now her ideal. It needed a vivid remembrance of Nollath's contempt for what he called “foolish self-sacrifice," to chase the shadow away.

Before entering the cottage, they stood a moment looking at a tree weighed down with yellow roses, at the currants, red and white, at the old-fashioned flowers-bluebells, mignonette, sweet-peas, scarlet runners, dusty-miller, forget-me-nots-crowding the little garden. The scent of a sweet-brier bush impregnated the air along with that of the roses. Beauty

of colour and sweetness of scent, and a languorous breeze fanning their faces and gently stirring a stray tendril of Olive's hair,—these were fit accessories to their idyl, in which all was happiness; in which the road to virtue was only a gentle upward slope, not a steep ascent, and was carpeted with roses without thorns.

A beautiful but foolish dream, this of the crown without the cross, the reward without the fight. Olive's intelligence, and Nollath's common sense, slumbered beneath the glamour of it.

They were blind-half-wilfully, half-consciously to its absurdity, stupidity, uselessness, and weakness.

The devil which might have

risen to mock their sentimentalism, to scoff at their foolish unworldly idyl, the only good fruit of which, amid possible evil, was the calming of a once-frenzied brain, the brightening of a onceclouded spirit, the invigorating of a once weak physique and disordered nerves, remained silent, hushed to sleep by the old, old lullaby of love, which, throughout the ages, has closed reason's eyes and sent common-sense into the sunny land of oblivion.

CHAPTER VI.

THE interior of the Deanery was very quiet one hot summer's afternoon. In the big old trees of the garden the birds twittered gleefully, enjoying the heat and the brightness of the glorious sunlight; but in the Deanery itself quietude reigned.

A stillness overhung the whole house, even the nursery, usually the place of joyous racket, being hushed into quietness. The big reception rooms were empty, and wore an aspect of desolateness. There was no open book or other sign of recent occupation, no window open to admit the warm air. The pretty silk work-basket which had been Marian's and was now Lady Muriel's was pushed out of the way in Lady Muriel's morning-room, as if for long untouched by her fingers; the flowers in the èpergnes were withering, no one having changed them to-day. The servants moved noiselessly

about stairs and landings, speaking, when they

met, in subdued tones.

The attention of all in

the house was concentrated upon one spot-Lady Muriel's chamber, where, this pleasant sunny afternoon, Lady Muriel lay dying.

But

The little boys had been to kiss her, not knowing that it was their good-bye kiss. Marian and her father, watching by the bedside, knew-knew that she was soon to join her dead babe in the mysterious land beyond the grave. The little soul, born yesterday, dead to-day, was not long to remain motherless in the land of spirits.

Gilbert was not here. He had not been at the Deanery since his visit to the Turners. Instead of returning home on the conclusion of his visit, he had disappeared, without leaving behind him a word as to his destination. It was suspected that he had gone off with some wild project of working his way to the antipodes.

Lady Muriel was dying hardly, her fragile life finding much pain in its flight. There was no gentle falling asleep, no quiet folding of tired hands, no peaceful happy smile, and then-rest. There were beads of sweat on her brow, her

lips were livid and twitching, and there was an agonised glare in her glassy eyes-all tokens of intense physical distress.

Her weak little body was young, if feeble; she was dying before her natural time; and the spark of life left in her rebelled against its extinction, struggling against the inexorable hand of death. Her little hands, which had been so ready to help and tend; her sweet lips, which had ever held the "law of kindness"; her eyes, which had ever looked gentleness and love—all were forced to give evidence of her pain, despite her dislike for grieving her loved ones by the sight of it. "It is God's will," she murmured in response to a pitiful and rebellious cry from Marian. But the words were no comfort to those who watched her.

The Dean was seated at one side of the bed, Marian at the other. Lady Muriel's eyes sometimes turned to Marian, but with these exceptions, and except when her pain was too great to allow of her looking at anyone, they were fixed on her husband's face, grieved by his distress.

Her face, always thin, was emaciated; her eyes round and starting from their sockets, and her breath coming in gasps. One arm lay out