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Then the doctor sat down opposite that fixed, haggard face, which had not yet been softened by a tear.

"Yes, I'll tell you everything; perhaps it will relieve your mind; and Mrs. Trevor said you would wish to know, and I must be here to receive you. Her patience and thoughtfulness were marvellous.

"I attend many very clever and charming women, but I tell you, Mr. Trevor, not one as so impressed me as your wife. Her self-forgetfulness passed words; she thought of everyone except herself.

Why,

one of the last things she did was to give directions about your room; she was afraid you might feel the change from the Riviera. But that is by the way, and these things are not my business.

"From the beginning I was alarmed, and urged that you be sent for; but she pledged me not to write; you needed your holiday, she said, and it must not be darkened with anxiety.

"She spoke every day about your devotion and unselfishness; how you wished her to go with you, but she had to stay with the boy.

"The turn for the worse? It was yesterday morning, and I had Sir Reginald at once. We agreed that

recovery was hopeless, and I telegraphed to you without delay.

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We also consulted whether she ought to be told, and Sir Reginald said, 'Certainly; that woman has no fear, for she never thinks of herself, and she will want to leave messages.'

"If we can only keep her alive till to-morrow afternoon,' he said; and you will like to remember that everything known to the best man in London was done. Sir Reginald came back himself unasked to-day, because he remembered a restorative that might sustain the failing strength. She thanked him so sweetly that he was quite shaken; the fact is, that both of us would soon have played the fool. But I ought not to trouble you with these trifles at this time, only as you wanted to know all

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case of any mistake. But it was only an invitation for you, I think, to some country house.

"It can't be helped now, and you ought not to vex yourself; but I believe a letter would have done more for her than What am I saying now?

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"As she grew weaker she counted the hours, and I left her at four full of hope. Two hours more and he'll be here,' and by that time she had your telegram in her hand.

"When I came back the change had come, and she said, 'It's not God's will; bring Bertie.'

"So she kissed him, and said something to him, but we did not listen. After the nurse had carried him out for he was weeping bitterly, poor little chap-she whispered to me to get a sheet of paper and sit down by her bedside. think it would be better very well, I will tell you all.

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I wrote what she dictated with her last breath, and I promised you would receive it from her own hand, and so you will. She turned her face to the door and lay quite still till about six, when I heard her say your name very softly, and а minute afterwards she was gone, without pain or struggle."

She lay as she had died, waiting for his coming, and the smile with which she had said his name was still on her face. It was the first

time she did not colour with joy at his coming, that her hand was cold to his touch. He kissed her, but his heart was numbed, and he could not weep.

Then he took her letter and read it beside that silence.

"DEAREST: They tell me now that I shall not live to see you come in and to cast my arms once more round your neck before we part. Be kind to Bertie, and remember that he is delicate and shy. He will miss me, and you will be patient with him for my sake. Give him my watch, and do not let him forget me. My locket with your likeness I would like left on my heart. You will never know how much I have loved you, for I could never speak. You have been very good and I want you to know that I am grateful but it is better perhaps that I should die, for I might hinder you in your future life. Forgive me because I came short of what your wife should have been. None can ever love you better. You will take these poor words from a dead hand, but I shall see you, and I shall never cease to love you, to follow your life, to pray for you-my first, my only love."

to me,

:

The fountains within him were broken, and he flung himself down by the bedside in an agony of repentance.

"Oh, if I had known before! but now it is too late, too late!"

For we sin against our dearest not because we do not love, but because we do not imagine.

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AIRLIE'S MISSION.*

BY ANNIE S. SWAN,

Author of “Aldersyde,” “Maitland of Laurieston,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER I.

"I REALLY wish those boys would come down to breakfast when it is on the table. I am sick of their irregular hours. If your father had been alive, they would not dare to be so careless. They are getting quite beyond me altogether."

