daughter, for fear of making her unhappy; while Rachel on her part was careful to hide all her apprehensions and sorrows from her father and mother.

She wrote to St. Just on the morning after her interview with Donato. She reproached him for not having told her about his work in Naples, and for letting her hear of his illness from a woman she disliked, and among frivolous surroundings. She wrote hopefully of his future, urging him to do all that medical science could suggest for the restoration of his health. It was at a time when the Transvaal had become popular as a sanatorium for lung complaints, and she begged him, if Sicily failed, to try the great Karoo, of course always with the approval of medical authority. She wrote earnestly and urgently; but with the calm affection of a sister.

St. Just replied by return of post.

Forgive me for having kept you in the dark as to my work in Naples," he wrote, after thanking her for her letter. "I did not want to trouble a friend with needless fears on my account, and I took care that no one in England should know my whereabouts. The cholera left me unscathed; though I spent the best part of my life among the sick and dying. As for the breakdown in my health, that I believe would have come in any case. I have suffered more after a chill caught on board my yacht, on a voyage of pleasure, than I suffered from the fatigues and risks of my life in the slums and hospitals of Naples. With regard to your suggestion about South Africa, I confess that I should be very loath to go so far in quest of health; or if I went as far, I should infinitely prefer some station in the Himalayas. The idea of India has always fascinated me. It is to me as a dream-country; and I think if I found myself there, I should fancy myself escaped from the dull realities of earth into the land of dreams. My doctor has talked of the great Karoo, which it is a kind of fashion to believe in just now; but when I read of the dust-storms on those arid heights, I think myself happy to be lying here, surrounded by the blue waters of this exquisite bay.

"I am glad also to know that I am within easy reach of England and the friends I left there; for though I am content to live on the Mediterranean, I want to die at

home. It is this desire that has fought against my plan of visiting the South Seas, and laying a flower on Louis Stevenson's grave. You know how I admire his books, and love the writer's beautiful nature. I think the South Sea Islands, to many of those who care for literature, and have not the geographical mind, mainly mean Stevenson's last home."

XX.

THE winter was over. April had filled the London streets with flowers, the yellow gold of spring-daffodils, jonquils, mimosa; the yellow flowers flamed in the yellow sunshine; and here and there, even in the East End streets, where Rachel Arden was an almost daily visitor, the glory of a window-garden bore witness of a good housewife and a decent home. Sometimes it was the master of the brick packing-case, with its four rooms and washhouse, who tended the window-garden; and these gardens were generally of a superior and more ambitious order; for the man's stronger and longer arms could do more in the use of nails, and wire, and string, and in training plants; and where there were great effects made with wistaria trained over a wall, or a hardy rose surrounding a window, or a curtain of scarlet-runners climbing upon string, one might be sure that the bread-winner had a taste for gardening, and did not spend all his evenings in a public-house.

Rachel's winter had passed in a quiet monotony of work. The trivial task, the daily round, had been enough for content. Arden had appeared in the old scenes now and then to please his wife; but he had tried in vain to interest himself in her work, or in the people for whom she toiled. The one haunting impression-the invisible presence-made a wall between him and the living world. He moved among this eager, striving multitude like a man in a dream. Father Romney could make nothing of him.

St. Just had written to Rachel several times between November and April, but his letters had told her very little about himself. He had put off her anxious questions about his health with vague replies. His doctor thought

Palermo suited him. His yacht was a source of unfailing

amusement.

"We potter about along the coast sometimes when the weather is favourable-a voyage of two or three days; or we lie at anchor and bask in the sun. I think of the East End and the people there, and think what a wonder and delight an hour of such sunshine would be to them in midwinter. And then I think that some day there may rise the white walls and red roof of a vast sanatorium on this lovely island; or at Capri, perhaps the Capri of Tiberius. A world which has grown so much better, in its care for want and suffering, within my own short life, will go on improving, until, without any such universal confiscation as the socialist dreams of, the distribution of wealth will come about naturally, from the open hand of benevolence."

This letter had reached Rachel early in March; and it was late in April when she was surprised by seeing a long letter from St. Just among the letters which her husband had opened at the breakfast-table.

"I see you have heard from Lord St. Just," she said anxiously. "Is he still at Palermo ?"

"No; he writes from Marseilles. He is on his way home," Arden answered gravely.

"I am glad of that."

"You will be sorry when you hear that he is seriously ill."

"Is that so? Then, indeed, I am sorry. I knew he was in bad health; but he said very little about himself in his letters, and I hoped for the best. Does he write very despondently?"

Of

"You had better read his letter. It is a strange letter, Rachel, and it makes a strange appeal to you and me. course, I knew how close your friendship was-that you were to him the world's one woman, in the way of friendshipbut I was never jealous."

"You never had cause," she answered, looking at him with a grave tenderness that had something of reproach. "I was grateful to St. Just for his sympathy and advice, when you lost interest in the things I love, and ceased to give me your help."

"I understand, Rachel. I was not complaining. My faith

in your goodness and purity has never wavered. The life I have led during the last two years has been a life of unutterable misery; but distrust of you has had no part in my suffering. If I have isolated myself from you, and seemed cold to your mission of mercy, the cause of my desertion lies far away from my domestic life. You made this life heaven; but another influence has made it hell. And I cannot tell you the dark secret-I dare not-lest you should think

He stopped suddenly, with a look of apprehension, as if he had said too much, and then, after a pause, went on in a quieter voice

"I told St. Just something about myself-more, perhaps, than I should have confided to any man. I believe he thought me mad; and he had good reason."

"No, no, no!" exclaimed Rachel. "You must not imagine such a thing."

"Other people would think as he thought, if I were to lift the veil from my life. That is why I mope alone, and keep myself aloof even from you-from you whom I love as dearly as in our first hour of wedded life."

"You should not keep aloof, Walter. It is cruel of you not to trust me, not to let me share your trouble of mind, whatever it is."

"Mental trouble knows no division, Rachel. I can tell you nothing-nothing. I say again, I dare not! But I want you to believe in my sanity to the last. Whatever may happen, remember that I am not mad."

"My dear husband, I have never doubted-and, please God, I shall never doubt-your sanity. But I should be so much happier if you would let me share your life, as I did in the dear days when we were all the world to each other. Let us leave London, and go to some lovely spot in Switzerland, or the Tyrol, where we can live quietly, far away from the world. If you must mope alone, let me share your solitude. I am only a part of yourself. I will not question you, or intrude upon your dark hours. But I want to be your companion again; I want you to know that I sympathize and suffer with you."

"My dearest and best! Alas, alas! to think that you were worthy of a better fate, and that a better man loved