greeting, and there was a final very severe struggle as to values. Mrs. Burrell had certainly hoped to satisfy Denasia with a thousand pounds, but the official adjustment was sixteen hundred pounds, and for this sum Roland's widow, who was irritated by her sister-in-law's evident scorn and dislike, stubbornly stood firm. It is probable that Elizabeth would also have turned stubborn and have suffered the articles to go to the auction-room had not her personal pride and interests demanded the sacrifice. But she had already introduced Lord Sudleigh to these family treasures, and she could not endure to go to Sudleigh Castle and take with her no heirlooms to be surety for her respectability. So that, after all, Denasia won her rights easily, because a man whom she had never seen and never even heard of pleaded her case for her. When the transaction was fully over, and Denasia had Elizabeth's cheque in her pocket, the day was nearly over. The business agents left hurriedly, and Denasia was going with them, when Elizabeth said: "Return a moment, if you please, Mrs. Tresham. I have heard nothing from you about my brother. I think it is your duty to give me some information. I am very miserable," and she sat down and covered her face. Her sobs, hardly restrained, touched Denasia. She was sorry for the weeping woman, for she knew that if Elizabeth had loved any human creature truly and unselfishly, it was her brother Roland. What can I tell you?" she asked. 66 6. Something to comfort me, if you are not utterly heartless. Had he doctors? help? comforts of any kind?" He He had everything that money and love could procure. died in Mr. Lanhearne's house. I was at his side. Whatever could be done by human skill to save his life was done." "Did he name me often?" "Yes." And you never said a word-never would have done you were going away without telling me. How could you be so cruel?" "It was wrong. I should have told you. He spoke often about you. In his delirium he believed himself with you. He called your name three times just before he died; it was only a whisper then, he was so weak." Elizabeth wept bitterly, and Denasia, moved by many memories, could not watch her unmoved. After a pause she said: "Good-bye! You are Roland's sister and he loved you. So then I cannot really hate you. I forgive you all." But Elizabeth did not answer. The loss of her brother, the loss of her money-she was feeling that this woman had been the cause of all her sorrows. Grief and anger swelled within her heart; she felt it to be an intolerable wrong to be forgiven. She was silent until Denasia was closing the door, then she rose hastily and followed her. "Go!" she cried, "and never cross my path again. You have brought me nothing but misery." "It is quite just that I should bring you misery. Remember, now, that if you do a wrong you will have to pay the price of it." Trembling with anger and emotion, she clasped her purse tightly and called a cab to take her to her lodging. The money was money, at any rate. A poor exchange for love, certainly, but still Roland's last gift to her. It proved that in his dying hours he loved her best of all. He had put his family pride beneath her feet. He had put his sister's interest second to her interest. She felt that every pound represented to her so much of Roland's consideration and affection. It was, too, a large sum of money. It made her in her own station a very rich woman. If she put it in the St. Penfer Bank it would insure her a great deal of respect. That was one side of the question. The other was less satisfactory. People would speculate as to how she had become possessed of such a sum. Many would not scruple to say, "It was sinful money, won in the devil's service." All who wished to be unkind to her could find in it an occasion for hard sayings. In small communities everything but prosperity is forgiven; that is never really forgiven to anyone; and though Denasia did not find words for this feeling, she was aware of it, because she was desirous to avoid any ill-will. She sat with the cheque in her hand a long time, considering what to do with it. Her natural vanity and pride, her sense of superior intelligence, education, travel, and experience urged her to take whatever good it might bring her. And she went to sleep resolving to do so. But she awoke in the midnight with a strange sense of humiliation. In that time of questions she was troubled by soul-inquiries that came one upon another close as the blows of a lash. She was then shocked at the intentions with which she had fallen asleep. The little vanities, and condescensions, and generosities which she had planned for her own glory-how contemptible they appeared! And in the darkness she could see their certain end-envy and hatred for herself and dissatisfaction and loss of friends for her father and mother. Had she not already given them sorrow enough? Her right course was then clear as a band of light. She would deposit the money at interest in a London bank. She would say nothing at all about its possession. Before leaving for St. Penfer she would buy a couple of printed gowns, such as would not be incongruous with her surroundings. She would go back to her home and village as empty handed as she left them-a beggar, even, for a little love and sympathy, for toleration for her wanderings, for forgiveness for those deeds by which she had wounded the consciences and self-respect of her own people. This determination awoke with her in the morning, and she followed it out literally. The presents she had resolved to buy in order to get herself a little favour were put out of consideration. She purchased only a few plain garments for her own everyday wearing. She left her money with strangers who attached no importance to it; and, with one small American trunk holding easily all her possessions, she turned her face once more to the little fishing-village of St. Penfer by the Sea. ONE AFTERNOON. BY ANNIE CLARKE. ELINOR NOEL sat in a comfortable chair by a cheerful fire, her neglected work lying in her lap, her slender hands clasped, her eyes dreamy and sorrowful. Not far from her was her elder sister, sitting in an uncompromising, high-back chair, her needle flying fast, but her thoughts intent upon Elinor. Now and then she glanced at the unconscious girl, and her look was puzzled, anxious, half-vexed and half-pitying. At length she broke the silence so abruptly that Elinor started. Elinor, what has been the matter with you lately?" "Elinor smiled, picked up her forgotten work, and asked, "Is anything the matter with me, Janet? "You know there is," said Miss Janet shortly. entirely changed girl, Elinor." In what way, pray?". "You are an "You don't seem to care about anything. You are that dull and glum "-Miss Janet was given to the use of terse and expressive language. "You are getting as thin as a lath; and you don't eat any more than a sparrow." And if Miss Janet's speech began with something like vexation, it