nition of me had been all pain, all anguish; he had yet to utter the first word, give the first glance, of pleasure. I thought of all my doubts, of all that had pained me, as I had watched his goings out and comings in. I thought of Naomi Emlyn. I knew that the note, even now in the pocket of my apron, was addressed to her. I had indeed been an unwelcome apparition. It was his deep and unforgetting nature made him so strongly moved at sight of me. Perhaps he had only recently made up his mind to believe me dead, and to fill my place, and this was the moment I had chosen to come back. It was torture to have all these thoughts, and stand beside him, and feel his faint fingers clasp my hand.

"It agitates you to see me," I said, constrainedly, and I loosened my hand, and drew a little back. It wasn't a difficult matter to do; I couldn't see that he made any effort to hold it longer. A swift red overspread my face, as I turned a little from him.

At this moment I heard outside the door, steps and voices and the bumping of a trunk against the floor, then a loud rap. I sprang forward, caught up the cap and apron from the floor, and disappeared from sight. I heard the door open as I hurried through the closet. The expressman and the laundress had not had the good manners to wait till they were told to enter. It was well for me that I had heard them when I did.

IT

CHAPTER XXXI.

A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE.

"Kiss me for my love!
Pay me for my pain!

Come! and murmur in my ear,

How thou lov'st again!"

Barry Cornwall.

T was about eleven o'clock the next morning that one of the servants brought me a note from Mr. Conyngham. Of course, I had known he would come, and was prepared for it. I read it hastily over, and told the servant to say I would be glad to see him.

Yes, I was quite prepared to see him. I was dressed-not in a cap and apron. There are some scenes you can't go through in a short dress, and mine was long. It was only a black cashmere, but it didn't look like Mary's. I had a bunch of violets at my waist; I had spent an hour about my hair, which hadn't any gray in it at all, but was as soft and brown

as ever.

The snow was falling outside thickly before the windows--great, soft flakes, which darkened the air. The hangings were drawn back a little; the room had a great many flowers about it; there was a warm glow from the fire on the hearth. The room was large, but the ceiling was not high. It looked filled and warm and mellow with rich tints. I pushed a chair I liked

between the fire place and the window, and sat down there. I was knitting the pale gray stripe of an afghan, and I kept my work in my hand. There was a quick knock at the door. I said, "Come in," and Macnally entered. I got up, and he came across the room to mne, and took my hand. He looked pale, but not ill, as he had done the night before. I sat down, saying:

"You are better, I am sure, to-day?"

There was no use ignoring last night, though I should have been glad to do it, if I could. If I could only have remembered what I had said to him when I threw myself down before him on my knees! It would take a very long dress and a very composed manner to obliterate that miserable mistake.

"I'm afraid," he said, "I gave you some anxiety last night. It's unlucky that I get those attacks when I have any sudden-surprise or anything."

"I should think," I said, looking down at my knitting, "that if you have any trouble of the heart or anything like that, you ought to be careful and avoid excitement. Speaking, and all that, isn't it bad for you?"

"You mean for the excitement of it? Oh, that's not the sort of thing that hurts one-," and he smiled a little faintly.

He did not sit down, but stood leaning against the mantel-piece, just beside me. He had an affinity for mantel-pieces. I seemed always to remember him standing by a mantel-piece and looking at the fire. But he was not looking at the fire now, he was looking at me, I could feel that. I tried to think of something to say. I had meant to be so calm, so reassuring to him. I had meant to make it so easy for him to explain everything to me. But here I was, changing from red to white, and my

breath coming in such a suffocating way. He did not speak. It seemed to me he might have spoken, he might have helped me; one ought to feel sorry for a woman. I went on with my work. What should I have done without it? At last I remembered something to say it was the thing that gave me most control.

"Oh, that letter. I hope it won't make any difference. I just found it this morning in the pocket of— in my pocket. Here it is," and I took it out and gave it to him. He took it indifferently.

"It's just as well,” he said.

difference now."

"It doesn't make any

There would

No, of course not. I could see that. have to be such a different story now, it was just as well it didn't go. But I must help him about that. How should I begin?

I pulled a long thread of the worsted off the ball, to knit more freely. It slipped through my fingers as I laid it in my lap, and rolled away across the floor. He did not notice it or pick it up. I did not dare to go after it myself, I was so afraid of losing the little self-control of manner that I had. All this time I did not look at him, but I felt he leaned a little towards me. In a moment he laid his hand upon my wrist, and held it firmly.

"Put down your work," he said, in a low voice, "and look at me. Have we nothing to say to each other, after all these years?"

I drew my hand away. "I hope you will forget last night," I said.

"Why should I forget it?" he asked.

"There were many things to-to-make me-You

must remember a woman will do a great deal from compassion. I shall always feel I owe you reparation— but that doesn't mean--"

He had released my hand, and stood in his former attitude, and did not attempt to say a word. It was insupportable this silence, and his eyes upon me.

"That shade," I said confusedly, "I want it down. The light hurts my eyes."

He did not notice what I said; I don't think he heard me. I got up uneasily, to go and pull it down myself. As I stood up, I turned a little towards him; I glanced into his face; I met his eyes, full of an agony of love and disappointment.

"Ah," I cried, "you do care! Why could you not say that you-were-glad?" Then, with a sudden passion, I flung myself into his arms with sobs. "I will not live any longer if you go away again. I have borne all I can bear. I have died a hundred deaths. You may kill me if you go away again. I will not-will not -live to suffer any more alone."

* * * Why could he not say that he was glad? Ah, "glad" does not come in a moment, after such long-dying deaths. I think he held me in his arms with more of agony than joy at first. The pain had been so deep-branded, a sudden bliss could not obliterate it.

* * * "Make me glad-make me believe in it," he said, faint again, lying back in a deep chair, and holding out his hand to me. Then I knelt beside him, and held his hand against my lips, my cheek.

"If I could only blot it out," I said; "if you only could forget-"

"I cannot," he said; "I cannot forget the pain or anything. It is my misery that I cannot."