dressed in black, in a vast gloomy cathedral, the light dim as the struggling dawn of a winter's day. It was cold; tears started from my eyes; my bridegroom stood beside me a pale, melancholy ghost. I woke suddenly, with these words sounding in my ears, as if spoken aloud, weakness I had been unconscious. All this was told me gradually, and so as in no way to alarm or excite me. Afterwards I learned that I had been found in a faintingfit on the floor, and that my illness had destroyed the sweet hopes of motherhood which had latterly been mine. I lay all that day quiet and passive in bed, and all Those whom God hath joined tothat night and all the next day. I took gether, let no man put asunder." nourishment and medicine, and strength I lay absorbed in the sound. returned by degrees, and Doctor Winsley Then words came from my heart as if in said that I should soon be convalescent. answer to the voice that spoke so loudly: But in the middle of the second night" For better for worse, for richer for my dreadful doom fell upon me. I sud- poorer, in sickness and in health, till death denly, in one second of time, remembered us do part. Amen." what had happened. Sir Marcus Gray was a murderer and I was his wife! At first I could only abandon myself to the horror of the one fact, my husband was a murderer. I seemed staring it in the face and making myself acquainted with it. Then I passed through more than the anguish of death, more than the agony even of seeing him die. But out of this came the necessity of arranging my future life. I was young and ignorant, I never thought of means and ways, and how could I carry out such a project? All I intended to do was to hide; hide so that no one should ever find me, or ever learn that I was that miserable woman, Lucy Gray, Marcus Gray's wife. I must go before my husband returned. One thing I would do. I would take my little Bible with me, and by so doing my husband would know why I had left him, and would make no search for me. My recovery proceeded but slowly while such dreadful thoughts rent my heart in twain. I schooled myself with a desperate force, that I might gain strength enough in time, and I felt myself becoming cold and hard and old under this forced calm. I did not read one of my husband's letters, and I did not write to him. I could not do either. But one day a telegram came to say he was anxious at my silence, that his business might keep him a week longer, but he must have a telegram to say all was well, or he should return at once. I asked Dr. Winsley to wire that all was well, and then to write giving a favorable report of my illness, and saying that I should soon be all right again, but that I could not write at present. "And that must be followed by daily bulletins; he will be so anxious," I said quietly. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I woke from a dream of being married to Marcus. We stood before the altar Floods of tears fell from my eyes, that had not wept a single tear since the fatal hour when I found the Bible. I wept as if I had never wept before. I knew my doom, and my spirit rose to it in humble prayer. I was his wife. I must stay with him. I must help. I must console. I must endure. I must live for this duty, if I could. I must not die till God saw fit to take me. I must endure. As my body grew strong my mind strengthened also, and by the time Sir Marcus returned home I had schooled myself into a wonderful calm. I found myself clasped in his arms, held passionately against his breast, my face covered by his kisses. I did not shrink or falter. Ah, my love, my poor guilty love, your touch, your kiss did not repel me. How often had I pictured to myself this moment, but had I ever seen it like the reality? Had I ever thought of myself as yielding to that embrace and returning that kiss? With a sorrowful pride, my heart acknowledged that it still loved, and vowed itself yet anew to its duty. When in the drawing-room, his blue eyes (alas, alas !) scanned me with deepest love, changing to anxiety. 'Dearest," he cried, "how ill you have been-far, far more than I dreamed of! Why, this is not my Lucy." "It is your wife," I said softly, with an emphasis that I only understood on the little word; then I added: "Yes, I have been very ill and it has been a strange illness it seems to have changed me, as you say. I am not what I was.' "Lucy," he cried, again embracing me, "as you recover your strength, your gaiety will return your hopes have been disappointed - your tender heart wounded, and I not able to console not near you.' Then he went to dress for dinner, and after that we dined together, and together we even left the dining-room for the little boudoir in which we spent our evenings. sapping the very springs of life. I am fading away; I am dying. Oh, the relief that this knowledge brings me! I am so young that I have strength to resist, but the enemy is too strong for me- that blessed enemy will conquer I shall die. June 1st. It is months since I have written a line in this book. I cannot leave such a story of a life incomplete. I will finish it, for it is finished, and then I will shut up my book and write in it no more. How sweet, how dear, how home-like it | heart, hidden by my quiet, calm face, is all was! Yet was it not only a burlesque, such as demon fingers might draw, of the life that had been? If it were a sin to harbor the criminal, verily my sin had found me out. Just then my husband, who I suppose had been telling me something amusing, gave a cheery laugh. The laugh startled me. I looked at him, and for an instant the scene around me faded as I beheld, as if with my physical eyes, that man laughing there, my husband, murdering another. I rose from my chair with a cry of pain. 66 My dearest," he said, taking me in his arms, 'you are still ill. What has Doctor Winsley been about? Why was I not sent for? You should be in your bedyou should, indeed." I grew very brave and carried on my life as it was, being everything to my husband that a wife could be, devoting myself to him entirely, and - was it strange?