her on, a little courage to live, a little faith to guide her; she asked for nothing more.

CHAPTER LV.-A CONSPIRACY.

THAT same afternoon Maddio and Euphrosyne set out on foot for Pilgrim's Hatch. They had never talked of familiar things since the dread events of a week ago. Now their hearts were full to overflowing, and as they sauntered along under the shade, their tongues were unloosed. Both had wept till they could weep no longer. Calmly and without break they began to speak of the future.

"What do you mean to do, little mother ?" asked Maddio. "Our poor dwelling is nearly destroyed, our stores consumed, our purses empty. Unless some great piece of good luck happens to us, we can never get on our legs again. And then, how can we feel safe in this place any more? The people are as ferocious as the Bedouin."

"Dear Maddio, listen to me," Euphrosyne said, talking coaxingly, as if to a six-year-old school-boy. "I have much to say to you, and I know you will be patient and yielding. Promise me that you will do all I require of you."

"Of course, you know best, being a woman, and for years the adviser of our beloved father and teacher," Maddio answered with emotion. Only speak, dear mother."

"Well, to begin at the beginning-alas, my poor head is so sadly confused, that I hardly see any beginning or any end. I fear my wits are going, and what would become of you then?" answered Euphrosyne, putting her hand to her brow. "But I must begin somewhere, and it shall be with our plans. We will leave this sweet, but for us ill-omened, place at once and for ever. Let us go to-morrow." "So soon?"

"And why not? We can bring no comfort to the living, and the dead need us not. Let us go to-morrow."

"As you think best," Maddio said reluctantly; for the poor man could not contemplate losing the flesh-pots of Egypt without a pang.

"Dear brother, only think a moment, and you will see that we ought to do it. Our Ingaretha's heart is well-nigh broken by these miseries, and all that her friends can do is to put out of sight the reminders of them. We cannot console-at least, let us not trouble that sweet child any more."

"But who will take care of her when we

are gone?"

During the year we have spent in England, anxiety after anxiety, sorrow after sorrow, has been heaped upon her head, till her cup of endurance is filled to the brim. The longer we stay, the more she will have to bear."

Maddio made no answer. Even the events of the last few days had failed to damp the childish ardour of his nature. He could not help thinking that after a time the wounds would be healed, and life would smile afresh. "I have thought of a plan for sparing her," pursued Euphrosyne, looking older and greyer and more like a ghost of her former self, with very sorrowful mood; we will go secretly, and without a word of farewell."

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Maddio started as if stung.

"Listen, dear brother. Though we sleep to-night under Ingaretha's roof, we can get away unknown to her. The men, fortunately, are in a different wing of the house, and the servants sleep so late in the morning that there is no fear of being discovered. We can slip out at night, and get the early morning mail to London, and once there are placed out of every one's reach."

"True enough," Maddio answered ruefully. "In London we will stay a few days, till all search for us shall be over, and then form our future plans," pursued Euphrosyne with feverish eagerness. "I think we had better go to the Far West. We have one good comrade there-you remember the Alsatian Sigbert, who was once with us in Algérie— he would surely be kind to us. Or we could settle down in some friendly little town in Alsatia. I could earn my bread by teaching; you could do it also, and even Aglaë might do something-"

"Would Aglaë go with us?" asked Maddio, brightening.

She

"Maddio," Euphrosyne said, stopping short, and looking at him with an expression of solemn appeal, "I have something to tell you about that young stranger which you must never divulge to any living soul. is my own child, born of that first neglected, unhappy marriage of which you have heard me often speak. By some strange chance she was led here, herself an unhappy, neglected wife, the victim of a narrow, unsatisfying existence. But, as yet, I have not made myself known to her. I think I should always have kept silence, had not two things happened-"

She stopped short, wiped away two big tears, and added::

and I knew that, being fond of Aglaë, and interested in her, as he was, he would have felt all the more sorry to part with her had he known all. But a little before my dear saint died, Aglaë, too, became a widow, and was thus free to choose her own career. Hitherto we have not yet talked of the future, but this very day I am going to tell her all, and she shall do as she likes."

