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"A sort of bewilderment came over me"-p. 691. TWO STORIES IN

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ONE.

BY WILLIAM GILBERT, AUTHOR OF "DE PROFUNDIS," SHIRLEY HALL ASYLUM," ETC.

CHAPTER XXXV.-THE LOCK OF HAIR.

FTER Alice had quitted the public-house she | ever, as soon as she entered the house. "Ah! may proceeded rapidly homewards, feeling as she God pity me and pardon me for what I have done! went the same impossibility of speaking she had I could not bear witness against my husband," were experienced in the inquest-room. It left her, how the first words she uttered.

VOL. VII.

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She then remained in the room for more than an hour, expecting Morgan's return. When he arrived she addressed him in a calm tone of voice

Mrs. Watkins having promised to do so, Alice left her, and proceeded at once to the shop of an undertaker who lived near, and arranged with him for a very modest and inexpensive funeral. She had still enough money left to buy herself some decent mourn

Morgan, I have this day risked my soul to save your life. You must now do what I tell you. I wish to follow my poor boy to the grave, and I cannot doing, and with a few shillings over in her pocket, she that in your company. Here are nine shillings for returned home. you, it is every farthing I have in the world. Now go down to the job you've got, and don't return till I've recovered my mind, for I feel as if I should go mad. Pray go at once, and let there be peace between us." She then placed in his hands a few things she had collected together, and Morgan, without offering the least opposition, or saying a word, left the house.

A short time after her husband's departure, Alice put on her bonnet and shawl to call on her friend Mrs. Watkins. The latter, who had just heard of the death of the child and the result of the inquest, caught poor Alice in her arms and kissed her affectionately, and when she had released her the two women stood silently looking at each other till Alice's eyes filled with tears. Mrs. Watkins then saw the necessity for changing the current of her friend's thoughts, and asking her to be seated, she helped her to take off her bonnet and shawl.

Alice that night, as on the previous one, attempted to pray beside the body of her child, but it was useless. She felt conscious that her supplications were not heard, or at least not answered. She tried to put more earnestness into her prayers, but she still felt they were not accepted. This disturbed state of mind at length gave place to a feeling of terror, which came over her with such force as to overpower for the moment her sorrow for the loss of her child. She endeavoured to drive it off, but in vain, and coward-like, she left the room and went up-stairs.

Mrs. Watkins, according to promise, called the next day. The two friends first visited the room in which lay the body of the child, and then they went up-stairs and occupied themselves in preparing Alice's mourning, Mrs. Watkins not leaving her till it was time for her husband to return home.

The day for the funeral arrived, and then for the first time since she had taken the false oath at the

"It is all over," Alice said at last. "I suppose coroner's inquest did Alice's maternal affection for you have heard of the coroner's inquest ?"

"Yes, my dear, and the verdict too," said Mrs. Watkins, casting a scrutinising glance on Alice, who evidently understood her meaning. "And now tell me," continued her friend, "can I help you in any way? If I can, I will do it with pleasure."

"You can indeed," replied Alice; "and without you I don't know what I should do. I wish to save my poor boy the disgrace of a parish funeral, and yet I haven't a shilling in the house. Could you lend me a little money? I will repay it in a short time. Morgan is in good work at Uxbridge, and I've no doubt will keep steadily at it, for he has learnt a good lesson," she continued, significantly, "not to go to the public-house again. And I will say, when he's sober, he's as honest, hardworking a man and as good a husband as ever lived."

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'Well, I hope what you say may prove true," said Mrs. Watkins. "The money you shall have, and welcome, if three pounds will be enough. We've only a few shillings more than that in the house, and it will take a week to get more from the savings-bank." "That will be plenty," said Alice, gratefully; "and I promise you the first money I get, you shall have it back."

"I'm not afraid of you," said Mrs. Watkins. "Pay it back at your leisure. Now, will you have a cup of tea ?"

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her boy return in full force. Her grief was overpowering, and it was with difficulty she could support herself as she followed the child to the grave. Indeed, So overcome was she that Mrs. Watkins, who had been standing by the grave, insisted on taking her home in a cab.

The following morning Alice occupied herself with her domestic affairs. The first thing she did was to place in a drawer by themselves the clothes and little playthings of her child. One by one they were examined as she put them aside, each article calling to her mind some episode connected with it, till she came to the ball. This she placed on the table, and gazed at it for some minutes with feelings of a singular description. She valued it as the favourite plaything of her child, and she dreaded it as the mute witness of her false oath. So great was her terror of it that she one moment thought to destroy it, but the next her better feelings prevailed, and she dismissed the idea.

