You seem to me as changed as if you were another creature. It would have saved a world of trouble if I could have known your heart before it was too late." A deep sigh was the only response. "Don't sigh so, Bella! Do you suppose I can ever forget what you suffer for me? It will be the regret of my life. Oh, Bella, why didn't you show your real heart to me more than a year ago? then we should not be divided tonight."

"Don't you know, Paul," murmured a broken voice, "that, when a woman loves, her first instinct is to hide her real feelings?"

"Yes; but how was I to dream of such a thing in you? Really, you played the coquette so perfectly, I never suspected you of having real feeling."

"I was too proud to betray it. I never should have betrayed it, if my feelings had not conquered my pride."

"Why did they conquer it too late? It is like all of my fate!" said Paul. "Why is it too late?" murmured the faltering voice.

"I am bound-irrevocably bound!” bitterly answered Paul.

"To whom? I have seen nobody who has seemed to have any special claim upon you. Who has robbed me?" "One your inferior, and mine, in position. I have loved her, but the conditions of our lives are so conflicting, I am now convinced that we ought never to be married. I would release myself if I could. But I consider a promise a binding obligation. If I could have known you as you are, Bella, it would never have been made."

"What is that?"

They both started at a sound as of something falling very near. There was a rustle of leaves, then all was quiet.

"Perhaps it was a snake!" said Bella. Each looked, but saw nothing, save wavy boughs and vines. But a chill ran through Paul; he shivered as one does in standing near a human being in the dark without knowing it. His last words had scarcely passed his lips, before he hated himself for uttering

them; he knew them to be false. The face before him receded, and another, the face that he loved, again seemed to touch his. He started with a shock as he thought that he stood in the very spot where he had kissed it-where he had said, "No matter what you see, no matter how things may seem, believe in me." That was scarcely three weeks ago; and what had he been saying? If she could have heard the words which he had just uttered, how could she still believe in him? He felt like a man enthralled by some spell which he hated, yet which he had no power to break. Had not this woman by his side always compelled him to do and say things which made him hateful to himself? Always! Yet how fair and gentle and drooping she looked now! She loved him? Then, from whence came this faint and far suspicion of her now? While he gazed, why did her face look false even amid its suffering? Was he unjust to her, even while she fascinated bim and held him? In an instant the

place seemed haunted. He thought that he saw something white-white, like a woman's face, in the darkness, through the swaying vines. "Come!" he said; "that was a curious noise. It really makes me feel superstitious. Does it you, Bella? But I never heard of a ghost in our Lover's Walk," he added, laughing. “I did not intend to stray so far."

They hurried back, but Paul saw a white face close to his all the way.

It was past midnight, yet still he sat in the drawing-room, listening to that sensuous, pleading melody of Bell's, which had grown to have such power over him. It held him where he sat; yet still a white, cold face seemed to touch his.

"Where is she? What have you done with her? You have killed her, Paul Mallane! and may the Lord curse your soul!" cried Tilda Stade, as she rushed into the room, with her hair flying and her eyes filled with the wildest excitement. In his best moments, Paul hated the sight of Tilda, but she seemed nothing short of an avenging demon

to him now; and, even amid the remorse and terror caused by her words, his first impulse was to seize her and thrust her out of the window. "Oh, there's no use standing there, looking white!" she went on; "and you had better stive your cat-face against the wall-you!" she cried, glaring at Miss Prescott, who had wheeled round on the piano-stool. "Where do you suppose she is, while you're drummin' on the peanner? Likelier than not, in the bottom of the river. Oh! oh!"

66

"Woman, stop your noise!" said Paul, who expected every instant to see the whole family appear, to inquire the cause of such cries. Stop! If you are looking for Miss Vale, I will go with you." And taking his hat, he walked out, Tilda following him. He asked no questions, needed no explanations. He knew all. That was her face that he saw through the vines! That was why Buch a shiver struck him as he uttered those false words to Bella. She heard them. In her desolation, she had gone back alone to their last meeting-place, and that was what she heard, and from his lips. He stalked on without a word, and soon left Tilda far behind. He went straight to the end of the Walk, pushed back the heavy vines, and there, her sun-bonnet by her side, her face almost hidden in the moss, she laid, as if she were dead.

"Eirene!" he said, bending down to her. There was no answer. His hand touched the cold face, and a deeper shiver ran through him than when he thought that he felt it hours before. She was insensible-perhaps she was dead. This was his only thought, as he lifted her in his arms and carried her away, never pausing even to still Tilda's outcries, till he had laid her on her own bed.

Isabella, watching at the window, was the only one who saw him bear his burden to the house. No one had been awakened, and she sat waiting for his return, wondering what explanation he would make her when he came. waited long. The East was flushed with morning light when he appeared

She

from the house across the street. Then, the look on his face was so different from any that she had ever seen on it before, that even she did not dare to intrude and speak. He did not see her, and passed on to his own room without a word.

