I am dead in a dead world. The world was all so beautiful to me, a web of colour, a fountain of sweet scent, its air all music. And then one day you smiled on me, as you are smiling now; and perfume, song, and colour rushed together, and were one-were you; they found one exquisite form, and it was yours; and love found a language in your eyes.

You held my heart in your hand, and you have frozen it. And you have killed truth too. I can believe no more; and you have made me lie. When I am away from you, I comfort my soul with lies, and find torture. I prove to myself that you love me. I have a thousand unmistakable proofs. Oh, I can argue with a fine subtlety. Í explain to myself your every word, your slightest look. I show myself why I may be sure that I am loved. These are all lies. I am never deceived. I know that you are cold to me, as the grave will be cold. I know that you would play with me, and crush me, as this rose under my heel, when you are weary of me. I know you. I have judged you.

Cl. And condemned? My Florio, look in my eyes, and tell me I am condemned. Look at me.

Fl. I will not. I know your power.

Cl. Why should I hurt you? Fl. For knowledge. Mine is the loving heart, and yours the surgeon's knife. You are cold and curious.

Cl. Cold on this night! I think it is the beating of warm hearts that makes this pulse of the air. And what if it be true?-what if I cannot love?—should you not pity me? Pity me, my Florio.

Fl. You did not pity me.

Cl. I almost love you for your scorn of me.

Fl. Yes, you can almost love. I pity you.

Cl. I am tired of men's praises. Give me more blame But no! Sing to me.

Fl. That you may laugh again. Cl. There will be no laughter. Sing before you go

Fl. I am to go, then? Cl. All good things go. Sing me your song of Death and Love.

Fl. It was the first song I ever sang to you that spring day on the island.

Cl. I remember. For my sake, Florio! Sing it to me now. (He begins to murmur the song, but she stops him.) Louder and clearer, Florio. Let the night hear it all.

that song?

Fl. To please you.

Cl. To please me; yes.
Fl. What do you mean?

Cl. It is my signal to Duke Angelo.

Fl. What if he find you dead? Cl. Put up your dagger. You dare not use it.

Fl. If I struck here, here in my heart, I should feel no more. You know me you know I dare not strike. You have killed courage in me, as you killed faith, and hope, and love. There, take my dagger at your feet. God pardon you.

(He leaps from the balcony. She leans her bosom on the edge and looks into the water below.)

Cl. Will he drown? No. There,

I knew it.

They do but sing of death.

O Venice, mother of mine, what think you of the brood of men that crawl upon your waters? Dukes and fishermen, blowers of glass or breathers of song, they are all men -and that's the pity. Florio has sung, and Angelo has heard his song. How sharply the black gondola severs itself from the darkness of the low archway! So death might steal from the shadows. It seems as I had seen this thing long ages since in some dead world. More music! (From the canal rises the Duke's voice singing the song of Florio.) Ah me, but I am tired of that song! (She tosses him the rose, which Florio's heel had crushed, and so begins to laugh again.)

CLIFFORD rushed off to Waterloo and took train for Rainham. As he hurried from the station he met Hilda coming towards him. It was in the public road they met, bordered by little villas. A railway porter was strolling home to his dinner; an empty fly was returning slowly to the station. All was prosaic around as this romance was being played out before the unconcerned passers-by. The only embrace possible for him was to take her outstretched hands as her eyes met his, timidly, yet suffused with love. "Where were you going?" he said.

"To meet you. I knew my letter would be delivered at eleven. So I thought you would catch this train."

No more was said. He could see the traces of past emotion in her face, but it now shone with love for him, calm and modest love. Having yielded, she would not make the sacrifice a grudging one, whatever it might have cost her. She placed her arm in his, and they turned and walked back together. Clifford was too joyous to speak.

When they reached her cottage, he stopped involuntarily. "Let us go on to the river, Robert," said Hilda; "let us take the walk we walked the other day."

"So be it; you are wisest and best, in this as in all things. I, too, should like to efface the impressions of that day. I felt as if I should never be able to bear the sight of that reach of the river again. I daresay, too, your modest larder would hardly furnish luncheon for a guest. Let us walk on to the Angler' and get some luncheon in the arbour there, on the river

ness as

The day was fine, the air cool after the storm of Sunday; the peaceful river-scene never looked more smiling than on this afternoon as the lovers strolled along the bank. Cautiously, as if still hardly daring to feel certain that his prize was won, Clifford gradually unfolded his plans. His first impulse had been to carry off his bride at once; but reflection while coming down in the train had brought him to a different view. Hilda should not appear to be flying away. She had no friends or relatives to consult, but still all should be done in orderly fashion, without the semblance of haste or flight. And Hilda appreciated her lover's thoughtfulhe explained his proposals. This was Tuesday. Could Hilda arrange to have her modest trousseau ready by Saturday? Not much was needed, as they would stop at Paris; but her little bills at Rainham had to be settled, and the cottage must be placed in charge of a house-agent, Martha being relegated to leave of absence on board-wages till Captain Reid's pleasure regarding her future should be ascertained. Clifford for his part would have plenty to do in winding up his affairs. Fortunately his mode of benevolence did not commit him for the future, but the various new projects which had been in contemplation must be stopped. Some time would elapse before the trustees would cease to stop paying his full income, but from this time he

should limit his drawings to the portion which would now legally continue to be his. Another place must be found for Jane; Simmonds was to be allowed indefinite furlough; the chambers were to be shut up and placed in charge of the porter.

