he, Frank Tippington, was a duped husband, and the most miserable man on earth.

He commanded himself sufficiently not to betray his wife to his friend, but his white ghastly face and hollow eyes showed that friend what he suffered. And though Lettice was not the guilty creature he supposed her to be, this suffering was actually brought upon him by her, by the wife who dearly loved him-brought upon him by her thoughtlessness, her vanity, and her want of fixed principle and a high standard of right. Much is said of what men make their womenkind suffer; but women, too, have the power of making noble and high-principled men bite the dust in bitterness and shame. And they can do this without actual sin, and from what they themselves consider only little, trifling faults. It would be well if girls laid this to heart, and reflected on all to which these 'little trifling faults' may lead.

Frank Tippington thanked his friend for speaking as he had done, and in doing so gave him a grasp of the hand in which he seemed to himself to take leave of youth and happiness, and the bright times in which their friendship had grown and flourished, for ever.

He left him, manning himself for what was still before him; and Brian watched him as he went down the street with pitying, regretful eyes.

'Poor fellow!' he said. 'Poor fellow! And to this state a noble man is brought by the follies of a woman,' and with a sudden rush of gratitude and love, he offered up a thanksgiving to God for his own Mary.

W

HEN Frank again stood before Lettice and looked down into her face, he seemed to her like an avenging angel-young, stern, and beautiful.

He was entirely changed from the devoted lover and husband, who, if angry for a minute, was in a minute appeased, and when differing from her in opinion, was so easily coaxed, if not to change his, at all events to give it up to hers. And as Lettice up in her heart,

felt a terrible fear of his anger rise she also felt a new sort of love rise with it-a love that thought of him, not of herself; the true love that leads to devotion, sacrifice, and the annihilation of self.

'Lettice,' he said, 'I've come to give you one more chance. Tell me the truth. Why did you take the money, and to whom did you give it?'

Should she break her vow?

Should she tell him

He would not blame

and be forgiven and happy? her very much after all. She had been foolish and wrong, and in the light of this new love in her heart, she had a glimmering, for the first time, of how foolish and how wrong she had been. But if she confessed all, he would forgive her, she thought, and love her again.

Then she looked up into his eyes, and she felt that he was noble and true. Could he ever love her or forgive her with anything but the forgiveness of contempt if she broke her promise, a promise that she had sworn to keep.

'Oh, Frank,' she cried, ‘I cannot tell you!'

'You can,' he said; 'every one can do the right.' 'It will not be the right. I've promised!'

'Promised!' he repeated, and there was disdain in his voice, she could not understand why; 'promised to deceive your husband! And you will not tell me? Think better of it, Lettice. Give yourself a chance; give me a chance, Lettice.'

She was silent. Her own mind was in an agony of distress. Her silence produced the impression of obstinacy and resolution in the wrong.

'Did you give it to that man I found you in the shop with?'

Her mouth was forming itself into the shape of 'No,' but as he continued no word was uttered.

'Is it he who has got it? Did he try to give

a letter to you that night Donolly stopped him? Was it yourself met him by the little bridge? Yesyes—yes!' he cried passionately; 'I see "yes" in your face to every question I ask you. Say it with your lips, girl; confess your sins, whatever they are, and I will know what to do.'

In Lettice's innocent mind no dreaming of her husband's real meaning arose. She could not understand the nature of the passion that burst from him, or why the idea that she had given the note to the fisherman appeared to make him more angry than the fact that she had taken it. In taking it at all, surely the sin, if it was a sin, lay; if she gave it to another person, it showed at least that it was from pity or generosity she had sinned, not from any more selfish or baser motive.

She shivered, trembled, and at last spoke, answering him in a low voice.

'I can't explain, then. I took the note, and that's all I can tell you.'

Frank drew a long breath. It was no worse than he had expected; it only confirmed all that he had believed. Yet he felt like a man who has just received his death-blow, and has received it when a long vista of life was before him. He had hoped, then. Though he did not know it himself, he had hoped. 'Put some of your things together,' he said quietly; 'you are going away.'