LS L1170 GIRL .

“You think,” she almost whispered, “that he is—dead ?—without saying good-hyce- - without a word to mc? Oh, Guy, whatever he has done I loved him. How can 1 be happy in the fruit of his pain —to dic deserted and alone?”

He tried to comfort her. Would not the

areatest wish, the one keen desire of the Tost man's heart be fulfilled if she were beloved and happy ?

Togcether they walked towards the housc s when they were out of sight the laurcls rustled crept

once more, and in the dusk there

out a small, dark figure,

unshaven, ragged, and

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IWORNL D) QU 279

There Ellimor went to him, and shut the door.

“Tather ! father ! Ohy why will you not speitk to me? Say once more, My little il

But Matthew Rawdon, the forger, would never speak again. Medical examimnation showed that he had been dead for many hours, the mumediate cause of death being an old and deeply-scated heart discase, 1n- creased by sullering and want. He scemed to have been Teading the hife of o vagrant, but how and where he had succeeded in so completely hiding himself never came to lisht, "The story of his death was hushed

Uz

“IIN THE DUSK THERE CREPT OUT A SMALL, DARK FIGURE.”

forlorn. A Deggar, surcly ! And the hegoar knclt and kissed the dust which the young virl’s feet had trodden.

In the mornimmg onc of the gardeners came up to the house with a grave fuce, and asked to sce Mrs. Montresor.

“If you please, ma’am, there's a man, tramp, he looks like; a poor, hall=starved creature, he’s lymg dead among the laurels down by the shrubbery walk.”

“Good God! The poor man ! he be??”

The man’s face was working @ he was twirling his cap in his hands. Ile leancd forward and whispered —

“Maam, T think, I al —most think —its the master, Mr. Rawdon.”

So for the sccond time the Firholt came home.

They carried the small, hight figure to the house, to his own room, a strange contrast to its luxurious fittings.

Who can

master of

up, as had been that of Ins crime. Lady Peyton carefully talked of him as “highly cecentrie,” and explamed that 1t was entirely

owing to his cceentricity that her son’s marriage had been postponed. The odd

Little man had started off i such an unac- countable manncer, and llimor had been so resolute o abiding by his wish that she should await his return.

Well, he had come, and he was dead, and there was an end of 1it. No onc had much iterest i ferreting out the truth of his story. When the days of her mourning were ended, Ellmor married very quictly.

Somectimes o the summer cevenings she takes her children to her father’s grave, hoping that he 15 1 some way conscious of the fidelity of her recollection.

She knows what was his crime—surely long ago worked out—and prays that its shadow may never fall upon those she loves.