bis eyes even at that slight contradiction, and his manner was colder and stiffer than before, as he answered

'Pardon, gracious Fräulein, much has passed of which you are no doubt ignorant, therefore permit me to say you can hardly be a judge. I have done and said that which it was folly to suppose she could either forget or forgive.'

He spoke with the air of a man to whom confession was a new and bitter experience.

Then, however, my tongue was unloosed, and I told him, if not quite all, yet enough.

During the whole interview he had declined to sit down, but stood by the mantelpiece, his head resting on his hand, whilst I talked.

When I had finished he came towards me, and holding out his hand, said, in a husky voice

'God reward you; you have been a true friend to her.'

And yet, strange to say, for all that I think he was disappointed. I think the man, though he hardly knew it himself, would have been happier if there had been more to forgive, if he had not been so entirely in the wrong. He felt the truth of those holy words, 'To whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little,' and he trembled lest her love for him should be dead.

I left him there and went to Valerie's room; it was necessary to finish now the work I had begun. At the door I met my mother.

'She has been asking for you, Rachel; go in to her, but try and keep her quiet; she is delirious, I think; they have sent to Little Stratford for a doctor.'

As soon as she saw me she stretched out her arms. I took her cold, trembling hands in mine, and she drew me towards her, whispering, fearfully

Rachel, I have seen him; he must be dead, he looked so awful! Oh! it has been dreadful!' she gasped. 'Why does he come to haunt me like this at last? he must know that it was all false; surely now he must know!' she moaned.

I held her hands firmly and looked

into her face; then I steadied my voice and chose the shortest, clearest words I could think of.

'Valerie, it is no spirit,' I said; 'it is your husband himself, who is here to ask your forgiveness.'

She looked wild and incredulous, then tried to get up; but she was too weak, and falling back burst into a passion of tears.

I slipped away and sent him to her; then, worn out myself with excitement and fatigue, sat down and cried like an idiot. The doctor came soon after, and I was obliged to go to her room. Her husband was sitting by her holding her hand in his. What between her smiles and tears, it hardly seemed the Valerie I had known.

'Rachel, come in,' she said; 'you know him, I needn't introduce you. Oh! you wicked man!' she laughed, 'you have frightened her, I know you have, Leopold,' she said, with her old, quick perception. I know exactly, he put on the iron mask. You, poor dear Rachel! and you know you must be friends.' She was in a true Bavarian mood, in spite of her exhaustion. Now you must go,' she said in a minute, 'if I am to go to London to-morrow,' and drove him away. When he was gone she threw herself upon my neck. 'Rachel, he is dead!' she whispered, hiding her face; he died in the same hospital where Leopold was sent with his wound, and Leopold nursed him, and when he was dying he confessed that it was all a dreadful lie that he had invented to make him cast me off, knowing that he was helpless and couldn't fight; for once he fought a dreadful duel, and after that he took a vow and made a solemn promise to the Emperor never to fight another. It seems so dreadful, but I can't help being very happy,' she sobbed.

The next morning she got away without seeing any of the guests except one. I went with them to the station; as we turned out of the lodge gates the carriage stopped, and Mr. Sartoris appeared at the window.

'I could not let you go without saying good-bye,' he said, and wishing you a pleasant voyage, and

may I come and see you next time I am in Vienna ?'

Valerie looked troubled and glanced at her husband, leaving it to him to answer. He took her hand in his, and, bowing with cold, grave courtesy, said,

'Any of my wife's friends will be welcome to me in Vienna.'

There was no time for more; the count's servant jumped off the box to tell his master that the coachman said we were already late. Valerie shook hands and we drove on.

'You will come to us in the summer, Rachel?' she said, as the train

was moving off; 'you have promised.'

I often hear from her. They are living on an estate which the count owns in Bohemia. There is never a shadow of unhappiness in her letters. I am going to them in the end of August for the autumn, according to my promise, which I fulfil the more eagerly since she has made friends with Stephanie, and has asked her to come for part of my visit. Pray heaven Mr. Sartoris mayn't turn up; but I think that emphasis on the word 'any' must have settled him.

THAT shall we wear? It is a

WHE

question always under discussion. It is for ever being asked; and it is for the interest of human nature that it should be happily answered: also, it is a question concerning which, justly or unjustly, we have to suffer reproach. Is it true that, as a rule, English women are ill dressed? It is an accusation often enough heard, and hopelessly given in to; yet, if we apply the judgment to a particular class, it is grossly untrue. If, in the London season, you watch those who may be seen every day out of doors in walking or driving costume, with whom to dress well is a duty attached to their position, you will not anywhere find better examples of good taste and costly elegance. In these higher circles' of society you may find all that the most fastidious criticism can require; if there are exceptions they are among known eccentricities, and they can be accounted for: but these people have the command of money, they live under a necessity that prescribes propriety in dress, and even great splendour of costume, and what they are to wear, is a question of such magnitude as to require the advice of recognized councillors.

Immense prices are paid to dressmakers, not for sewing seams, or using scissors, but for the judgment

that results from the education of their eyes and the refinement of their taste; these great artistes are paid for making every customer look her best.

To take the entire management of her dress is generally a task beyond the power of a lady in the midst of the worry and work, the toil and trouble of a London season. The gowns required for evening wear are so various, the dresses for daylight must be so many, the head-gear for such a multitude of occasions so skilfully chosen, that she must live under instruction; she must have her prime minister in the fashionable dressmaker, and her next in council the clever waiting-woman, who reminds, suggests, sorts, and considers; who keeps up a vivid remembrance of what her mistress has worn, and where she has worn it; with knots in her memory as to who were there-a mental labour which must not end with the season. Of course there is a terrible list of finery that cannot survive at furthest beyond its second night; but other costumes last longer. By-andby, in the round of the country houses, the perfect handmaiden will take care that the blue brocade shall not be worn where the spiteful Lady X-, who never forgets anything, may see it and smile, because in London she has seen it