cottage by the banks of the Isar; how he took kindly notice of her from the first; how she loved to linger near when he was painting, and with what eager wonder she watched the daily progress of his work; how he took her, one day, to the museum of pictures; how, another day, he made a little portrait of her in oils, and gave it to her mother; how, at last, he offered to teach her something of drawing; and what a happy time it was when she used to go out with him into the fields behind the house, and sketch the pine rafts that came down the river, the great elms that fringed the opposite bank, and all the homely subjects round about-these, and the like simple incidents, made the substance of her little story; yet every detail interested me, and I listened to it from first to last with a tender sympathy that caused me, for the time, to forget my trouble in her happiness.

Thus we sat talking till the early dusk drew on, and the red glow of the embers on the hearth became the only light by which we saw each other's face; and then Ida went up to her own room, and I was alone again.

The wind had risen within the last hour, and came, every now and then, in sudden gusts against the window. I rose, and looked out. A few stars gleamed between the rifts of ragged cloud that

drifted across the sky, and an occasional blot of rain came with the wind. I turned from the cheerless prospect with a shudder; and, resuming my former seat, fell back upon the old train of thought, as if nothing had occurred to interrupt it. Presently my boy waked in his little cot, with that sweet, impatient, inarticulate cry that was so eloquent to my ear. I hastened to throw on a fresh log and a couple of pine-cones, to make the room bright for him; then took him in my arms; danced him to and fro before the fire to the tune of a quaint, old-fashioned Italian lullaby; kissed him; talked to him; and watched how his great blue eyes were turned towards the leaping flame in wonder and delight. These were my happy moments-my only happy moments now-and even these were often overcast by sudden clouds of anguish.

All at once the door opened, and Goody, with a startled look upon her face, peeped in.

"My deary," said she, "there's a lady waiting to see you."

"A lady?"

"And-and she asked for Mrs. Farquhar, my deary," added the old servant, apprehensively.

"My name?" I stammered, seized with a vague terror. "Who knows my name?”

"She's quite a stranger," said Goody, “and . . . .

she's here!"

I rose as my visitor appeared on the threshold. She came in-closed the door-lifted her veil.

It was Maddalena.

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CHAPTER XX.

MADDALENA'S CONFESSION.

"Face to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her! God, and she and I only."-MRS. BROWNING.

My first impulse was one of terror-unmixed, overmastering terror. I turned cold from head to foot, and my heart failed within me. For a moment, we stood there, face to face, in the firelight; both silent. Maddalena was the first to speak.

"At last we meet," she said, in a low, distinct "At last!"

tone.

I shuddered. I so well remembered that vibrating, melancholy voice, with its slightly foreign intonation.

"Whose child is that?"

I clasped my boy closer to my bosom. My lips moved, but uttered no sound.

"Whose child is that?" she repeated.

"Mine."

She took a step forward; but as she did so, I sprang back, laid my baby in his cot, and stood before it, trembling but desperate, like some wild creature at bay.

"Keep off!" I cried, vehemently. "You shall not touch him."

She looked at me with eyes that dilated as she spoke.

"Fool!" she said, scornfully. "Do you think I would harm your child?"

Then her face grew gentle and her voice softened, as she added

"Is it not his, also ?"

"His!" I echoed, my terror rapidly giving place to indignation. "Do you presume to name my husband to my face?"

"I come here to-night for no other purpose than to speak of him.”

"In that case," I said, controlling my voice to a steady coldness as I went on, "you will be so good as to remember that you address Mr. Farquhar's wife."

She smiled, disdainfully.

"His wife?" she repeated. "Aye-I am not likely to forget it.”