you've filled the place of a mother to the poor thing, and when I look at Di',-so lithe, and blithesome, and merry, with her joyous laugh and her roguish eyes, and her dainty little figure, why I will say between us both, that the girl is perfection and there's an end o'nt."

"Ah Joseph! to hear you talk, one would think you were bringing our darling Dinah to us, instead of taking her away," rejoined the old lady, with a mournful shake of the head; "I know what she is, much, very much, better than you yourself do; the bud that has unfolded into such a lovely flower, had given but slight promise of its future excellence; day by day have I watched her increasing in womanly virtue, and now that I had fondly thought that nothing but death could part us, you come all unawares, and rob us of the being that has been the very sunlight of this happy home for years."

"All that you say, sister, is very true," continued her companion, "and from my heart I thank you, for all that you have done for little Di; it must be a hard thing to part with the girl after such long companionship; and when you say this, you must also admit that nothing but my own unsettled career should so long have separated father and daughter; you must be aware that Dinah is now of an age to take the direction of her father's house, and as I can keep her in the very first style, I will not longer delay introducing her to the station, her grace and beauty so richly deserve; -so cheer up and let us be as merry as we can during the short time we have to be together: God knows no harm shall come of my little girl."

"God forbid that harm should come, Joseph Linton," said the old lady with solemn earnestness; "you are her father, and by that sacred right alone, you take her from the roof that has sheltered the happiest years of her life. Beware of forfeiting by your misconduct, the love and affection of one of the merriest and most guileless of God's creatures,-and yet even now, when you tell me that you are rich."

"Rich! I warrant you I'm rich enow," cried Linton with a coarse laugh; "look here !" and he scattered a handful of gold on the table, "I have untold bags of these yellow boys, stowed away in a handy place, which no living soul knows of;-I have bank scrip, and railway shares, and canal shares without end; I have a mortgage on an estate, the only life in which has one leg in the grave already;-I'm a director of two fire-companies, and might be a Justice of the Peace would I but consent to take the trouble: why, heart alive, I'm as rich as Croesus, and if harm can come to any girl who has such a father—”

"If wealth is your only security for your child, Joseph, I tremble for you," said Mrs. Harding, almost sternly, "but I know you of old, in poor Bessy's time, when you were the victim of every

visionary plan and wild chimera for converting dross into gold, whilst your poor wife—”

"What of her," growled the man fiercely from between his clenched teeth, "was it not a bitter enough trial to see her pine away, day by day; struck down as she was by hunger, and misery, and want, and to feel that I had not the power to reach a finger to save her :-to see the form, once so light and airy, grow haggard and gaunt, and spectre-like :- to see the face, that was once so lovely, fade away as if death clamoured greedily for his prey, and was ready to strike, whilst the spirit still lingered in its shrine :to mark the eyes grow dim, the hair grow lank and skeleton-like, and the merry voice-"

"As Dinah's is now," sobbed the old lady. "Oh Joseph ! Joseph ! I implore you by all you hold most dear,-as you hope for forgiveness from God for all the fearful wrong you did to that angel who is now in Heaven,-as you would save Dinah from such a fate, and would have her all that Bessy might have been,-as you would spare your guilty soul, this last and greatest crime of murdering your own child,-as you would not strike her down in all her beauty, and happiness, and lay her in her shroud-"

What the dickens is all this hubbub about ?" cried Linton, savagely; "upon my soul! to hear you talk, one would fancy I'd murdered poor Bessy outright; why you almost make the blood run cold in one's veins, sister," he added, glancing hurriedly round the room, and trying to laugh away his own fears; "and you that know so well how Bessy died, Mary."

"Do you remember, brother-in-law?" said Mrs. Harding, through her tears, "what Bessy was when you took her away from our poor mother's house, thirty years ago?"

"Certainly! as if it was yesterday," rejoined Linton, endeavouring to look bold and unmoved, in spite of himself.

"She was a girl then," added the old lady, looking at him with her chin resting in her hand, "a generous, confiding, noble-hearted girl, the very image of what Dinah is now."

"She was," acquiesced the man, whose strongly lined countenance grew darker and sterner every moment, "it was a bright May morning, and as we stood beneath the honeysuckle porch, as the joy-bells struck up a peal, I thought I never gazed upon such a beautiful creature."

"And do you remember what our poor mother said?"

"How should I?" retorted the man restraining an oath, "at such a time as that? do you think I could attend to an old woman's thoughts?—something foolish and simple enough, I'll be sworn !" "She took Bessy in her arms and kissed her."

"Go on, I remember that," rejoined the man, doggedly.

"And do you remember when Harding said,-we had'nt been married long, then, ourselves, that he hoped you'd be happy

in each other, and that you would cherish Bessy, whatever befel you, mother turned round, and said solemnly, "God forgive me if I misjudge him, but, as I'm a living woman, Linton will bring her down with sorrow to the grave!"

"Did the old woman say that?" inquired Linton, with a sneer. "She did, and you yourself know how fearfully true was the prediction."

"Any one might have known from that, that we never could prosper, I always thought there was a fatality about the match, and now I'm convinced of it :-had I been ever such a husband, it would have been of no avail ;—we were doomed, body and soul, beforehand, and so there's an end of it."

"God forgive you, Joseph," said Mrs. Harding, attempting to rise; "bad, and depraved, and hardened, as I knew you to be, I never expected you would dare to palliate your conduct thus."

"What can I do?—I didn't kill Bessy!"