At length she appeared to have arrived at some definite conclusion, and going to the cupboard, she took from it a pen and ink, and then wrote on the ball in the best way she could the words which the doctor, in my introductory chapter, had read on it,

May God forgive me." She then held the ball to the fire till the ink was quite dry, when, instead of putting it in the drawer with the other toys, she placed it in a bag with those relics she considered especially worthy to keep. Before closing the bag she also added another relic, certainly the dearest of all-a lock of her child's hair, which she had cut

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TWO STORIES IN ONE.

MY FOURTH GREAT TROUBLE.

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from his head the day before the funeral. She first | den appearance. Now, all idea of my mother had folded it in a new sheet of writing-paper, and then vanished, and I mentally blamed the slowness of the wrapped round it a piece of black crape, which she cabman's pace, so urgent was my wish to reach home had saved purposely from her mourning. The mouth and clear up the mystery of the earring. Earnestly of the bag she now tied up, and then locked it care- did I hope that the explanation I had given at the fully in the box in which she was accustomed to keep jeweller's might prove correct, or at any rate that I' her valuables. might by mistake have placed the lozenge in the box. If so I should either find the earring at home, or it had possibly been taken to Derigny's by Martha, and in the latter case what would be the result? I had no reason whatever to doubt Derigny's honesty; on the contrary, we had ample proof that he was worthy of all confidence in that respect, for since he had been in our employ much valuable property had been entrusted to him, and his trust had been most faithfully discharged. The thought then occurred to me, were all his family as well worthy of confidence as himself? I then remembered the hesitation he had shown in speaking of his son, and that I had come to the conclusion that his behaviour had not been altogether satisfactory to his father. If, therefore, the son had obtained possession of the earring, it was more than probable I should never see it again.

WITH a saddened heart I left poor Alice Morgan, and entering the cab, drove to Storr and Mortimer's, in Bond Street. On arriving I saw one of their assistants who had formerly been instrumental in getting repaired for me some article of jewellery I had entrusted the firm with-I forget what. He immediately recognised me, and I told him I had brought with me an earring to be repaired; and that he would oblige me by getting it finished as soon as possible, as I might very likely be leaving England in a short time. I then gave him my mother's address in Dover, and told him if he would send down the earring when finished, he should have a post-office order for the amount forwarded him.

I now took from my pocket the little cardboard box, and drew from it its contents; but great was my surprise and terror, when on opening the paper in which I had enfolded the earring, I found it contained only a flat barley-sugar lozenge! For some moments I was completely stupefied, but was somewhat recalled to myself when, on glancing at the assistant, I found he was evidently with great difficulty trying to repress a smile. At first I felt angry with him, and then a sort of bewilderment came over me. I became dizzy, and sank into a chair, and I was half conscious that I was turning deadly pale. The assistant's behaviour was completely changed, and with much sympathy in his tone and manner, he inquired whether I felt unwell, and whether he could do anything for me. I thanked him, and then the idea coming over me that my conduct must appear incomprehensible, I endeavoured to regain my self-possession. With an absurd attempt at a smile, I told him there had been some mistake, that my little girl had been playing with some lozenges which were enveloped in white paper, and about the same size as that in which I had put the earring, but that I would return home and fetch it. I rose from my chair, wished him good morning, and staggered rather than walked out of the shop, perfectly conscious the while that the eyes of the assistant and others present were following me with no very complimentary glances.

I now entered the cab, and told the man to drive rapidly home. On leaving Alice's house I had resolved to get through my commissions as speedily as possible, so as to arrive home in time to write by that day's post to my mother, telling her of Edmond's return, so that she might not be startled at his sud

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I now detected myself in attempting to accuse young Derigny of the theft, though without the slightest data to go upon; nay, more, I was positively forcing myself to believe it already to be a fact. At last my mind reverted for a moment to another conclusion, and this so painful, that leaning out of the window, I insisted angrily on the coachman driving faster, as if wishing by the rapidity of the pace to draw my mind from the thought which had flashed across it. The man endeavoured to explain that his horse was very tired, but I would hear no excuse, and repeated my request that he would drive faster. I then threw myself back in the seat, and the painful thought again came before mecould Edmond be the guilty party? Again and again I argued against the impression that would persistently haunt. me, shutting my eyes to the act of dishonesty he had formerly committed; but it was all useless, revert to me it would, and I was obliged to seek relief in that genuine woman's solace -a flood of tears.

