Barnard, he felt sure; the other, no doubt, Mrs. Breeze, who received her ladyship with the children at the station. They were walking about; sometimes the lady with one child, sometimes with the other. Presently the lady stopped and took the two children into her arms, and then left them with their attendant, who, taking each by the hand, walked towards the river as if she were obeying instructions, taking the little ones for a walk. This was Kalmat's interpretation. Clytie had taken leave of them. She was gone to prepare for her

flight.

He pulled his

Kalmat's heart beat with a strange excitement. boat out of the rushes and rowed it steadily up stream, past the quiet lawn of Grassnook. The Barnard children were already in the meadows, one of them chasing a butterfly. He slipped into the lock once more. He did not notice his fellow voyagers now; the picturesque group at the lock-gate attracted his attention no longer. As soon as the gates creaked on their ponderous hinges he pushed out and gave way with a will. The boat groaned with his long, rough, vigorous stroke, and he presently bounded on shore at the boathouse. A clock struck. He looked at his watch. It wanted half an hour to the time of the train's departure. He passed through the churchyard and up the quiet street, took some refreshment at the village inn, and went to the railway station.

The repose of the place jarred upon him. The villagers were lounging about in the sun. A railway porter was lying asleep on a bench at the station. The train was due in a quarter of an hour. It seemed very remote that short quarter of an hour. The bustle and excitement of the time were represented by a sleeping porter. Kalmat paced up and down the little platform, looked in at the station-master's window, where a woman was quietly rocking an infant on her knee and humming an Old World hymn. Five minutes more brought the chief of the little station from some mysterious corner; the ticket office was thrown open; the porter woke up; four passengers arrived; the signal telegraphic bell rang; two more passengers arrived; the child cried in the station-master's parlour; three fishermen smoking and talking of their various fortunes on the river came noisily into the office; it was five minutes to the time for the London train. Kalmat looked curiously around him and saw at the further end of the platform the last arrival—a lady in a dark travelling dress, with a lace-fall half over her face. Kalmat felt inexpressibly sad at sight of her. He turned his head away and waited.

The train was punctual. The lady entered without speaking to

any one. There was no changing at Maidenhead-the train plodded on to Paddington, picking up happy people by the way-men, women, and children who had spent Sunday in the country and were carrying home tokens of their holiday in the shape of flowers and fish. They crowded the carriages laughing and chattering, the children tired with too much joy. Other children in the fields cheered them

as the train passed, until London, black and frowning, received the holiday makers back to the realities of existence.

At Paddington Clytie called a cab. Kalmat longed to open the door for her and pay her at least the homage of a gentlemanly and courteous nature; but he had a more important part to play. He followed her in a hansom; and in an hour afterwards the Folkestone train was panting through the Kentish hop-fields, carrying with it the victim of the legal rack and thumb-screw, who looked now and then out upon the seemingly moving landscape with eyes that were dull and vacant with head-ache and heart-ache.

CHAPTER II.

SECRET FOR SECRET.

A SUMMER moon shone brightly upon Folkestone, making a long . track over the sea.

The usual bustle of the

The steamer was lying quietly at the pier. Porters were lazily removing the luggage from the tidal train. A couple of yachts and some miscellaneous craft rose and fell gently upon the water. There was an unwonted air of quietude in the scene. place was gone. Nobody was in a hurry. time, and the passengers were very few. a benign influence, even upon the captain.

The train was before its The moon seemed to have

Lady St. Barnard was the first on board. She wrapped a light Indian shawl about her shoulders, and took a seat upon deck. Kalmat had ascertained that she had no luggage. He went forward and looked wistfully across the sea, wondering what would be the end of this strange journey. It was clear enough to his mind that Clytie was not quite responsible for her actions. Her troubles had for the time being overturned her senses. She was under the first influences of brain fever. He revolved in his 'mind all the circumstances of her position and her wants; he settled with himself all that he would do at Boulogne. If he had only dared to speak to her! All in good time, that privilege would come. What would Lord St. Barnard think of her absence? How would he interpret

it? Would he think her guilty? Had she left any message, any letter for him? Kalmat asked himself a thousand questions and answered them variously; but he was always certain about his own course of action.

The boat was moving. They were out at sea. The moonlight was flashing on the windows of the town they had left behind. Kalmat paced the deck. The dark figure of the stricken woman was still motionless at the stern of the vessel. Kalmat took a seat near her. The sea was perfectly calm. There was only enough wind to whisper the secrets of the ocean. The deep waters rose and fell gently, as if only for the purpose of rocking the moonbeams that lay in pale splendour upon the bosom of the sea. She sat there, the persecuted victim whom Kalmat had loved in the long past days of his blighted youth; she sat there quiet and still, looking before her, while her heart was at Grassnook with her little ones. It seemed like a dream to Kalmat, a dream of the Western land, the more so with soft breezes on his cheek, and a bright, full moon, such as he had not seen since he left the golden regions of the Indian.

