be proffered fearlessly for a lifetime, so small a thing? and was George Loudon so wedded to his wine? A shade of sadness fell over Gulnare's face.

As for George, he saw his rose lying on the floor, but his eyes, fixed on Vina, never flinched, nor did his smiles change nor his voice falter. He was used to coquettes, and he set Gulnare down as playing the usual game, making courtship interesting, and meaning to yield by and by.

Gulnare had, however, dropped George's token once and forever, and truth to say, felt somewhat relieved. She could not love him, were he as zealously temperate as Father Matthew himself; but they had been brought up under one roof; she did wish he would sign a pledgeand marry somebody else.

By the time they reached the drawingroom Gulnare was taking herself to task for not being supremely happy. A cloud of discontent hung over her, impalpable to others, but plain to herself; and she was ashamed of it. She stood apart from the groups of ladies in the parlors; she was thinking, weighing her woes and her blessings. She had no relatives, no kin in all the wide world, who cared for her. Her father had certainly omitted many paternal duties; had left her to strangers, and showed very little personal interest in her. What a thing it must be to have a wise, loving and honorable parent, not like Loudon, senior, but such as she had read of in books! But now she compelled herself to look at the other side of the picture. She was well-born, and exceptionally well educated; she had vigorous health, and a full share of personal attractions; she had a competence, and was untrammelled mistress of herself. Surely hundreds in this city of her home might envy her position that New Year's Day. As she stood there, unconsciously conspicuous under the flaming light of the chandelier, crowding happy thoughts and glorious ambitions lent tenfold charms to her beauty. Gulnare wore the glory of her native land, the namesake rose, as her fitting ornament. A dark crimson rose glowed against the heavy folds of her chestnut hair; crimson roses

looped the lace flounce of her garnet silk dress; a necklace of carbuncles, which had been her mother's, clasped her throat, and as her warm southern blood had ever shrunk from the chill of northern winters, she had flung about her shoulders a cloak of white satin, quilted, and trimmed with swansdown. "How perfectly gorgeous you are, queen Gulnare," laughed Cora, coming to her side.

"You don't seem to consider that such gorgeousness might outshine you," said Vina McWhorter.

"No," said Cora, "it is just a good contrast. Rose is too splendid for ordinary life. I shall be married ages before she is. You won't mind, will you, Rose?"

"Certainly not," replied Miss Hamilton. She forbore to add that marriage. was not the end and aim of her existence; she never vexed Cora, nor was vexed at her. In perfect smoothness, without a particle of community of feeling, she had grown up beside this blonde piece of prettiness, admiring in her all that was admirable; becoming the receptacle of all her confidences; toning down her follies sometimes by good advice and good example, esteemed by Cora as her "most intimate friend," and on her own part, wondering what a truly intimate and accordant friendship would be.

"If you please, Miss Hamilton," a servant spoke behind her, "there's a boy in the hall insists on speaking to you. He says he must see you, Miss; I told him you were engaged.

"A dun," said Vina, as Gulnare turned to leave the room.

"No, she never has debts; not so much as a sixpence," said Cora.

"Possible! A beggar, then, with a romantic story!"

"Maybe so, we will ask her when she comes back." But Gulnare Hamilton never again came back to them.

You have heard how people disappear; are swept down in the busy vortex of city life, and come up to the surface no more; perishing utterly from the ways of men.

And now while I affirm at once, that there is nothing tragic nor pathetic in

this New-Year's story, you will learn how Gulnare Hamilton dropped out of existence on that first night of the year. The first agent in her disappearance was a lad of fourteen; a cleanly, keen, humbly clad boy, whom she found hovering near a register in the hall, and whom her magnificence overpowered, and for a few seconds deprived of all power of

utterance.

"And now what do want, my boy?" she asked.

His want was easily stated. There was a woman boarding with his mother, in Nectarine street, above Eighth; "the woman was very sick, dying indeed, and must see Miss Hamilton at once."

But who is she, and what does she want of me?"

"She wants to speak with you, ma'am. She's been a-making of her mind up to it for several days, and is took worse suddent. Which her name it is Matilda Jerrold, Miss."

