if only he could step on board that vessel and walk her decks he might see something that would arrest his attention more power fully still. But we must go back for a moment, and see how things have been pro ceeding in Woodside Terrace.

CHAPTER V,

RETROSPECTIVE,

Thk crowd of suitors who used to flutter around the Seymour mansion had greatly fallen off. Eva was there still; but she was not the blithe, merry girl of former days. Now she was dull and melancholy, sometimes peevish. So long as David Naylor was near ber she had fancied she cared but little for him; but now when he was far away, she did not know where, she discovered that the joy had gone out of her soul. There was a great blank void in her heart, and nothing to fill it. The remembrances, too, of that last inter view were always bitter, and there was no cheering hope for the future. Sometimes she would try and shake off her weakness, aa ahe called it, and all her power of banter and ridicule would blaze forth again. But the reactions always came, the night of mirth and amusement, of coquetting and dancing,, was in variably succeeded by tbe morning of woe. Then the aching void in the heart made itself most known. Through the day the ordin ary duties and cares of life drove away the sharp edge of Borrow, but oh 1 these morn ings never forgot it. The first half-hour of each day was generally the most miser able.

No news had been |received from David Naylor, and none was expected. He had said as much when he left, and they knew his character well enough to expect he would keep bis word. Tbe months slowly passed away; autumn had begun to put on her bi'own mantle,and winter was fast approach ings. It waa six months since Naylor had gone when an event happened that dia

turbed the whole commevoial world of Great Britain. Tothe Seymour family it was an event of tremendous importance; it meant nothing less than ruin. David Naylpr, when he heard the newa in hia far away home, stood aghast, but sus pected not the dire consequences it involved to his late employer. The bolt fell from a clear sky. Nobody suspected such awful calamity waa impend ing. On the contrary, all was quiet; busi ness was proceeding smoothly, people were at their ease, when the City Bank stopped payment. Then all waa lamentation " What a piteous cry was there." First one crash, then another followed. No one knew where it would stop. Everybody was in suspense. Friend suspected friend, and all confidence waa loat for a time, lt was a heavy blow to commerce, and that great city. It meant ruin to many families but yesterday in opulence; it meant difficulties to hundreds, and trials to thousands.

A blast ofhotindignationfrom the country swept down on the heads of those careless, guilty men who bad brought about the fell disaster; to be followed afterwards by a plentiful Bhower of help for the suffering. Relief came prompt, but to many it waa useless. The blow wai too great. The golden bowl was broken at the cistern; the silver cord was loosed—Death claimed his own share.

Unknown to his friends, Mr Seymour had invested the bulk of hia fortune in bank shares, and the collapse to him meant irre trievable ruin. From that day to the hour he died it may be said he never smiled. Yet he grieved, not so much for himself, as for his wife and daughters. True, they would not be left penniless, but they would be reduced to very straightened circum stances indeed.