-loving him only the more I did so. It was, perhaps, the saddest part of my doom that I loved him still. And He caught me in his kind arms and how beautiful his life, how noble his charcarried me, more than supported me, up-acter would have been but for that-oh, stairs to my room. What could I do in bitter knowledge. An involuntary Eve, I that loving embrace but nestle my head had eaten the apple and knew evil from on his breast, and there, my face hid, good. weep out my anguish? I felt in that mo- Sir Marcus became very unhappy about ment as if I could have told him all, and me, as I, by slow degrees, day by day, that, with no secret between, we could faded away before his eyes. I knew I bravely, though sorrowfully, live hand-in- was dying and I think he saw it too. hand our life of penitence and duty, and How he tended me with an atmosphere of that, so lived, it might not be so intoler-love and gentleness that by turns pierced able. There would even have been a sweetness in telling him that I still loved him, loved him still, through all, notwithstanding all. But I could not do it. I felt that to him such a life might be the one thing that could not be borne. So no word was spoken and I was left alone. Alone to weep and to pray; and my very soul seemed to lose itself in tears and in prayers before I sought my bed. I feigned sleep when my husband came, and I lay sleepless the whole night, though I wondered greatly at the calm slumber which he enjoyed. Habit is above all things. There is something humiliating in the discovery of how soon the mind becomes accustomed to anything. Ecstatic joy or mortal anguish are accepted after the first, and cease to annoy. How many of us have said, "That I could not bear; " and have been plunged into that very unbearable grief, and learned to smile under it? Yes, and to cease to feel the burthen that could not be borne. And so the days pass on. My husband thinks I have never recovered from my illness, and treats me with a tenderness and consideration that nearly breaks my heart. And he is right. I have never recovered, and the continued mental anguish, the agony that lies forever in my My and soothed my poor broken heart! I do not know that we ever loved each other better than in those melancholy days when each carried a sad secret which love taught us to conceal from the other. husband never for a moment let me believe he thought seriously of my health, but sometimes I found his eyes fixed on me with an expression that would have alarmed me, had not such alarm been only a joy. One day he asked me if I would like to go to Australia. I reflected for half a moment, and then refused with decision. "Is my darling pining for her father and sister?" he whispered softly, encircling me with his arms. "Do not be afraid to tell me, sweetheart; I should only love you for your love of them. But let me take you to them-if you were happy, you would get well quickly." I was eager to speak. "Marcus," I said, "it is not that. I love them, but I am your wife. Never forget that my life is yours; that I live in you and for you. Never forget it." "Then what is it, dearest? Tell me what I can do." But I sighed heavily, and, leaning back in my chair, closed my eyes. My heart bled for him, and then for myself. How I pitied us both.-two miserable young creatures, scarcely more than boy and girl! I viewed them as if I was not one of them, and my heart ached with pity for them. Why had just these two been singled out for such a life as this? Why had the boy been so tempted? Why had the girl married him? But here my heart smote me. Did I indeed wish not to have become his wife? No, I did not. I wished very earnestly to die, but I never wished I had not married Marcus. When I laid down my happiness, I took up the duties of a wife, and with the duties I found I had taken up the love also. Still there was one thing, only one I never did. I never voluntarily caressed. I never kissed him or laid my head on his kind shoulders, or threw my arms round him as of old. Something kept me from this. I know not what for I never shrank from him. I loved his kind tone and tender kisses. I do not know whether he noticed this. If he did perhaps he thought me passive from the languor of ill health. One day he was turning over the contents of a drawer, long unopened, in the library. He was searching for photographs of himself as a boy, which I had expressed a wish to see; and to gratify a wish of mine no trouble was too great. He had looked everywhere likely, and, going to this drawer as a forlorn hope, he found them there. "Here they are," he cried; but the next moment he uttered an exclamation which struck my ear as one of horror. I sprang from my chair and ran to look over his shoulder. He held a photograph in his hand, but it was no boy's face he regarded so intently, the portrait was not his at all. It was a photograph of his murdered uncle, Sir John Gray, and across the picture was a great red stain of blood. I do not know why this sight overwhelmed me; my nerves ought to have been hardened by the life I had led; every hour of every day had brought to them trials surely worse than this. Yet this alone was more than I could bear; I screamed aloud and then fainted. I should have fallen, but he caught me in his arms. I did not lose consciousness