the edge of the cliffs, had suddenly caught sight of the mad horsewoman, who was rushing so heedlessly and ignorantly into inevitable danger, if not to certain death; and had thrown up his arms wildly, with a loud shout of warning and alarm. "Ah! but it was the horse that was mad, and the horsewoman powerless.

"And the man was a cripple!

"Never mind! A helpless woman being hurried to an awful destruction. What should prevent even a poor, weak cripple from doing his utmost to avert so terrible a doom?

"The horse was coming straight towards him.

"That was a mercy! For a cripple could not run far, even though he might be able to hobble a good many miles in the course of a morning, if he could travel at his own pace.

“Well, at any rate, he must meet it as far from the edge as possible.

"So, half jumping, half limping, he hastened forward.

"Ha! The lady was leaning backward, now, as though she were going to fall off.

"Better so, than to be hurled over the cliff. But what if her foot were to be caught in the stirrup, and she were dragged, hanging? Certain death-on this rocky place-nothing less.

“The horse's head was level with him, now.

"With a spring quick as lightning, he leapt to catch the falling reins, and with a sharp, short jerk, strong as iron-for his will had suddenly lent the strength of Hercules to his poor, shrunken arms—he pulled the horse back upon his haunches, and in another moment, rider, horse, and their unknown deliverer, lay in a confused, struggling mass upon the ground. "Pollie knew nothing more, until she found herself lying in her own comfortable bed at home.

"She was not seriously injured, only bruised and shaken a little. But what of her strange preserver, who had saved her from her doom?

"Reginald reassured her. He was an artist, without friends,

without money, who had come down to sketch some of this same grand rock scenery upon the river.

"He had been terribly cut about and injured; so Reginald had ordered him to be brought to his own house here, where he could have the best care and attention that was to be had for love or money.

"And so events proved.

"Before long, Pollie had sufficiently recovered to undertake the duty of nursing the brave man to whom she owed—perhaps her very life.

"Gratitude often begets affection. So it was little wonder that when the artist was well enough to leave the shelter of the roof under which he had been so hospitably treated, he should have wanted to rob the little household of all that was dearest and best to its young owner.

"For he had had the audacity to suggest that Pollie should come away with him, and Pollie, in spite of her promise to Reggie, years ago,-and repeated so often since-consented.

"Reginald upbraided her at first, and laughed the matter off as a silly, girlish freak,-taunted her with her broken vow,but all to no purpose.

"Then, seeing her fixed determination, he grew seriously angry, told her how the romance,—if there were any-of such a union would soon wear off,-with a penniless, crippled husband, whose handsome face would not support a wife, unaided by any other members of his body. And those hands of his-which used to serve him so well-are maimed and useless, now.

"Upon which, Pollie whimpered, but remained firm. If the hands be maimed and helpless, is it not thanks to her?

"Then Reginald, being in a towering passion at having his will thwarted for the first time by his gentle, but obstinate, sister, upbraided her warmly for her perfidy in thus leaving him-him whom she had loved and honoured and obeyed from very babyhood.

"And all for a stranger-a man of whom she knew absolutely nothing!

"But, being, nevertheless, an upright man, and very honourable, he adds that she shall have her portion of the property, which is more or less in his hands, and shall be free to do as she pleases.

"Yet if she choose the artist, she must lose her brother, for he will not have her divided affections,-and shared by such a man, too!

"Pollie resented this sneer, and for the first time in her life, fired up at her brother.

"And so, on the morrow, she passed out at the great oaken gates, with a sorrowful, heavy heart-expecting never to see the dear old home again-went out with the brave, handsome cripple who had saved her life, and left behind the beloved, relentless brother, who would not share her heart, if he could not claim the whole.

"Years rolled on, and Pollie was left a widow, with one little, fair-haired daughter to serve as the last connecting link between the pain of the present and the departed bliss of the past.

"Reginald has taken no notice of her since, even when her husband died,—though she knows that he must have heard of her sorrow. Indirectly, she has heard, years ago, that after she had left him, he had shut up the old home for a time, and had set off on a tour all round the world.

"Then she hears that he has brought home from one of the colonies, a beautiful English lady, as his bride; hears that his wife dies before she has been in her native country many months, leaving behind her a little son and heir: then she hears no more—for a long while."

CHAPTER XXXI.

PEACEMAKER AT LAST.

MRS. HUGHES stopped.

Her voice, which had long since grown tremulous and husky with ill-suppressed agitation and emotion, sank into almost a wail as she uttered the last few words of her pathetic story.

:

I had been deeply, breathlessly, interested in the tale too much absorbed, in fact, to interrupt her narrative with any of those numerous questions in which I almost invariably indulged upon similar occasions.

And now, as she related the incident of the runaway horse, a dim, confused sense of familiarity awoke within my memory. Light-dim and indistinct at first, but ever growing clearer and brighter-was breaking in upon my bewildered brain, slowly, slowly, but yet surely.

And still, with eyes fixed in a vacant stare of astonishment, and mouth gaping wide, I lay almost quivering with excitement, until the last words had trembled and died way from her lips.

Then, with sudden energy—whilst the light of a strong excitement shone in my eyes-I cried,

"Why, that's my father and his sister! He has often told me about her horse running away-and I've seen the very spot where she fell. But he never told me about the poor, brave, crippled gentleman. How do you know all about it?"

I was scarcely prepared for Mrs. Hughes' strange mode of answering my eager question: for, instead of replying, she suddenly threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me impulsively on either cheek.

As her face touched mine, I could feel that her cheeks were moist with silent tears.

"Shall I tell you a great secret ?" she whispered in my ear. "Oh yes, do, please," I answered, half suspecting the coming revelation.

"Well,-I was that little girl,-so I am your Aunt Mary. Are you not glad? Won't it feel pleasanter now, to know that your own Aunt-Father's only sister-is watching over and caring for you? And little Mary is your first-cousin; isn't that nice ?"

"Little Mary my first-cousin'?" I echoed, dreamily. "Yes, that would be nice-only:-can first cousins marry, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Marry'?" repeated Mrs. Hughes, in a tone of surprise; "marry'? Well, I believe they can-just because the lawmakers thought they would never wish to !—but you don't want to marry Mary, I suppose, do you?"

Ah! with my usual thoughtlessness, I had 'let the cat out of the bag,' without in the least intending it.

So I kept silence, and Mrs. Hughes, doubtless thinking the idea too absurd to have any foundation in fact, did not press for an explanation of my unlucky speech.

"Then that's the reason that Father wouldn't speak to you that day," I said, presently, reverting to the topic which was still keeping my mind in such a turmoil of excitement, partly with the intention of giving a turn to the conversation. "I knew you must have had a regular, downright, thundering big quarrel, because he was so angry with me for asking him about it."

"Did he tell you that we had had a quarrel, then ?”

"No; he didn't actually say so," I answered with truthful