At last I arrived at home, where I suppose I must have rung the bell very violently, for scarcely a minute elapsed before Martha opened the door, with a startled and somewhat inquisitive expression on her countenance. I pushed by her without speaking a word, and rushing up-stairs entered the room, and there to my great satisfaction saw the barley-sugar lozenges remaining, some on the table, some on the chimney-piece. I gave a sigh of relief, and commenced examining them one by one; but as I went on my alarm began to return, and when I had finished the whole my sorrow was as profound-possibly more so-than when I entered the room.

I now determined to question Martha on the sub

ject. Previous to her entering the room I managed to obtain sufficient self-control to see the necessity of not appearing frightened before the girl.

"Martha," I said, "I perceive you have not taken the lozenges to your little godchild; why did you leave them behind ?"

"Well, ma'am, I thought that as Mrs. Derigny is coming here this evening to remain till you leave tomorrow, she would very likely bring little Peggy with her, and the lozenges would help to amuse her. I told her there was a treat in store for her when she came, and I left her guessing what it could be."

"And where is Mr. Edmond?" I inquired, my voice trembling as I spoke.

"I don't know I'm sure, ma'am. I wasn't out more than half an hour, and as soon as I came back Mr. Edmond left the house, and hasn't come in again. I reminded him you'd dine at five o'clock."

I stared at the girl for a moment, and then I believe I said, abstractedly, "Quite right, Martha, wc will dine at five."

"I hope, ma'am," said Martha, "you'll be able to let me go as soon as dinner is over. My new place is a long way off, and Mrs. Derigny has promised to come round before you go."

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"No-yes, take them away. No," I said, trying to put on a smile, "put them in the table-drawer for the present, and let the child find them." And this I said with the determination to examine them again. 'Yes, ma'am," said Martha, doing as I told her, "and I'll tell Peggy to search when I'm gone, and that she'll find something she'll like. It will be fine fun for her," continued Martha, as she closed the door after her.

Martha's words, "fine fun for her," kept striking on my ear as if, in the state of sorrow I was in, the very phrase was a bitter mockery. Half an hour afterwards I heard a cab draw up to the door. I started to the window, hoping to see Edmond descend from it. No-it was only Martha, who had fetched it for herself and her luggage, and in a few minutes she came in to bid me good-bye.

Night came on, and Mrs. Derigny brought me in candles-I had not even noticed it was getting dark. Hour after hour passed, but Edmond did not arrive. At last when eleven o'clock came I rang the bell for Mrs. Derigny, and told her to go to bed; and shortly afterwards I heard her and her husband ascend the staircase leading to the attics. I remained till long past midnight, listening with intense

Certainly, Martha, you can go as soon after din- anxiety for the sound of the door-bell. At last my ner as you please."

She now left the room, and I sat helpless in my chair, utterly unable to determine what to do. I made some kind of resolution that before I would believe in Edmond's dishonesty I would wait till dinner was ready. By that time I felt convinced all would end well, if not-but the conclusion was too terrible to think of; and there I sat in a state of half torpor, attempting as much as possible to drown all thought till Martha came to the room to lay the cloth for dinner.

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hearing became so exquisitely acute that I could as distinctly hear the footsteps of the few passengers who passed the house as if they had been walking in the room, and earnestly did I hope that one among them would stop at our door. No such good fortune; all passed, and with the exception of the solitary policeman on his beat, not a sound more was heard.

I could endure the suspense no longer. I crept stealthily down-stairs, and softly unbarring the street door I gazed out into the square, hoping to see Edmond. For some time no one came, but at last

"No, ma'am, it only wants five minutes to five footsteps were heard, and I looked in that direction, o'clock."

"Impossible it can be so late," I said; then taking out my watch, I found it was already five o'clock.

The dinner was placed on the table, and I waited some minutes longer to allow Edmond time to come in. Martha reminded me that the dinner would be getting cold, and roused by the girl's remark I sat down to the table. I attempted to ask a blessing on the food before me. My lips might have said it, but my thoughts were addressed to God in a prayer imploring that my brother might return to me. I endeavoured to put on the appearance of eating, but all in vain-I could not swallow a morsel.

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when a strong glare of light fell on my face with such intensity as completely to dazzle me. It was only the lantern of a policeman, who now seeing the door open rapidly approached it. I felt some excuse was necessary, and told the man I was expecting my brother home, and could not understand the reason he had not arrived; and to avoid any further remark on his part I retreated into the house, and closed the door after me.

