and demeanour the covert insult levelled at her own position; but nothing heeding it, she busied herself with opening a shutter, in order, by the light of day the better to prosecute her search for the missing volume. In a moment the nurse's hand was laid roughly on her own.

'You mustn't do that,' she said, as she reclosed the shutter, you mustn't do thatdaylight never comes where corpses is; now you go away, for there's them will be coming soon, as won't abide you near the body. You'd far better go away.'

It was no season and no place for anger, and though Helen was most unwilling to abandon her search, she so dreaded an altercation in that solemn presence, that without noticing the woman's remarks, she left the room as silently as she had entered it. It was indeed a time of mortification as well as of sorrow, for her own maid, grown offensively familiar, addressed her as one far lower than an equal, and she was made to

feel in every way that conviction could be brought home to her, that her business in that place was over.

Towards mid-day she received a message from Mrs. Wraxham, purporting that that lady required her immediate departure from the house. It never occurred to Helen to resist the order. She had almost forgotten Philip's revelations concerning his will; or if she did recollect them, it was with a vague idea that all he had said would eventually appear to have been a mistake and a delusion. But she could not so easily forget the written words to which it had cost him so much of pain and effort to affix his signature; and feeling the importance of having those words in her possession, she strove, but strove in vain, to obtain the volume which contained them. Once she made an attempt to enter again the bed-room where (in their coffin now) the remains of poor Philip rested; but the doors were closed against her. Then, and in the dead of night, she left the house

where she had known so much of happiness, so much of trusting friendship; for though it had not been her home, many an hour had she spent in it; and all that it contained were as familiar objects to her sight.

She was not a houseless wanderer now, for her own small home (the one provided by Philip's care) was still available for a time, and to that abode she at once returned.

The days between the death and the funeral passed mournfully and slowly on. Between the large house and the small there was kept up (by means of Helen's servants) a frequent communication, and well the exile knew the hour when hireling hands would close the coffin, and drive the nails above that precious, but senseless form. On the day of the funeral a figure, closely veiled and clad in mourning, was remarked among the few who stood by Philip's grave. There were no deep mourners there save her, and the only sobs that spoke of sorrow, and the

few tears that fell, were tributes from the woman who had no right to lament for

him.

Poor Philip! Far away and in another land were the wife and the children he had disowned; and of the many friends who, in life, he had believed in, none had cared to depress their spirits by the gloomy spectacle of a funeral. So Helen was his chief mourner, though no black coach, drawn by high-plumed horses, had borne her to her place beside his grave.

The day after Philip Thornleigh's interment Mrs. Vaughan sat alone in a small, but beautifully-furnished room, the boudoir of a tiny house in a western suburb. Her thoughts had wandered into the wilds of fancy, among the trees and flowers that were green and bright for happier hearts than hers, and far into the dark future, where no fresh blossoms grew. A ring at the bell aroused her from her reverie, and with a sensation of relief (for she was weary of her

musings) she waited for that which was to follow.

Her suspense was not of long duration, for ere a minute had elapsed, she found herself in the presence of a stranger, by whom she was addressed respectfully, nay even with some degree of obsequiousness.

'I have the honour, I presume, to address myself to Mrs. Vaughan?' asked the visitor, who had the outward semblance and bearing of that ill-defined thing called a 'gentleman.' Helen bowed her assent to the question. "I am here, madam,' he continue; on the part of Messrs. Tonkin and Davis, Solicitors to the late Sir Philip Thornleigh, to acquaint you with the contents of the last testament made by that gentleman.'

Helen was silent, for she had no objection to make; and a feeling beginning to dawn upon her, that she was personally interested in the conversation, she listened with greater attention.

'Sir Philip,' continued the visitor, who

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