It was a fretful, peevish, complaining voice, which quite prepared one to see a discontented, worried expression of face. And yet it was a sweet, kind face, if rather undecided, the face of a woman without much strength of character, totally unfitted to face the battle of life alone. Perhaps feeble health had much to do with Mrs. Keith's fretful disposition. She had long been partially invalided and there were lines of pain and weariness on her brow, and about her drooping mouth, which told their own tale. Sordid care had never touched her, it is true, but there were other troubles which had aged her before her time. She had been deprived of the love and care of a devoted and noble husband, just when her children most needed the firmness of his guiding hand. To one of her nature the desolation of widowhood was a peculiarly bitter experience, for she was totally unfitted to breast alone the tide of life.

It was a pleasant, cheerful, luxurious place, the morning room at Errol Lodge. A cheerful fire burned in the pretty grate, and a bright, ruddy glow danced on the wellappointed breakfast table, and vied with the wintry sunbeams slanting

through the crimson curtains, and playing on the golden head of a young lady at the window, busy already with a dainty piece of embroidery. Janet Keith was like a picture, in that bright setting; her fair, pale, refined face, crowned by the shining plaits of her golden hair, she looked as if nothing could ever ruffle or disturb her composure. Her dress was dainty and becoming, too, a warm crimson morning gown, fitting to perfection; the linen at throat and wrists was as spotless as the snow lying on the lawn; everything about her was tasteful and harmonious: it was something of a rest to look at her after seeing the worn, fretful, unsettled look on her mother's faded face. Mrs. Keith was sitting very near to the fire, stooping over it with her thin hands outspread to the cheerful heat, her ample white wrap gathered close about her bent shoulders, as if she suffered from the chilliness of the morning air.

"Why don't you speak, Janet?" she asked, querulously, when no response came to her.

"What shall I say, mamma ?" inquired Janet, in her calm, cool, sweet voice. "You know my opinions regarding Errol and Jack. They have been too long left to the freedom of their own sweet wills, and are incorrigible now."

"That is cold enough comfort. Really, I wonder why my sons should be so undutiful. Just look at George Maitland; what a comfort he is to his mother. He considers her in everything."

By kind permission of the copyright holders, Messrs. Oliphant, Anderson & Ferrier, Edinburgh and London, we are permitted to reprint this latest story by Annie Swan, with all the original illustrations by Lilian Russell. The Methodist Publishing House, Toronto, is the sole agent for Annie Swan's books in this country.

"George Maitland is an insufferable prig, I think, mamma. Our boys are gentlemen at any rate; and it is natural they should wish to enjoy life. I think Marion requires a word as well as the boys. It is twenty minutes to nine, and a quarter past eight is supposed to be our breakfast hour. I have been downstairs since half-past seven, and must confess I should like a cup of coffee now."

Well, why don't you have it? There is nothing to hinder you."

"No, but it is best to sit down as a family," said Janet, in her prim fashion. "Why, there is Marion coming up the avenue. She is reforming, surely, when she takes a constitutional before breakfast. She looks very sober, as if she had not greatly enjoyed it."

In a few seconds the breakfastroom door opened, and Mrs. Keith's second daughter entered the room, and going up to her mother's side, put her arm round her, and kissed her affectionately.

"Oh, what a cold face, child; you make me shiver!" exclaimed Mrs. Keith, drawing back. "Where have you been? What a colour you have! Quite like a milk-maid's, isn't it, Janet?"

"Rather. It is not for complexion's sake you require a morning's walk, Marion," said Janet Keith, lifting her cold, keen, blue eyes to her young sister's round, ruddy face. "I was saying to mamma you were surely turning over a new leaf.”

Marion Keith pulled off her gloves and turned her head quickly away. A hasty retort was on her lips, but she repressed it, and again approaching her mother's chair, knelt down on the hearth. She was the youngest of the family, and the least spoiled. She was only seventeen, but looked young for her years, being still, as Janet often told her, an awkward school-girl. But there was something sweet and winning about her, and the deep brown eye had an

earnest, tender gleam, which betokened a warm and loving heart. "Child, your nose is as red as a carrot! Where have you been?" pursued Mrs. Keith, looking not with approval on the offending feature.

