treated, indeed-he could hardly re- | mother was sad to witness. Almost before the door was closed, she laid her head on the sofa, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

fuse. They have met pretty often in London, and still find the same objects of mutual interest and attraction in the books and the paintings they discuss.

No man likes to see a woman cry— no manly man, I mean; and when it is the woman we love above all others, it is harder still. Arthur l'Estrange would have given worlds to be able to console her--to have the right to do so

The artist has nearly completed the portrait, and has so many pictures on hand for next year, that he feels he must shortly leave. The poor little sickly heir of Trevelyan is fading fast-to have laid the young head on his now, and even the young mother is beginning to awaken to the sad truth. Geraldine's tears are falling thick and fast upon its tiny face, when one evening Mr. l'Estrange found her again in the room where he had first seen her as a wife-the small library at Trevelyan. Next to the picture-gallery, it is her favorite resort. He tried to comfort her, and the musical, kind voice soothes, if it does not console. She was ashamed of betraying so much emotion before him, and said with a ghost of a smile: "You know it is so unlucky to cry over a baby. I can't think how I can be such a goose."

Almost as she spoke, the stately nurse sailed in to carry off her charge; and taking him from his mother's arms, she said, with a thoughtlessness that sort of people so often show:

"I declare, ma'am, I think he's lighter every time I bring him down. He is so like a little bird, I sometimes think he will fly away and leave us altogether."

She did not mean any thing special, though she must have realized that the child could not live; but the effect of her words on the poor young

breast, and stroked the soft hair-to have held her little hand in his, and to have shown her by his mute sympathy that he grieved with her. All this was denied him; he could only say the cold, commonplace words of comfort which are so powerless to soothe. At last he felt that he must try and rouse her. She had ceased weeping; but she sat still, with her head bowed upon her hands, convulsive, longdrawn sighs occasionally escaping from her.

"Mrs. Trevelyan, you will make yourself ill. You must consider yourself as well as your child; and you will not be able to care for and tend him if you exhaust yourself like this. Pray try and remember how common it is for children to be ill and to get well again. I know little about them myself, but I have heard my mother say they ought never to be despaired of. Indeed, I believe I am a remarkable instance of it myself. I was given over by doctors several times, and yet here I am to answer for myself, after nearly thirty years spent in this world. Come," he added, "you are too kind to sadden my last evening here by seeing you like this. Shall we go on

with 'Ecce Homo?' or would you one. He would have loved me byrather play me that new piece of Hel-and-by. Even now the touch of his ler's?"

DEATH OF THE HEIR OF TREVELYAN.

than a cottage; but just now in her grief she did seem desolate. Mr. l'Estrange did not seem to hear what she had said of her husband; he knew she would regret it in her calmer moments. He only answered her pathetic appeal about the child:

59

Mr. l'Estrange did not leave. The child died suddenly in the night, after a series of convulsions, one more frightful than another; and even Colonel Trevelyan was quite overcome. He forgot his haughty hardness, and entreated the young artist to stay and help him.

Upon Mr. l'Estrange devolved all the arrangements of the funeral, and every thing else that had to be done. Colonel Trevelyan had a horror of death, and of all connected with it; it unnerved him completely, and it had never seemed to come so near him before.

Mr. l'Estrange saw nothing of Geraldine for a fortnight after the funeral. Then he felt he must leave, and sent to ask if Mrs. Trevelyan would like to see him. The answer was "Yes," and the servant ushered him up to her boudoir in a part of the house where he had never been before.

"And if you are not afraid to die, who have lived eighteen years in the world, and still feel that God's is the best home, can you not trust your baby to His love, and feel sure that He will welcome your dear little child into His heaven? Can you not give what you love most to Him who gave us His only Son to die upon the cross, that we might live forever? I do not know so much of these things as you do; I fear I have not thought of them one-half so earnestly; but my mother says she can bear any trouble if she thinks of Jesus. It is the only thought that does her any good. He suffered, and He loves us, and He must know that it is good for us if He makes us She was lying on a sofa, looking so suffer too. It is a rough world-even ill and weary, so fragile too, that his you think so; and should you not re-heart ached. She shook hands with joice that your child will be so early taken out of it-that he will know none of the struggle and suffering which come to even the happiest lives? 'Those whom the gods love die young,' is the heathen's idea; and shall Christians recognize this less? I wish you knew my mother. has suffered a great deal, but she always says she is thankful. She looks upon heaven as her only home, and is sure that having those we love already there makes it still more home, and that they are waiting for us, and will welcome us."

She

him, however, quite calmly, and as soon as the door closed, thanked him courteously for all he had done for them, and for the help and comfort he had been to her husband. She spoke in cold, measured accents, as if she could hardly trust herself to speak; and Arthur l'Estrange's voice shook as he tried to comfort her. The beauty of the room, its perfect appointments, the costliness of the furniture, and the luxury of its adornments, were in such sad contrast with the young and sorrowful girl who craved for love and had not got it, who had lost in her

child all that gave her its semblance.

still she did not feel as if her life was ended. She says I have got every thing that heart or eye can wish for, and she had so little. I don't know what she means. My head seems to be going round when she talks to me like this, and I feel worse than if no one spoke to me at all. I am much better when they leave me by myself. I can see him then, and talk to him, and pray that he may be given back to me, and sometimes I almost think he is."

Then she stopped, and was silent for some time. Mr. l'Estrange was alarmed.

"Forgive me," she said, at length; "it is the first time I have really spoken, but you have been very kind, and I thank you."

She stretched out her hand to him; he took it reverently.

"Ah, do not speak of it!" she said, almost wildly, wringing her hands; "you mean well, you are very kind, but no one knows what it is but myself. I cannot bear it. I am not resigned. I wish I was dead too! I should like to go and take care of him in his cold grave. My own little child, my darling, my love! to think of their having put him into that narrow box, and covered him with earth-to think that they have shut him out from me and me from him, and with him all the sunshine of my life. He is quite alone, poor little helpless baby, calling to me, and I don't go! All night I hear him, and I hoped I was going to him once or twice, for they seemed frightened about me; but I am very strong-nothing kills-certainly not sorrow! I so long to see him again, and I always can when I shut my eyes. I can lie here by the hour and do that; and then I see him and talk to him as I used-but soon comes the cold reality, and I wake to find him gone. It was cruel the way they took him away. I had gone to get snowdrops and violets to put upon his dear little face, and when I came back, they had shut him up in that awful thing, and I never saw him again. I don't know what happened afterward, for I believe I was ill. I hoped I was going to die; I thought I was-it felt very much like death. Mamma says I am very wicked when I talk like this; she tells me she cannot understand me. She lost two little babies, and though she was very sorry-of course she was very sorry-perfect as any thing on earth can be.

"I wish you could know my mother," he said, gently; "she would comfort you, if any one can. Shall I tell you the story of her life?"

on:

She did not answer, and he went

"She has had so much sorrow. She was engaged to my father for a great many years, but they were not allowed to marry, as my grandfather did not consider it a suitable match for his only daughter. At last, after ten years of patient waiting, their constancy was rewarded, and consent given. My father was presented to a very good living in Devonshire; they were married, and my mother always says that to have had three years of such happiness should reconcile any one to life-it was short-lived, but as

THE ARTIST'S STORY.

My father, never very strong, had over- | quite heart-broken.

worked himself while a malignant from place to place, seeking peace and