"I see that you are," said Mrs. Ross, tenderly; "what can I do for you?"

"I have not long to live I'm without friends and when I die, as I shall soon, my little son, four years old, will be left alone."

"Your husband, then, is not living?" The white lips opened and closed, but emitted no sound. A hot flush overspread her face, and then was succeeded by a deathlier pallor than before. But in a moment the truth came out, without equivocation, or quibbling, but with downcast eyes, and in a husky whisper, "I have never had a husband."

There was silence for a few minutes, when each heard the other's heart beat. Is the father of your son living?" asked Mrs. Ross, low and timidly.

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A nod of assent answered her, the poor woman not even raising her eyes to the questioner.

"Can he not be persuaded to be indeed a father to his child? Will he not take the boy under his care, when when you are gone?"

The poor woman wrung her hands, and then burst into a paroxysm of wild weeping, whose violence Mrs. Ross feared would sunder her brittle life. She soothed her, and reassured her with kind words, and waited patiently till her tears were exhausted.

"Has the boy's father done nothing for him?"

"Yes there is a fund at interest for him-small-but two-thirds of what his father was worth at the time it was deposited. If I should live and be well, I should need nothing further for Harry's support. But when I die what will become of him?" and she wept afresh.

"Cannot the father, then, be persuaded to adopt the child himself?"

"O, madame, he is married."
"What sort of a person is his wife?"
“She is an angel!" and a glow of en-

thusiasm tinged the snow of her cheek, and her eye brightened with pleasing emotion. "She is an angel! she is beautiful as the morning, and as good as though she had never lived out of heaven. All the poor people know her, and if anybody has any sorrow or trouble, they go to her, and she is always ready to help. Oh, madam, she is too good and too beautiful for anything in this world."

"Kitty!" called Mr. Ross, sharply, from the partially opened door, and turning, Mrs. Ross beheld her husband half across the threshold, with a ghastlier and whiter face than the poor consumptive with whom she was talking, and at whom he glared wildly. She sprang towards him with an exclamation of affright, when he reeled backwards into the hall, and almost fell into a chair.

"O, my precious husband! my dear Henry! What is the matter? you are sick; let me send for a doctor! Jane, make haste! bring me a glass of wine!"

"No, no, no Kitty; I'm better already. Stop! stop! Don't get anything-don't call anybody. Let me go up to our room. Haven't you salts of ammonia there?"

Tenderly the loving wife assisted her husband to his room, bathed his temples, chafed his clammy, cold hands, applied stimulants, and poured him a glass of wine, intermingling her efforts, all the while, with the fondest caresses, and applying to him every endearing epithet her loving heart could suggest.

What has caused this sudden attack, dear Henry? You were well enough at breakfast."

"Can't tell, I'm sure; it came over me as I was passing through the hall." Had the tones of that sepulchral voice, and the vision of that never-to-be-forgotten face no agency in causing this sudden attack? The query did not even suggest itself to the trusting wife, who saw in her husband one of nature's noblemen, and worshipped him as such.

as Mrs. Ross disappeared up the stairs with her husband. And, pacing the room, she threw up her arms, beat her breast, smote her forehead, and in other frantic ways, sought to vent the suppressed emotion which almost rent her in sunder. "Why have I come here? Do I want to kill her the good, beautiful creature? I must never tell her! never, never, never! How she loves him! But O, my poor boy, my dear child! I will take him with me, to the grave. Haven't I the right I, who have endured four years of death in life for his dear sake? Is not his life mine? Is not murder sometimes justifiable? O, God! help me! help me! help me!" and falling on her knees on the sofa, she fell forward on her face, which she buried in both hands, her whole frame shaking violently with tearless sobs. Here Mrs. Ross found her almost insensible, when her husband, having recovered partially from his sudden attack, went down town to his office, leaving his wife once more at liberty. Stooping over the cowering figure, she raised her with difficulty, and was frightened when she saw her face. It was like that of one struck with death. The poor creature attempted to stand, but staggered back helplessly on the sofa. "Let me go home! she said feebly; "you can do nothing for me; I was a fool to suppose you could."

