Louis and Milla! Mrs. Cameron expected both-talked of both. Each mention of their names in conjunction was like a wound to Lissa's consciousness. She could not endure it. Besides, her mother must soon know that such a thing was not to be, as their returning together; and it would be best to prepare her for the fact. So one day Lissa said to her, very gently,

แ

Mother, if Milla comes home, Mr. Dassel will not be with her. He has done things which make him an outcast. Father will have no-communication with him."

upon me. I am resolved never to marry; and never to leave them. This is my final determination; and I shall be annoyed if you refer to the subject again." "It's hard on a fellow-" began Sam.

66

“May I give you a piece of advice?" interrupted Lissa.

"Why, yes. Advice is said to be cheap."

"It is to offer what you have offered me-your heart, hand, and fortune,--to another young lady that I know of, and who is sweet, beautiful, and talented,— who would prize your heart, be proud

"I think she will come. At least, we will prepare for her."

The days were brief and bitter cold, the evenings long and lonely. Mrs. Grizzle would persist, in her goodnatured way, in being a "comfort" to her neighbors. Unwelcome as her intrusions sometimes were, they were wholesome, and the dreary little household would have fared ill without them.

Sam, too, happened upon one more opportunity to urge his suit, and again opened his mouth and spake.

"Why couldn't you a' said No, out and out, the first time?" he asked, reproachfully, when Elizabeth put a stop to his eloquence. "I had no idea you'd trifle with a fellow, Miss Cameron,-I hadn't, indeed. I built high on your takin' several days for an answer."

"There's where I did wrong, Mr. Grizzle," she said; "and I am glad to have an opportunity to acknowledge it. The truth is, that I came very near accepting you. I did place a camelia in my hair, the evening of Miss Bulbous' party, but it dropped out. I am glad it did. That chance has saved us both much unhappiness. For I did not wear it because I had made up my mind I could love you, but because I was not contented at home, and wished to go away. Then, my parents did not seem to need me, as I expected that Milla and Mr. Dassel would always live with them; now, you see how dependent they are

blessing."

"For the land-sake, who can she be?" "You can easily discover it, if you set about it."

"Camille Bulbous?"

"No; she doesn't need your money. Not but that you might have her, for all I know to the contrary. But if I were to choose a wife for you, I should prefer the other. She is amiable, and she loves you.”

"Who is it?" cried Sam, eager, and well-pleased.

"She has dark hair and eyes, and is not rich."

"Do you mean Miss-"

"Sho! she ain't in love with me! I asked her to have me, long before I saw you, Miss Cameron, and she wouldn't."

"But she has changed her mind. The fact is, you have improved, vastly, Mr. Grizzle, and she is sensible of it. You remember, I was over at your house, the other day, when she came in. I saw, in a few moments, that she loved you. But, of course, she's not going to say so, until you ask her. I like her very much. Your mother is greatly attached to her, I can see. It is true, she has not money, like Camille Bulbous; but think, Mr. Grizzle, what a pleasure it will be to confer every thing upon her, to be conscious that you have surrounded her with comfort and luxury."

"That's so!" said Sam, delighted. "Will you promise me to think it over?"

“Well, y—yes!"

"Ask your mother, too. I believe her advice will agree with mine. Your mother is rather fond of style; but Miss Bayles will be as stylish as any of them as soon as she becomes Mrs. Grizzle. Don't you see how pretty she is growing? All she wants is handsome clothes to make her a belle."

in an asserting voice.

"Try it, and see."

"If I thought she was really in love with me, I should hate to disappoint her."

"Well, you ask her the next time you see her. That will be the shortest way to find out. She's a sweet girl, and a lady, Mr. Grizzle; and if you marry her, you must love her with all your heart."

"It's a cunning way of getting rid of me," soliloquized the young gentleman, as he wended his way home. "But it isn't a bad idea, after all. Miss Bayles was my first love, and she might as well be my last. If ma's suited, I am.”

So Miss Cameron saved herself by providing her adorer with another ladylove.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE BREAKING OF THE GOLDEN BOWL.

THE Snows of winter lay over our country neighborhood. Miss Bulbous, despairing of Sam, was said to have engaged herself to a Southerner, whose acquaintance she had made at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where she and her father were now stopping. The fine carriages, the gilt buttons, prancing horses, and coats-of-arms, had many of them disappeared from the railway-station. The fashionable country was in the city. Even Mrs. Grizzle was talking of shutting up Rose Villa, for a couple of months, immediately after New Year's.

The beautiful white-winged ships, too, no longer hovered over the blue river, which had drawn its coverlid of ice above it, and was sleeping a sleep disturbed by dreams of summer, if one were to judge by the sighs and soft

tial presents, as well as some dainties which were of no greater worth than to make the children's eyes dance and their mouths water, and their little hearts beat high for one bright hour.

During all these festivities a shadow had brooded over one house. For the first time since its walls came together there was no Christmas merry-making in the home of the Camerons. What could those two desolate women do, who sat there, watching the wintry clouds and listening to the wintry wind, awaiting, they knew not what fresh blow of misfortune? The joyous brother far away, the father still absent on his melancholy errand, the "flower of the family" blooming or perishing in some unknown atmosphere: they could do nothing but that dreariest of all things-sit and wait.

