this hard-featured woman must have been pretty once. "Well, I was deceived; they ran away, Anthony and Dora. They left me, and two days afterward I received this letter.-Yes, you may read it." Gilbert read. It was as follows, and was dated from Lulworth; a quite simple, girlish, inexperienced letter: 'DEAREST RACHEL: I write to tell you that I have taken the irrevocable step, which you will, I hope, forgive when you understand that it means happiness to me. Perhaps at first you will disapprove, because I ran away; I hope, however, you will soon come round, and receive us with a sisterly affection. We are staying here together in the most delightful and most quiet place in the world. My husband joins with me in asking your forgiveness. "I remain, "Always your affectionate sister, "May I borrow it of you?" he asked, folding it up again; "you shall have it back." Miss Nethersole hesitated. "Tell me," he said; "you have long since forgiven your sister?" "Long since; I prayed for her morning and night at family devotions. It would have been unchristian not to forgive so great a sinner. I prayed for her unwittingly, even six years after her death. I hope the Papistic superstition of praying for the dead will not be laid to my charge." "I am sure," said Gilbert, wondering at the remarkable religion of this good lady-"I am sure it will not. At least, I wish I had no greater sins upon my soul than praying for the dead. But as for her husband, can you not forgive him too?" "I do not know." Truth for the moment overcame the cant of her party. "I do not know. I hope I can. Only," she added, in justification of herself, "when I learned at Bournemouth the death of my sister, when I found the journal, when I understood his miserable wickedness, when I discovered the six years' forgeries, I felt the old resentment rise in my heart, and then I knew that I was called and chosen-as an Instrument." She sat down wearily. "I expected to be an Instrument for a great and signal "Tell me first," she said, "what you mean punishment.” by having things to tell me." "No," Gilbert replied, "I can not tell you yet. May I keep this letter?” "When my sister went away, when I understood that she was really gone for good," said Miss Nethersole, "I came into this room and I put everything just as it was on the day before she left me-the books on the table, the chairs in their places, the curtains half drawn. I said: 'This room shall remind me of Dora; it shall cry out always against the man who robbed me of her.' I have never used the room since that day. You are the only man who has been in it for twenty years and more, and when I have come into the room it has been to recall the memory of the betrayer of women-Anthony Hamblin." I "Give me that letter," Gilbert persisted. "I tell you again that you have much to learn. have a great surprise for you." "What is it, your great surprise?" "I can not tell you yet," he replied. "It may be many days before I tell you; but give me that letter. I do not want it to complete my case, but I should like to have it to show one to whom your sister's memory is very dear." She handed him the letter almost meekly. She could not resist this young man with the soft voice and the pleading eyes. "Take it," she sighed. "How foolish I am to trust any man after my experience, and you a complete stranger!" "I see; but you were, perhaps, mistaken ?” 'No, not at all. I was permitted to see him, to point out to him his awful condition, to reason with him as one reasons with unrepentant sinners, to be faithful to him. It was the last word, the last chance. Perhaps it may be—he repented in the night." Gilbert laid the letter in his pocket-book. "I will tell you something, Miss Nethersole," he said. "But remember, this is not all I have to tell you, later on. I have here your sister's register of marriage, I have this letter to you, and I have the proof of her death. I have-and that is the most important thing I can tell you to-day I have also the register of the birth of her daughter." "Of what?" Miss Nethersole sprang from her chair. "Of what?" "Of a daughter. Did you not know that your sister had a daughter?" "No, I did not. Dora's child? Her daughter? I heard nothing about any child at Bournemouth." gers. There were, then, fountains of tears be- have gone to Anthony Hamblin in sorrow, not in hind those hard eyes. "It was my sister's," she said. "She used to wear it always. She was so fond of gauds and trinkets, poor child! I know it well-oh! I know it." The tears came to her eyes, and she was fain to sob. "Go on," she said, almost fiercely. me more about the child-Dora's child." anger; you would have appealed to his love for Alison, to the girl's love for him, to all that was kind and tender in his nature; you would have suffered the past to be forgotten; you would not have written that introduction to this 'Journal of a Deserted Wife'; you would have asked "Tell him for an explanation." "The child was taken away from Dulworth by Anthony Hamblin-" "The wife-murderer and forger!" "And brought up first of all at Brightonafterward at his house on Clapham Common. That night when you called upon him she was there too, with a party of children and cousins, singing and dancing." 66 "I heard them singing," murmured Miss Nethersole, with softened voice. Her voice, too, I suppose I heard. Tell me, was there any difference made between her and Anthony Hamblin's other children ? " "What other children?" "His children by his second marriage." "But he made no second marriage. Anthony Hamblin lived alone in his house with your niece and his cousin, a lady who was her governess and companion." Miss Nethersole was silent for a few moments, reflecting. Here was an upsetting of the ideas which had filled her mind and fed her spirit of revenge for so long a time. She had pictured Anthony Hamblin the husband of a happy and comfortable wife, with a distinct leaning in the direction of luxury. She had thought of him as the father of a large family. She thought the singers whom she had heard on the night of her visit were the sons and daughters. In her blind yearning for revenge she dwelt with complacency on the misery and shame which would fall upon the children when she struck the father. Now it all came home to her. If she was-as she began to doubt, with a horrible, cold feeling, as if there was no reality left in the world, and everything was mockery-an Instrument, it was a weapon for the punishment of the innocent with the guilty, of the poor child who would have called Dora mother with the man who was her father. "What is her name?" she asked presently, abashed and confused. "She is named Alison," said Gilbert; "the register of her baptism is in the church at Lulworth." "Alison, that was my mother's name," said Miss Nethersole. She was silent again. 