living. She smiled; it was a smile so faint, and yet so sweet, that the tears rolled slowly down Peggy's cheeks.

Edith raised her head; she looked around bewildered, as if trying to recollect something; then she saw Peggy, she saw her mother, and, clasping her hands, again she said"Thank Heaven!"

Mrs. Maitland's illness had been aggravated by anxious thoughts. The small income saved from the wreck of her former property being inadequate for the support of herself and daughters, she had not shrank from those exertions so painful to a woman who has been nurtured in the midst of luxury, and apparently fenced out from contact with the struggles of life. She had faced her position resolutely, but these means of support her illness had suspended.

The danger was past, and she was now recovering, though still so weak that she knew it would be long before she should be able to resume her labours. She knew also that their means of subsistence had been gradually diminishing; and she was painfully conscious that Edith was making daily sacrifices, in order to supply her with such necessaries as her debility rendered needful.

There was, indeed, but too much cause for this anxiety; the little ready money necessary for the supply of daily wants was almost exhausted. The only friend to whom she could have made known her circumstances with hope of immediate assistance was Miss Horton, and she was absent.

Edith struggled to conceal from her mother what their actual position was, and she made every exertion to appear as cheerful as possible, though there were times when she was sinking from positive exhaustion. To go on much longer in this way would be impossible, for their credit in the neighbourhood was sinking, so that when the weekly bills began to accumulate, the tradespeople became urgent.

"Where is Peggy?" asked Mrs. Maitland, after she had

E

for some time been watching Edith in the performance of sundry little offices contributing to her comfort. "Why does not Peggy do these things? Edith, do not lift that heavy coal-skuttle; do ring for Peggy-do tell her to come." 'Peggy is not at home, mother," said Edith, with some hesitation.

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"Not at home!—gone out again? Why, she was out only yesterday; and on Monday, when I told you to call her, she did not come. What is the matter?"

Edith still hesitated.

"What is all this about, Edith ?" persisted Mrs. Maitland, in a tone of petulance that was quite unusual. "If Peggy is going to behave ill in our trouble, why, it is better that she should go."

Edith remained silent, and, after a pause of some minutes, Mrs. Maitland continued

“My child, we are very poor-we cannot afford to keep a servant; and if Peggy takes herself off in this way, it is better that we should part with her.”

if

"Oh! mother, pray do not speak of parting with Peggy! you did but know—if I were to tell you—"

"What?" interrupted Mrs. Maitland. "Edith, I will not have any concealments-I will know the worst. What has happened?"

"Nothing to cause displeasure with Peggy, but a great deal to cause you useless pain. It's all over now, so pray do not ask."

Edith, I must know-I will know!"

Mrs. Maitland was becoming agitated, and Edith alarmed. "Oh! mother-dear mother," she said, "I can't think how this was led to,-and you to be so agitated! Indeed, it is nothing nothing now; but if you will know, some tradespeople have been clamorous, and our poor Peggy has taken out her little all from the Savings'-bank to satisfy their demands, and this unknown to me till after it was done; and

now, mother, she gets up every morning before five o'clock, that she may finish her work in good time, and then, when she has made preparations for our daily comfort, she goes to a laundress to iron shirts, and brings to me the money that she has earned."

"The faithful creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Maitland, strongly excited, "how could I wrong her with a thought!"

Mrs. Maitland did not speak for some time afterwards. Edith hoped she was asleep; perhaps she did sleep a little, but her waking thoughts were busy.

Though she said she was much better, there was a brightness in her eye and an energy in her manner which did not seem natural. When she was dressed, and supported by pillows on her easy-chair, she called to Edith to come and sit near her. Edith took an ottoman, placed it at her mother's feet, and sat down.

"My child, I know that I have been very ill. I have lost all count of time, and cannot tell how long it is since my illness began. I know, too, that in the delirium I talked ramblingly-perhaps about strange matters. Edith, tell me-did I ever say anything to alarm-to cause you to think—I mean, did I—”

"

Pray, mother, do not let us talk of that dreadful time! I try to forget it-I try to-"

"Then," interrupted her mother, with eagerness, "I did talk wildly? Now, Edith, I beg-I insist on knowing what it was I said."

Mother, dear mother, pray do not agitate yourself thus! what you said was merely the rambling of delirium, and as such I shall ever think of it.”

She spoke with an impetuosity at variance with her usually calm and gentle bearing.

"You did utter strange rambling words sometimes, but they were often too unconnected to convey any meaning;

and once you seized hold of my hand, and told me something very dreadful. All that you had said before, and all that you said afterwards, was in connection with that fearful history."

“Tell me—tell me what it was!" and she fixed her eyes on Edith with an expression of eager inquiry.

"You spoke of having been shut up in a room at the top of a house—of being solitary, and cold, and hungry—of being separated from your children. Then you talked a great deal about having refused to sign a paper. You said how, day after day, you had continued in your loneliness; that still you refused to sign, but that at last you had signed it. Oh! dearest mother, it was dreadful to hear you talk in this way, when I was alone with you in the long nights. Sometimes you would start up in bed, and point in terror to an imaginary person, and you would scream out, 'He's there! -he's there!' It was very dreadful; but, dear mother, it is all over now, and—”

"Edith," interrupted Mrs. Maitland, and she spoke in a calm, firm tone, "what I said in the delirium of fever was true!"

Edith turned very pale, and she asked almost inarticulately, "And that person was

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"Your father!"

Edith rested her head on her mother's knee, and made no effort to restrain her deep emotion. Some time elapsed, and when she looked up her mother was regarding her with an expression of the deepest tenderness and sympathy. Mother," she said, "I have often wanted to know something of my early life, but whenever I have alluded to the subject I have perceived that it gave you pain-I was sure there was some mystery. I can remember, though the remembrance is a shadowy one, a large house and garden, which, I think, was once my home; and I can remember a gentleman-indeed I can, though I must have been so very

young, yet I can remember him coming into a room where I was sitting on somebody's knee; that person put me down on the floor when he came in, and she cried very much. How strange it is that I can recall this, yet forget so much of what passed afterwards! But there are some things which I believe must really have been, though so very long ago that it seems as though they had been in another world."

is

"It is true," said Mrs. Maitland, "that our position now very different to what it once was."

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Mother, if you would but tell me what has caused this change-"

"It is a long and painful history, my child, but while I was lying on the bed from which I never expected to rise, I prayed that I might not die till I had told it to you. My parents had no child but me, their circumstances were affluent, and I was educated with the greatest care and tenderness. They both died while I was yet young; my mother died first, and my father left me to the sole guardianship of Mr. Stafford. The families had been friends of long standing, and had transmitted a sort of hereditary friendship to the children. Mr. Stafford was a person of considerable reputation in the literary world, and had been successful as an author. He was many years my senior. While I continued a child I saw him very seldom; he placed me at a school, and I always looked forward to his visits with more of dread than of pleasure. There was a sternness in his aspect and manner which caused me to fear him.

"When I was seventeen he made efforts to win my affection, and before I was nineteen he declared his purpose to make me his wife. During this interval I had been kept secluded from the world. His vanity was piqued by my coldness, and he determined to overcome my repugnance. At length he succeeded, for I consented to be his, and we were married. We never mixed much in society; he was