"Lie quietly on the sofa a few moments," said Mrs. Ross, with gentleness; "you are not able to go yet. You need a glass of the port wine which has revived my husband; lie still, and I will fetch it.' And unheeding the remonstrances of the half-dead woman, she brought the wine, and held it to her white lips till she had drained the last drop.

"I was just going to say to you, when my husband came in," resumed Mrs. Ross, as Maria rallied, "that if the wife of this man be what you say she is, perhaps she would do something for your son, when you are no longer able to do for him, and-have they children of their own?" "No."

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Perhaps she might consent to adopt

"O, but this woman loves her husband

"Is her husband a bad man habitually?"

it will kill

. I mean

-

"O, no, ma'am; everybody calls him good-everybody thinks well of him and he is not what you might call a bad man. He did me a great wrong but thinks he repaired it with money! his wife wouldn't think so, though. I think he meant to make me his wife, though I was beneath him; but you see, ma'am, she that is his wife, fell in his way, and her handsome face, and her beautiful voice, for she sings like an angel, and her good heart and winning ways, that make me even love her, that ought to hate her, so that I want to kiss the hem of her dress as she goes by all this, you see, made him love her, so that I believe he would have given up his hope of heaven for her. Sometimes when I see her, I don't blame him, for she is the most beautiful and the best woman in the world.”

"Such a woman is just the one for you to go to with your story. So good and pitying, I'm sure she will not refuse to do something for you - she may find your boy a good home - perhaps take it herself."

"O, no, ma'am, that she never would; it's against nature. Would you do such a thing, dear lady?" and the poor creature rose up with earnestness, and looked eagerly in the face of Mrs. Ross

"It's my impression that you had better go to her," was the reply; for the question seemed irrelevant. "Tell her the whole truth, not revengefully, but carefully, humbly, and for the sake of your child. I am sure she will be moved by it."

The woman turned to leave, but the excitement of the hour had been too much for her, and she dropped fainting and gasping on the sofa. "You are very weak," said Mrs. Ross, pityingly; "you must wait till the horse is put into the buggy, and I will send you home. I will see you at your home, and if it be desirable, I may go to the lady with you, my

self."

ing else, and when her husband came home to tea, still pale and grave, from the attack of the morning, she narrated to him the whole affair. He listened with little apparent interest, and asked in a nonchalant way, "what she proposed to do for her?"

She stated her proposition of the morning. "I do not yet know what can be done, but I advised her to see the wife of this man, whom she represents as good, benevolent and beautiful, and lay the case before her."

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Mr. Ross looked up in surprise, anger and affright. Good heavens, Kitty! are you crazy ? Don't you see you would break up the family altogether? The wife would instantly discard her husband, and then it would be out of the father's power to do anything for his child."

"No, I think not. From what this Maria Harley tells me "-Mr. Ross started as if stung. Why, Henry, how nervous you are to-day! I am afraid you are going to be sick."

"O, no; there is no danger."

"Well, from what Maria Harley says, this woman is one of the best and noblest type. It would undoubtedly shock her, but she must learn the truth sometime, and she had better know it now, when she can do some good. I am impressed that this is the best course; if I were a Quaker, I should say I was guided by the inward light.'"

Mr. Ross poohed at what he called his wife's "womanish nonsense," and got quite out of patience with her persistence. Why, Henry, you amaze me! I am sure I'm right.'

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"Let the whole matter entirely alone, I beseech you," was his entreaty, uttered in an importunate and distressed manner; "only trouble can come of your interference. It's a bad matter, a common case, which cannot be meddled with. You will make a world of trouble unless you stop." He was so deeply and strangely in earnest, that Mrs. Ross finally promised, despite her convictions, to content herself with ameliorating the condition of the mother, and with seeking a home for the child. Not even her husband could persuade her to promise more than this.