In another six months he was beyond the reach of all earthly trouble. The fine housa in the Terrace was given up, and Mrs Seymour and her daughters removed to a comfortable but rather cramped dwelling in a respectable street. There they had to undergo all the evils of adversity, and drink to the dregs the cup of disappoint ment. A few friends stuck by them, and chiefly those of their poorer acquaintance; but the wealthy, ani the great ones con veniently forgot that such persons had ever existed. It was galling, yet they were thankful. To people in their circumstances tho honeyed, unmeaning words of com miseration from their once equals but now superiors in the caste of society were like very knives piercing their flesh. Perhaps the change told heaviest on Eva. More given to society than her mother and sister, the altered circumstances of their position agreed with her the worst. Changed as she was, this new life was most monotonous and dull. All that was left of her former admirers had now for ever for saken her. Laurie was pensive and melan choly. Her mother bore up well, but was very frail and weak. The household was a quiet, peaceable ono. Day after day the same loutine of duty, and nothing to break in upon its loneliness. The weeks and months dragged slowly along; Lauris became a governess, as she said, to support herself and take away the ennui out of her system, and departed to England with her burden of care and sorrow. Eva remained at home to be h«r mother's companion and attendant. Her mother was getting frailer. The doctors ordered a changeito the country, but it had little effect. Then they prescribed a long sea voyage. It was now nearly two years since that great calamity had fallen upon them. Time was dulling the keen edges of their sorrow, but everything around reminded them of better and happier days. In a week's time they would be out of sight, however, and every day getting further away. Eva sat in the little parlour by herself. It was very seldom she had company now. She was reading a book, but as often her eyes were off the page as on it. Uppermost in her mind were the thoughts of the long journey that lay before her, and David Naylor. There waa no necessary connection between the two, but she could not think of one without thinking of the other. Could it be possible that she would meet him in that far away land to which her mother and she were bound I It was a wild hope, and had no foundation except in the wish that was father to the thought. What would David Naylor think of her now ? Had he forgotten her, and transferred hie affections to another ? Did he know of the altered circumstances of the family, and would he be the same now as he had been before ? Might he not, like the others, fall away with many excuses ? No, she thought better of him than that. But where waa he 1 The world was wide, and she had no clue. She leaned her head on her hands, and let her book fall to the ground, lonely ; yes, she was lonely. There was none to comfort her, none that could sympathise with her. She yearned in her heart to hear that manly Btep, and see that speaking eye that used to thrill her through and through, when, alas 1 she valued them so little. She buried her face in her hands, and cried sere, but the tears did good. She felt better for them afterwards, and went about ber work happier and more contented. While mastering her own sorrow she sought to cheer the downcast heart of her mother, and lead her to sanguine hopea of the future. A settled melancholy had taken possession of her mother, and nothing would remove it. She hoped that fresh scenes and different modes of life would drive the gloomy memories out of her mind, and restore ber to her former health and happiness. Mrs Seymour pined after her dead hus band. The canker was eating into her heart. She longed to fly away and be at rest.

CHAPTER VI. AT SEA,

We are on a waste of water. Nothing is to be seen but sky and sea all around. Our barque rocks gently on a calm sea, and a tropical sun beats hotly down upon our decks. The Union Jack is flying half-mast from our mizen-yard, work is suspended on board the ship, and a group of paßsen gers, neatly dressed, but with saddened countenances, are congregated round an open port in the quarter-deck. Presently half-a-dozen sailors come along bearing a burden on a plank covered with the flag of England, and deposit it on the deck opposite the port. All the sailors gather round in their uniform, the pas sengers mußter from all parts of the ahip: the officers stand near. One end of the plank is placed on the lower edge of the port hole, and the Captain proceeds to read the burial service for the dead. All heads are un covered ; the slanting sun lights up the maste and coloured woodwork of the poop, bathing all in a purple hue, nothing breaks the silence but the voice of the master reading the solemn words of the service, " Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery." Every head ia bowed, and sobs burst from many an over-burdened heart. Tears gather in eyes we had thought dry as desert plains, as the voice of the reader goes on: " Forasmuch aa it hath pleased Almighty God, of His great mercy, to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit hor body to tbe deep, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life," There is a plunge and a splash of water, while a stifled But audible cry breaks from the lips of many present, aa the last token ia conveyed to ear and eye of one who ao shortjy before was in the world of hope— of pains, and pleasures. "Poor girl, how lonely she must feel," aaid ono.

" Yes," said another, " it is a sore trial to her. We must cheer her np as much as possible." She for whom these sympathetic words were spoken was locked in her cabin in an anguish of grief. Her mother, the only supporting stay she had on osfrth, was taken from her, and that in the midst of strangers. There was no one to whom she could pour out the agony of her soul. For her the world seemed nothing but an utter blank. She could not think; her sorrow was too deep for tears. She sat and wrung her hands in silent, stony grief. It was too much. How could she bear it? Mechani cally she opened the Bible that lay upon her bed, and her eyes rested on the assuring words, " Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." She sank upon her knees; her heart welled up in gratitude to the author of that comforting invitation, and ahe burst into a flood of tears. Yes; she was heavy laden, and she needed rest. For the first time she cried, "(Thy will |be done;" then added, " The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord" The conflict was over, A holy calm began to steal over her soul; the words of the hymn came sweetly into remem brance :—

"Take comfort, Christians, when jont friends In Jesua fall asleep. Their beuer tiling never endl, why then de jected weep ?'' She drew near to the great Com forter of aouls, and received rtrengfch

to bear her cross. She nerved herself to face the world, and again she resumed her position on the ship's deck. The sympathy of her fellow royagers did her good The world did not seem bo heartless on board that very circumscribed limit of iron and timber as it was on broad terra Jirma. Many little acts of kindness she found done for her, quite unexpected, quite unlocked for. All had a kind word for her, from the cabin boy to the skipper. Hers was a grief they could understand ; it appealed to all kindly hearts. The poignancy of her sorrow began to assuage as the weeks pa°sed, and as they drew near the end of their long voyage, curiosity and expectation, not unmingled with doubt and fear, began to take possession of her mind.

