gossips should be wrong in the other particular-that is, as to John's goodness. But no; that was incredible: absolutely impossible with respect to him as a husband-for his devotion and tenderness had stood the test of years, and were undiminished; and incredible as regarded his general character. She would have dutiful trust in him still; she would hope that, somehow or other, in Heaven's good time, this dark cloud, though it could never be forgotten, might dissolve under some blessed beam of truth, which should show him as pure as ever but all the time a haunting voice grimly whispered that she was hoping against hope; that this mystery would never be discovered, or, if it were, would disclose some facts more terrible than suggestion could hint at. To escape from it she fled upstairs. In the society of her husband, while she looked in his noble face, while she listened to his tender words, surely, surely she could entertain no doubts, no misgivings of him!

Somewhat to her surprise she found that although it was early (for he had been up during the day, and apparently occupying himself with business matters at a desk which she had extemporised for him), he had already retired to bed, and was lying with his face to the wall, and evidently inclined for silence, if not for slumber. This was a disappointment to her, since it denied her the moral support of which she stood in need; but with her usual acquiescence in his wishes

-or in what she deemed to be so she forbore to address him, and herself retired for the night. For some time she lay awake, thought hurrying after thought, like sunless clouds. before the wind; but presently, overcome with the fatigues and anxieties of the last two nights, she fell into a deep sleep.

About midnight, as she learnt from the clock upon the stairs, she wakened, but lay very still and quiet, partly for fear of disturbing her husband-if by chance his brain should have at last found repose-and partly because she felt this wake

fulness was growing to be a habit with her, and not to be encouraged. Events might occur, to meet which she might require all her strength of mind and body, and sleeplessness was the weakener of both. So she lay with closed eyes, resolute not to move, and, if possible, not to think, yet with all her senses in a state of sharp and painful tension. At first, not a sound was to be heard—not even the breathing of her husband by her side, a circumstance which did not surprise her if he were not asleep, he would now take no pains to pretend to be so, believing herself to be sunk in slumber; but presently she heard the muffled tread of feet in the room beneath. Always sensible and slow to give way to fancy, she for the moment ascribed this to nervousness; she knew that her nerves were in a morbid state, and was disinclined to credit her own impressions; but after a while she became convinced that her ears were not deceiving her. Then the idea which she had done her best to shut from her mind rushed in, and took possession of it in an instant. These were the footsteps of Dennis Blake: he had come to-night, as he had come last night, and as he might continue to come, she knew not how long, to hold secret converse with her husband! She felt an anger in her breast that would not be stifled. She had given her word not to ask John questions about the previous interview; but that was when she was in ignorance of who had been his companion; if she had dreamt that it had been Dennis Blake, she would have insisted upon an explanation. Supposing, even, that he were innocent of the heinous crime of which she suspected him, still, since she did suspect him, and her husband knew it, how could he admit this man to their own roof-tree? She put aside the consideration of his offences against herself, although they were surely such as should have closed a husband's door against him, and rested her case upon the former ground alone. It was indecent-it was insulting to her own judg

ment, knowing her opinion of the man to be what it was, that John should suffer him within their doors. Upon the first occasion it might be pardoned, since Blake had thrust himself within them-aided, doubtless, by powerful, though to her, unknown forces, and quite unexpectedly; but nothing could excuse this second visit. She was a dutiful wife, but duty did not call upon her to submit to this; to harbour in the very house that had been Richard's home the wretch she knew to have been accessory to his ruin, and suspected of being privy to his death!

The noise continued, and even louder than before, a shuffling and muffled noise, apparently of moving feet. It seemed to her as though the person below-stairs, having somehow gained admission to the house, was endeavouring to draw John's attention to the fact of his presence, without arousing any of the other inmates. But to attribute motives to sounds is even easier than to attribute them to actions.

"John, John!" cried she, in such a tone as she had never addressed to him before, "there is some one moving in the parlour, and I believe it to be that hateful villain, Dennis Blake!"

He

The die was cast-she had told him that she was in possession of half his secret; and, notwithstanding her indignation, she felt some feeling of alarm at her own audacity, not for herself, but for fear of its consequences to him. answered not a syllable. Had her words stricken him dumb? Had this fruit of the tree of knowledge, which she had plucked, brought death to him?

"John, John!" cried she again, but this time with nervous terror" for Heaven's sake, speak!" But there was no reply. She reached forth her hand to seize his shoulder, but it only fell upon his vacant pillow. Her husband was not beside her -she was alone!

CHAPTER XXVII.

PARTING.

FOR the moment the conviction that she was alone flashed upon Maggie with a sense of desertion: John had left her, and below-stairs was Dennis Blake!

Her mind was so occupied with suggestions and suspicions of this man, that every thought reverted to him; and it was not until after some reflection that the more natural explanation occurred to her, that the person moving in the parlour was John himself. What if the servants should be awake, and hear him, as she herself had done, and come downstairs? In that case, all her precautions of the previous day would be thrown away! It was clearly her duty to warn him. Rising hastily, and wrapping her dressing-gown around her, she softly opened the door. His movements could still be heard, but, curiously enough, they were not so audible as when she was in her room. She went down the stairs a little way, and then paused to listen. It was very dark, yet not so dark before her as behind her; a greyish glimmer, such as steals through windows even in a murky night, was before her, and showed that the door of the parlour was open. If any one was there, she must, therefore, needs hear him, almost to his very breathing. And whoever was there must have heard her. The tick of the clock on the landing, the chirrup of a cricket in the kitchen, smote upon her straining ears, but no other sound. Then arose a shuffling, muffled noise-as of one who

drags a burden behind him-from beneath her very feet; person moving was in the cellar!

the

And here was a new mystery, for how could the cellar have been reached, since no one had dug into it from without the house, and the wall that had been bricked over the door shut it off from all within! The noise continued for a few moments, then grew fainter and fainter, and all was still again, save for the clock and the cricket. To go on without a lighted candle was beyond Maggie's courage; but having returned to her room and procured one, she ventured to explore the parlour. It was empty, as she now expected it to be; and so were all the rooms on the basement floor. The front door was unfastened, so that it was certain her husband had left the house. She pushed back one of the bolts, a safeguard her terrors compelled her to take, and sat down to await his return. It was her purpose, when he did so, to demand an explanation of all that had happened during the last eight-and-forty hours. She felt that her powers were not equal to the task she had imposed upon them. Her position in that house had become insupportable; she must speak or she must die. Her past life, with the exception of her illstarred passion for Richard, had been very uneventful; her lines had fallen on the broad road pursued by other persons in her condition, with undulations, but without great heights or depths; and her father, notwithstanding he was by nature reticent, had had no secrets from her. These circumstances of mystery, therefore, with which she now found herself surrounded, were the more insufferable and overwhelming. An hour had dragged its slow length along, and her solitary vigil still continued, every minute of which helped to fix her resolve to know the worst from her husband's lips. She had a right to know it, since the trouble that had changed him from young to old was now consuming her. Suppose he should never come, but should disappear, as Richard had done