Mrs. Grizzle had tried hard to persuade Lissa into attending her Christmas party. It made her heart ache to see the young girl so pale and quiet. But Lissa could not think of meeting strangers, of entering into any pleasure, while that cloud of disgrace and sorrow drifted up from her horizon, as yet unperceived by others, but of whose coming she had received sure warning.

It was the Wednesday before the New Year, which would come in on Saturday. The two ladies sat, sadly musing, before the open fire in the library. After a long silence, the mother spoke.

"Do you remember, Elizabeth, how we made the fire here, the first time this season, for fear she would be chilly when she came in from that ride?"

"I was just thinking of it, mother. Sometimes, very seldom, I used to get tired of waiting upon her and humor

"How lovely she was that night!" continued Mrs. Cameron, almost in a whisper. "How little we dreamed that she was a bride! Her eyes were like stars! Evidently, she was very happy; she did not realize that she was doing wrong by such concealment. Louis influenced her as he would a child."

“I think we kept her too much of a child, mother; she was never held closely to the responsibility of her actions, as another would have been. We were too indulgent-loved her too much."

The mother sighed, wearily.

"Elizabeth, if I could know where my child was, and that she was safe and content,-that she had no reason to repent the step she has taken,-I would gladly die this day."

“Oh, mother, do not talk so! Has not our father claims upon you, and your other children?"

"Yes, Lissa; but she was to meʼwhat Benjamin was to Jacob,-not really my youngest, yet always my baby, whom I could not let go from my bosom. Hark! who is that?"

"Do not disturb yourself, mother. Susie Grizzle, perhaps, upon one of her good mother's errands. I will step into the hall."

"It gives me a shock, every time the door-bell rings!" murmured Mrs. Cameron, sinking back into her chair, and pressing her hand to her heart, whose violent palpitation was painfully visible under the folds of her shawl.

In a moment or two Elizabeth returned with a long strip of paper which she had taken out of a yellow envelope.

"It is a telegraphic message from father."

"Is with him!"

"Oh, thank God!"

"But she is ill,-' very ill,' the mes sage reads, and we must have every thing in readiness for her comfort. They will be here to-night, at seven o'clock; the carriage must be at the station.' Here, mother, dear, dearest mother, do not cry! Was I not just saying what a blessing it would be to have our darling again to wait on? She is ill; but we will make her better. It will be such delight to have her making her little demands upon us again! What shall we do first, mother? It is four o'clock now."

"Let me shed my tears first, Lissa, that I may not weep so much to-night. I will be quiet presently. Go, do what is necessary."

"Let us prepare a bed on the sofa, here, and draw it up before the fire. This was always her favorite room.”

"Yes, she will like to be here, I know."

"And beg the loan of Mrs. Grizzle's carriage. It is more comfortable than ours; we can shut out the sharp wind from it. I wish the wind would not blow so fiercely; it will be so cold for her!"

"Tell Dinah, Lissa, to have a nice supper prepared. She remembers well what were Milla's favorite dishes."

"Yes, Martin will be so glad, too. All our servants have missed Milla." "They could not help but love her." "She was so gentle and dependent." Thus with strophe and antistrophe did mother and sister sing the praises of the absent darling, a mournful undertone in all their gladness, for they feared as much as they hoped, while they hastened to prepare for her return.

The night swooped down suddenly, bleak and windy. Every branch of the noble trees on the lawn moaned and tossed; wild, wailing voices of the wind whispered or shrieked at the shutters;

"And Milla?"

mass of molten gold, from which, occasionally, would leap a little jet of flame,

sending a warm glimmer over gilt bindings of books and picture-frames. The improvised couch was steeping itself in pleasant heats; a tiny pair of slippers were warming on the rug, a decanter of choice wine stood on a table; Mrs. Cameron, wearing a new dress in honor of the occasion, smiling, but very pale, fidgeted with a book, and tried to read, while her strained ear only listened for the expected whistle of the locomotive. Lissa was in the carriage, her arms full of wraps, sitting down by the dreary little station, listening to the moaning wind, with a heart heavy with foreboding.

How long it was until seven o'clock ! But the hour struck at last, the train rushed in, and paused; she saw by the glimmering lamplight her father and Sabrina descend from the cars, bearing in their arms the long-familiar burden. Martin opened the carriage-door, and the next moment Milla lay in her arms, speechless, but clinging to her with a feeble clasp, while her father placed the wraps about her.

"Go very gently, Martin," he said, as he and the nurse entered. "She is nearly exhausted by the long journey." Very gently the carriage rolled over the snowy road to the old home. Milla tried to raise her head when the wheels stopped; but it sank again. She could see little of the old trees, the leafless rose-vine, the familiar porch, as strong arms lifted her out, bearing her through the lighted hall, into the dear old library, into the presence of home and mother.

"Milla, my darling!"