The tear-stained eyes and heavy lines of grief had almost disappeared from that pale, pretty face as the vessel glided to her anchorage over the smiling waters of that beautiful harbour we have before described. She sat on the poop, and drank in the loveliness of the scene. The sight of houses, and trees, and busy humanity was sweet to the eyes after that long period of banish ment. Yet the sights of them was madden ing. There was no one in these bright houses; not one on that sparkling shore that knew or cared for her. She only wanted some one to pour out her heart to, to sympathise with her aa a true friend. It was hardest of all to lock her griei in her bosom and speak of it to no one. In that mass of struggling humanity she would be lonelier than ever. The sight of happy homes would but recall more vividly her own desolation. Her eye rested on the busy wharf. Had she been nearer sho would have seen that young man who stood there furtively watching the fluttering sails of her vessel, and she might have recognised an old acquaintance. Could his eye have swept the deck of that merchantman; could he have seen that light figure, in such sombre attire, and that thin face that looked all the more beautiful for the chastening hand of sorrow that had been laid upon it; would be have turned on his heel as he did, and walked so rapidly away into the heart of the town t We do not think so. Need we say that it was Eva Seymour who sat on the poop of barque.

CHAPTER VII,

A NARROW ESCAPE,

What a strange world it is. By a fortuitous concourso of circumstances, and uncon sciously to herself, Eva Seymour has been brought some 14,000 miles, almost within speaking distance of her long-lost lover. Yet she knows it not; and he, thinking the half of a world lies between them, is going to be married to another in less than a week.

David Naylor had got on well in the' land of his adoption. The business quali ties learned amidst the merchant princei and keen bargainers of the Old World stood him in good Btead in the New. He had hia trials at first, and he began low enough nothing better than porter for a large es tablishment in the town ; but his industry and ability soon procured him advancement. Then he found himself promoted by leaps and bounds, till at this period of our story he held a very responsible position in the firm with whom he had started. He had not climbed all the steps of the ladder, but he was on the fair road for doing so. He was not point; to marry, his master's daughter, but the daughter of his land lady. Mrs Glover lived with her only daughter, Delilah, in one of thoee charming streets on the higher parts of the city which over look the harbour. When David came first to the town he had liked the locality, and taken up his abode there, where he had stayed till within three months of his appointed marriage day. At that time his respect for women in general had fallen very low ; his love for Eva Seymour bad not died out; it was too deep for that; but his head strove to drive the remembrance of her out of his heart, and it partially succeeded. He began a compromisa by classing all women alike, and vowing to have nothing more to do with any of them. He found this resolution easily enough kept while his heart was sore with his disappoint ment, but after a year and some months had gone he found it beginning to waver a little. " Out of sight, out of mind," is as true as it is trite, and in his case the leaven was be ginning to work But he was not the initia tor of the movement

Delilah Glover bad marked him out for her husband, and she had begun to lay siege to hia heart in the most skilful manner of her apeoioa. She was a bold, daring girl; had coquetted with hundreds of men, end had overshot her mark.

When David Naylor came upon the scene she had been forsaken by all her beaux, who had become disgusted with her. Being thus stranded, she marked out Naylor as her victim, and immediately began to batter down the citadels of his heart. She did not know his story, but she suspected it. A few ambiguous words were all that he ever would let drop, but they were suffi cient for her.

For the first twelve months her efforts were vain, but after that time she thought she could discern a change for the better ; at lotißt for her betterment. Whether it would be better for David Naylor she did not care. Very wary aha was, and studied her man well. Their natures were altogether dissimilar; not one point had they in common.