Now at this name Miss Hamilton fully made up her mind to see Matilda Jerrold at all risks. This woman most likely had known her father and her mother. She could make the abandoned daughter acquainted with her father and his Cashmerian bride; she held Gulnare's past in her dying hands, a treasure above price, and Gulnare meant to go and take it into her own keeping. Resolved as she was, Miss Hamilton was not a girl to neglect the proprieties. She sent a servant to beg Aunt Loudon's presence, and laid the case before her.

"Why on earth can't the woman die without troubling you?" asked Miss Loudon, deeply chagrined.

well," interpolated the shabby mercury, "cause the doctor do say she won't live until tide turnin'."

"And Nectarine street is such an outlandish place, my dear; a blind alley, or something of that sort. Somewhere about Eighth and north of Market, I think; surely fourteen or fifteen squares off; why this woman has no conscience."

"She have, and she say it be a troubling of her," persisted the irrepressible boy, exciting tenfold Miss Hamilton's curiosity. "And missis, Nectarine street is quiet as a meetin' house where we lives, and there's a perlice ever at the corner. Miss, do come. That 'ere woman goes on drefful to see you.”

"The company won't miss me aunt, and it is not so very late. Of course I'll change my dress, and if you'll let me have the carriage-I must go."

Now of all things Miss Loudon abominated worry and opposition; she was in haste to return to her guests, so she said, "you are your own mistress, do as you please, Rose. I shall certainly order the carriage. Wrap up warmly, put on a dark plain dress; the coachman is reliable, and take Mary Rogers with you by all means."

Mary Rogers was a matron who for ten years had held sway in a little sewing room in the third story, and kept the Loudon household garments and linen closet replenished and in repair.

After a half hour's delay Miss Hamilton, wearing a brown merino dress and a fur cloak, and Mary Rogers, bundled up like a mummy, stepped into the carriage; the messenger boy climbed up beside the coachman, and they rolled away toward Nectarine street.

The moonlight shone brilliantly; the mystery of this night summons had stirred Gulnare to a delicious excitement, despite the solemnity of her errand; her blood leaped madly in her veins, and her brain was in a whirl of thought. She was young, strong, well equipped for the battle of life. The world was all before her, with splendid paths for her choosing. She meant to do something grand, and become famous. She had an artist's eye and hand, and she would fix

the glorious creations of her oriental fancy on glowing canvas, or on plates of steel. She could dream romances that were lofty and poetic; she would write them, to enter as bountiful angels a hundred thousand homes. She looked from the carriage window toward that beautiful moon, pursuing its steady way among the stars; so where earth's brightest names were shining, would she tread a path of light. What wonder that in such thoughts as these time and distance alike were lost, and she aroused from her reverie with a start when the carriage stopped at Nectarine street on Eighth, the dismal alley of the luscious name being too narrow to admit it. A policeman came forward as the lady and her attendant alighted.

"Do you know this boy?" asked the coachman.

"Yes, its Joey Dake," replied the guardian of the peace.

"And are his folks decent?"

"Yes, quite so. Quiet, steady woman, is his mother."

"You see," said the coachman, "our young lady has been sent for to visit a dying woman at their rooms, and I'd like to know if it's safe for her and Mary to go up there?"

"I should say so," replied the officer. "The door's just in sight on the left. Take the ladies along carefully, Joe."

"I'm glad you're come. Mrs. Jerrold's lying in here," said Mrs. Dake, meeting them in her outer room. Miss Hamilton and Mary passed in. Gulnare's bright fancies vanished, and she bent pityingly over the worn creature in the bed. "How you are changed!" she whispered. "Do you remember me?" questioned the dying woman.

Miss Hamilton bowed, and Mary Rogers said, "Yes, I remember you; you are Matilda Jerrold."

"You came to see me at our summer home, when I was twelve years old, and I never forgot you, you seemed so fond of me," said Gulnare.

"I was fond of you, too fond," said the woman, with a dry sob. I want to see you alone."

"Leave us, Mary," said the lady, and

Mary looking carefully about the room, felt it safe to leave her young lady, while she herself went out to Mrs. Dake.

"I am sorry to see you so very ill," said Miss Hamilton.

"Just going-only a few hours left;" gasped the sufferer.

a

"I hope you feel prepared for so great change.'