Wild and wonderful were the stories which ran from factory to factory the next morning. "A man had seen Paul Mallane come out of Lover's Walk with Eirene Vale in his arms at two o'clock in the morning!" "That Vale girl last night threw herself into the river, and Paul Mallane dragged her out, and both have been seen together in the street in a very dripping condition, with Tilda Stade crying behind." "The Vale girl had gone crazy with love for Paul Mallane, because, now the Boston folks were around, he did not notice her. She was a fool to suppose that he would. She had tried to kill herself, and there was likely more reason for her doing so than people knew. When he was seen on the street with her in the winter, every body knew that it was for no good. Paul Mallane never noticed a shop-girl yet, but to do her harm." "Eirene Vale had better go home, and stay there. In a quiet way she had held her head very high-too high; that's always the way with such people. The company she had slighted was altogether too good for her. She had lost her character, and had better leave. body would speak to her if she stayed."

No

The subject of all this sweet charity returned to consciousness late that morning, to find herself in the arms of Tilda Stade, with a physician sitting near, watching her intently. He informed her that she had been overcome by physical weakness and mental distress; that nothing but an entire change of scene, and of life, could insure her from serious illness.

"I understand," she said, with perfect calmness. "I will go away this afternoon, and never come back."

She had a look upon her face as if she had just returned from a very remote country-as if all she saw was new and strange, or but dimly remem

bered. She put her hand to her forehead, as if she were trying to recall something, or to collect her thoughts; yet, when she spoke, her words were perfectly coherent, and there was not a touch of wildness in her manner; instead, it seemed unnaturally calm. She sat like this, propped in an arm chair, when she heard Tilda say, in reply to a knock at the door,

“Paul Mallane, you can't come in.” "I wish to see Mr. Mallane," said Eirene; "and, Tilda, you may go, if you will be so kind."

Gentle as the tone was in which these words were spoken, there was a dignity and a positiveness in it unknown to Eirene before. Tilda was so overcome and astonished by it, that she yielded at once, opened the door for Paul, and walked out herself.

"Forgive me-say that you forgive me, my darling!" he said, before he reached her chair.

"I do forgive you, Paul.”

"But do you care for me? Tell me that you care for me still; it is all I ask." "Yes, I care for you, Paul; but I do not believe in you."

"Don't be hard with me, Eirenedon't! I did not mean a word that I said last night."

"Didn't you?" she asked, with the old, innocent wonder in her eyes. "Why did you say it, then?"

"I can't explain to you, Eirene, the conflicting and complex influences which may come into a man's lifehow he may love one woman devoted ly, and yet be led on to say a thousand things which he don't half mean, or don't mean at all, to another, just through the force of influences which he cannot control."

"Do men say so many things that they don't mean?" she said, bewilderedly. "Perhaps you didn't mean what you said to me. I thought you did. I don't think I understand how a person can say one thing and mean another."

"No, you never will understand it," said Paul. "I am a villain and a wretch, but I swear to you I did mean

every word 1 said to you; and I mean it now, and I will prove it, by devoting all the rest of my life to you.”

"I don't want you to devote your life to me, Paul."

"You don't!" exclaimed Paul, in a tone in which incredulity, astonishment, and distress were commingled.

"No; I don't want you to do a thing for me for which you will be sorry. It was all made plain to me last night. When you first told me that you loved me, I was almost glad that I was poor. I loved you so much, I liked to think that not only love, but every good gift in life, was to come to me from you. I knew how happy it would make me, had I been rich and you poor, to have chosen you out of all the world, to have given all that I had to you, and to have proclaimed to all the world that you were the man I loved. But Miss Prescott came, and every thing changed. I never knew, till then, how hard it might be to be poor-to be left out-to be passed by by the one loved best. It was all explained last night. You said that we ought never to marry. I knew it was true-that, if we did, even if you loved me, that the time would come when you would be sorry -that, when you saw Miss Prescott, you would feel that you had made too great a sacrifice in marrying me-that you would be ashamed of my father and mother, and of Muggins; that they might trouble you in some way. I didn't blame you. Only, till I heard you, I didn't know how much there was to keep us apart. Then, I couldn't understand why you ever sought me, and asked me to marry you. But you were sorry-you told her so-because it kept you from her. It didn't seem to me to be Paul-not the Paul that I love. I do not know where he is. All I know is, that I never can marry him." "By heaven, you can marry me!" exclaimed Paul; “I will give my whole life to making you forget what I have said and done."

"No, I will never marry you, Paul.”

As she uttered these words, two solitary tears forced their way through the

closed eyelids and dropped on the colorless cheeks; the lips quivered, then grew still. She slowly turned her face away, her head resting on the back of the chair. Her whole attitude and aspect was that of one who had given up every thing in life. There was something irrevocable in the still, white face, that could not have been expressed in the wildest frenzy of words.

It comes to every man once in his existence, the vision of a complete life upon the earth. She comes to every man once, the woman who could be supremely the wife of his soul-she who, beyond and above every other human being-might be to him what no other one could be, in companionship and love. Paul Mallane saw this woman before him, and knew that, with her going, the sweetest and most perfect possibility of his life would pass away from him forever. He saw it again for the last time, the vision that he had seen so often before in better hours the home peopled with bright children, glorified by the presence of this beloved one, the mother and the wife, the inspiration of all his endeavors, the crowner of all his success, the soul of his soul. And there had been times-how many!-when he had felt strong to dedicate all his power, all the promise of his life, to her, and the life that be might share with her; and now it was too late. With the keenest consciousness of what she might have been, what she was, to him, he knew in his heart that he had forfeited her, and that she was not for him in time or in eternity.