"Not actually:-you didn't poison her in a manner that would call down the vengeance of the law upon yourself;—you did not strangle her so as to leave the mark of the cord around your victim's neck ;-your cowardly heart would not permit you to do this-but you poisoned the life-springs of her existence, so that she died by a miserable and lingering fate:-you cast back upon herself the love and affection her confiding nature lavished upon a worthless creature like yourself, and when on her death-bed she forgave you with her dying breath, a brutal jest was your only answer and so she died."

"Mother!" said Stephen Harding, hoarsely, "who is this man on whom you heap such terrible reproaches?-I have heard but little of your conversation, and the little I have heard, seems more like some terrible dream than a sober reality."

It was a singular picture that these three people presented at this moment; the man called Linton, seated at the table, his big burly form, and stately demeanour, and extravagantly dressed exterior, contrasting so vividly with the air of mingled terror and bravado his features had assumed; his face was perfectly livid with mortification and passion, his eyes were wild and blood-shot, and the sweat stood out in great beads on his forehead ;-standing over him on the opposite side, was Stephen Harding and his mother, the former, with one arm supporting her round the waist, whilst the other was raised in a menacing attitude; it was a scene in which the tears of the old lady, the bewilderment of the youth, and the bravado of the man of middle age, were strangely mingled.

"Mother!" said Stephen, tenderly, yet firmly, "who is this

man ?"

"Who, or what he is, my son, it matters not, at least for the

present," said Mrs. Harding, striving to be calm: "a time may come, Stephen, when I shall think it fitting to entrust you with the secret of his history:-but do not ask me now ;-it is enough that he has the power of robbing us of our sweet Dinah."

"You said he was a murderer," rejoined the young man, turning from his parent to their guest, "Why do you entrust Dinah to such a wretch ?"

"Do not ask me Stephen,-a time will come-"

"Mother, the time has come!" interrupted Stephen, hoarsely, "no time can be like the present, for unmasking this man's guilt: -is he Dinah's father?"

"He is, Stephen!" rejoined his mother, with a shudder.

"What I have heard to night, then," said the young man, striving to speak audibly, "accounts for the air of mystery and secrecy, my father and you always observed when speaking of Dinah's parents;-God knows how bitter the discovery has been,-and yet I thought that Dinah's father was dead."

"He is not, Stephen,-I fondly hoped that he was; but God has seen fit to rebuke my prayers; and though I feel that I am forced to give up our sweet lamb to him, I know that God himself will be her shield."

"Mother," said the young man, passionately, "Dinah shall not go with this man, were he even an angel from the skies,-I have heard to night what you never intended I should know,—and be he the devil himself, he shall not take Dinah away without her own free-will. I swear it, mother! he shall not!"

"Don't be afraid, my young cock, but what little Di' will be ready enough without any compulsion," quoth their guest, with a hoarse laugh. "I think I see a daughter of mine refusing to obey me in such a matter as this,-whether you like it or not she shall go, but I would just hint that you really make far too much work about a very trifling matter; upon my soul! no harm shall come to my little girl; I love her far too dearly for that!"

"Your very countenance gives the lie to your words," said Stephen, indignantly, "I do not even believe that you have the right to deprive Dinah of the protection she has so long enjoyed." "My son," said the old lady sadly, "he is her father."

"Were he her father twenty times over, I've heard enough to forbid him accomplishing his hellish purposes: - what are his schemes, I know not, but I feel confident that they are black enough,—and our Dinah shall never be a party to his infamous purposes-mother, don't gainsay me!-Dinah shall not go!" "My son, if he says she must go—"

"She must go," said their guest, whose keen eyes flashed with triumph, "to-morrow, Mrs. Harding, by nine in the morning." "So soon?" gasped the old lady.

"By nine in the morning!" continued the other, as if not

noticing the interruption, " my daughter and I must leave Abbey Holme; we will write from Hereford, and from thence Dinah shall inform you where to direct the answer to our letters, and although your son—”

"He will not endeavour to delay your departure, Joseph Linton," faltered the old lady, leaning heavily on the affectionate arm of the young man, who read in her pallid cheek, her quivering lips, and tearful eyes, how great was the struggle that shook her frame::- "Dinah already knows that she has to leave us for a time,-I did not tell her, I couldn't do it so suddenly, -that it might be for ever, but I did tell her that it was her father, with whom she was to set out, and whatever I and my son may know of your misdeeds, your child, at any rate, believes you guiltless."

"It is better so, ma'am," said her auditor, contracting the frown that hovered around his lips,-" and for all the kindness you have shown to me and mine, weakened as it is by the scene of to-night-"

Enough, sir," rejoined Mrs. Harding, with proud_composure, "I do not value your thanks,-it is enough to know I have done my duty, I will now go and see Dinah, and bid her good night, for-" the old lady's lips quivered so, that she could not articulate the last word of her speech, and putting her handkerchief to her face, she bowed, and left the room, leaning on Stephen's arm.

As soon as she had gone, the man threw himself into a chair, in front of the fire, and pouring himself out a tumbler of sherry, drank it off, and then resting his boots on the hobs, fell into a moody reverie.

A moment after a cry reached his ear from the adjoining room. Opening the door gently,-so gently in fact, that Stephen, who was bending over the venerable form of Mrs. Harding, did not even look up,-he perceived that she had fainted.-He drew his head in again with the same noiseless precaution, and as the light fell on his eager upturned face, it disclosed features, that, through all their habitual joviality, were distorted with all the triumphant ferocity of a fiend.

He did not resume his former place again, but sitting down near the door, listened with malignant pleasure to the alarmed accents and hurried movements of the actors in the little tragedy he had evoked in the next room.