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"I was out, mamma," said Marion, vaguely. I met the postman in the Grange Road, and there is a letter for you."

"Where is it? Who is it from?" "It is from Tahai; a black-edged letter addressed in a strange handwriting. What can be wrong?" said Marion, drawing it slowly from her pocket.

"Reach me my eyeglass," said Mrs. Keith, starting up. "I am afraid it will be bad news of your Uncle James. He was poorly last time Airlie wrote."

Marion looked on eagerly while her mother adjusted her eyeglass and broke the seal of the ominouslooking letter; even Janet suspended her work, and waited with some interest to hear the news.

"It is just as I thought, girls; your poor Uncle James has succumbed to that frightful climate at last," said Mrs. Keith, running her eye over the brief communication. "The letter is from the Rev. Mr. Balfour, who fortunately happened to be at the station when he died. This is what he says:

"MISSION STATION,

TAHAI, LIVINGSTONIA,

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*** October 14th, 18—. MADAM,-It is with deep regret I have to inform you of the lamented death of Mr. Keith, which took place this morning at daybreak. Some weeks ago he was seized with fever, and as this is his third attack, there was no hope entertained of him from the first. He became conscious towards the end, and added a word of happy confirmation to the already glorious and abiding testimony of his noble and unselfish life. He is an irreparable loss to the cause and to the poor creatures among whom he has so heroically laboured and for whom he has given up so much. He will be laid to rest beside Mrs. Keith. Miss Keith is wonderfully sustained by a

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"Poor Cousin Airlie!" said Marion through dropping tears. How dreadful to be left alone in such a country!"

"I don't think Airlie minds it at all," said Janet, quietly resuming her work; "I am quite sure that if it were not for her health she would insist on remaining among those frightful heathen. She is that kind of girl. I suppose she will be coming straight here, mamma?"

"Of course, though one invalid in a house is enough; but, poor girl, we must try and be kind to her. I must not forget that her father was my John's only brother, and that he loved him very much."

"Oh, yes, he did. How often I have heard him say he would like to go out to Tahai on a visit," said Marion, softly, with a far-away, regretful look in her eyes, which told that her thoughts were with the happy past, which had been brightened by the love of the father whom she had idolized.

"It will be rather troublesome having her here just in the middle of the season," said Janet, in the same cool fashion. “Will it be incumbent upon us to refuse all invitations on her account?"

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accompaniment of a shrill whistle, indicated the approach of "the boys," as Mrs. Keith still termed her tall sons. Both were students of medicine at Edinburgh University, preparing to follow their father's profession, only as yet they had not exhibited any of his noble, earnest, self-denying spirit. Life was still play time to them, study occupying a very minor place; and yet, as they entered the room together, big, broadshouldered, muscular fellows, they looked as if it were quite time they were doing some worthy work in the world.

They were a handsome pair-it was not easy to know which to admire the more: Errol, with his dark, finely-featured face, piercing, dark eye, and heavy masses of dark-brown hair, or merry, fair-haired, laughingeyed Jack, who turned everything and everybody into good-natured fun. Both were favourites wherever they went, and were much sought after by the gay, sport-loving circle of students to whom the duties of their profession were things of very minor consideration. No jovial gathering, no night's fun or frolic, was complete without the Keiths, and perhaps all their enjoyments were not quite so innocent as those who loved them could have desired.

66

Really, boys," began Mrs. Keith, but in a moment she was interrupted by the incorrigible JackWe sprang

“Not a word, mother. when we heard the first bell. Didn't we, Errol?"

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Which must have been the breakfast bell, rung half an hour ago." said Janet severely, as she folded up her work and proceeded to take her place at the table.

"We are not responsible for the omission of the rising bell, miss," said Jack. "Hulloa, Min, been crying, eh!" he said, turning to Marion. "" You in the black books too? Never mind, we're all chums."

"Who's the letter from, mother?"

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