to this awful pass. I made it the purpose of my life to find her and our child, and I followed the clue I held, now rightly, now wrongly, for hundreds of miles. One day I lost track of Rachel entirely, and I was despairing of picking it up again, when I exclaimed suddenly, aloud, 'Her father!'

I made my way at once to the village where Rachel was born, and had lived her happy girl life. Terrible news greeted me. Rachel, as I suspected, had found her way to her father's house. Listening to the description of her forlorn condition from the lips of one who witnessed it made my heart bleed with remorse. Great God! How I suffered ! No torments in the next world can

exceed the exquisite anguish which racked me in this, body and soul.

Rachel's father, when she reached his house, lay on a bed of sickness. It was noon of a day in December, the first Wednesday in the month. He heard her voice calling to him. Rising from his bed, he dressed himself hastily, and, although the hand of death was on him, he staggered to his door, and stood before her.

'Father!' she cried, and was falling at his feet, when he clutched her shoulder.

'I know your story,' he cried, in a husky voice. 'Is that your child in your arms?'

She murmured 'Yes!' and frightened by his tone, implored him to

take pity on her. He stopped her words, and still keeping his hold of her, bade her come with him. He led her to the market-place, followed by half the village; and there, bidding his daughter look up into his face, he called upon the people to listen to the story of her shame. And when the story was told, he raised his hands to heaven, and cursed her for bringing disgrace upon his house and name! When the curse was pronounced, he fell fainting into the arms of his neighbours, and was carried to his bed, from which, a week afterwards, he was carried to his grave. And Rachel fled from the village, crazed with grief and terror. Not a hand was extended to help her. Not one kind or gentle word was uttered to bring comfort to her soul.

I left the village in the direction she had taken. It was within a few days of Christmas, and almost step by step I tracked her, now here, now there, shunned, avoided, abhorred by all. On a Wednesday morning I learnt that I was quite close upon her. She had been seen the previous night wandering through the woods. All the day long I searched, and searched in vain. I could not find her. Yet was I certain that I was near her. I had with me as a guide the man who had seen her but a few hours ago.

'It was here she was last,' he said; and now I must go home.

I would not be absent from my children on this night for all the gold you could offer me.'

'Why?' I inquired.

'Why!' he echoed. 'Don't you know that this is Christmas-eve?'

I was left alone in the forest, and night came on. There was a dim light in the sky, and by its aid I tracked Rachel's footsteps. Ah, me! At times it was not so difficult, for there were marks like the marks of blood mingled with them here and there. Presently I saw a sign of a different kind, a trail and sweep of leaves, as though a human form had dragged its weary way along the ground. The shadows of night deepened, but I was near the end of my task --so near that I feared to complete it. Within a few yards of me was an ancient beech-tree, and athwart its gnarled roots, which some disturbance of the earth had laid partly bare, was stretched the figure of a woman. Fearsomely I approached it, and, kneeling, raised its face to mine. It was the face of Rachel, pinched with suffering. She lay before me, cold and dead, and dead upon her lap lay our innocent child! I was their murderer!

If, in the better time to come, when the lesson of the Holy Day upon which I discovered Rachel and her child shall have borne its heavenly fruit in the hearts of mankind-if it is possible that among those who listen to this voice from the grave there is a man who has sinned as I have sinned, to him I speak. Unless he atone for it, there will come an epoch in his life when he shall suffer, as I suffer, an earthly purgatory; when his lonely hours shall be peopled, as mine are peopled, with maddening visions.

The disposition of the piece of land I leave behind me is set forth

in my Will. Let all I have be given to the poor, and let it be wisely and benevolently administered. In the course of time, changes may occur in the value of the land; if the changes are for the better, let the poor benefit by them. The revenue derived from my land belongs only to the poor, and a Divine Judgment shall fall upon the unjust steward who diverts any portion of it from its proper purpose. Perchance, one day, a man or woman, whose rough path through life has been made smoother by a little timely help from the property I leave behind me, may say, 'God bless Richard Penraven!'

I have other treasure beside land, and lest it excite the cupidity of men, I have resolved to deposit it in the steel casket which contains this my Will and Confession and

Mr. Flint, the lawyer, having finished the reading of the document, wiped his spectacles, coughed, and said,

'We shall have to take counsel's opinion upon the validity of this testament. In the mean time, gentlemen, we will ascertain if the treasure is in the casket.'

the body of Rachel's child. Herein will be found five hundred golden guineas, to be disposed of as I now set forth. Should there be among those who receive a share of my charity on the two hundredth anniversary of Mortification Wednesday, a woman who has a daughter named Rachel, and who has been. wronged as I wronged Rachel, the treasure herein deposited shall be hers unconditionally. If that wronged daughter be dead, leaving a child bearing her name, the treasure shall be hers unconditionally. Failing this, the five hundred guineas are to be added to the fund derived from my land, and distributed among the poor of the parish of Great Mercy.

I humble myself before the Divine Throne, and supplicate for mercy!

The Guardians rose, and leant eagerly towards the casket. The spectators behind stood on tiptoe, and craned their necks forward. The treasure was safe; five hundred Charles the Second golden guineas, dated 1664. And mingled with the gold were the dust and bones of

Richard Penraven's child.