"Of course she will go," Maddio said, growing more and more cheerful; "and why should we not found another Pilgrim's Hatch in the New World? Let us go to Central America. The climate is perfect. The natives are kindly disposed to Europeans. The flora and fauna are beautiful and varied. Dear mother, I am ready to go this very moment." "As full of hope as ever!" Euphrosyne said with a mournful smile, "whilst I long for nothing else but to lie down by my husband's side. Alas! dear Maddio, I have no courage to clear, plant, dig, and build afresh. To obtain a shelter and food is all I seek, and it may be to do a little good to my suffering fellows. Were Aglaë willing I would fain join one of the sisterhoods whose mission it is to nurse the sick. It is a practical scheme, and oh! how tired I am of dreams! We shall see. But what hinders thee from going whithersoever thou willest? It would be hard to part, but we should love each other all the same."

"No, I will never forsake thee," said Maddio fervently; "never, whilst I live. Do not speak of what is impossible."

"Let us set out this very night, thenwithout bidding any one adieu-except the dead," Euphrosyne said eagerly. "We have money enough to carry us a little way. Aglaë is not penniless. We must trust to heaven for the rest."

Silently and sorrowfully they made the round of their so late happy home, gathering a flower here, dropping a tear there, lingering long in the haunts they had loved best. The afternoon was perfect; radiant, glowing, balmy. And when the purple and gold died out of the sky, a soft haze settled upon the place, subduing the summer landscape to the complexion of their thoughts.

"It is as if the spirit of our beloved master spoke to us and compelled us," Maddio said in a low voice. "Never in my life did I feel so assured of the immortality of the soul as I do at this instant. Dearest mother, believe with me that our adored friends have still part in the activity and love of the universe."

"I will try," said the poor woman meekly.

Long they remained standing at the gate, not able to tear themselves away from the scene of such mingled enjoyment and hope, foreboding and despair. Not an inch of ground before them but had been hallowed by affection, beautified by the graces of daily life, desecrated by hate! They were turning their faces towards a new home and another life; but they knew that they should never find any home very dear, or life very sweet now. Their adored master, their beloved comrade, were gone, and with these two was lost to them what had been more precious than life itself.

Without a word they returned to the Abbey. On their way they met two or three of the village folks, who slunk past in silence. Had they followed the instinct of the moment, they would have gone up to Madame Sylvestre and said "Poor thing, we are sorry for your misfortunes and our own. You have always been a good friend to us. God bless you!" But pride and sullenness kept them silent, and years after they were sorry.

It was the last ever seen of those two pa thetic figures in the village.

Early next morning news was spread abroad of their mysterious departure. They had fled, leaving no trace behind, and with them the young Frenchwoman, for whom Madame Sylvestre had shown such strange tenderness. And years after, when the agony of that stormy time had passed away, the remembrance of Euphrosyne and Maddio was cherished among the country-people. They felt that they had been more sinned against than sinning, and the sayings of these gentle souls, their deeds of Christian charity, and their sufferings, were wept over as if nothing had marred the harmony of their intercourse. There was in the teaching of Euphrosyne and her companions an almost divine pitifulness, that made them feel sure of being forgiven for the direst offence of their lives.

CHAPTER LVI.-FAREWELLS.

RUMOUR said that Ingaretha was about to flit also, and many signs portended a long absence. Packing up was going on all day long at the Abbey. Several servants were to accompany their mistress. Mr. Minifie, moreover, was dismissed, and a new agentreported to have liberal views-took his place. Miss Meadowcourt was going to the East with Lady Micheldever, people said, and none knew when she would come back again. Visits of condolence had already been paid, and now friends and neighbours flocked to say farewell. Ghenilda

received most of them, but there were one or two Ingaretha would not treat so cavalierly. Mr. Whitelock, for instance, who had many things to say to her.