She was very different from Eva, while she resembled her in some things; the latter in all her caprices was true and womanly, Delilah Glover was not. She allowed her- Holf to go lengths Eva never would have dreamed of. Her heart was like leather, hard and unsympathetic. She knew her bad qualities and carefully concealed them. To have let David Naylor for one moment Buapoot what she really was would have epoilod.hergame atonce. Beforehimshewas kind, deferential, and humble. Ho sought to interest herself in his pursuits, though they were most nauseous to her. She asked his opinions on this thing and that thing ; she brought his slippers warmed in the evening Bhe busied herself with antimacassars in his presence, and tried to make her conversation engaging and discreet. She never got an advantage but what she kept hold of it; never made an impression but what she deepened it. Under all these blandish ments was it to be wondered at that David's heart faltered in its allegiance? He was now in a high position, and it was meet that he should take a helpmate to him self. Eva, he believed, had cast him off for ever ; at least he had no means of knowing whether she had repented or not. Lately he had sent for word to his father, tut his letters had naver been answered. He knew he should never be able to love another as he had loved Eva. It was doubtful if ever he could forget her. But was it right that he should remain a bachelor all his days ? Women might not be all alike, as he had thought them once. Now Delilah Glover was a gentle, kind creature. She seemed to adore him. Should he not give her some encouragement? She was diligent, and would make a good wife. Thus the outer bulwarks were thrown down. There was one line of defence the less to break through, and what had fallen was the most important ot all. No time was lost by the besieging force; art and flattery were now added to the attacking engine; smooth and polished words helped to rivet the fetters around his neck.

David was drifting into a perilous position. There was no one to warn him. He was a comparative stranger, and had made few acquaintances; besides, if anyone had told him he would not have believed them. He never listened to stories of scandal. He was little in Bociety, and no rumours reached his ear.

He fell deeper and deoper into the net; bii heart was not ho much touched as hia feelings, but it made no difference to hia cajoler so long as he followed in the way she prepared for him. Skilfully he was led on, till in an unguarded moment he spoke of love. Then the crisis came quick; before he thoroughly understood what he was about he found be had promised him self in marriage to this girl. He did not feel so elated in the circumstances as a man ought to f«el on such an occasion, but he was not uncomfortable either. He thought he had made love to a true and loving woman, when be bad only paid court to a heartless flirt. That was his mistake. It was only owing to his excep tional circumstances that sucn a thing could have occurred, but it was done; as an honourable man be could not draw back. Very soon he began to feel fidgety in his new position. Delilah, now that the great object of her strife had been attained, began to throw off a little of the restraint that was so galling to her. It was a relief to her, but it was a cause of exquisite pain to David Naylor. He discovered in his affianced, qualities he bad never dreamed she possessed, qualities that filled him with unutterable disappoint ment. He removed to another lodging. He was in no hurry to fix his wedding day, but Delilah iixed if; for him. He made preparations for his new estate with less energy than some men have prepared their coffin and toombstone.

The great event drew near. He pur chased and furnished a delightful little

house in a lovely spot, out in a fashionable suburb. He bought his wedding suit; he visited his betrothed daily. They were not happy visits, somehow, but nothing unseemly happened. He felt as if there was a millstone hanging about his neck, but he went on steadily with his nuptial arrangement.

He was to be married on Christmas Day. When we saw him on the wharf it wanted but a week to that date, The night before his wedding day he called on Delilah Glover. The wished to take her to hear the oratorio "Messiah," but found her busy making preparation for the morrow, and in no mood to listen to his proposal. , She was short and snappish, " What did she want with Orato rio? she cared for none of these things." She hoped he would be punctual to morrow.

It wan the stormiest interview they had had, and David left sad and dispirited. His life was not going to be a happy one. He felt very much inclined to run away, to bury himself out of sight,—anywhere from the presence of that woman he had promised to marry. But he must go through with it, or act a dishonourable part. This latter he could not do. But, nevertheless, he felt that he was a sheep led to the slaughter. Thus he abused himself for his folly: What a blind fool tie had been—it served him right for his stupidity. Then his heart swelled with anger at the fair hypocrite who had deluded him. He vowed vengeance, while he felt the impotence of his arm. She would not go with him to the oratorio. He would go himself. He felt he must go somewhere to drown the tumult of his passions. The music eoothei his spirit somewhat, at the first; but at last it grew unbearable. He must go out aud walk, He wanted to think, and he could not sit, still. He must have action. Rising, he slipped quietly from the building. Standing near the door was a dark figure listening.in tently to the music of the subline solo, "I Know That My Redeemer Liveth," How sweet to the oars were these simple words. In all ages they have soothed the suffering, cheered the dying. Was this a weary one ? Such words appear most powerfully to those who have borne the rod, who have seen affliction.