AT three o'clock the meeting of the Guardians of the Mortification Wednesday Trust broke up. At four o'clock Sir Judah Silversides reached Silversides Hall. There was a worn look in his eyes, as though some trouble had fallen

upon him. Without inquiring for his daughter or Miss Period, he walked to his study, and closed the door. The thoughts that were passing through his mind as he sat in silence in the gathering twilight must have been painful ones,

to judge from the expression on his face. They engrossed him so deeply that for some time he did not observe two letters upon his table, one marked in a bold hand, 'Immediate and important.' He opened it in feverish haste.

'12 Porterhouse-square, E.C.,

'December 22d.

'Dear Sir,-With reference to the business you placed in my hands of interest to your friend, Mr. Smith, I have pursued the inquiry to the end, and am in a position to give you positive information. There was a child, now living. If you can find it convenient to come to the above address I shall be happy to communicate to you what I know. Your obedient servant,

'MORTIMER UMBRAGE.'

Sir Judah opened the second letter, that of Mr. Umbrage to his daughter, with the few words Flo had written at the foot.

With signs of great perturbation, he rang, and hastily summoned his coachman, and as the clock struck half past five, he knocked at the lawyer's door. He was shown into the sitting-room, where Mr. Umbrage was sitting, in expectation of his arrival. Mr. Umbrage placed a chair for him, and approached the subject at once.

'I thought, Sir Judah, you would like to hear without delay the final result of my inquiries with reference to your friend, Mr. Smith.’

'I am here for that purpose, Mr. Umbrage.'

'It will be necessary to speak a little more plainly than we did in our last interview.'

'If it is necessary, it must be done. We are private, I hope.'

'Quite private. I have given orders that we shall not be disturbed, and the sound of our voices cannot be heard beyond the walls of the room. I wish to make this interview a brief one, and to act justly by all parties.'

'Such, also, is my desire.'

'Thank you, Sir Judah. In the first place, then, the girl's name was not Jane-it was Rachel.' He did not appear to be watching how his information was received, but he was none the less observant, notwithstanding. friend's name was not Smith-' 'I informed you it was not,' interrupted Sir Judah.

ton.' two.

And your

'You did. His name was WharHe paused a moment or 'I intend to deal quite frankly with you, Sir Judah, and to conceal nothing. Wharton was the name he gave to Rachel when he made her acquaintance in Paris; it was an assumed name. He gave her an address in London; it was an assumed address.'

'You have learnt much, Mr. Umbrage.'

I have learnt all, Sir Judah. Is it necessary-I mean, do you wish me to tell you Wharton's real name?'

The lawyer and the baronet gazed steadily at each other. Then Sir Judah replied, I am satisfied that you know it. It is unnecessary to mention it.'

The assumed name and address were almost death-blows to Rachel. There is no doubt she wrote many letters to Mr. Wharton in London, not one of which reached its des

tination. Since our last interview I traced Rachel's address in Paris, after she left the hotel now kept by her girl-friend, Lucille. I have even here some letters written to her by Mr. Wharton in the early days of their intimacy. You have assured me you intend and are anxious to see justice done. I rely upon your word. Here are the letters.'

Sir Judah took the packet from the lawyer's hand, and, glancing at it, put it in his pocket. The lawyer continued:

The

'Rachel, now a mother-' Sir Judah grasped the arms of his chair, in strong agitation. Mr. Umbrage paused until his visitor had recovered himself.

'Rachel, now a mother, finding herself deserted, fell into deeper and deeper want, and endured great privation. Heaven alone knows how she lived; I do not. By some means she found her way back to England, with her child. She went to the address given to her by Mr. Wharton in London, and learnt from personal inquiry how she had been betrayed. Where should she turn for help? Where but to her old home, to her mother, who, despite the stain that now rested upon her character, might mercifully hold out the hand of forgiveness to an erring child, might take compassion upon her and her babe? Penniless, heartbroken, weak from suffering, she made her way to her mother's cottage, and reached it in time to die. Rachel's mother promised the dying girl to protect the babe, and she kept her promise. Not in her native village; there was a stain

now upon her name and character, and she could not bear the suspicious looks and words of neighbours by whom she had been respected. She came to London with her granddaughter, and by a strange chance found rest in this parish of Great Mercy. But why do I use the word Chance? I have often thought that our destinies are ruled by a higher power. Whether I am right or wrong, the hand of Providence is in this mysterious conjunction of events. The name of the child-Mr. Wharton's child -is Rachel, as her mother's was. Sir Judah, an hour before your arrival, I received a verbatim report of Richard Penraven's confession. It was taken down from the lawyer's lips by a gentleman sent there for the purpose, but without any suspicion of the strange revelations which were about to be made, or of the strange connection between Richard Penraven, who died two centuries ago, and a poor girl living her hard life in this stern, matter-of-fact parish of Great Mercy. The treasure in Penraven's casket can be legally claimed by Rachel Whitebine. She may have cause to say, "God bless Richard Penraven"!

The thick veins stood out in Sir Judah's forehead; his fingers worked convulsively.

'She will not claim it?' he gasped, in a low hoarse voice.

'She is poor,' said Mr. Umbrage. 'The money will enable her to do many good things. She needs it. It will smooth her path through life.'

'But if I promise,' said Sir Judah, stretching out his trembling hands,