"Very well, dear; and so we were sure she could never pilfer and steal, and so I could feel sure that not one of our household at that time could have proved to be a thief. But facts are ugly things; and we had to succumb to them. It may be that we have been mistaken; if so, and if it has pleased God to touch the real culprit's heart, we may hear more of the matter. It can hardly stop here. In such a case evidently there is an endeavour to quiet the disturbed conscience by restitution of the stolen goods, and to escape the unpleasant accompaniment of open confession of the fault. I own I do not see what course is open to us at present. In trying to repair one error, or what may seem to us an error, we may flounder among confusion worse confounded, and, in our thoughts, injure many instead of one.”

"What can we do then, dear?"

"Well, we must wait a while, I suppose, unless some further clue should be given. If nothing further transpires in a week or so, we must think it over, and consider whether there is anything else to be done in the matter. Poor old nurse! how glad we should be if Blanche and Ronald should prove to be in the right about her. And yet on whom else to fix the blame I cannot imagine."

"We will tell Blanche and Ronald nothing about this." "No, better not, at present."

A week had passed since the delivery of the parcel, and nothing further had occurred to cast any light upon that new mystery. And it was difficult to suggest any further step that could be taken. Nothing had been learnt from inquiry at the parcels office; the packet had been booked in London, and, as the clerk justly remarked, it was not likely that, taking many hundreds of packages in a week, they could keep in mind the description of each person who booked them.

Why, or how it was, Mr. Young himself could not have told.

But it was so, that a certain undefined and unaccountable suspicion arose in his mind, which he determined, at the very first opportunity, to put to the test. Having no ground at all to go upon in his new suspicion, he felt that no hasty step could possibly be taken, but that he must wait for an occasion. And, as it was ordered, that occasion soon came.

One day Mr. Young was walking home from his office, and, having started earlier than usual, was sauntering slowly on, enjoying the summer day, and stopping now and then to look into a shop-window. One of his favourite halting-places was a large print-shop, in which the latest proofs were always sure to be exhibited. In front of this he had for some time stood, much interested with a proof of one of Delaroche's pictures from English History, and quite absorbed in his study of the engraving. But when he turned from it to examine the rest of the art-treasures in this miniature exhibition, he started for the moment, for, beside him, but unconscious of his neighbourhood, was the very person he had wished to see. No one else was near; and his mind was made up in a moment.

"Robert, was it you that sent a parcel to our house the other day?"

Robert started and coloured high; but the sudden and unexpected address made this not very remarkable.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he replied; "you quite made me jump. I do not understand to what you allude. I have sent no parcel to your house."

"What, did you not send a package by parcels delivery, a week ago? Think, Robert!"

Robert looked rather indignant at the repetition of the question. "I cannot think what you mean, Mr. Young. What parcel had I to send to you? "

"You are quite sure?"

66

Really, sir, I must ask you to explain yourself. I do not understand-”

"Well, well, never mind, Robert. It was only to satisfy a fancy that I had. How are you? Comfortable still, I hope, in your new place?"

But Robert appeared inclined to be huffed and half injured, so, after a few more commonplaces, Mr. Young said, "Good-evening," and walked quickly towards home. But his pace grew slow again, as he thought and thought, not feeling satisfied-having indeed gained no further clue-yet still feeling that uneasy, if unaccountable and unreasonable suspicion.

"I cannot make it out," he muttered. "Nothing can really be judged from mere manner. Nervousness may so easily be mistaken for conscious guilt; and, after all, what possible ground have I for any suspicion in that quarter? In nurse's case there was ground, but here-pshaw !-I have really no reason at all that I could put down on paper. Well, I can't think of anything else to do. If I sought out Mary and Susan, and asked them, I should probably be just as near the truth. I should spread discomfort and hurt feeling by my questions, and I am determined never to judge by manner, since, as a boy, I have myself suffered so unjustly from excessive sensitiveness that was so easily misapprehended. No; the thing must rest for the present.'

And with this conclusion his wife agreed, as they talked the matter over in the cool of the evening under the chestnut shade. They sat out in the air until tea-time, enjoying the hush and the balm of the close of the summer-day, and then wended their way across the darkling lawn towards the open bow-window from which the cheery lamplight shone out, a very beacon for the moths, and within which the gleam of silver, and the quiet song of the spiritkettle, seemed to issue a hospitable invitation to partake of that cup which cheers, but not inebriates.

Just then, the page issued from the window, with a letter upon the salver in his hand. Mr. Young took it from him, carelessly saying, "A bill, I suppose?" and the tea was poured out, and Mrs. Young just seating herself at the piano, when he opened the envelope. Nowadays, these adhesive envelopes are made so adhesive, that they are almost as difficult to open as an oyster. Baffled in his endeavour to tear it, he was obliged to have recourse to his knife-a tedious and tantalizing process, if one is eager about the contents; but, in this case, only vexatious because there was not enough interest in the matter to make the trouble worth while.

Yet in that envelope was contained the germ of the solution of the mystery of the parcel. Thus the letter ran:

"DEAR SIR,

"If it would not be too much trouble for you to assemble, at your house on Monday evening next, all of the household who were in your service when you dismissed your nurse, the mystery about the stolen goods shall be entirely cleared up.-Yours respectfully, "ROBERT JONES."

This was written in a different handwriting from the former letter, with which Mr. Young immediately compared it.

"What do you think about it now?" his wife asked him. "Can it be Robert himself, do you fancy?"

"It is quite impossible to say; I really have no reason for suspecting him; and he so firmly denied sending the parcel when I met him, and appeared so hurt at my repeating the question, that,—well, of course it might be conscious innocence or conscious guilt, and I really can't guess which."

"But why should he mind being asked about sending a parcel?"

"I suppose my manner, and the fact of the unpleasant circum

B

stances which had happened, might make him think that the question about the parcel had something to do with that old miserable occurrence. But we really can't say. Only if he did so interpret my question, there would be nothing wonderful in his trying to get at the bottom of the matter. Time will show, however."

"You will call all the old servants together, then, as he asks?" "Yes, certainly. We owe it to nurse to sift the matter thoroughly. And Blanche and Ronald; they come home on Monday, do they not?"

"Why, yes, to be sure they do! That is strange."

So Mr. Young wrote to nurse and her former fellow-servants, begging them to come to the house on very particular and important business, on Monday evening at half-past seven o'clock. He did not mention the recovery of the lost trinkets, nor hint at the gathering that was arranged. In every case the answer was sent that they would come.

Blanche and Ronald had been told nothing about these events before their arrival. It was Ronald's first return from Oxford, where he had just concluded his Freshman's Term.

He didn't mind being called "my boy" still, although an "Oxford man." And how interested they were, he and Blanche, in hearing of the new turn which affairs had taken. And how excited about the coming revelation in the evening.

Well, the evening came, as evenings will come, at the end of what seemed the longest day of waiting

"Be the day merry, or be the day long,

At length it chimeth to evensong."

This couplet is, I have often found, a help at the beginning of a long, anxious day.

And so, on this occasion, the anxiously-awaited evening came, and one after one the expected guests arrived. Nurse first; but