certainly ended with something very like anxiety. For they were alone in the world, these two, and Janet had been mother as well as sister to Elinor. The latter made no reply, and Janet returned to the charge. "There is old Mrs. Simpson; you used to go to see her twice a week regularly, and now you hardly go there; I don't see how you can neglect her so." "She isn't neglected," said Elinor, quickly. "I always send her broth, and jelly, and things." "When you know she likes you better than-than all the jelly in the world!" said Miss Janet, energetically. "And there is that little girl, Winnie Ried; she worships your shadow, almost, and you used to take her with you for your walks, and have her here, and make her little life pleasant; but now you hardly notice her. And there's the Sunday-school picnic next week." "O Janet! Janet! you are as-promiscuous-as a mosquito!" said Elinor. "I'm changed; I'm dull and glum; I'm thin; I don't eat; I neglect old folks and am unkind to young ones; and now there is the picnic-I haven't done anything to that, for it hasn't come off yet." But Janet meant to speak her mind. "You don't want to go to it, for one thing," she said. And if you do go you will spoil it, unless you alter. Last year you were the life of it, seeing that everyone had a good time." "Last year," said Elinor, bitterly, "One gets tired of the same things over and over again Besides, I am growing old, you know." She had no "My conscience!" said Janet, under her breath. chance of saying more, for Elinor folded her work hastily, and went upstairs to her own room. And then Janet poked the fire uneasily, telling herself that she hoped the child wouldn't cry her eyes out, because of what her cross old sister had said. If the truth must be told, Elinor had forgotten her sister before she reached her room. She drew a chair to the low window, and sat looking out. The gray sky and the dreary moor seemed to her as joyless and barren as her own life. Only a few short months before, she had been a happy, light-hearted girl, whose days were filled with duties that were cheerfully discharged, and simple pleasures that often grew out of the duties themselves. Then came a time when a great and bewildering joy was hers to take or to refuse; but between her and the bright pathway so tempting and so eagerly longed for, duty stood, and with relentless finger pointed another way. Elinor obeyed, not without a long and hard struggle with her rebellious will; but with what fainting of heart, with what shrinking from the darkened future, with what bitter longing for the "might have been," only God and her own soul knew. So quietly had the sacrifice been made, that even her sister had no idea of what it had cost her to give up all that made life sweet and beautiful. It seemed to her, worn with the long struggle, that she had done all she could, and that, having chosen the hard, dark path because it was the right one, she must faint and fall by the way. Surely, having such a heavy burden to carry, she need not add to it the old-time duties that had once been pleasures, but which now seemed as if they would be the last straw!" So thinking, she fell asleep, and dreamed. In her dream, she was walking along a stone-paved, dusty street, upon which the sun poured his pitiless rays. The blank stone houses offered her no shelter from the heat; the very wind was hot and stifling. Her feet were aching, her eyes burning, and her heart was very heavy. But as she went slowly and painfully along, she felt a little hand slipped into hers, and looking down, saw the child of whom her sister had spoken. The upturned face was very pleading, the brimming eyes so wistful that Elinor's heart smote her, and drawing the tiny form close to her, she met the eager look with a loving smile. The child's face brightened, and she trod the heated pavement lightly and in happy content; and somehow the old love and care of the child, which had seemed to be crushed to death beneath the weight of her sorrow, revived in Elinor's heart. Presently she felt herself being drawn by the clinging hands another way; and looking down again, saw the child pointing to an old forsaken road to the right. Elinor did not want to go; the way was steeper than the one they were treading; there were rough, large stones on it, and not far away a wall to climb, beyond which they could see brambles and trees, white with dust. But love led her, and she yielded; together they stumbled over the uneven stones and rubbish, together they climbed the ruinous wall, and pushed through the prickly undergrowth, and then Elinor knew why the child had drawn her from the hopeless; joyless road. For as they went along, there was young, tender grass under their feet, starred with flowers and gemmed with dew. The stifling wind was changed to a breeze that had life and healing in it. Sunlight was there, but it came shimmering through the leaves of budding and blossoming trees; stones were there, but they were covered with velvety mosses and tiny, delicate ferns. A brook, clear as a baby's eyes, laughed between its low banks, bright with primroses and sweet with violets. There were other flowers, too,-delicate white bells such as Elinor had never seen, and with a faint, strange fragrance; but these had to be sought, and were sometimes hard to find and gather; they grew almost out of reach, guarded and hidden by thorny leaves. As Elinor sat down on the bank, with the lovely flowers in her hands, she became aware of a Presence that filled the place, and made it holy. Brighter than the sunshine, nearer than the child by her side, more real than the wind that swayed the trees, deeper than her deepest grief; a divine tenderness and strength, it surrounded and enfolded her so that all pain was transfigured, and her heart was filled with the peace that passeth understanding. Miss Janet was folding up her work when she heard her sister's light step at the door. Looking up, she was surprised to see Elinor with her hat in her hand. "You were right, as you always are, Janet," she said, gently kissing her. "I'm going to see Mrs. Simpson; and if Winnie is at home I'll bring her back with me. And I won't spoil the picnic. As to those other items (you got them dreadfully mixed, Janet), I will try to attend to them, too. There, am I not a model sister?" "I wonder," said Miss Janet to herself, as she donned an apron preparatory to getting ready something "extra nice" for tea, and at the same time musing over the sweet, bright change in Elinor's face. "I wonder what has come over the child, all of a sudden? It couldn't have been what I said that did it!" No, Miss Janet; your words did not do it; but they helped, as all true words must. VICTORIA, B.C. AFTERWARD. SOME time, when all life's lessons have been learned, And sun and stars for evermore have set, The things which our weak judgments here have spurned, Will flash before us, out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans were right, |