At another time David Naylor would hare noticed such a circumstance ; as it is he brushes sharply past the muffled figure in the doorway, yet as sharply turns again, for a peculiar movement on the part of the Btranger arrests his atten tion. It is a woman, and she moves to wards him.

"David," she says, "don't you know met"

The gaslight flickers on her countenance, and lights up a pale wan face. " Eva," he cries, in wild astonishment, staggering backwards. "How—where — did you come from?" He can say no more. Taking her hand gently in his, he leads her along one of the by-streets, and there, under the stars, the story of those sorrowful years is re heareed to him. His heart smites him. He is nearly choked by his emotions. When Eva is finished he is speechless. How can be tell her what is to happen on the morrow. Oh, it is a hard fate that is his!

Silently he leads her to her home, and hurriedly bids her good-bye, promising to see her on the morrow. He does not know what he is saying, but he feels that he must be alone—alone with his thoughts. To Eva his behaviour is incomprehensible. How changed he is • how nervous; how cold in his speech. A great fear comes over her. Is it possible be can be married, Has he severed himself from her for ever?

David Naylor paced the streetsat a fearful rate. ,HewentuphUl, and he went down hill looking not, recking not where he went. His brain whirled. At times he could not tell whether his head or his feet were upper most.

When the cocks began to crow daylight —that night they had crowed all nightlong, for were they not ushering in that day of peace and goodwill to men- he thought of seeking his bed, and found he was miles away.

In the grey morning he crept into his room, and flung himself on his bed, but not to sleep. He dozed, and horrid night mares rose up before his eyes

When his landlady called him from his slumber on that Christmas morn —his wed ding day—he arose like a condemned criminal. He prepared to dress, but it wae a laborious business. He Bat down to breakfast, ate nothing, but frightened everyone by his wild, dishevelled appear ance. No one spoke to him. They feared those flashing eyes would dart flames 01 fire if they were to chaff him.

A loud knock was heard at the door. To David Naylor it seemed like the knell of judgment. He rose, and found at the door a message from the house of his bride, It was a summons to attend at once. Delilah Glover was dead. He put ono hand to his head, and clutched the door with the other to steady himself. It was a terrible shock ; yet he felt as a man reprieved from death. How sudden: how awful. He completed his toilet, and hurried to the chamber of death. There, in her bed-room, stretched upon the floor, in cold and vivid beauty, lay the woman he was to have led to the altar that day—a happy, blushing bride. She was dressed in all tne gorgeous ness of her bridal array. Little did she think, when donning those robes of splen dour, that they wera to be her death shroud. But the king of terrors came in an hour she wot not of, and called her to her last account, engaged in all the prides of earthly vanity.

The unhappy girl had spent the greater part of the night in decking her body for a day she was never to see. Her ambition was gratified. She revelled in delight, and gazed in admiration on the bridal trappings of her corruptible body. But her joy killed her. The excitement of that hour of victory was too much for her. The fountain of life ceased to beat, and she lay there in the hey-day of youth—on her bridal morn —a corpse.

Twelve months afterwards David Naylor led the love of his youth—the girl whose life he had saved at the risk of his own -to the altar. It was a very quiet wedding, but it was ono of peace and unmingled happiness. Both' had passed through the furnace of affliction, and been purified in the refinery of sorrow. Their love for each other was all the stronger and deeper that it bad passed through such a terrible ordeal.

The wreck of that autumn disaster in the sooty metropolis has been cleared away, and there is a goad competence for Laurie Sey mour out of the ruins of her father's for tune. She says she will nevsr marry, and busies herself with works of -charity. At the urgent invitation of her relatives at the antipodes, she has promised to pay them a visit, and they are expecting her soon. A.A.C

THE SPIRIT LIFE.

A Journey to the Otber World.

A Very Queer Experience.

Graphic Story of a Han Who Died, but was Afterward Restored,

" Po I believe that there is an existence after death ? Most assuredly, for I was dead myself once, and know that I retained my identity after the spark of life had left the body. Don't look alarmed. lam not crazy, and will tell you my story if you care to listen."