The mixture of business and lovemaking involved in discussing these arrangements Clifford found exquisitely pleasant. Certainly the time passed quickly. "If we only had pen and ink here, Hilda," said he, "you should draft all my letters to the different people I have to write to. I shall now have to write them all myself, and what a lot there are! A truly doleful prospect! four whole days with no private secretary to help me!"

Only when Clifford made Hilda take the money for her wants did she betray her feelings. "I have enough to pay for everything," she said, pushing back the hand with. its gold and notes. "I owe only a trifle in the village, and I can put off buying things till"

"This is no gift, Hilda, it is your money. But stay, let us be business-like. Here is your half-quarter's salary still due, and a further quarter's salary payable because you have been dismissed from your appointment without notice. Let us make out the exact amount, and you shall give me a receipt for it." And working out the sum on the back of a letter, he counted it out. "There, now we are square, my private secretary is dismissed!" Then they walked back again.

When they reached the cottage gate there was again a stop, and a hesitation.

"Will you not come in?" she said, as they stood looking at each other; "Martha shall make you some tea. I know you like your afternoon cup of tea."

"You are too good to me," he replied, looking wistfully at her;

Write to

"but my next cup of tea shall be made by you, without any other agency. No; I tear myself away till you are really mine. me if you want help in anything; but if not, we meet on Saturday evening at the Victoria Station." He was bending forward to kiss her, but a foot-passenger was coming down the lane; he could merely press her hands, and giving her one fond look, and saying, "Till Saturday," set off for the station radiant with joy.

And yet his happiness was not altogether unalloyed. Although Clifford was now in a state of excitement quite foreign to his usual disposition, he could not but know in his heart that he was guilty of deceiving the woman he loved. In explaining his position, and the bonds in which he was held by his father's will, he had not told her the whole truth; and in keeping back a part, he had, his conscience told him plainly enough, been saying what was false. It was not true that there was no alternative between remaining unmarried and surrendering the whole of his fortune. A third course was open to him, by which he might both save a remnant of it, and yet be free hereafter to marry as he pleased. But hereafter-not at once; and the period designated involved so long a waiting as in his present state of feeling it seemed impossible to endure. More than once, indeed, as in his journey back to town, dwelling on the past meeting, and recalling the look of resignation he had noticed at times on Hilda's facewhich showed him plainly, even if he had not known it from what passed before, at what a cost she had brought herself to the sacrifice she was going to make for his sake he felt an impulse from his better nature to turn back and

tell her the whole truth. But he

could not bring himself to make an avowal which he felt sure must put off their union into the indefinite future; for he knew well that, although he had gained her heart, if the option were now given her of making wedlock possible, even at the cost of many years' delay, Hilda would appeal to his generosity to release her from the promise she had now been induced to make-nay, more, that she would insist on it: she would not be his Hilda if she did less, and he could not bring himself to so much selfdenial. Selfish love had for the time the mastery of him. Nor was there wanting, as there seldom is wanting when the heart inclines to

After

baseness, a plausible excuse. all, was it not too late to go back! Welcome though release would be to her, would she not despise him for having all this while been deceiving her? Might she not even spurn him altogether, and so be lost to him for ever? And he could not bring himself to face the possibility of such a blow. The mischief, then, was done already, and could not be undone. After all, she need never know of this condition. But as he finally came to this resolve, his conscience told him that if she did ever find out his treachery, she would never forgive him; at any rate, that he would deserve not to be forgiven.

Clifford's continued absence from Charles Street was naturally ascribed by his aunt to the discovery which she fancied she had made. His marriage having been found out, as she supposed, he would of course be ashamed to face his relations, and could hardly do otherwise than stay away and await the consequences of the discovery; and if Mrs. Scallan had been still alone she would have set about taking some steps to pursue the matter further. But it was not the good lady's habit to take the initiative in anything while her husband was at hand, and he was just now so preoccupied with his own affairs that it was impossible to interest him in anything else. On the only occasion when she tried to broach the subject, he had repulsed her even more savagely than usual; and, indeed, she was herself so much absorbed in watching him that she had little time to think about her nephew; while Blanche, who had her own reasons for keeping silence on the subject, displayed an equal indifference

when her mother referred to it. Mrs. Scallan saw very little of her husband during this time. He was absent for the greater part of the daytime, and often till late at night, and when at home he was generally closeted with strangers. He would breakfast alone before his wife and daughter were up, and the family seldom met except at dinner, when he would drink so hard as to be unfit for conversation afterwards. Mrs. Scallan had often known her husband in difficulties, but she had never seen him like this before. He used always to be cheery and hopeful at such times; and, in fact, whatever temporary eclipses he had suffered at various periods of his career, he had always emerged more confident and appar ently more prosperous than ever. But now his buoyant manner had forsaken him except in his cups, and, even after drinking, his sleep was uneasy and disturbed. Perhaps the poor wife learnt more of his affairs then than he imparted to her when awake.

She felt it to be a very bad