wore a coloured dress, and coloured ribbons in her hat."

"You were very observant, then, for a man who professes not to know anything about ladies' dress."

"I watched her until she was so engraven on my mind, I don't think I should ever forget her. She sat a long time with her face buried in her hands, and when she looked up her eyes-such beautiful blue eyes!-were full of tears. were full of tears. After a time a respectable-looking servant came in and spoke to her, and she rose and went away." "Had you the curiosity to follow her ?" "No-it did not occur to me. Mary" (this after a long pause), "what could have ailed the child ?"

"I do not know, dear. Perhaps she had been disappointed in love."

"In love!" he repeated slowly after her -"in love!" And then he went on smoking, and did not speak again for a long time.

Mrs. Power had not failed to remark the change in Dolores, although the child strove hard to hide her sorrow in her mother's presence. They were rarely together. They had never been companions, but in the old days Dolores bad been wont to sing blithly about the house, to romp with her dog, to slam doors, and do many things that jarred on her mother's sensitive, overstrung nerves. Now she went as quietly about the house as a little ghost. She did not laugh, nor speak loud, and had such a dreary, sorrowful expression. At first, on her return, Mrs. Power had fancied the child suffering from some temporary indisposition, but as week after week passed, and she was still silent, pre-occupied, mournful-looking, the woman who had seen and suffered so much of the world in the days gone by began to have terrible forebodings. She had had little sympathy with her child so long as she was a merry, frivolous, boisterous girl; but now, overshadowed by

the remembrance of her own sorrows, she trembled to think that she had brought into the world a creature with her own capacity for suffering. But what could ail the child? One day she said, with unwonted tenderness, "You seem unhappy, my dear." The child, who feared more than loved her mother, burst into tears, and ran out of the room, saying, "I am not unhappy." Then the mother sighed bitterly, and murmured, "It is my fault. I have been cold to her, and have never sought her confidence; she will not tell me what she suffers." Then, painful as it was to her pride, she resolved to question Marcelline.

It was a Summer evening. The red, mellow sunlight bathed the earth in a flood of gold, lighting up the red roses, the passion-flowers and jasmine that climbed the wall, and the big white lilies growing underneath. It came streaming warm through the branches of the apple-trees on Dolores' bright hair, across her little white

folded hands, and the knot of flowers in her breast. The picture was a fair one, but the mother who gazed on it turned away with a bitter sigh. She heard Marcelline's brisk patter on the polished stairs, and opening the door she called to her.

"Come in here, Marcelline-I want to speak to you;" and poor Marcelline, a little frightened, obeyed the summons.

Mrs. Power pointed through the open window to where Dolores sat.

"What ails my daughter ?" she said, looking Marcelline in the face steadily. "Madame ?" stammered Marcelline, con

fused.

"You ought to know.

She is quite

changed, and it is all since I went away to England."

"Madame must remember that it is triste for Mademoiselle; she has no companions, no society."

"Neither had she before," said Mrs. Power. "Come away from the window;

she

may

hear our voices. Now, Marcelline, tell me the truth, honestly and fairly. There is something I do not know of. If there has been any fault, any imprudence, on my child's part or yours, I promise to overlook it; only tell me the truth."

Marcelline stood for some moments twisting her apron between her fingers, the colour deepening in her brown cheeks. Madame," she said at last, "I cannot say there is anything to tell. Madame surmises for herself that the chère demoiselle has some one in her thoughts."

"I thought as much," murmured Mrs. Power to herself. "Oh, how wrong I have been to leave her to the care of servants! As if she would not grow into a woman some day, to suffer too!"

Her lips quivered as she looked up at Marcelline's embarrassed face.

"Marcelline!" she cried, "I implore you to tell me the truth. Am I not her mother?" and there were tears in the