The person who had so calmly uttered the foregoing remarkable words had not the appearance of an escaped lunatic. Ho was a tall, spare man, past the meridian of life, grey-haired, and unmistakably a gent leman. His deep-set grey eyes met the startled gaze of a reporter, to whom he had addressed himself, calmly and without wavering. "It is a strange tale," he continued, " ani I sometimes think it all a dream, a mere fantasy, but the testimony of others assures me that it is a reality. In the spring of 187— I was thrown from the back of a horse and dragged some distance over the frozen earth. Picked up unconscious, I was taken home and medical aid at once summoned. The physicians could discover ne outward indication of serious injury, and applied various restoratives to bring me back to consciousness, but in vain. I remained in a comatose condition border ing on catalepsy for several days. I have no recollection of anything that occurred dur ing this period. The first sensation I ex perienced after being burled violently to the ground on the day of the accident was that peculiar feeling one sometimes basin the transition between sleeping and wak ing. I tried to rouse myself, but could not shake off the delicious lethargy which bound me hand and foot. Through half closed eyelids I saw my wife and a stranger —who, I have since learned, was the nurse —by the bedside. I spoke, but from the expression on the faces of the watchers I knew that my words were inaudible. Then a look of alarm spread over the face of my wife. 'He is dying,11 heaid her say, and she flew swiftly from the room. There was a sound of many footsteps and much con fuiios in an adjoining chamber. A phy

sician with whom I had long been on intl mate terms entered and came quickly to my bedside. In as emphatic a manner as pos sible I informed him that I was not only dying, but was feeling quite well. To my disgust and astonishment he paid not the slightest attention to what I said, and I asked, rather petulantly, if he and my family had entered into a conspiracy against me and were trying to make it appear that I was dangerously ill. Still no reply. I was astounded. My wife and two daughters, my .sister, the nurpo, and Dr. were all gathered about my bed side, and not one of them gave any evidence that my voice had been beard. Indeed, in all their faces I saw the most acute anguish. My wife knolfc by the side of the bed, and taking my hand in hers, wept aloud. My two daughters were on either side of her, both in tears. The physician, with his fin irers on my pulse, regarded me sorrow fully." Was It Doath? " What did it all mean ? A sudden thought flashed upon me—' 1 am dying and this is death !' No, that wag impossible, for I was free from painand was not conscious of any bodily discomfort. Still that peculiar lethargic sensation puzzled me. It wae en tirely different from anything I had expe rienced before. And it was growiDg on me, My whole body deemed to be lifted up sod away from material objects. I could speak, but evidently my voice could not be heard. What cared lif this was death ? Dying waa a pleasure ! Then all the events of my life flitted through my mind, The good.tho bad, the indifferent stalked by in solemn procession, and I remember now that I was rather pleased to observe that the good deeds were more numeroun than I would have believed. ' I can't ba such a very bad fellow, after all,' I murmured. Bat, oh! what an army of iniquities hailed me as their author ? I was a tremendous sinner, after all, I thought. Strange that I never thought of praying. The idea of God, or heaven, or eternal happiness or everlasting damnation never came to me once. Now I began to realise that it was difficult for me to breathe. There seemed to be a heavy weight on my chest and a buzzing in my ears. I struggled against this mightily. Then I thought myself falling —down, down, down. I cleft, the air like an arrow. If you have ever had the sensation of falling from a great height in your dreams you nan realise how horriblo it is. At last my des cent was arrested; I hovered in air as through I had the gift of wings. A shook as from a galvanic battery brought me to my senses. I was standing by an open window in my bedroom. There, in one corner, grouped about the bed, were the members of my family, the physicians and the nurse. Dr. rose.

" 'It is all over; I think he is dead,' he said, and the physician drew the sheet over a still form stretched on the couch."

Strange Experience.

" Was I really dead ? I could not believe it, and yet I felt that I was in some way very much changed. T walked across the room, and, putting my hand on my wife's head, whispered words of love and consola tion in her ear. She heard them not. I looked down on the face of the dead, which, though it was covered by the sheet, was perfectly visible to me. The features were composed, and only a deathly pallor told that life was extinct. Yes, it was dead ; there could be no doubt about that. But I had expected a different reception upon my entry into the spirit world. Here wore no Elysian fields, no heavenly choirs, no golden cities with pearly gates. There was no one in sight even who wore wines, I was in my own room in the very worldly city of ; nothing appeared to be altered save irvself, and yet I had departed this life. I laughed to think of the utter absurdities that had been written In aliases about man's existence after death. This was different from anything I had ever read.

