he deserves. Now, dear Mary, listen to my plan. I am going to buy Rockstone: already are all the papers. drawn up, and preliminary law proceedings going on, which I do not pretend to understand. I expect Mr. Conroy this evening, to bring them for my signature, when I shall become that important person we have so often talked about, the Lady of the Manor.

Nelson, as you know, is going to complete his engineering studies, and I find we have a good chance of obtaining the appointment he wants in this neighborhood. Accordingly-now don't interrupt me, Mary-I have settled £500 a year upon you as soon as you are married; the interest is to accumulate for you till then; and you shall have a house on an easy lease, for your natural lives, and as many after lives as you like. So you will be near your father and near me, and in your parish, and I shall be your pupil, and you my treasurer, and we shall all be so happy, and such good friends, dear Mary! dear, dear girl, don't cry!"

And Margaret, whose eyes were running over, threw her arm round her friend's waist, who, completely overcome by such an unlooked for change in her prospects, could only weep in reply. They soon grew calmer, however, and could converse soberly: and though Mary's delicacy for some time combated Margaret's generosity, the latter conquered at last, and had never experienced half such pleasure as she felt on hearing Miss Leyden exclaim, with a deep-drawn sigh of happiness, "Oh! what will poor Nelson say?"

Very different was the scene going on within the cottage, where the Vicar was watching the bedside of the dying man. Every comfort had been provided for him by the watchful forethought of Miss Martin, who had obtained carteblanche from her young lady as to the expense; it had been found impossible to remove him; but Bernard gave up his own bed, and a nurse was hired, and blankets and firing, and other necessaries liberally supplied: the wretched sufferer was better cared for than he had been for years, but nothing could allay his torment-tossing on his fevered bed, in all the madness of a wounded spirit. Turning first to one side, then another, flinging out his long bony arms, now across his pillow, now in defiance at some unseen foe; now clasping his aching head, now tearing his breast with his nails-what was the darkness of that old woman's eyesight, to the cloud,

the mist, the impenetrable blackness settling down on that dying bed?

The Vicar sat by him with unwearied compassion: endeavoring to draw his thoughts to heaven, but in vain: he clinched his hands and set his teeth with frantic strength, as if fearful that by a sentence or look he might betray his secret: "the doctor," was the only word that could be wrung from him, and that repeated over and over again, in those hollow feverish tones that once heard are never forgotten. "Has Dr. Dunn been here to-day ?" inquired Mr. Leyden of the nurse.

'No, sir, but we expect him every minute: I think I hear him now."

"Is he coming?" muttered the sick man, rolling his head from side to side, "then I'll soon know the truth."

Dr. Dunn soon made his appearance, but started as he looked at his patient: he felt his pulse, examined all his symptoms, and shook his head.

"Doctor!" said Arnold, clutching his arm, "Doctor! I must have the truth! oh, Doctor, I want to live, and if you'll tell me I shall, I'll be your servant-your dog!" The Doctor hesitated.

"There!" continued the sufferer, pointing to the Vicar, "there! they sent for him, the minister-I know what that means I can't bear it! oh! the truth, Doctor, the truth! shall I live, or die ?"

Dr. Dunn was moved. 66 Now, my poor fellow, you must be quiet, indeed you must."

Arnold gnashed his teeth in bitterness. "Speak out, Doctor! before this grave clergyman, who, if he is what they say of him, will detect you if you lie. Tell me at once, am I dying?"

"You are, my poor friend," said the Doctor, forced against his rule into the acknowledgment, "no power of man can save you, so let me entreat you to make the best use of your time." A dreadful convulsion passed over the frame of the sufferer: he buried his head under the clothes, and his gasping shook the bed; they raised, soothed, encouraged him, all to no purpose: he was struggling with some inward agony, and the conflict was terrific to witness. "It must come out,' he said at last," it burns in my bones, and as you can't hang

a dead man, it don't matter who hears it. I'll tell you what you want to know, Doctor, about that-that boy."

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Stay!" said the Doctor, who, the Vicar perceived, had a case of writing materials in his hand, "there is another person I want to ask you about. Listen to me, Arnold-I will be answered: was William Grey innocent ?”

The dying man glared at him like a caged beast, “William Grey?" he repeated, slowly, "it was Robert you saw with me.'

"Yes, man, I know it was: but who was it that could have cleared his father's innocence, and did not?"

The cold drops rolled down the sufferer's face.

"Oh, my poor friend," said Mr. Leyden, gently and solemnly, "trifle not with the mercy of Heaven! confess at once-make what reparation you can to the living, and throw yourself on your Redeemer's mercy!"

"The living?" repeated Arnold, wildly, "oh ! if he was living, I would, I would! but he is dead! Robert Grey is dead and died by my hand!"