He went to her chair, laid back the long bright hair from her temples, stooped down, and kissed her forehead. Her closed eyelids looked the long farewell-look in which a thousand conflicting emotions contended;-another, and another, as the soft eyes opened and looked back into his, as from another world. Then he turned, and went out of the house.

It was September. On the lawn at Marlboro were a number of persons whom we have seen before. Dick and Dolores were sitting together, and near them stood Don Ovedo, scowling darkly at a gentleman sitting at some distance away, alone with Bella Prescott. It was Paul Mallane; and he had been much astonished, during the evening, at the offensive and aggressive manner of the Don, which was full of an assurance that he had never observed in it

until now. Pensive and tearful, Bella had departed from Busyville two weeks before. Paul had neither seen her nor sought her since. It had taken him the entire two weeks to lose from his own the touch of a sweet, pathetic face, and to get over that farewell look. He had done it, he thought. He could not have what he wanted-what he sometimes wanted so much; but he could have Bella, who loved him so dearly that her love had changed her character, and had made her amiable and gentle. If he couldn't have that house of his own building-for which, after all, he would have had to have worked very hard he could have Marlboro, which in itself was well worth having.

"Bella," he said, "the bond which held me from you when we last walked together is broken. I am free. I have the right to make you happy. Will you marry me?"

"Thank you!" she said, drawing herself up, her eyes gleaming with triumph, her attitude and expression changing as utterly as if she were turning into another person. "I knew before I left that the shop-girl had jilted you. All I went to your wretched little town for, was to separate you from her.

You were awfully in love with her, weren't you? and yet not man enough to stand by her and own her in defiance of me. We are quits now. I am paid for all you ever cost me. I would really like to oblige you, Mr. Mallane, but I am engaged already to Don Ovedo."

WHY "Pilgrimage?" Why not Visit -Journey-Voyage-Excursion?

Wait, gentle reader; wait till my few pages of reminiscences are written out, and then you will understand why no other word is suitable to express the process of approaching the capital of China.

We start from Shanghai, which is the North-China terminus of our wonderful Pacific mail-route, as Canton is of the South-China extension, that branch es off from Yokohama, in Japan. We start on board an American steamer, one of a fleet owned by a local company, and we might as well be on a North River boat, so far as comfort is concerned. Indeed, it is hard to feel one's self away from home when seated at the table of one of these noble vessels; unless, perhaps, your eye catches the pic ture-like Mongolianism of the servingboys, or your ear is saluted by the "pigeon-English" spoken to them.

These bring you back to the realities of Oriental life; and, if you step out of your own quarters, and go into the crowded passenger-saloon, there is no more hallucination. Smokes and smells unmistakable; fumes of opium and of mild tobacco; odors of salted cabbage, and of eggs in an advanced stage of preservation;-all these proclaim that the cuisine and the delectation are unquestionably Chinese.

"'Tis nightfall on the sea," and you go on hour after hour, ploughing your way through the mud-stained waters of the Yellow Sea, keeping on about a NNE. course, and finding yourself next morning, to all appearance, just as you were the day before; till, in the course of the afternoon, the southern face of the Shangtung promontory is sighted, and you begin coasting round until you turn the corner, as it were, and find the ship's bows bearing off due westward, and heading for the pretty port of VOL. VI.-35

Chefoo. This settlement lies on the northern coast of the same promontory, and is fast becoming a place of summer resort-a sanitary refuge from the sweltering heat of the more southerly ports, during the months of July, August, and part of September.

A spacious bay and a jutting headland, with a hill-country in the background; several foreign ships, and a flotilla of Chinese junks; a few bungalow buildings on the hillsides, two of them church-like in appearance; and a low, outspreading continuity of Chinese tenements along the plain ;-such is Chefoo; a very good alternative place of sojourn, until something better shall be found elsewhere, and a very important place of rendezvous for naval purposes, especially when Peking is the object of attack from the seaward—as, for instance, it was when the AngloFrench expeditions of 1858 and 1860 were on their way to make the treaties of Tien-tsin, and to procure the ratification thereof; for the Chinese rulers repeated the recalcitrant policy of a certain tribe who said to the Romans, "True, we gave you our oaths, but we did not promise to observe them."

Farewell to Chefoo, and away for the Straits of Mian-tan, through which we enter the Gulf of Pechili, leaving Tungchow, an ancient and picturesque walled city on the left, with only a passing glance through the spy-glass.

Gulf of Pechili-submerged mudflat, shallowing toward the westward at the rate of about a foot a mile; coast-line, when visible at all, pure mud, or rather salt-mud, unreconciled to vegetation. Interesting study of soundings: lead-line going all the time, though nothing visible all around. At last, with the powerful assistance of the setting sun, which has been per forming all sorts of mirages, we make