years ago in the old ivy-clad village church. Is the fruit not at its best when ripe and ready to be gathered? Does it not become perfect before it decays, and its seeds sown, to blossom yet again when the new life dawns? Surely, then, it is right that old age should be beautiful, and when it is not, there must be a worm at the core which changes nature.

We had Major Carmichael's consent to our marriage, yet he was evidently greatly disappointed that Marion was not going back to him.

A quiet, peaceful, happy year we spent in England, sometimes on leave with our dear mother in the old home, sometimes at our quarters at Plymouth, rejoicing in the soft and lovely scenery, the almost Italian blue of the sea, the richness and verdure of its undulating landscapes, with its cozy farms and homesteads, its flowery apple orchards bright with blossom; with the picturesque, cleanly country folk wishing you "gude day” in their smooth - sounding dialect. Ah! those lanes filled with wild hyacinths and the primrose banks, the tangles of briar roses and honeysuckles, the fields of ox-daisies, cornflowers, and scarlet poppies, the "Lent lilies" and the cowslips, the bind-weeds and the white bloom of the large convolvulus, the dark green of the shiny-leafed briony and the delicate tendrils of the eglantine; the fragile wild anemone, the pencilled wood sorrel, and the bright dog-violet, and all carpeted with ground-ivy. We gathered them each in their turn, my young wife and I, rambling for miles, and returning laden with our treasures. Each season as it came round brought fresh prizes to be sought and carried off.

Many a time have we sat upon the banks and made our nosegays daintily, mixing bright flowers with the feathery ferns, which grew side by side with them. It is pleasant to think of the spring-time of our married life spent in England's Eden, in bright contrast to the dark days which shortly followed. Orders soon came for us to proceed to India. Where duty called I had to follow, but I must confess it was a trial to leave my poor dear mother, now growing far more infirm than her age at all justified; and I left her with the dread that she would have fresh sorrow with my brother Edward in my absence.

He wore a hunted look, painful to be seen, and seldom raised his eyes from the ground. He was sullen, and treated us all as though we were enemies. Before I left I tried once again to obtain his confidence. "Edward, my dear boy," I said to him with all the kindness I could assume, "tell me your secret."

His face changed, the blood mounted to his cheek, and, dying out, left it ashen.

"Secret! who says there is one? If they have betrayed me, I will," he began in a fierce tone; but I stopped him.

"Hush, hush! no one has said anything, but I judge from appearances."

"You should never do that, Charlie," he replied, with assumed cheerfulness, "they are so often deceptive. Come, tell me what they have said to you."

"They have told me one thing plainly, Edward, and that is, that those Newcombes know something about you which is not known to others, and that they have

traded on their knowledge, and bent even your proud will to their own."

He was silent, and I continued, "They have wrecked your life, the Newcombes, and now you are tied to a wife you loathe; you have done all this to silence them, because they know your secret; and you live like Damocles, when sitting at the feast prepared for him by Dionysius; the sword over your head is held only by a single hair, you cannot tell when it will fall. Come, Edward, tell me what your fault has been, and, if possible, face the position like a man. It will lose half its ugliness when brought to light, and I will not believe it can be anything very bad after all."

My brother seemed touched; he grasped my hand warmly.

"I cannot tell you, Charlie," he answered in a broken voice. "But remember this; if ever in the hereafter— perhaps when I am dead-any one should make me out to have committed a great crime, be sure and recollect my words now: What I did was accidental, and not intentional."

Not another syllable would he say upon the subject, and so we parted better friends than we had been for years; and the last look which I ever saw upon his living face was one of affection and kindness. We had not thought much of each other, Edward and I, but from that day he wrote to me regularly, though he never by the faintest hint referred to our parting conversation.

CHAPTER XI.

OUTWARD BOUND.

THE morning on which we started for India, in the troopship Neptune, was both calm and beautiful. My dear wife was upon the deck by my side, and there were others too who, like ourselves, stood watching the dear old country left behind. When should we behold it again? and what did the future hold for those we had parted with now? What, indeed, for ourselves, just setting out to meet a fresh life? who could tell? Plymouth appeared from the Sound to the greatest advantage. The sun was shining upon its citadel, and the bright accoutrements of its garrison at exercise were glittering upon the Hoe. Before us spread the calm. waters of the Sound, sheltered by the green and picturesque banks of Mount Edgecumbe. All was peaceful and dreamy, scarce a sound stirred the air, save the cleaving of the water before us, and its dash against our prow.

There were few words spoken on board; all eyes were turned homeward, all hearts too. We passed the breakwater, running slowly along the Cornish coast with its pretty villages. A yacht accompanied us for some distance, for those on board to see the last of us; and there

were sad eyes in that boat, as the Neptune was lost to view. A girl was there watching till we were out of sight, the sun glinting upon her snowy handkerchief which fluttered in the breeze; and there was a bonnie lad leaning over the ship's side, gazing and waving in return. I shall never forget his face; he was the ensign of the company to which I belonged - a fine young fellow, with a warm, true heart-and these two were looking their last at one another. He was never again to behold those loving eyes so dear to him; never again to watch for the first sight of England's white cliffs and verdant slopes. In the war which followed he nobly. yielded up his life for his country, and found his place only in the memories of those who knew and loved him.

My wife's hand crept into my own, but we remained silent. The Eddystone lighthouse was left behind, and the rugged rocks of Land's End were before us. I drew my darling closer to me as we saw them and remembered. She lifted her eyes to mine, and they said more than words to me of her love, her gratitude, and her content. My sweet young wife! How clearly came to my mind the dangers we had then passed through, and I thanked God in my heart for having preserved her, and given her to me. Yes, and I believe she did so too; for when I looked again her soft brown eyes were turned heavenward, a lovely calm was on her face, and she was very still. Thus we went "outward bound" into the world of waters, and England was soon left behind.

When we had been a day or two out we met the squadron cruising. They were bearing down upon us in