By way of keeping near at hand so as to hear Edmond the moment he arrived, I entered the parlour on the ground floor, where I remained standing, all the furniture having been removed after the sale. The description my mother had given me of finding my poor father in the anxious attitude of prayer the night Edmond absconded from home came vividly before me, till at last I could almost picture the dear old man in his terrible sorrow. Like him I knelt down to pray. But I hardly succeeded, for I almost fancied his spirit was standing by my side, in the

SHORT PAPERS ON SHORT TEXTS.

same manner that my dear mother had stood beside him. After rising from my knees, I wandered in the dark about the different rooms, listening attentively for any ring at the door-bell. I went into the drawing-room, and when there recalled to mind the look of intense sorrow my poor father had cast on me the day I visited him after the discovery of Edmond's act of dishonesty with the bank-notes entrusted to him.

In this room I remained till the first rays of dawn appeared, and with them all hopes that I had nourished in the night vanished, and the stern fact that my brother had again absconded after committing a gross act of dishonesty, came before me with all its frightful reality. Morning at last came, and I saw the necessity for concealing, as much as possible, the terrible disgrace which had fallen on me and my dear mother, and I crept noiselessly to my bedroom. Here I remained on my bed till I heard the Derignys leave their room and descend the staircase, when I endeavoured to obliterate as much as possible all marks of sorrow from my countenance. Mrs. Derigny prepared some breakfast for me, and after swallowing a cup of tea-for I could eat nothing-I felt somewhat refreshed. Shortly afterwards I sent for a cab, and then, oppressed with sorrow and sad remembrances, I quitted the house I

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had lived in for so many years, never again to return to it.

Nothing particularly worthy of notice occurred during my journey to Dover, where my mother and little daughter received me with great delight. Of course I tried to appear cheerful before my mother but hardly succeeded, though she evidently attributed my sadness to the sorrow I naturally felt at leaving the old house. Of my brother Edmond I said not one word, and was supported in my resolution by the fact that I had given him our address at Dover, and he could write or come there if he pleased. My mother made many inquiries about what had taken place since she left me in town, and among other questions she asked what I had done with the emerald earring. I had already prepared myself with an evasion, which I trust, gentle reader, you will admit to be a venial one.

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"I am sorry to say I have lost it, mamma,” I said. Oh, my dear!" she replied, "I am grieved to hear that, it will spoil the pair. However, it is done now, and cannot be helped. I will give you the other one, and you can do what you like with it." And I treasured it always as a keepsake of my dear mother; it is the one mentioned in the second chapter of my narrative as being found among my relics. (To be continued.)

SHORT PAPERS ON SHORT TEXTS.

BY THE REV. GORDON CALTHROP, M.A., VICAR OF ST. AUGUSTINE'S, HIGHBURY.

"I will come to you."-John xiv. 18.

T was a sad moment when the disciples first came to realise their Master's intended departure from them. Of course, they ought to have been prepared for the event. On not a few occasions the Saviour had spoken about his death, and on some of those occasions had entered into the subject with considerable minuteness of detail. But the thought was an unwelcome one, and, somehow or other, the disciples had managed to put it aside. When the announcement came in such a way that they were compelled to confront it, they were overwhelmed with the emotions of a painful and distressing surprise. They were saddened, shocked, startled, almost paralysed. Sorrow took possession of and "filled" their hearts.

There was something very natural about all this, and therefore excusable; but there was something also that was deserving of blame. The disciples were too much occupied with themselves. Had they had more love for their Divine Master, they would have rejoiced in the thought of his returning to the Father, and entering into the glory that was the reward of his toil and suffer

ings upon earth. Even then, of course, the idea of separation would have been painful; but the feelings it produced would have fallen into the background, and the predominant sentiment would have been one of deep thankfulness and pleasure on their Master's account. As it was, the bearing of this departure on their Master himself seems scarcely to have occurred-or, at least, not to have occurred with any great force and urgency to their minds. They were absorbed in the contemplation of the loss which they themselves would be called upon to sustain when Jesus had left them and returned to the Father.

Now, our Lord touches with a very gentle but significant notice, the fault of which they have been guilty; but, at the same time, flows in with the general current of their thoughts, and consoles them on the very ground which they have taken up for themselves. His departure, he assures them, will not be a loss, but a gain to them. Strange as it may seem to say so, they will be benefited by his leaving them. They cannot bear now the idea of being separated from him, of losing his bodily presence, but they will soon see that-in more ways than one this very removal will bring incalculable advantage with it. Not only is his

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