The Vicar started up, but Dr. Dunn's uplifted hand kept him silent. 66 Why did you kill him, Arnold ?" said the

Doctor.

"Because he guessed at my secret."

"And what was your secret ?" persisted the Doctor, bending over him. Arnold laughed frightfully. "That the man for whose murder your fine laws punished William Grey: the keeper, mind you, that was shot, was shot by MacMurdoch, and finished by me! That boy guessed the truth, and I had to silence him too. Aye, you may leave me now, both of you: if you can't cure my body you can't my soul, and since they must both die, leave 'em at least to die in peace."

It was full an hour before any one thought of Margaret and Mary, but they did not remain all that time shivering in the garden: Miss Leyden had plenty to do close at hand; and having left word they would soon return, they went in and out of the cottages and the school, and at intervals walked up and down, conversing on the subjects nearest to their hearts, and never heeded time: till Margaret seeing Dr. Dunn's carriage, grew anxious, and begged to return to the cottage. Dame Bernard was sitting alone, with her hands clasped in prayer. "Hush, children, hush!" she whisper

ed, when they addressed her, "oh hush! this is the gate of death-there's a dark soul departing, and who shall say whither? God give him help in his bitter, bitter need! They are both with him, Miss Mary; his Reverence and the Doctor, and some one else too: I heard a strange step go in; and there was an awful shriek just now, but they have been quiet since. God help him, poor sinner! it's a fearful thing to sit and hear a man die."

At this moment the inner door opened, and the Vicar, the Doctor, and Alfred's unknown friend came slowly out; with the faces of men who have looked on what they cannot

utter.

Who could indeed utter what they had seen? what hand could paint, what tongue describe, the departing of a soul into eternity, with but one passing moment of repentant hope, to illumine a lifetime of sin?

"Your watching is over, Dame," said Mr. Leyden, in a broken voice, "your miserable inmate is dead. Yes, Margaret, he is gone: I trust, I humbly trust, there was a gleam of hope at the last he confessed all that lay on his mind, and I hold in my hand, ample evidence, I hope, to clear the names of two innocent men. Your search is happily at an end, Miss Armadale, for here is Robert Grey !"

Yes, there stood one of the falsely accused: a few years wandering had been all his punishment:-but the other! what compensation could this late acquittal offer to Wilton's broken-hearted Willie ?

Wilton was alone in the nursery: the children were out with their mamma in honor of New Year's Day. She was busily stitching away at frocks and pinafores, as pattern nurses generally are, when a hasty tap at the door made her start, and before she could answer the summons, Margaret entered.

66

Well, nurse, strange things happen you see," said our heroine, taking up the poker, and stirring the fire nervously, "you did not guess you would all be so taken in, did you ?"

66

'No, indeed, ma'am," said Wilton, coloring, "no, indeed, maʼam; and I'm much distressed, ma'am, that I should have taken such liberties as I did."

Yes, you did very wrong, nurse," said Miss Armadale, gravely, "you did very wrong, indeed, in allowing me to sit

down with the children, and warm myself at the fire, and in giving me a delicious cup of hot tea; and, worst of all, in always speaking civilly and kindly to me, and treating me as a lady. A woman of the world like you, nurse, ought to have known better; and when Robert comes home, he will tell you so."

"If he did, Miss Armadale," said the nurse, smiling sadly, "it would be the first bitter word he ever spoke to me yet. I beg your pardon, ma'am, I ought to know better than to trouble you with my stories."

"You are quite right to beg my pardon," said Margaret, abandoning the poker, and curiously examining the chimney ornaments, consisting of two shepherdesses in flowered petticoats, and a china poodle with three legs; "quite right, nurse-whether you get it or not; for you have given me an amazing deal of trouble. I am bent on making you unsay what you have said about Christmas being a sad time for you."

"Ah, ma'am!" said poor Wilton, sorrowfully, "you will never do that, till you have made my memory as empty as my heart."

"I would not do that, if I could, nurse," said the heiress, in a tone of deep emotion, "I would only have you look forward, instead of backward, and if your heart is empty now, prepare to have it filled."

"Did I say empty, ma'am? it was very wicked of me, when I have my God and Saviour always with me, satisfying me with His fulness. I don't complain, ma'am; I don't want to murmur; so please not to speak of Christmas now, for I can't help going back to the past, and its shadow puts out all my light, and I feel it can never burn again!" "It will it does," said Margaret, eagerly, turning her beaming eyes on her humble friend. 66 I say the light does burn, Nurse Wilton; and if you will come with me, I will show it you. It is no jack-a-lantern, nurse, and it is no magic, and no deception-follow me!" And in an instant she was flying down stairs, and Wilton following, trembling in every limb. She overtook the young lady in the passage, and caught her arm, but could not speak.

it ?"

"Nurse," whispered Margaret," are you able to bear

"Oh, what, ma'am?”