entirely, but I could not stand or see. He laid me on the sofa and tenderly brought me back to life with restoratives and gentle fanning; the cool breeze seemed to reach my brain and soothe it. "Oh, that blood, that dreadful blood!" I cried. He stared at me wildly, terror in his eyes. Then he said softly: "Be calm, my dearest. I see what you mean. It | was not blood; it was red ink. A bottle with a little red ink in it has been spilled on the photographs." This was too much; not blood but red ink. Not murder, I suppose, but just a little red ink. I burst out laughing, and that laugh of mine sounded in my own ears as the most horrible sound they had ever heard. I was worse for some days after this incident, but early spring was bringing glory and freshness to the earth; and somehow a little of her sweetness crept even into my heart and revived it. I rallied. I was able to go out again, and, leaning on my husband's arm, to stroll through the gardens and see the little leaves and blossoms leap up to welcome the spring. Sometimes I felt only a soft melancholy, looking at them and feeling I should never watch them leap up in their glad homage again. Next spring Marcus would stand a lonely man among them. No poor loving wife would be with him, her heart breaking with his secret, which she betrayed not even to himself. "Doctor Winsley recommends your riding, Lucy," he said. He was quite cheerful now in seeing me better. "I have sent for a horse, which I think will be quiet and gentle enough for you. I shall ride it myself to-morrow with a sidesaddle and long garment. You will like to ride, my dearest, will you not?" 66 Yes, Marcus," I replied submissively. Ah! how I loved riding once, and he heard me say so, but I cared for nothing now. I would ride if he wished it, that was all. The following morning the horse was brought round to the hall door, and I stood on the steps to see Marcus mount him en amazone; a long shawl floated from the saddle, and he sat sideways with his leg over the crutch. It was a very pretty, cream-colored creature, and he rode off from the door looking back at me, smiling, and waving his hand. That was how he left me - but ah! how did he return? Time passed, but I did not count the minutes. Sometimes I did a few stitches of the crochet work I held in my hand; and then I leant back in my chair and dreamed waking dreams while the quiet tears to which my eyes were so well accustomed rolled silently down over my cheeks. "How long will it last? I thought sadly. "How long will youth within me fight with death? And what will he do when I leave him? Oh, my poor Marcus! And as I thought this something came in | Doctor Winsley looked surprised at his sight on the road leading to the house. patient. I believe he had never thought Or, rather, I opened my eyes and saw the to see his eyes open again, but what do something, which had been a few minutes doctors who confine their studies to matin sight, for it was pretty near the house ter know of spiritual power? when I first beheld it. Men, two or three perhaps, huddled close together, and bear-as to prevent the necessity of his being ing a burden. What was it they were carrying? As they approached I distinctly saw that it was a man, and another minute revealed to me with equal distinctness the figure and the dress. It was my husband. For a second or two I was utterly incredulous. I saw him quite plainly and I did not believe that I had seen him at all. Then, with a great leap, my heart saw as well as my eyes, and stood still as suddenly as it had leapt. I knew I had fainted at less things, but I could not afford to faint then. I had no "leisure to be sick." I was out of the room and down-stairs, with a strength I did not know I possessed, and met them just as they were carrying him into the drawing-room and placing him on a sofa. His face was white, his eyes shut, and he did not seem to breathe. He had fainted, of course. I ran up to him, but they tried to take me away. "Do not come. For heaven's sake go away. It is too late; it will kill you too." I thought the men were saying these things to me; the words sounded in my ears in a sort of chorus, but what were the words to me? It was Marcus I wanted; he was there, I was with him, and it did not matter what any one said. "The doctor will be back in a few minutes," one of the men cried. "He went home for something for you, poor thing; not for him." "Go away; please go away," was all I replied. I think they spoke together and agreed to leave me till the doctor came. I think they said it was only for a few minutes, and would not harm me, and it might be best. I am not sure, but I think some such words were ringing in my ears. I knew well, however, that I was alone with him; and, flinging myself on my knees beside him, I covered his cold, white face with those kisses that I had not given before. One prominent feeling in my mind was a keen remorse that I had withheld them. These kisses had a wonderful power. He opened his eyes and smiled, and at that moment the doctor came in. Ah, I did not want him; I was the best doctor. Could he restore life as I had done? He was to be arranged on the sofa so carried to his bed, and Doctor Winsley did scarcely more than so arrange him, and order that he should be given stimulants and strong beef-tea at short intervals. He beckoned me out of the room when he left, and broke to me very tenderly that the case was hopeless, and beyond the skill of doctor or nurse. There would probably be a rally, and he would recover the power of speech and might be able to express all his last wishes; but no more than that was possible. There were internal injuries, and life could not last for