He had been gone two months, and my longing for forgiveness was growing so, that I begged and prayed for his return. But I never heard a word of him.

One night after I had gone up to bed, there was a tap at my door. Mary entered; she looked white and frightened, and, somehow, the feeling came over me that perhaps she would have been less nervous had I loved her more.

"What is it, Mary?" I asked quite gently.

"O, Dolly," she said, and broke down-I don't know how it was, but she looked so forlorn that I was struck with tenderness and put my arm round her.

"Are you beginning to love me, then?" she asked.

"I can't help it," I murmured. "O, Mary! can you let me love you, after all?”

"It's not that," she said, interrupting me. "Do you love me well enough to hear something very sad from me. I don't know how things stand between you, but—-—”

"Oh, tell me?" I gasped.

"He is very ill," she said, "he's very ill. O, Dolly, darling!" and she bent over me, comforting me, and went on to say he was still abroad, and lying ill-perhaps dying-of a low fever in Italy, brought on by exposure and carelessness.

We sat up late that night, and I told her everything. I reserved not a word, and, at last, worn out between tears and misery, fell asleep holding her hand, somehow strangely aware I had found the sympathy that I had been telling myself I never could find at home.

Next day, I was ill, and sobbing, "I shall never hear him forgive me now." I gave way to a real misery, very unlike the wretchedness I was used to indulge in. Robert sat by me long, and I thought the old times had come. Truly, they had, with the one addition of the gentlest little nurse that ever lived. I could not understand it all, but I had found loving hands to minister to me, and I found my love went out to them so easily, I wondered what had ever kept it back.

But there was a dreadful grief to be borne, and I lived in a sorrow that I had brought upon myself. The wave of misery that circled me round was kept from drowning me, by the true sympathy that bore me through those deep waters.

Slowly I got better and came downstairs again.

We only heard of George Henley through the doctor, who temporally filled his place, and the accounts, few and far between, were very disquieting. At last, we had not heard anything for a long time; no one seemed to know anything about him, and worn out and weak I had cried, "He is dead-he is dead!" while Mary strove to soothe me, and, at last, persuaded me to go upstairs

and lie down. I fell into an uneasy sleep-when I woke, Mary

was beside me.

"Will you come downstairs, darling?" she said.

Why? I am so tired; let me stay here."

"Oh, you better come down; it's tea-time," and I arose and followed her.

"You have a marvellous influence over me," I said, smiling. "I believe you take a pleasure in twisting me round your finger." Robert met us on the stairs, "Take my arm, little one," he ex. claimed, seeing I was weakly clinging to the banisters; "the wife shall go before to make the tea." Mary sprang down the steps, half singing, and turned at the bottom.

Come along, good people; my visitor will be tired of waiting." "A visitor!" I replied. "Oh, I'd rather not come down." "It's only old what's-his-name," said Bob. "He won't do you any harm."

There were one or two old what's-his names in the neighbour hood, who looked in occasionally; so almost forgetting it, I went down. Robert seized the door-handle, and suddenly stopped. Mary vanished, instead of going ahead to make the tea. I looked at Bob a minute, and exclaimed, "What's the matter?" for the vicar wore his most sabbatic air.

"Dolly, I want you to see the doctor." I had an inveterate dislike to these professional visits, and they always had a difficulty in making me succumb to them." He called, so I said I would send you to him. Go in, there's a dear child !"

"What a nuisance!" I answered, half vexed at having been so entrapped; but Robert had gone after Mary, and I opened the door in a dreamy sort of way.

I went in a step or so, and I think I should have fallen, but some one caught me in his arms, and called me,

"Dolly, darling?"

'George, George !" I gasped, and clung to him, and kissed him, and, crying, said, "Forgive me."

He looked at me with a strange look, "Can you say it yet.” "I love you," I answered very humbly; "but don't you tell me that tell me you forgive me?"

"I'll never say anything but I love you," he replied; "and I'll say that morning, noon, and night, if you like."

I had known what it was to give myself up to misery, and I gave myself up to happiness now; and I sat by him while he told me how it was he was back again, safe and near. y well; how he had fallen ill and grown worse, and slowly grown better, and kept the secret of his coming back that I might not have time to think about it, but that he might know, at first sight of me, whether the prayed. for love had come to life in his absence.

"And it came," I said, "through my getting back my love for Bob, and learning to love Mary."

“There lay the secret," he whispered; and I let him tell me how the one love in its perfection could not exist without the other.

"But say you forgive me the wrong I did you ?" I asked.

