disbelieve, yet which he resented with a pain acutely sensitive and jealous.

But she was tender, in her way, to Nora's child; and though the faithful maid who had been left in charge of him felt he might have even been the better without these excitable caresses and worrying attentions, still it was all done in real anxiety for his welfare, and the Squire, in his own weary hours of watching, felt grateful for this one friend left.

It was nominally for the baby's sake that Miss Macnair had taken up her abode at High Sutton; but her real anxiety was for its father, and her keenest sympathy was with him, in spite of unremitting attention to the child, for whom she felt no love.

As, day by day, the boy drooped, Miss Macnair observed a strange change in the father's manner. He grew to literally avoid the child; would stop himself suddenly when in the act of taking him from his aunt or nurses; and would draw back hastily if the little lips sought his-shrinking ever from the child's wistful caress.

The boy reminds him so painfully of Nora,' decided Miss Macnair, musing over this, that he cannot bear even its presence.' But Miss Macnair was far from reaching the truth; for she could guess nothing of the father's sensitive shrinking from these caresses, because he knew the mother was living her sad life without them.

At last this denial, and the sight of his motherless little one sinking day by day, could be borne no longer; and one night, as Miss Macnair left the nurseries, she found the Squire waiting in the dim lobby to receive her.

Caroline,' he said very quietly, standing where no light fell upon his face, will you write to Nora ? Ask her to come-home, and see her boy. In pity, warn her of the change in him, and beg her to come at once. Be kind and compassionate to her, Caroline.'

No answer came from Miss Macnair in her astonishment; but still the letter-containing just his own words-was written, and despatched by the Squire's servant.

Next day Mr. Sutton wandered restlessly about the park; never in sight of the avenue, but still never too far off to catch the sound of the returning carriage which was sent to meet every train; and at last, when the wheels stopped at the door, instead of passing on to the yard, he turned away, as if a great weight were lifted from his mind.

For hours he wandered dreamily among the fallen leaves, picturing Nora there within her old home, with their little one in her arms; drawn by a passionate longing to look once upon her as she sat in her old place, and to comfort. Ah! that was an impossible thought now. What comfort had she gven him when his son lay ill-dying, without his father's blessing? No; she had

now to bear the sorrow he had borne; that was all; but the consciousness of this hour's suffering for her made life seem doubly chill and heavy for him.

The thought was broken abruptly by Miss Macnair, who met him with a startled fear upon her face. 'O Wynter,' she cried,

'go in at once-at once to-'

'To Nora,' he supplemented very softly. I knew she had come ; but she doesn't need me, Caroline.'

'Not Nora,' sobbed Miss Macnair, wringing her hands; 'I mean-baby. It is all over.'

'All over !'

Mechanically repeating the words to himself, Mr. Sutton passed his sister-in-law and entered the house; but his fingers trembled so helplessly upon the handle of the nursery-door that it was many moments before he could turn it.

How many and many a time had he entered the room to see this very picture-his young wife, from her seat beside the little bed, turning with a smile to greet him, while she held her finger to her lips to warn him to silence, because their little one was sleeping. This very picture, as he saw it now, yet something was so different that the poor Squire was fain to steady himself against the door he held before he could advance.

There sat the young slight figure, clad in heavy black; the pale face wearing a smile more sad to see than any tears, as her eyes turned, bright and vacant, to her husband's face. There was the finger on her parted lips, to bid him not to wake the baby; and the other gentle hand lay on the little head-so motionless now.

The room was darkened, yet this picture seemed to burn before the Squire's eyes as he moved slowly towards the little bed.

'Hush! He is dead,' said Nora softly, with the strange smile still upon her lips. See, he lies so still and quiet, and I think he knew me at the last, and—thanked me; or was it Drury? I -forget. I have been with him all the time, night and day. No one has done anything for him but myself that was right, for I was his mother. No; that was your boy-not mine. Where was

mine ?'

'Nora,' entreated the Squire falteringly; but she silenced him gently, with the old lifting of her finger to her lips.

'You sent for me-why? It was too late when I came-too late. You said it was I who sent for you too late--do you remember? Hush! he sleeps so peacefully. You meant me to come in time; I know you did—yes, I know you did. Please to let me sit with him. You will be very kind, because you know what it is to lose a child you love. He died loving and grateful to you; he died even with your name upon his lips; and-just for that once with his last breath it was-he called me mother,

smiling. Ah! he had not smiled for so long, poor Drury!smiling as if he said it was not age that signified, but that I had loved and cared for him, and been just a little to him what his own mother might have been. Are you crying-crying? You! I never saw you cry before. You forget that he was quite happy— forgiven. He said it again and again; he was forgiven, he said, and died in faith-so humble and so steadfast.

'But my darling lay in this dim silence, wondering why his mother did not come; because he must have known how precious he used to be to her-so precious! And when he was weary of wondering, he drew one little gasping breath. How cold it is! Perhaps the angels told him all about it as they carried him; and perhaps they would let him look back to see me here-sitting here with him, though it was too late. And perhaps, even there, he feels what these kisses mean—his mother's kisses.'

'Nora,' faltered her husband, trying to raise her, as she poured her passionate kisses on the little dead face, will you come away from here-with me?'

In one moment she had risen and faced him, her eyes bright and feverish. You sent for me to see my boy,' she said. 'I came only to see him; then I shall go back. In simple pity, let me stay with him, even though I am too late for his eyes to look into his mother's, or his little gentle fingers to close just for once again on hers. No; do not speak to me,' she cried, clasping her head in both her hands when he tried to interrupt her. 'My head is burning, and it is all indistinct and-growing dark, and cold, and—'

One moment more she stood before him. 'O, leave me herealone!' she cried. And, in simple pity, as she had said—in simple pity only, for still, thickly and heavily, between them rose that cloud of suspicion and mistrust-he left her, never seeing how, one moment afterwards, the slight form reeled and fell.

Like a man in a dream, the Squire wandered down-stairs and into his own study; but he started back as if a ghost had met him when he saw a letter lying on the table, addressed to himself in Drury's writing.

'It was among his things,' explained Miss Macnair, looking up for a moment, as she sat quite still beside the fire. Nora brought them, I suppose, considering there was no danger of infection I unpacked them, and that sealed letter was in his desk. I brought it here at once.'

now.

Full keenly, Miss Macnair sat watching her brother-in-law as he read; but she knew he had forgotten her very presence, long before he fell upon his knees and covered his face.

'O God!' he whispered in a low voice of intense contrition, 'punish me.'

All the wisdom Caroline Macnair possessed came to her aid just