Touched by her pallor, her sadness, and her black dress, he began with a fervent "God bless you!" and sat down, not knowing what to say next.

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Ingaretha made a great effort to be cheerful. "You will have heard my plans," she said; we start to-morrow for Malta, and from thence to the East, where Lord Micheldever is to meet us. I do not intend to return home for several years."

"I am sorry to hear you say that," Mr. Whitelock answered, "sorry for all our sakes, though glad for your own. I can but hope that change of air and scene will mitigate the painfulness of these unhappy, though not wholly unforeseen events. May it be God's will that great good may come out of much apparent evil.”

Ingaretha had determined not to take offence, let the rector say what he might. She held her peace, and he continued:"Of death, how seldom it happens that one can say, 'Thou hast come too soon!' Your friends, whatever might have been their mental gifts, lacked the faculty of discretion, and took no account of the realities lying around them. Can aught of good issue from the schemes of those who live without God in the world? My dear Miss Meadowcourt, pray pardon me for speaking so plainly to you, but we are old friends, and I cannot believe that plain speaking amongst old friends is ever a real harm. And now we have to think of those through whom offence hath There is naturally great distress among my poor people, and great dread of the punishment that may fall upon the wrongdoers."

come.

"I hope the law will deal gently with them," Ingaretha said. "I have talked with my guardian, Mr. Mede, about it, and he seemed to think that it was sure to be so."

The rector shook his head: "Perhaps no heavier verdict will be awarded than manslaughter against the ringleaders, who will be sentenced to several years' transportation. Lesser punishments will surely be inflicted upon two or three foolish lads whose misfortune it was to have been besotted with drink in honour of your wedding"

Ingaretha's cheeks flushed with indignation. "Nay," she answered quickly, "none of the village-folks went away drunk from the Abbey. It was no fault of mine that they

afterwards flocked to the ale-house, and gave way to excesses."

"Be that as it may," pursued the rector, "they got maddened with drink and acted like madmen. But who can doubt that, all things considered, their punishments will be far greater than they deserve? These misguided plough-boys belong, in almost every case, to honest, hard-working, church-going families, and the lightest sentence the law can inflict will bring sorrow, and shame, and desolation to a hundred hearts. A few months' imprisonment may seem little to us. Think of what it is to them! The very fact of being tried at the assizes brands their brow with an ineffaceable mark of disgrace. Babes now sucking at the breast will learn to point their fingers in scorn at this or that fellow-parishioner; little children at the Sunday-school will be ashamed of their fathers and brothers; family will be set against family in never-ending feuds, which vainly may I, or my successor when I am gone, try to heal. My heart is well-nigh broken at the sorrows of my flock."

His lip quivered, his eyes filled, and Ingaretha too was greatly moved. She held out both her hands to her friend. They wept together. All grievances were forgotten in that incomparable reconciliation.

"Oh!" she cried with great emotion, "what can I do? What can any one do to make things better? I would willingly give up the greater part of my fortune to buy back the peace of the old times. But what are words?"

"My dear friend," answered the rector, wiping away his tears, "that my prayers have been offered for you night and day during the past weeks, I need not say. But, by the light of our own poor, unassisted reason, we may perhaps arrive at some conclusions not wholly without service in this emergency. In the first place, have you taken any steps towards providing these unfortunate people with counsel ?"

"Mr. Mede would not hear of such a thing. He said that the law must take its course."

"And what does Mr. Carew say?" asked the rector. "I have, unfortunately, no influence over him, and on more than one occasion lately we have vexatiously differed on several points. Still, Mr. Carew is a kind-hearted man, and would be likely to take quite an opposite view to that of a cutand-dry lawyer.'

"Mr. Carew promised to provide the counsel himself. He is very kind."