"O, Dolly! you are so good to me! What have I to forgive; if there were pain, haven't you buried it for ever in happiness." Then came a tap at the door, and Mary entered.

"Dr. Henley, don't you know constant nourishment is necessary for invalids ?—you unconscionable person, to keep the poor child from her food!"

way.

“Eat, drink, and be merry," said Bob, appearing in the door.

6.

For to-morrow we wed," answered George, with the utmost effrontery.

"That you don't," put in Mary. "Why, the cake's not made!"

THE UNKNOWN GUEST.

BY W. DINSDALE, Author of "Just Too Late."

CHAPTER I.

SAVED.

"AND have you any more complaints to make, Sarah ?" inquired Mrs. Cressy of her cook.

"Yes, marm, I have. Many's the place I've been hin, but never afore I come to you 'ave I been accustomed to be called 'Sairy.'"

"And what should you wish to be called?"

Well, marm, my godfathers and godmothers gave me the name of Miss Sairy Helezabeth Haugustina, and I don't see no reason why that should not be as good as just Sairy."

"Your wants are very moderate indeed," said stout, motherly Mrs. Cressy, wiih as much sarcasm as she was mistress of.

"I trust they go no further," said Miss Hope, glaring at the culprit through her spectacles.

"But I have an instinctive knowledge they do," observed Miss Faith.

The cook's face grew redder.

"Yes! there's another hitem, marm, which is, that you won't hallow your darter to play and sing profane songs in my 'earing. Hever since I were a child I've set my face against himortality.

"Whose hymns do you object to, cook?" asked Miss Faith, who was rather deaf.

"No hymns hat all, Miss Faith, but to himmortal songs, such as Come into the garden, Maud, and--""

"Goodness, gracious bless my heart and soul alive!" ex claimed Miss Cressy in one breath, gazing out of the window. "Lawk-a-daisy me! It's Lucy," said Miss Hope.

"I have an instinctive knowledge she's drowned dead," said Miss Faith.

"Good Lord, deliver us!" ejaculated the pious cook.

There was a noise in the passage, a quick step upon the stairs, and before the quartette had overcome their first astonish. ment, the door opened, and Miss Lucy entered the room.

There she stood, panting with excitement; her beautiful face flushed, and her handsome furs dripping with water. The only child of wealthy Mr. Cressy, spoilt by her mother, by her father, by her aunts, and by everyone with whom she came in contact. The

petulant stamp of the shapely little foot, and the pout of the ripe lips, told you that before she uttered a word.

"Why Lucy, whereever have you been?"
"I have been in the water, of course."
"But are you not hurt, my love?"

"Hurt? yes; can't you see I am in a passion?"

"I had an instinctive knowledge she was in a passion," observed Miss Faith.

'Well, you must change your wet things, or you will catch your death of cold."

"I don't care if I do catch my death; I hope I may, at any rate, I will tell you about it before I untie a single knot," said the young lady passionately.

"I am dying to hear what has happened," said Miss Hope.

"Then this has happened," exclaimed Lucy: "I was skating on the lake, and they were all round me, Harry Malvern, and Sir Hugh, and young Terrance, and a thousand more, flattering me, and pretending I was their guardian angel, and all that sort of thing, till the ice broke, and they left me-me alone, struggling in the water-the cowards, the cowards!" and Lucy's eyes flashed, and she tossed her beautiful head, looking as tigerish as she could, the while.

"My poor girl! my dear Lucy!" sobbed Mrs. Cressy.

"It was no tine for crying, mamma. They skated round and round, gabbering like a cage of monkeys, till I heard a deep voice cry 'Stand aside!' and some one's strong arm sent them flying right and left like nine- pins. Then there was a splash, and the same strong arm was wound around me, and a very threadbare coat it was that covered it, and the same deep voice whispered 'courage,' and I have a faint recollection of a handsome face gazing into mine, but I remembered nothing more.

"And what then, my dear?"

"Then they put me in a cab-not he, but some of those others, and they crowded around, and asked what they could do for me. I told them to get me the address of my preserver. Sir Hugh said the man had disappeared, but a lad told me they called him Grange, and he lived in Mute-street. Then they asked if they might see me bome; and, for reply, I took off my new turban, trimmed with the wild swan's breast, and I tore out a handful of white feathers, and threw them in their faces."

"How very passionate you are, Lucy! I trusted you had learned to curb your temper," said Miss Hope.

"Temper!" echoed Lucy, "I was in a fury; but they blushed as the white feathers flew about them. Bah! the poltroons!" "And the gentleman who saved you,-what about him?" asked

her mother.