She saw her mother's face, felt her kiss, and then, for a little while, all was deaf and dark-she seemed to sink down-down into death. They placed the light form-so light now that the burden of it was scarcely felt, on the warm couch, and poured the ready cordial between her lips; and presently the breath fluttered stronger. Now, indeed, the mother wanted to weep, and had no tears. Those great, bright, sunken eyes and wasted outlines touched the mother's heart too deeply for tears.

&

The old family-physician was there in less than a half-hour. He felt the pulse, he looked into the eyes, of his wellbeloved little patient.

"I never thought she would live to be twenty," he said, aside to Mr. Cameron, who awaited his decision in another room; "but this folly of our pet has wasted her small store of life with lavish haste. There is but a drop or two remaining. I doubt if she holds out one week."

So the truth was spoken. Mother and sister were compelled to hear it. Short time, indeed, for those loving ministrations they had longed to bestow! That night Milla was forbidden to speak. She could only look her joy at seeing her friends. The next day she was still very feeble, replying with her old fond smile to all the tender attentions which beset her. On Friday she was permitted to converse a little; she could even sit up in the green-satin chair, wherein she used so much to loll, looking like a water-fily in its leaves.

How had the lily withered in one brief season! The wedding-ring, so small at first, would now scarcely stay on the thin hand. Yet, because her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brilliant, the mother clung to hope, and began to say, in her heart, that the doctor was mistaken.

The third day of her arrival home was the first day of the New Year. It was a beautiful, winter day, calm and full of sunshine. The house was made pleasant; every one endeavored to be cheerful for the invalid's sake, who was now in bed, in her own pretty chamber, where she had asked to be taken.

"Good-bye, doctor," she said, in a peculiar tone, when the old man was about to leave her, after his daily visit, on the morning of the New Year.

"Good-bye, child," he said; “a pleasant voyage to you," and he kissed her, with a tear in his eye.

"Milla!" exclaimed her mother, when the door closed on the physician.

"He knows, mother, that he will never see me again. My feet and hands are cold with coming death. I know it,"

A silence fell on the group, which pressed closer about her.

"I am dying, and I want to say a few words about Louis before I go. It is true that he left me; but not until he was compelled to. The officers were upon his track; they were at the doors o our house. I, myself, urged him to fly. I know all about his sin. He was tempted to do wrong, because of his poverty. I knew that he deceived me, and others, that he misled me, caused me to deceive and forsake my family; but I did not cease to love him. I am afraid I loved him the more. Lissa, do you remember what I once said to you? that if I knew I should not live three months, I should not hesitate to become his wife? I shall not live three months. He has killed me; he would have killed you, Lissa, if you had married him. And think, how much better it is that it should be I, who was foredoomed to a short life from the first."

The sobs of her sister interrupted her for a moment.

"Don't think Louis did not love me," she went on. "He did. He was always good to me. I think it was the knowledge of his crimes that killed me. I seemed to wither away, after I began to suspect them. I teased him to tell me why he had not gone to Germany; why he travelled in disguise; why he went to the Southern city, and kept me and Sabrina shut up in constant solitude. I asked him, passionately, if he was ashamed of me. That made him angry. He said, 'No! but he had committed robberies, and the officers were after him like dogs after a fox. He was not ashamed of his little girl; he was only sorry she had married so bad

a man.'"

Here Milla paused, and a strange expression passed over her face.

"Do you remember I said, Lissa, that I would give my life to be his wife even for one week?"

"Do not talk; it is too much for vou," pleaded her father.

"It will make no difference an hour or two hence, father, and I shall die more contented, having spoken. I was VOL. II.-35

punished for that mad speech. I never have been Mr. Dassel's true wife. I would not tell you this, if I were not dying. I never knew it until the day before he fled, father, and you came He was looking over some papers in a small trunk. A letter dropped out. I snatched it playfully, opened, and read:

"DEAR KARL: Will you be in Baden-Baden to-morrow? I hope so, for the days are long without you. "Your own wife, MARGARET.'

"And then I thought of the story of Count Konigsberg, and stared at him, wildly, I suppose, for he caught it from me with a laugh,—oh, such a laugh !— and said I was punished for my inquisi. tiveness. That stabbed me to the heart, mother. I felt, then, that I could live but a little time, and I prayed that the time might be very short. After all my love!" mournfully.

"Milla," said Lissa, quickly, leaning over her dying sister, "would it not be joy for you to know that you were the Count's true wife?

"What do you mean?"

"I had a letter last night from Robbie. I would have told you sooner, had I dreamed that you were aware of his previous marriage. Robbie writes to inform me that he has heard of the death of the Countess Konigsberg, who died of a decline, after being months confined to her apartments, on November 10th. You were married on the 13th."

"Thank God for that!" murmured the young wife, with an effort bringing her hand to her lips, and kissing her wedding-ring.

"I have been wilful," she continued presently, "and impatient and stubborn about many things, I know. But, oh, I have suffered so much pain! Not even you, mother, know how much I have suffered all my life. I ask you all to forgive me all my faults."

"My child, you break our hearts! "And you, Lissa, do you forgive me? After all, your love was not like mine; and it is well, as it has turned