looked very nice and pretty in her white muslin dress. Our arrangements had all been simple, free from noise and show. For us, this was well, it was excellent, and Albertine was content."

Mr. Bovie paused so long, it was evident he had forgotten us. Maria said at last

“Pray go on, sir, we are listening."

'Oh," he said, with a start. "Yes, you are very kind. Well, we lived happily the few years allotted us. I sought to do whatever I thought would please Albertine. Another might have deemed her very exacting, but with me, what she did was best, she made us all very happy. What the

sun is to the world we live in she was to me. Her head to plan, her taste and judgment to direct, her love to warm and vivify all. But, oh, she had no subtle antagonist, no heart of envy within her house.

It pleased her that Harry was so fond of his little baby brother, for she said, he, our wee Sammy, would be to him. what little Neddie would have been. Here I would like to stop, and make an end of speaking, but a power beyond my own will drives me on.

Five years of a calm and quiet life had been mine, when a vague rumor from an uncertain quarter reached me, and gave me much disquiet. Just at this time Harry returned from school one night, very ill. The next day he was worse, and for two weeks Albertine watched over him tenderly, but her care and all medical advice, were alike fruitless. He moaned and plead for something which our dull senses could not comprehend. I saw a change in the boy, when he lookand said

ed

up

"I have seen my mother, my own mother. She came to me, as I believe-came to me last night. She told me about little Neddie, and the other one, but I promised her never to reveal this until death, and now I am going hence, to come not back, and must keep my word with her, who loved me so well. Let me, oh, let me see my mother, for she is near, very near me, now.' Albertine weeping, said—

'Dear boy, you are very ill-try to rest.'

'I am going to my everlasting rest,' he said. 'I cannot wait for see! they beckon me. When I have fallen asleep -when death has healed my unspoken griefs-will you let my mother see me !'

Albertine could not speak. He looked at me with a fixedness which compelled my reply. 'Promise me.'

'If she wishes it; yes, my son.'

He murmured 'father,' with a fondness which he had never ventured to express in life and health.

Albertine leaned over him, and gently laid her hand on his forehead. He whispered

'You were kind, good-I loved you always! but, my mother mother-oh, be good to her.'

His eyes closed. Albertine strove to hush her sobs-a deep silence pervaded the room-my first-born, my brave boy had gone from those who loved him, to those who knew and loved him best.

I sat with my head upon my clenched hands, brooding over the long past. It seemed that I heard a foot-fall, then a tall shadow fell across the curtains of the bed whereon lay my eldest, my beloved, his wrongs and his sufferings ended, his tender and loving bosom forever hushed in death.

I raised my head-there was no sign of motion there. Hark! a wild, shrill, agonized cry broke upon the air. Ha! it was the voice, the heart-cry of my long lost, my poor, deserted-aye, murdered wife.

It was night-darkness within and without. ing I received a note, left by private hand. taking from his vest pocket a paper—

Next morn-
Thus—and

'My son, my loved and loving child is dead. By right of motherhood I make one request. That his father accompany the remains for interment near the graves of his ancestors. Whatever may be necessary, will be in readiness at such time as may seem fitting to his later guardians.

LAURA BOVIE.

It was true, then. The mother of my brave Harry-the tender wife I had cruelly deserted, and robbed of her childhad returned from the West, and was now with her relatives —by whom I knew her to be greatly beloved! How could I break these fearful tidings to Albertine ! There was no need. My cousin Sally came, and before I had prepared myself for the task, she let out the whole story, in just the way that a coarse, uneducated mind would suggest. Certainly her words were not well chosen, nor the time. Albertine sank at the first blow.

At one glance she grasped the whole. She was nearly mad with agony. She would have fled-but for her child. To leave him, would be to destroy herself-to take him, would make him worse than orphaned—and me! yes, even in that terrible hour, she thought of me-childless.

My Albertine lost to me! Harry dead! I think I too, was mad.—I had a loaded pistol in my hand-raised it with deliberate aim. She sprang from her couch, and tore it from me! 'Shame!' she cried-'coward! would you die! you desert your helpless boy? Live-and be to him both father and mother!' and sank, fainting on the floor, before I could stretch out my arms to receive her."

CHAPTER XXI.

"I felt it to be my duty to inform Laura of the day and hour fixed upon for the funeral. I did so, for the same messenger who had brought me Laura's note, waited, grave and silent, for some communication from me. On the day fixed upon we proceeded to the appointed place.

For Albertine to accompany us, was impossible—and I bade her brother Fred remain by her during my absence.

At the church, I was met by many of my old friends, and at the altar stood the same minister, under whose preaching I had sat with my poor Harry's mother, and by his side, covered with a mourning vail was-Laura, waiting to receive her dead.

I would have fallen at her feet and cried aloud for her forgiveness for my early desertion and this later and more cruel wrong—but she saw me not, and the place seemed dark as death.

Some one laid back the coffin-lid, I heard the tears fall like rain, then the smothered sobs, the heart-cries-' My child, my child !'

How dark, how terrible was that hour! Laura, my early wedded, my true, fond wife, bathing with tears of agony the cold still face of her last, her only child, and I, impotent to console her! How should I dare to offer words of consolation My soul was in sack-cloth, cowering amid dust and ashes.

Then my last marriage rose up to curse me. The rashness of the deed was but too glaring! I had no proof of Laura's death, save the bare assertion of it in a letter from my sister, and she, though she be my sister, is, I say it before high heaven, the greatest liar I ever knew.

I was too willing, it suited my purpose to believe it. All this passed through me with lightning-speed. My head swam round. Some one beside me said—

'Out of the chaos of Error shall arise the Perfection of Truth.' I leaned forward, spoke her name, Laura, took her hand, and we were seated in our appropriate places.

The services proceeded-during these I had time to grow calmer. When they were ended, I walked with Laura leaning on my arm, to the grave.

The last tribute the living owe to the dead was paid, and I returned with Laura to her mother's house, amid a large circle of friends, gathered there from various motives.

In the best room, being the most spacious, a large table was set out, for Laura's people were generous and hospitable. I took Laura and her mother aside, and explained to them our relative positions, adding that it was impossible for me to remain there a moment longer.

And if we never meet again, Laura, these are my parting words-You have been a true, but most cruelly injured wife. Good bye, and may God in heaven bless you evermore.

When I reached home, Albertine was fearfully ill. Fred had summoned Dr. Smith, who pronounced her attack to be brain fever. The days and nights that we watched her grew into weeks, and while slowly convalescing, the tide of autumnal visitors set city-ward, and our house was full of guests. It is true this changed the current of her thoughts, but she was not strong enough to bear this continued excitement and increase of cares. Previous to all these swiftly succeeding events, Albertine had made an appointment to visit you, Miss Minster, but now she shrank from fulfilling it. I did not like to have her left alone, and the company at our house was not congenial to her taste. I counseled her to send to you, Miss Minnie, to come to her, which she did. And if this visit has caused you fruitless pain, or deep mortification, I pray you to forgive me. I do not ask you to forgive Albertine, for she never intended to wound you."