which had become so unutterably dear to me, and prayed heaven to let her know me once more, if but for a moment's time.

Meanwhile poor Janie, exhausted by the fright she had undergone, and the grief she felt at the condition of her cousin, had fallen into a state which was half sleep and half syncope, and lay reclining with her head upon her ayah's lap.

And brother officers shouted to me from the roofs of neighbouring houses, asking if we were all safe-all well; and I answered that I hoped, I trusted so; and prayed heaven again to let her know me once more before she died.

And God granted me my prayer. Towards morning she awoke to consciousness. Just as the gray dawn commenced to break, and that dreadful flood, which continued for forty-eight hours to pervade the devoted cantonment, began to show symptoms of being at its height, she opened her dark eyes and gazed at me.

'Where am I?' she said faintly.

'Here, dearest,' I replied, all reserve vanished in the face of death, here in my arms; in the arms of him who loves you better than his life.'

It is not hard to die so,' she whispered; but as she spoke an expression of agony passed over her countenance.

'Are you in great pain, Lionne ?'

'Yes,' she replied with effort.

'Where, dearest ? tell me.'

Everywhere-all over. I was knocked down so often.'

'Ah, my beloved! and I not there to help you.'

'You were doing your duty, Robert; and it will soon be over now-all will be over soon-all pain—all—'

'Not mine,' I murmured in an agony. Lionne, tell me-but once before we part-say that you love me!'

'My legacy,' she whispered with a faint smile. Yes, Robert;

with all my heart-as my life, better than my life.'

O God, spare her!' I cried aloud.

'O God, take me!' she said herself; 'take me from misery and disappointment to where there are no tears.'

'And how am I to live without you?' I exclaimed.

Her dark eyes met mine reproachfully.

Janie-your child,' she gasped. 'I-I could have been

nothing.'

'You are all the world to me!' I exclaimed passionately. She lay quiet for a few moments, and then she opened her eyes wide and fixed them upon mine.

'Promise,' she gasped-Janie-to love-to love-to comfort -to-'

She fell back in my arms, and for a few minutes I watched with inexpressible pain the convulsive working of her beautiful features.

'Better-so much better-that I should go,' she whispered after a long pause; and as she said the words she went.

It was the corpse of Margaret Anstruther, and of all my earthly happiness, that I laid down upon the sodden rags and piece of carpet.

I have no heart to write down the details of what followed. For two days that cruel flood pervaded Mushin-Bunda before it showed symptoms of subsiding; and before that time arrived, several hundred lives (chiefly natives) had been sacrificed. We lost nearly all our furniture, though several pieces were left stranded in the compound when the waters retired; amongst others, the writing-table which held my diary.

But what avails it to speak of personal loss at such a time as this? My poor wife, from the combined effects of cold, fatigue, and terror, had a very serious illness, from which at one time I almost feared she might not recover; and on her return to health I brought her to Madras, from which place I write. She is now herself again; and I am in good health and tolerable spirits; and—and Margaret sleeps alone in a shady corner of the English burying-ground at Mushin-Bunda. No, not alone! God is my witness that my heart sleeps with her!

Note added ten years later.

I have been looking over my old diaries to-day, and burning most of them; but something within me seems to forbid that I should destroy these few pages which record the history of my brief acquaintanceship with Margaret Anstruther. They are the only remembrance I have left of her.

Ten years have waxed and waned since the dark night she died; what have they left me? A wife whom I love and in whom I trust; who, I may safely say, I would exchange for no woman living; who has brought me children, loving and docile as herself, and very dear to me; a happy peaceful home (no longer in the East); a moderate competence; and a name which I trust no man holds lightly.

And to these many blessings I add contentment, and wonder what more good on this earth a mortal could expect.

On this earth none; but whilst I ponder, I thank God that this earth is not the end of all things.

There was a time when I used to think and say that all my happiness lay buried in the grave of Lionne; but I have lived to learn and believe that at the Last Day it shall rise again, with her to bloom, ten thousand times renewed, in heaven!

GT

BELGRAVIA

AUGUST 1870

FENTON'S QUEST

BY THE AUTHOR OF LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET,' ETC.

CHAPTER XVI. FACE TO FACE.

ILBERT FENTON left the homely little post-office and turned into the lane leading to Golder's-green-a way which may have been pleasant enough in summer, but had no especial charm at this time. The level expanse of bare ploughed fields on each side of the narrow road had a dreary look; the hedges were low and thin; a tall elm, with all its lower limbs mercilessly shorn, uplifted its topmost branches to the dull gray sky, here and there, like some transformed prophetess raising her gaunt arms in appeal or malediction; an occasional five-barred gate marked the entrance to some byroad across the farm; on one side of the way a deep blacklooking ditch lay under the scanty shelter of the low hedge, and hinted at possible water-rats to the traveller from cities who might happen to entertain a fastidious aversion to such small deer.

