at the same time, Hubert Grantley begged to be allowed to have the night work—he had asked his mother to spare him for a fortnight and she had willingly consented, knowing well what her Hubert would be in a sick room. At six o'clock in the morning, when Blanche took her place beside her husband, Hubert always went off to the little inn where he lodged, for his rest, but he was back again by the middle of the day, fresh and bright, ready to amuse the sick man, and to make the ladies go out for a breath of fresh air. Gerald's eyes would follow him about the room and his face would catch his sunny smile, until his wife would laugh and declare that she was getting quite jealous.

"With three such bright beings about me, how can I help getting well?" the invalid one day said, when he and Blanche were having one of their precious, quiet hours together.

"But my love," he added, "I must be moved home next week, I must see my boy."

"Yes, darling, and nurse says in this morning's letter that he is always asking for you. I wish Dr. Hargrave would let him come here, but he never will hear of such a thing."

The truth was, that there were some cases of small-pox in the village, and the doctor did not wish to frighten his patient by mentioning them, but was determined not to risk the life of the child, by allowing him to come to Deepdene.

"I am quite well enough now, Blanche, we will make Hargrave settle about my move to-day, I know my back is weak, but I can't tell what I have strength for until I try to do something, he won't even let me move my arms yet, and this lifting me about so much will try even that untiring Grantley in time."

So when the doctor came, the request was made and he promised to consider it and try to arrange some way of moving him to Southbourne. Madeleine had had her time fully occupied during these ten days of nursing; in writing the daily bulletins, and taking her turn to attend upon her brother, and also in concocting little dainties to tempt his appetite, which the good woman of the cottage had the will, but not the talent for making. Then she had many a little stroll with her sister whom she led out into the pleasant fields, and beguiled her too often anxious thoughts with loving talk. Twice she had run up to Southbourne for the day, and then little Gerald always came to meet her at the station, and wanted sadly to go back with her, and was full of odd questions about his papa and also about that man who took

mamma away," meaning Mr. Grantley, who had made a deep impression on his young imagination.

Notwithstanding all the anxiety and sorrow, Madeleine felt, as she sat down on a wild, fragrant bank just out of Deepdene, on the last evening before the day of the return to Southbourne, that these had been the best days of her life-and she regretted their passing away: she was rejoiced to think that Gerald was able to go to his comfortable home and his sweet child, and she sympathized in Blanche's joy; but yet her heart told her that she would look back upon Deepdene as her little Paradise and miss its lovely scenes and sounds. She did not analyze the feeling, and when she caught herself heaving a deep sigh, she got up and laughed at herself for growing sentimental: with a long, farewell glance at the lovely scene, she turned homewards. A bright cluster of roses caught her eye as she sauntered along; high up in the hedge they hung, but she must have them. She climbed up and had just succeeded in gaining her prize, when she heard a voice that brought the warm colour flushing up over her face: "Let me help you, Miss Clifford," then as she sprang down with her long, sweet garland and held it before him triumphantly, Mr. Grantley gazed at her for a moment and said,

"You have suffered, but not for nothing. Are any roses like Deepdene roses ?"

"but

'They are very lovely, are they not?" she replied as they walked on, "but I dare say your Welsh hedgerows outdo our English ones." "Ah! if you could see them," he paused and then went on; still I shall always swear by Deepdene: by the way, Miss Clifford, what will you say when I tell you that I am to go to Southbourne with you?" There was but little doubt about what she thought when he met her eyes, but what she said was: I suppose Gerald has persuaded you to stay on. I am so glad that you will help him through his journey, for short as it is I dread it for him, don't you?"

"Yes, I do, it will be the test of his strength. I had a private talk with Hargrave yesterday, and he said that it will try him considerably, but that the craving for home would do him more harm. You see, his spine has suffered and I hardly think one knows to what extent until he attempts some exertion. Poor dear fellow! I would part with some of my strength if he might have it instead."

"You have done all you could for him, I am quite sure,” said Madeleine, "but you frighten me, I had thought he was getting on so well;

yet I do think he will astonish us all when he gets home to his boy, I must cling to that hope."

"I do not wish to seem a bad prophet," said Hubert, in a cheerful tone and smiling brightly; "I shall take a ray from your sunshine, Miss Clifford. A man has so much less enduring hope than a woman, but you must comfort me by saying that I do not usually look on the gloomy side of things;" he gazed at her pleadingly and Madeleine could not help saying in earnest tones: "I am sure we have reason to acknowledge that, you have cheered us so much."

"Thank you for saying so," he answered, "that assurance is one of the bright things of life to look back upon."

III.

And now we must go to Southbourne a fortnight after the day whose events were recorded in the last chapter. Let us look in at the same room where we first saw Blanche and Madeleine. There, on a flat couch, lies Gerald Fielding; his little companion is standing beside him, one arm thrown across the pillows, his fair curly head nestling close to his father, whilst in the other hand he holds a brightly painted book from which he is saying his letters.

