think it strange that my cousin should be visiting in my part of Scotland, and not visit Me!

'But we are to be very careful.

Helena says, in so many words, "I come to see you, Eustace, as a sister. You must receive me as a brother, or not receive me at all. I shall write to your wife to propose the day for my visit. I shall not forget-do you not forget-that it is by your wife's permission that I enter your house."

'Only let me see her! I will submit to anything to obtain the unutterable happiness of seeing her!'

The last Extract followed, and consisted of these lines only:

'A new misfortune! My wife has fallen ill. She has taken to her bed, with a bad rheumatic cold, just at the time appointed for Helena's visit to Gleninch. But, on this occasion (I gladly own it!), she has behaved charmingly. She has written to Helena to say that her illness is not serious enough to render a change necessary in the arrangements, and to make it her particular request that my cousin's visit shall take place upon the day originally decided on.

'This is a great sacrifice made to me, on my wife's part. Jealous of every woman, under forty, who comes near me, she is of course jealous of Helena-and she controls herself, and trusts me!

'I am bound to show my gratitude for this, and I will show it. From this day forth, I vow to live more affectionately with my wife. I tenderly embraced her this very morning—and, I hope, poor soul, she did not discover the effort that it cost me.'

There, the readings from the Diary came to an end.

The most unpleasant pages in the whole Report of the Trial were to me-the pages which contained the extracts from my husband's Diary. There were expressions, here and

there, which not only pained me, but which almost shook Eustace's position in my estimation. I think I would have given everything I possessed to have had the power of annihilating certain lines in that Diary. As for his passionate expressions of love for Mrs. Beauly, every one of them went through me like a sting! He had whispered words quite as warm into my ears, in the days of his courtship. I had no reason to doubt that he truly and dearly loved me. But the question was-Had he, just as truly and dearly, loved Mrs. Beauly, before me? Had she or I won the first of his heart? He had declared to me, over and over again, that he had only fancied himself to be in love, before the day when we met. I had believed him then. I determined to believe him still. I did believe him. But I hated Mrs. Beauly!

As for the painful impression produced in Court by the readings from the letters and the Diary, it seemed to be impossible to increase it. Nevertheless, it was perceptibly increased. In other words, it was rendered more unfavourable still towards the prisoner, by the evidence of the next, and last, witness called on the part of the prosecution.

William Enzie, under-gardener at Gleninch, was sworn, and deposed as follows:

'On the twentieth of October, at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, I was at work in the shrubbery, on the side next to the garden called the Dutch Garden. There was a summer-house in the Dutch Garden, having its back set towards the shrubbery. The day was wonderfully fine and warm for the time of year.

'Passing to my work, I passed the back of the summerhouse. I heard voices inside—a man's voice and a lady's voice. The lady's voice was strange to me. The man's voice I recognized as the voice of my master. The ground in the shrubbery was soft; and my curiosity was excited. I stepped

up to the back of the summer-house, without being heard; and I listened to what was going on inside.

'The first words I could distinguish were spoken in my master's voice. He said, "If I could only have foreseen that you might one day be free, what a happy man I might have been!" The lady's voice answered, "Hush! you must not talk so." My master said, upon that, "I must talk of what is in my mind; it is always in my mind that I have lost you." He stopped a bit there, and then he said on a sudden, "Do me one favour, my angel! Promise me not to marry again." The lady's voice spoke out, thereupon, sharply enough, "What do you mean?" My master said, "I wish no harm to the unhappy creature who is a burden on my life;

but suppose- -?" "Suppose nothing," the lady said;

66 come back to the house."

'She led the way into the garden, and turned round, beckoning my master to join her. In that position, I saw her face plainly; and I knew it for the face of the young widow lady who was visiting at the house. She was pointed out to me by the head-gardener, when she first arrived, for the purpose of warning me that I was not to interfere if I found her picking the flowers. The gardens at Gleninch were shown to tourists on certain days; and we made a difference, of course, in the matter of the flowers, between strangers and guests staying in the house. I am quite certain of the identity of the lady who was talking with my master. Mrs. Beauly was a comely person-and there was no mistaking her for any other than herself. She and my master withdrew together on the way to the house. I heard nothing more of what passed

between them.'

This witness was severely cross-examined as to the correctness of his recollection of the talk in the summer-house, and as to his capacity for identifying both the speakers. On certain minor points he was shaken. But he firmly asserted his accurate remembrance of the last words exchanged between

his master and Mrs. Beauly; and he personally described the lady, in terms which proved that he had correctly identified her.

With this, the answer to the third Question raised by the Trial—the question of the prisoner's Motive for poisoning his wife came to an end.

The story for the prosecution was now a story told. The staunchest friends of the prisoner in Court were compelled to acknowledge that the evidence, thus far, pointed clearly and conclusively against him. He seemed to feel this himself. When he withdrew at the close of the third day of the Trial, he was so depressed and exhausted that he was obliged to lean on the arm of the governor of the jail.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE EVIDENCE FOR THE DEFENCE.

THE feeling of interest excited by the Trial was prodigiously increased on the fourth day. The witnesses for the defence were now to be heard; and first and foremost among them was the prisoner's mother. She looked at her son as she lifted her veil to take the oath. He burst into tears. At that moment, the sympathy felt for the mother was generally extended to the unhappy son.

Examined by the Dean of Faculty, Mrs. Macallan the elder gave her answers with remarkable dignity and selfcontrol.

Questioned as to certain private conversations which had passed between her late daughter-in-law and herself, she declared that Mrs. Eustace Macallan was morbidly sensitive on the subject of her personal appearance. She was devotedly attached to her husband; the great anxiety of her life was to make herself as attractive to him as possible. The imperfec

tions in her personal appearance-and especially in her complexion-were subjects to her of the bitterest regret. The witness had heard her say, over and over again (referring to her complexion), that there was no risk she would not run, and no pain she would not suffer, to improve it. 'Men' (she had said)' are all caught by outward appearances: my husband might love me better, if I had a better colour.'

Being asked next if the passages from her son's Diary were to be depended on as evidence-that is to say, if they fairly represented the peculiarities in his character, and his true sentiments towards his wife-Mrs. Macallan denied it in the plainest and the strongest terms.

'The extracts from my son's Diary are a libel on his character,' she said. 'And not the less a libel, because they happen to be written by himself. Speaking from a mother's experience of him, I know that he must have written the passages produced, in momemts of uncontrollable depression and despair. No just person judges hastily of a man by the rash words which may escape him in his moody and miserable moments. Is my son to be so judged because he happens to have written his rash words, instead of speaking them? His pen has been his most deadly enemy, in this case-it has presented him at his very worst. He was not happy in his marriage-I admit that. But I say, at the same time, that he was invariably considerate towards his wife. I was implicitly trusted by both of them; I saw them in their most private moments. I declare-in the face of what she appears to have written to her friends and correspondentsthat my son never gave his wife any just cause to assert that he treated her with cruelty and neglect.'

These words, firmly and clearly spoken, produced a strong impression. The Lord Advocate-evidently perceiving that any attempt to weaken that impression would not be likely to succeed confined himself, in cross-examination, to two significant questions.