The mile seemed a very long one to Gilbert Fenton. Since his knowledge of Sir David Forster's ownership of the house to which he was going, his impatience was redoubled. He had a feverish eagerness to come at the bottom of this mystery. That Sir David had lied to him, he had very little doubt. Whoever this Mr. Holbrook was, it was more likely that he should have escaped the notice of Lidford people as a guest at Heatherly than under any other circumstances. At Heatherly it was such a common thing for strangers to come and go, that even the rustic gossips had left off taking much interest in the movements of the Baronet or his guests. There was one thought that flashed suddenly into Gilbert's mind during that gloomy walk under the lowering gray sky.

If this man Holbrook were indeed a friend of Sir David Forster's, how did it happen that John Saltram had failed to recognise his name? The intimacy between Forster and Saltram was of such old SECOND SERIES, VOL. II. F.S. VOL. XII.

K

standing, that it seemed scarcely likely that any acquaintance of Sir David's could be completely unknown to the other. Were they all united in treachery against him? Had his chosen friend-the man

he loved so well-been able to enlighten him, and had he coldly withheld his knowledge? No, he told himself, that was not possible. Sir David Forster might be the falsest, most unprincipled of mankind; but he could not believe John Saltram capable of baseness, or even coldness, towards him.

He was at the end of his journey by this time. The Grange stood before him-a great rambling building, with many gables, gray lichen-grown walls, and quaint old diamond-paned casements in the upper stories. Below, the windows were larger, and had an Elizabethan look, with patches of stained glass here and there. The house stood back from the road, with a spacious old-fashioned garden before it; a garden with flower-beds of a Dutch design, sheltered from adverse winds by dense hedges of yew and holly; a pleasant old garden enough, one could fancy, in summer weather. The flower-beds were for the most part empty now, and the only flowers to be seen were pale faded-looking chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies. The garden was surrounded by a high wall, and Gilbert contemplated it first through the rusty scroll-work of a tall iron gate, surmounted by the arms and monogram of the original owner. On one side of the house there was a vast pile of building, comprising stables and coach-houses, barns and granaries, arranged in a quadrangle. The gate leading into this quadrangle was open, and Gilbert saw the cattle standing knee-deep in a straw-yard.

He rang a bell, which had a hoarse rusty sound, as if it had not been rung very often of late; and after he had waited for some minutes, and rung a second time, a countrified - looking woman emerged from the house, and came slowly along the wide mossgrown gravel-walk towards him. She stared at him with the broad open stare of rusticity, and did not make any attempt to open the gate, but stood with a great key in her hand, waiting for Gilbert to speak.

This is Sir David Forster's house, I believe,' he said.

'Yes, sir, it be; but Sir David doesn't live here.'

'I know that. You have some lodgers here-a lady and gentleman called Holbrook.'

He plunged at once at this assertion, as the easiest way of arriving at the truth. He had a conviction that this solitary farmhouse was the place to which his unknown rival had brought Marian.

'Yes, sir,' the woman answered, still staring at him in her slow stupid way. 'Mrs. Holbrook is here, but Mr. Holbrook is away up Did you wish to see the lady?'

in London.

Gilbert's heart gave a great throb. She was here, close to him!

In the next minute he would be face to face with her, with that one woman whom he loved, and must continue to love, until the end of his life.

Yes,' he said eagerly, 'I wish to see her. You can take me to her at once. I am an old friend. There is no occasion to carry in my name.'

He had scarcely thought of seeing Marian until this moment. It was her husband he had come to seek; it was with him that his reckoning was to be made; and any meeting between Marian and himself was more likely to prove a hindrance to this reckoning than otherwise. But the temptation to seize the chance of seeing her again was too much for him. Whatever hazard there might be to his scheme of vengeance in such an encounter slipped out of his mind before the thought of looking once more at that idolised face, of hearing the loved voice once again.

The woman hesitated for a few moments, telling Gilbert that Mrs. Holbrook never had visitors, and she did not know whether she would like to see him; but on his administering half-a-crown through the scroll-work of the gate, she put the key in the lock and admitted him. He followed her along the moss-grown path to a wide wooden porch, over which the ivy hung like a voluminous curtain, and through a half-glass door into a low roomy hall, with massive dark oak-beams across the ceiling, and a broad staircase of ecclesiastical aspect leading to a gallery above. The house had evidently been a place of considerable grandeur and importance in days gone by; but everything in it bore traces of neglect and decay. The hall was dark and cold, the wide fireplace empty, the iron dogs red with rust. Some sacks of grain were stored in one corner, a rough carpenter's bench stood under one of the mullioned windows, and some garden-seeds were spread out to dry in another.

The woman opened a low door at the end of this hall, and ushered Gilbert into a sitting-room with three windows looking out upon a Dutch bowling-green, a quadrangle of smooth turf shut-in by tall hedges of holly. The room was empty, and the visitor had ample leisure to examine it while the woman went to seek Mrs. Holbrook.

It was a large room with a low ceiling, and a capacious oldfashioned fireplace, where a rather scanty fire was burning in a dull slow way. The furniture was old and worm-eaten,-furniture that had once been handsome,—and was of a ponderous fashion that defied time. There was a massive oaken cabinet on one side of the room, a walnut-wood bureau with brass handles on the other. A comfortable-looking sofa, of an antiquated design, with chintz-covered cushions, had been wheeled near the fireplace; and close beside it there was a small table with an open desk upon it, and some papers scattered loosely about. There were a few autumn flowers in a