How different a scene from that in the dull cottage, where tender hands could only try their best to arrange the scanty furniture to some advantage, and open wide the tiny casement to let in all the pure air that there was space for. Here, by comparison, the invalid seemed to lie in the very lap of luxury, in a delicious atmosphere of home and comfort; and different too he looked himself, but O! with how heartbreaking a difference! In place of the hopeful, eager expression which seemed so often to come over his face at Deepdene, as though with the gleams of returning health, now there was a wistful sadness settling down upon his countenance, and as he watched his child or his wife about the room, Madeleine had noticed lately that his eyes were wont to fill with tears and he would close them and turn his face away from the light. The journey had revealed to him his true condition. His spine was fearfully injured, and his strength that of a baby. The truth forced itself upon him, and though he tried to think that the Southbourne air and the wiles of his little namesake were doing him good, yet more and more he dreaded the efforts of taking food and being moved from his bed to the couch downstairs. The doctors had more

was worse.

hopes of him than he had of himself, and Blanche did not see that he Sometimes she would break down when she asked Madeleine or Mr. Grantley if her husband was not really better, and failed to get a satisfactory reply, but still her precious hope she could not relinquish, and she comforted herself by the idea that the extreme heat caused his depression and loss of appetite.

To-day he had made her go for a little drive with a friend, and Mr. Grantley had gone a long walk to obtain a book from a library, and Madeleine was left in charge. Now a visitor had arrived, and she had gone to receive her in the morning-room. As soon as he was alone with the little one, Gerald gave way to his sadness, and his weakness seemed to take possession of him as it had never done before. When Madeleine came back she was startled by his look, and said, "Gerald, that boy is too much for you,-you have been overtiring yourself."

He looked up wearily, and his face belied his words, “He never tires me, Lina;-let me have him while I can."

There was a strange sadness in his tone that made her look yet more anxiously at him, and she took the picture-book from the child's hand, and kissing him, said, "Now, Gerald darling, it is tea-time; would you like to bring papa a nice cup of tea when you have had yours ?"

"Yes, auntie, I'll bring his tea first though. Papa shall have my mug with the dog on it."

"Come along then, but papa does not want his just yet. You shall feed him when you have had yours, if you eat a good tea.”

The father looked at Madeleine as she carried off his boy, and said quickly, “Don't be long, Lina, I want you before he comes back."

When she returned she saw that he was trying to hide the traces of emotion,—she knew that he had been shedding tears, the tears of a man which are so fearful to see. By an effort he calmed himself, and said, "Madeleine, come and sit down here, I want to ask a favour of you. I will rest afterwards.—I have something that I must say." Madeleine sat down beside him.

"Sit the other way, dear, so as I can see your face,—there; let me have your hand-your kind, gentle hand."

There was something so plaintive in his manner that it was hard for the girl to keep back her tears; she could only trust herself to press his thin hand, and raise her loving eyes to his.

"Thank GOD, Madeleine, that we have you," he went on; "you were always my little help in the old happy days,-such a sweet sister from the first; I have never thanked you for all you have been to Blanche the last three years. Her letters were always full of you. I often blessed you in my heart; I see now how she clings to you; and so does my boy. Your love will help them to bear to give me up.".

He paused, and noticed the distress that had come into her face.

66

'Yes, Madeleine, I must tell you—you must see, that I shall never get well, and I don't think I shall last much longer now-this sinking, this pain, cannot go on." Then he added, in a slow quiet voice, “I have been moved down stairs for the last time, I could not bear it again."

You are tired now, dear," Madeleine said, "it is not a fair time to judge." He would not let her go on.—

"Listen to me, Madeleine; this is not to-day's idea. I have been watching my opportunity to speak to you for some time; somehow I could not tell Grantley first, he seems so determined to get me round. It is hard to part with my darlings so soon. O GOD! it is hard!—but since it must be, you can make it easier for me. Will you promise me never to leave my wife,-your sister? Madeleine, I can trust her to you, to no one else."

Did a thought of the home in Lancashire, of her father, her mother, all the other dear ones, come into the sister's mind, or even a glimpse of some other new, unformed hope, to make the promise hard to give? if so, such thoughts were the next moment overwhelmed by the sight of that eager waiting face, over which Death seemed already casting his pale shadow. So her answer came, "Yes, always. As long as I can help her.”

"You promise?" he asked.

"I promise."

His face became peaceful at once, he sighed and pressed her hand, "You have made me quite happy, dear. I wish I could thank you; but I know you will not think it a sacrifice to tend her.”

After this there was the gradual passing away.

When once the daily move was given up, and the fearful truth broken to the poor wife, Gerald made no more effort, and the life went out of him more quickly than could have been imagined.

Mr. and Mrs. Clifford were summoned, and though the meeting