"Ah, it's been a sore struggle. I repented and confessed my evil deeds, and I prayed for a peace that would not come. The clergyman told me when I had done a wrong I must make restitution, but for your sake I held off and fought, and fought; but O, I can't die easy without speaking-that's my one chance of peace. Say, will you forgive me if I can't help speaking out?"

Speak whatever is on your mind,” replied Gulnare, firmly. "What have I to do with it? You brought me over from India."

"God help me, so I did. Sit down, and hear me.'

Gulnare sat down, and threw off the scarf wrapped about her head; the woman spoke huskily.

"O how grand and beautiful you are! a complete lady, and it's all my work. I can't be sorry-I can't!"

"Go on," said Gulnare, cold with apprehension. "Your time is short, speak all that is in your mind."

"I went to India as a lady's maid with the Colonel of an English regiment, because my only brother was a private in that regiment," said Matilda Jerrold. "I loved Hal better than sisters commonly love. We were of a good farming family, but we'd had trouble and losses, and only we two were left. Hal married a young native of India; she had been trained by a missionary's wife, and for beauty she never had an equal, as far as I have seen. They were happy, poor things, up in that station among the hills, but it did not last long, for they both died, Hal and his wife, and left the little girl to me. Poor Hal told me to take her to America, where she could be educated for nothing, and could make her way up and be as good as the best. Just when I was starting, General Ham

ilton came to me, and offered me fifty pounds, and my and the child's fare, first-class, in a handsome state-room, if I'd take his daughter, whose mother was dead, into my care and bring her to Philadelphia to Mr. Loudon. Of course I agreed, and he brought the child, lovely creature that she was, just the size of my Hal's girl, and soon enough we were on our way. I had the children in my state-room, and both of them were seasick enough. I never left them, night or day, giving each the same care; but my child got better, and General Hamilton's Gulnare got worse; and the surgeon told me an inflammation had set in, and she would die. I sat crying over the sweet thing, thinking what a chance of life was before her, with money and a rich guardia", and a grand education, and my Hal's child left to fight her way; the rich baby dying and leaving all, and the poor baby living to bear the battle! Just here, from a word the doctor dropped, I saw from my grief he had mistook the children, not knowing either of them; but considering the dying child as my niece, and the other one, who got less of my care as not needing it so much, as the child in my charge. Then it came to me, why not let it be so? Since the child must die and leave all her good fortune, why not let her die as my poor little girl, and let my girl pass into the General's daughter and have the fortune its little owner left her behind? So the thought grew on me; and as Gulnare Hamilton kept dying day by day, and died in spite of all my care, I let her pass as my little niece, and dressed her in my baby's clothes, and we buried her in the

I hovered near where she lived, and never dared show myself nor my love; only once, when I went as her former nurse, and asked if she were happy-and she told me 'very happy.' Ah, that paid me for all. But I dare not die with this lie in my heart. You know it now; I have told you all."

"And General Hamilton's daughter died?"

"She died," replied the sick woman, "at sea."

"And no one ever knew of your ception?"

de

No one. None but God and myself." "And I am not Gulnare Hamilton-I am

"You are not Gulnare Hamilton; you are Rose Jerrold, my brother's child, born in honest wedlock, child of an honest, true-hearted man-my niece!"

"How could you! How dare you!" cried the lady.

"I loved you so much- -was as ambitious for you-was so tempted. Temptation and opportunity, that did it. Even your names helped it on, Gulnare and Rose. Persian and English for the same thing; and your Indian mother's."

"And how do I know you are not deceiving me now?"

"So help me God, as I tell truth at last! Dare I lie, here at the point of death? No. Here is my story written out, and sworn to by me, before Mrs. Dake, and the minister, and a lawyer. They saw me write it, and they witnessed it as mine without reading it, and I swore it was all true before them." She drew a paper from under her pillow. "Take it. Do as you like with it. In all the world not a soul knows this but us two. I pass my secret on to you. you like. O say, my brother's child, only kin I have, for whom I burdened my life with this sin, will you not forgive me? It was love that made me do it; can you understand that, girl? my little Rose, my idol, it was love.'

Use it as

"No, I cannot understand it. Right is right, and love should never lead us to do wrong," replied the girl.

"Forgive me. See what I have bought for you, at the sacrifice of my peace.