The white and many-windowed houses of Boulogne soon rose up against the cloudless sky. The two arms of the harbour seemed to be stretched out to receive the vessel that glided into them without straining a rope.

When the passengers were making their way on shore, Kalmat placed himself by Clytie's side. The moment she landed she spoke to a commissionaire, requested him to procure her a cabriolet, and take her to the Hôtel des Bains. Kalmat was glad to hear the direction. This was the same hotel at which he had stayed during his investigation into the death of Frank Barnard's wife and the birth of the woman who in her great affliction had longed to be near

her mother's grave.

Kalmat followed his charge to the hotel, and, when she was safely lodged, he sought the proprietor of the house, with whom he was upon good terms, and told him there had just arrived a lady of distinction who he hoped would receive every possible attention. He feared she was ill. Indeed, he believed she had already seriously developed the first symptoms of brain fever. She had recently undergone a great affliction.

While he was speaking a servant informed monsieur the manager that a lady who had ordered a suite of rooms wished to speak with him. The manager went straightway, saying he would return presently. Kalmat followed him into the courtyard, which he had to cross to reach the wing of the building in which the lady was lodged.

VOL. XII., N.S. 1874.

R

It was a pleasant, old-fashioned courtyard, with trees in boxes, and seats. Kalmat lighted a cigar and smoked until the manager returned and beckoned him into his little room.

"Since you have given me your confidence about this lady," said the manager, "I am sure I can trust you to keep her secret, which I will share with you."

"You are very good; you shall have no reason to regret that you trusted me," said Kalmat.

"I believe you are a Mason?" said the manager, looking Kalmat full in the face.

Kalmat made a suitable reply; the manager responded with a sign, and took from his brother of the mysterious order a pledge, which being solemnly registered, the manager gave himself up to the situation.

"The lady who sent for me," he said, "is the wife of Lord St. Barnard. That is the lady you mean?"

"Yes," said Kalmat.

"She was here with her husband last year; the most charming people who have ever honoured this house with their patronage." "Yes? I am glad to hear you say so. Did they appear to be happy?"

"Very; I never saw a more devoted couple. When they were not playing with their two children they were chatting and talking together, or my lord was sitting by the piano while her ladyship was singing."

"Yes, yes," said Kalmat; for in spite of himself he felt a pang of jealousy at the enjoyment of a happiness which he had himself once dreamed might be his own.

"I thought you wished to know all about them," said the

manager.

"Forgive me, I do; but you shall tell me of the past some other time-the present is full of seriousness."

just told me

She gave me

I said yes,

"As you please," said the manager. "Her ladyship has frankly that she wishes to remain incognita for a time. no reason, but asked me if I had seen the newspapers. but did not believe a word that scoundrel had said. She raised her hand as if she did not wish me to talk about it; but said: "Then you will understand, I come here for rest; I was too ill to remain in London. I have left my husband to conclude matters there. I do not wish any one here to know who I am; I do not desire for the present even that my husband should know where I am. I fear I am very ill. Send a doctor to see me in the morning; I trust you with

my confidence, and I rely upon your honour in maintaining my secret until I shali explain to you or instruct you further."

"Poor dear lady," said Kalmat.

"I told her ladyship," continued the manager, "that I was greatly honoured by her confidence."

"And you are," interpolated Kalmat.

"I asked her what I should order for her, begged her to command me and my house as if house and servants were her own--not to think that anything she could ask would be a trouble to us."

"You are a good fellow," said Kalmat.

"I then took my leave, sent my housekeeper to her with the fullest instructions."

"Good. Did she say anything about luggage?"

"Yes, I had forgotten," said the manager. "I remarked to her ladyship that no luggage had arrived for her. She replied that she had brought none; she would purchase whatever she might require in Boulogne."

"Tell your housekeeper to regard her as if she were an invalid, and anticipate her wants."

"I will," said the manager.

"Her suite of apartments," said Kalmat, "overlook the courtyard on the left ?"

"They do."

"Will you point them out to me, that I may be sure."

The manager led the way into the court-yard; pointed to four lighted windows en suite. Then returning to the room they had just left, which opened upon the yard, the manager said:

"And now, my dear sir, as this lady is under my care, and seeing that I have trusted you implicitly, I think I am entitled to ask why you take such a deep interest in her; what you know of her movements."

"You are right," said Kalmat. "You are acquainted to some extent with the business which brought me here a few days ago."

"The priest required my services slightly in connection with the verification of a document," said the manager.

"Yes; and you know that we were searching the registers for a marriage and a death?"

"I heard you say so."

"The marriage and the death," said Kalmat, "were the marriage of this lady's mother and her death at Boulogne; the birth was that of this very lady, who at this moment needs all our watchfulness and care."