66 "No explanation," said Miss Nethersole quickly, was wanted. There, at least, I was right. The paper explained itself." "I am prepared, but not to-day, with quite another explanation," said Gilbert. “You would, if you had known what you know to-day, have paved the way for a reconciliation by means of Alison. You would have learned, by loving your niece, to forgive her father." "I never could! That is, as a Christian I must; as a woman of course I could not." Like many estimable people, Miss Nethersole separated Christianity from humanity. Why, Mr. Yorke, you can not forget, you surely can not forget the forgeries?" 66 But he was a forger! a forger! a forger!" "Miss Nethersole, he was not!" Gilbert held out a warning finger. "He was no forger! I shall not explain now. This is not the time for explanation; there are many things to do first. But I tell you, solemnly, on the word of a gentleman, on the word of a Christian, that Anthony Hamblin was not, could not be, the criminal you think him." Miss Nethersole shook her head, but not unkindly. Only she could not understand. "And pray," she said, "who are you that take so keen an interest in this affair ?" "I am engaged to Alison," said Gilbert sim Then Gilbert went on pleading with his deep, ply. "Miss Nethersole" (he took her hand and earnest eyes and his soft, earnest voice: kissed it), "I hope before long to call you my You did not know of this, else you would aunt." The poor lady was quite broken down by this this with an obvious effort. "I will give them to last touch of human kindness. "I have been working," he said, "to restore to Alison her own good name, which has been threatened. I have had to establish the fact that her mother was married." you-for Alison's sake, when I have made the acquaintance of my niece. Meantime, you may take the photographic copies. And now, sir, God requite you as you and yours deal with her." She choked and sat down, with her handker "Why, who could have doubted that?" asked chief to her eyes. Miss Nethersole. "It is a long story. However, so far, that is established. The poor girl will not have to blush for her mother, at least; whether she will have to be ashamed of her father depends upon you, my dear lady." Give me a few days, my dear lady," said Gilbert "yet a few days, and I will ask you to make her acquaintance, and to hear the explanation of what at present you do not understand. My Alison shall thank you. Miss Nethersole, you have this day exercised the highest of Chris "On me? You mean about those forger- tian virtues. You have forgiven and forgotten. ies ?" The young life, the newly born love, has drawn out the old death, the old hatred." Gilbert returned to London that same even- One thing alone remained. Early next morning he paid a visit to the bank where the receipts had been exchanged for cash. He had an interview with one of the managers. There were references to old books, and examination of certain senior clerks. The sequel appeared to be satisfactory, for when Gilbert left the bank his face was more than usually sunny. Finally, he sought the office of Anthony Hamblin and Company, and set forth in detail the whole of his discoveries. And then there was a discussion long and serious. G TEACHING GRANDMOTHER. RANDMOTHER dear, you do not know; you have lived the old-world life, Rocking cradles, and covering jams, knitting socks for baby feet, Or piecing together lavender bags for keeping the linen sweet : Daughter, wife, and mother in turn, and each with a blameless breast, Then saying your prayers when the nightfall came, and quietly dropping to rest. You must not think, Granny, I speak in scorn, for yours have been well-spent days, If the good old times, at the good old pace, in the good old grooves would run, But the world has wondrously changed, Granny, since the days when you were young; The fences are broken, the cords are snapped, that tethered man's heart to home; He has lassoed the lightning and led it home, he has yoked it unto his need, 'Tis not the same world you knew, Granny; its fetters have fallen off; At my feet is the ball-I will roll it on, till it spins through the golden goal. Out on the thought that my copious life should trickle in trivial days, And growing old in a tedious round of worry, surfeit, and sleep! You dear old Granny, how sweet your smile, and how soft your silvery hair! What! marry Connie and set up house, and dwell where my fathers dwelt, What a notion! to figure at parish boards, and wrangle o'er cess and rate, I see that you do not understand. How should you? Your memory clings GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING. AND so, my dear, you're come back at last? I always fancied you would. On the gabled lodge, as of old, in the sun, the pigeons sit and coo, And our hearts, my dear, are no whit more changed, but have kept still warm for you. You'll find little altered, unless it be me, and that since my last attack; Won't you take something at once, my dear? Not even a glass of whey? I forgot that you traveled down by train; I was thinking of coaching days. There, sit you down, and give me your hand, and tell me about it all, And men thronged round you, and women too? Yes, that I can understand. I heard them tell of your smart town house, but I always shook my head. You say you were honest. I trust you were, nor do I judge you, my dear: I have old-fashioned ways, and it's quite enough to keep one's own conscience clear. 66 Was not made for complex cunning to balk, nor for any new age to befool; And if my growing rich unto others brought but penury, chill, and grief, I should feel, though I never had filched with my hands, I was only a craftier thief. That isn't the way they look at it there? All worshiped the rising sun? But there's one in whose heart has your image still dwelt through many an absent day, |