many hours. It was a case of hours, not of days. I listened as one in a dream. I suppose I was stunned, or it was the calmness of despair; I don't know. I have not an idea what I felt. I think I felt nothing, and yet I certainly understood that Marcus was to die. The separation was what I had ever been looking forward to, but not thus. I had expected my own death-but his ! I understood, but perhaps I did not believe; I was quiet; I said nothing. I cannot tell why Doctor Winsley was frightened and made me sit down and swallow brandy, and felt my pulse and looked deep into my eyes, murmuring to himself, "Poor thing, poor thing," and then charged me not to be a moment alone with him, as I was unfit, most unfit. I shook my head and told him I felt quite strong, and should watch by him myself, and no one must disturb us. He said he would look in again to see how I was; I noticed he did not say how he was; and then he went away. I continued perfectly composed; I did not shed a tear; and I went back to him. I think the shock must have stunned my brain. His eyes were open, and he was perfectly conscious. "Dear," he said, "I feel much better. I can talk to you, but I know it cannot last. I heard every word he said to you.' His senses must have been preternaturally sharpened, as is sometimes the case in illness or after accidents, or he could not have heard. I sat down by him and, taking his hand in mine, kissed him. "Marcus, I don't believe you will die,” I said, and I was surprised when I found I had said it. I did not know I was going to utter those words. Had I spoken as one does to soothe the sick? or did I really not believe it? 66 Yes, I am. This is the rally he spoke of. My Lucy, I must leave you.". How tenderly he looked at me! "My guardian angel, my sweet wife, I must leave you alone." "I don't believe you will die," I repeated, and this time consciously and in full faith. Was it from the sound of the words that I had accepted their meaning? Or how was it that I did not believe it? "I have a secret to tell you before I leave you," he sighed heavily. “I will not die with a secret between us.' Oh, my love, I will save you the confession," I thought. "Poor fellow, poor Marcus, I will save you that." I stooped over and whispered very low, while shivers ran through me and my heart beat, now fast, now faint, "I know it." The color came into his white face. "You know it?" he cried. He half raised himself and then sank back again. "No, no, you do not-and I must not lose time. My dearest, when did you see me first? You will tell me at Westbeed." I interrupted him. "In the garden at my father's rectory," I whispered, breathless. How he looked at me, and how he continued to look when I added: "On the second of June, four years ago." His gaze turned into one of amazement, almost of joy. "You have known it all this time?" he said wonderingly. I thought he hardly realized what it was, or there would not have been that joy in his face; but perhaps he was too weak to do so. "Not all the time. Since you left me for Paris. I found my Bible in your drawer. I read what you had written." I spoke in little sentences; I felt as if I should never breathe freely again. His eyes did not leave my face for a moment; he seemed taking in the meaning of my words more through them than by his | said, "and I have not much time. You know there was always a quarrel, and he treated my mother so badly after my father's death-you know how I loved my mother. I was half mad with anger, and I was a wild fellow - I have told you that before, Lucy; always in some scrape or another. I tried to make him do her justice. It was money she ought to have, and he kept it, from some legal quibble or other. I left my regiment. I had been laid up with some trifling illness and was supposed to be still in my own room. A good fellow, Morley, a brother officer, was to conceal my absence and to let me know the minute matters looked dangerous. I got off in a smuggler's craft disguised as a sailor my regiment was in the Isle of Man. I was like a schoolboy out on a freak. It was the fun of the thing I liked, though in a rage with my uncle, and determined to beard him -poor fellow." Here I gave him some of the nourishment ordered; he swallowed it and continued his story:— "I saw him and he refused everything. I said I would make him do it, but I had to run off, for somebody came. Later in the day I got a telegram, mysteriously worded and addressed to a false name, from Morley, bidding me return at once or all would be discovered and I a ruined man, a disgraced soldier. My craft agreed for a consideration to sail with the first tide next morning. I tracked Sir John to the wood, and again demanded my mother's money. He refused-I threatened-he pointed his gun at me, saying he was afraid of his life. I saw that mine was really in danger, jumped at him, and caught hold of the gun; he wrested it from me, and when in his hand it went off. The next moment a man, who did not know me, had me by the throat, crying out, 'You have murdered him;' and after a deadly scuffle, I flung him off. You see, if I was taken or stopped, and Sir John told who I was or anything, I was ruined and disgraced forever. So I just took to my heels and fled- I ran for my life. I did not know my poor uncle had shot himself in wresting his gun from me, but I soon found there was a hue and cry after me, which made me fear something bad had happened. Ah, my dear, you know the rest." It was wonderful how Marcus had rallied, and with what spirit and fire he told his story. But what wonder could compare with the change wrought in the mind of the girl who listened to him? The whole world was transformed again. A |