The very next day saw the beautiful,

trusting wife, the queen of all hearts, in the humble home of the wronged and dying Maria. She was worse than the day before, and her little son stood beside her bed, with an anxious look on his unusually mature face. Nurtured amid sorrow and cares, tears and privations, he was older and graver than his years, and his evident affectionateness and thoughtfulness went to Mrs. Ross' heart. There was something in his face which made her start, beautiful as he was, and the large, brown eyes, chesnut curls, firm, but finely cut mouth, and the general bearing of the child, somehow reminded her of her husband. A long interview with the dying woman followed, more painful and exciting than that of the day before. We will not recount it. But before it was ended, Mrs. Ross was in complete possession of all the painful facts of Maria Harley's history to the incoherent and gasped details of which she listened with a face in which interest intensified into ghastliness, and with a heart that was transfixed through and through with pain. When the recital was over, she went home like one stunned, reeling with weakness, and groping her way like one blind.

At noon she met her husband, so changed from the wife of the morning, that it seemed not she, but another. In answer to his inquiry, she stated where she had passed the morning, and then no more questions were asked, no information given, and the dinner was eaten in comparative silence. Not as on the day before, did she volunteer the particulars of the morning interview, but sat, cold, pale, silent, with a look of hopeless suffering on her face. Her husband observed it; he read the stupor of a great grief which had invaded her soul; he saw that she was staggering under some mental burden, yet he forebore all inquiries as to the cause, and unaccountably made no allusion to her appearance. His remarks were forced common-places, which might have been heard, or might not; his wife gave no sign that she heeded them. It was the same at the tea-table; the next day, and the next succeeded; a week passed, and it became evident that a wall of partition was raised between the wedded couple, hitherto one in feeling and ac

tion. The gaiety and sunny temper of the wife was gone. Silent, bewildered, she moved about mechanically, discharging every duty with rigorous fidelity; courteous to her husband, and regardful of his wants; but the gushing love which had formerly infused itself into her whole manner towards him, prompting a thousand nameless attentions, was wanting. No more did she run to meet him as she heard his footstep in the hall; no longer did they pass up and down the stairs with arms entwining one another; the goodnight and good-morning kisses were remitted, more because the wife was so pre-occupied and absorbed as to forget them, it seemed, than because of aversion; and while there was on neither side a lack of courtesy, the married pair were as widely separated, as though a continent intervened. Poor wife! poor woman! the happiness which had wrapped her about like an atmosphere of heaven, had fallen away from her; she had believed she was leaning on an oak, but it had proved a reed, and bending under her, had pierced her with sorrow; she had worshipped an, idol, believing it of fine gold, and it had proved to be only common clay.

With torturing anxiety and taciturn gloom, Mr. Ross watched his wife. No words of explanation had passed between them, but he knew too well whence the arrow had sped, which had entered her soul. The cloud in his horizon, no bigger than a man's hand, had suddenly spread so as to darken the whole firmament, and now had burst above him. His only refuge was in silence, and so he offered to his wife's troubled spirit neither sympathy nor condolence.

and, in beholding it, the long unhappy mother found that peace in death, which had been alien to her in life. It was a relief to the heavy spirit of Mrs. Ross to supply the hitherto desolate boy with the pretty frocks, trousers, collars and caps, which set off his beauty to such an advantage; she found a pleasure in arranging his silky brown tresses, as abundant as those of a girl; and a glow came to her wan cheek, as she witnessed his exuberant delight at the rocking-horse, wooden soldiers, picture-books, and other toys, with which she furnished him. To the mother she read, and with her prayed, her own sorrow adding pathos to her petitions, and tenderness to her voice, while the act assuaged the unspoken sorrow which had rolled in upon her. Whatever could alleviate the dying woman's sufferings, or divest death of its terror, was remembered by Mrs. Ross in this hour of extremity.

And so matters went on for weeks. Gradually Mrs. Ross seemed to be conquering her trials, whatever they had been; there was a slow and partial resuming of her old ways and manners, and less deadness of feeling towards all the former delights of her life. The mental trials of the last few weeks had told on her health severely but their effect on her husband was even greater than on her. Mrs. Ross noticed it with real concern, and besought him to do something for his restoration. Still, however, there lingered in the house the hush and solemnity which follows a deep bereavement.

into the gloom of weeks before, but as usual, was silent. Once, looking up suddenly, she caught her husband's gaze. fixed on her, troubled, anxious, mournful, and dropping her needle-work, she sprang, by a sudden impulse, into his arms, and wept long and uncontrollably on his bosom, the tears of her husband mingling freely with her own. No word was spoken by either for some minutes, but in that