"But he must enter on it!" said Mark, with warmth; "and he must permit such steps to be taken as Mr. Horton may deem to be necessary."

The recent shock had had the effect of paralysing Mr. Kingley's faculties; his memory was impaired; it was very difficult to rouse his attention, and when roused, he seemed either unable or unwilling to comprehend what was said to him. He had never mentioned Helen's name since his wife's death, nor made any allusion to the circumstances. When Mark urged the necessity of taking measures for Mr. Gosport's apprehension, he remained silent, and there was a firm compression of the upper lip, which told him. the Justice's resolve was immovable. When Mark spoke unreservedly of Mrs. Mitten, he interrupted him—

"I wont hear a word!-there is some strong prejudice, I have known Mrs. Mitten twenty-one years, and I wont hear a word against her!" And he abruptly left the

room.

You see how it is," said the Captain; "in my uncle's present state it is impossible to say anything on the subject, and no power on earth could relax the firm compression of that upper lip. So, as we have not yet any evidence against her that will stand good in law, we must for the present let her alone; but as for Mr. Gosport, every means must and shall be taken to secure him. If my uncle is not able to act himself, I, as his representative, will act for him, and I will write to Mr. Horton to that effect."

Some weeks after this there was a great change in the establishment at the Manor-house. The Captain was summoned to join his regiment, and Jemima, unable to contend with Mrs. Mitten, had returned home. The coachman and footman were sent away, and the valet, on some trivial pretext, was dismissed also. Only such servants as Mrs. Mitten

willed were retained; and the Justice, under the dominion of this artful woman, gradually became as powerless as wax. Jemima had seen all; but the Justice was obdurate; he would not listen to a word, and Mrs. Mitten reigned supreme.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"A LETTER from Edith!" exclaimed Miss Horton, and, hastily tearing open the envelope, she read the letter, threw it on the table, and darted up with an expressive "Oh!"

"This will do the crisis is approaching. Edith says she is to make her début before a London audience at the Hanover Square Rooms, and before then she will have time to recruit a little. And, my dear," turning to Helen, "I have a little project for both of you; and Edith being at liberty just at this time is very fortunate."

"Oh! dear madam," said Helen, "my heart so overflows with gratitude for all your kindness-all your consideration, that it is too full for words; words so coldly express what I feel to you and Mr. Horton that-" Helen could say no more, she burst into tears.

"This wont do at all, my dear;" and, when Helen had a ltttle recovered herself, "listen to what I've been planning for you. In the first place you must tell me, do you like the sea ?"

"The sea!" exclaimed Helen, and then the remembrance of Scarborough, and some of its associations, rushed to her memory-"the sea! oh yes!"

"That's well," continued Miss Horton; "and now for my little plan. I have taken a small cottage at Herne Bay for three months; now, as I shall not be able to leave London at present-quite impossible-I am going to send you to keep

house for me till I can go down-don't interrupt me," and she moved her hand to prevent Helen's expressions of gratitude. "Well that's the first thing; the second is that I've engaged Peggy to go with you; and the third"—she darted up and took a tour of the room, then she stopped abruptly before Helen, and, with a quick, sharp bend of her little erect body—" the third is, that I mean Edith and Mrs. Maitland to go there also."

"Edith! my mother!" Helen rose as she spoke, and clasped her hands with an expression of delight.

"There!" said Miss Horton, looking very much pleased at the pleasure she had given. "Dr. Murphy says there's nothing will set you up like sea air, and the sooner you have it the better. Now, as to when Edith and your mother will be able to join you, I don't quite know. Let me see"-and she took up the letter again-" there's to be a concert on the 19ththat is a fortnight hence; you can't wait till then-you must go at once."

The transient sunshine on Helen's countenance was goneit was overshadowed by a cloud. Miss Horton was quick to notice it; it vexed her, and she said sharply

66

all."

Quite impossible! you can't wait for them-wont do at

"It was not that I was not thinking of that—” she hesitated.

Miss Horton looked puzzled.

"It is," at length continued Helen, "it is that Edith—that my mother knows not how unworthy I am, how undeserving of their I mean the-the letter!"

"I'm sure," said Miss Horton, abruptly, "you've paid enough for that; they could not be so cruel as to-quite impossible!"

"It was not of them that I thought-it was of myself. I must confess—I must ask their forgiveness. I must—I must! -this heavy weight will never be lighter till I have done so. I must write."

"Wont do at all; neither your mother nor Edith know anything of the events at the Manor-house. It would upset Edith, and she would not be able to sing; you must wait till they come to London-time enough to tell them about it then, and afterwards Edith will be able to recruit at the sea." 66 But may I not write, and leave my letter with you? I could not meet her—indeed, indeed, I could not-till I was sure that she knew all !"

"No objection to that, but you must not hurry yourself -that will never do!" and Miss Horton darted off.

Helen withdrew to her own room, and there she wrote that confession to Edith, which, if she had written at the first promptings of conscience, would have spared much of the misery, the self-condemnation and humiliation she had so long endured. The letter lengthened into a packet. She detailed the trials incident to her position at the Manor-house. She did not spare herself. She dwelt on the deep contrition which, when her better feelings prevailed, had urged her to confess what she had done; how she had struggled for the moral courage to do so; and how, when she came to the point, that courage had still been wanting. In conclusion she said:" But the pangs of self-reproach were for ever gnawing at my heart. In most trials there is hope, in most trials there is refuge; but there was none for me; I shrank from confessing my fault-how then could I be at peace with my own heart? how could I turn for refuge to my God? Confession is the first step to peace-already do I feel the healing balm entering my soul, and now I may turn to Him for pardon. You, my sister, will compassionate my sufferingsyou will grant me your forgiveness, and then I shall be at peace."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

It was some weeks in advance of the season, and Helen and her attendant were the only passengers landed at Herne Bay. The pier extends far into the sea. Peggy had gone down with the luggage, and Helen remained watching the retreating vessel till the smoke had blended with the atmosphere.

The day was bright and sunny-not a sound was to be heard but the echo of her own footsteps—not a vessel on the sea— not a sign of living thing. There stood the clock tower, that lofty dwelling-place of time, presiding over the waters. It struck four o'clock-that and a windmill in motion were all that betokened living beings must be near. It was a desolate place-houses in ruins, with the light streaming through the vacant windows-grass-grown pavements and unfinished plans of streets. But what was that palace-like building near to the beach? There was a row of houses; the windows glittered in the sunbeams, but no smoke ascended from the chimneys. Are they, too, deserted?

Helen felt as though she were approaching a city of the dead; she lingered on the pier till Peggy wondered what her dear young lady could be thinking about. Meantime, she had been indulging in thoughts of her own, and these were that "everything looked very dull like." Not a single visitor was on the bay; the last summer's gossip had long been exhausted, and the wintry torpor which succeeded had not yet been dispelled. The cottage was near the sea, and the comforts within tended in no small degree to reconcile Peggy to what she called "the dreary look-out."

When the twilight was gathering, Helen went down to the beach the same stillness prevailed, and she walked till the twilight thickened into night, and then the moon arose.