"I walked down stairs and into the street. Now the scene changed. The houses, the streets, all the familiar surroundings faded away, and instead there was enfolded to my sight a beautiful landscape Under my feet was close velvet turf, dotted with bright flowers. Blue hills stretched far away, fair and vn»t, ceemingly without end, for there was no horizon. The air was laden with the soft perfume of flowers, and birds of gay plumage carolled songs of heavenly pweetness among the nodding (■•ranches ot richly foliaged trees. This was b»aven, indeed, I thought, but ap parently a private heaven, for, as far as I could see, I was its only tenant. Far off in the distance I now saw what pleased me greatly, the forms of many persons. They drew nearer and nearer, and soon I caw I was among them. They regarded me strangely, and as I addressed them, answered me not, but looked puzzled, and with averted f acespassod hurriedly on. I was ostracised ! There were familiar faces in the throng, friends whom I had known on earth, but they did not recognise me now. Surely there was something amiss here. What to do I knew not. I could only wait and truet. I felt that I wae not such as these were, but knew not what the difference might be. But now as I looked with curious eyes on thia heavenly gathering I became conscious that some potent influence was drawing me away, whither I knew not. Slowly the blue bills faded in the distance, the mysterious multitude vanished, the songbird* ceased their melody, the grass under my feet became hard and stony, a strange chill seized me — and I wis stand ing in my own yard once more. A power ful influence drew me into the house and into my own room. It was as I had left it. On the bed reposed a still form that I knew to be my mortal body, and by its side a neighbour sat watching. I tried to keep away from that couch of death, but an Iron hand had me in its grip. Desperately I resisted, feeling that some terrible di&aster was impending, but my struggles were vain. I was close to the bed, and overcome with horror I cried aloud and fell forward on the cold form of my dead self. Then niy senses left me."

Coming Back to Life,

" 'He will live1 were the first words that saluted me as I regained consciousness; I . was lying on my own bed in my own room, surrounded by many persons, whom I but imperfectly recognised, yet knew were the members of my family. So I was not dead after all, and it had been all the dream! My brains wob too weary to grapple with the subject, and I tried to forget the scenes I bad witnessed. How I suffered during the next few hours no human tongue can ever tell. The agony of a lifetime was crowded into those moments. The rest is Boon told. I recovered in due course of time and returned to my accustomed avocations. I afterwards learned that upon my apparent demise an undertaker had been called iv to embalm the body, but that warthy, upon* making an incision in the thigh for the pur pose of injecting the embalming fluids was astonished to find that bright red blood flowed feebly from the wound. Physicians were hastily summoned, and after examin nation and consultation it was decided that, although I was dead to all appearances, it would be wise to postpone further mortuary operations for a short time and wait ! developments. Watchers were placed at my bedside and a physician remained in the house ready for any emergency. On the afternoon of the second day the neighbour who was on duty at the time was paralysed with horror when what he supposed to bo the corpse of his lamented friend suddenly rose up in bed with a frightful shriek. The dead had come to life. "Do I really believe that I was dead at all f I do, most assuredly, and I have a peculiar theory explaining the phenomenon. But there is a certain vital principle that animates nature, and call it what you may this prin ciple is life. If under certain conditions then life is capable of existing, we have only to remove those conditions to destroy life. This we can easily do, but no one has yet discovered how the some condition can be restored. When that is done we will live forever. Now I believe that when I apparently died the process was not com plete. That is, there still remained in the body certain element!! which made it possible for the vital spark to return to its earthly habitat. The soul, or principle of life, gradually went out as the conditions grew less favourable for life, but enough of that life principle was retained in the flesh to draw back the whole should the con ditions become more favourable. In other words, I was nine-tenths dead ; just dead enough to be in the spirit world for a time, but not dead enough to stay there. Thus it was that the disembodied spirits I met in the other world recognised that there was something strange in my appearance ; that I was not not as they wore. Hence I could not make myself known to them. And when the process of death was arrested in the body that I had left behind, ThTcon. ditions became such that life wasagain pos sible, and the tiny sparks of vitality jfrew !w Dgei. ■?? e, trongw, slowly recfafiSe that part of itself which had wandered S till at last the missing 'bioptanw' returned and reuniting the wEole, took posseeston of SL^iSTT home« and tto^SSSSfi dead body became a living organiam once more I can realize now hw time, doel not affect the next world j for what Msmri thirty-six hours-on the earth/ y

THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1888,

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