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The acquaintances lived not far away, and often a stout old Carlist count or baron, shod in mud-defying sabots, would find his way to Kelhouet, on some mission of good-will to its gentle inmates; but the one friend's home was situated at a greater distance, and it was only by means of a carriage, that the château she inhabited could be reached.

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Through the curious country where the ancient Druids worshipped lay the road that led to the château of the Marquise de Pontarlec. There were "Dolmens," giant masses of stone, more vast and numerous than those of our own Stonehenge, in the neighbourhood of that quaint old castle, and around it was a moat in which time-honoured carp rolled lazily, and all undisturbed by the destroying hand of man. The old Marquise was very fond of Marie, whom she called her Mignonne; and was always rejoiced when the girl, then a fresh, delicate maiden of some fifteen summers, was permitted to spend a few days with her, in the silent château among the "Dolmens."

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Marie was absent on one of those visits, when the intelligence of her father's death reached Kelhouet, aud Alice, ever ready to undertake the painful tasks of life, proceeded at once to Auray (the town near which the château stood), and sent for the orphan girl.

It was a grievous thing to blight the early joyblossoms in that happy nature; grievous to watch the poor child's quivering lip, while she learned that the father of whom her memory was so vivid, would never see his little girl again.

"Let me go home," she sobbed, as soon as she found words to speak, "dear sister Alice" (for so she always

called her aunt); "let me go to Kelhouet; take me to poor mamma.

But to this proposal Alice would not agree. "No, Marie," she said; "no, poor child, you must stay here awhile. Your mother is ill and nervous, and it may be that her presence will be wanted elsewhere. Madame de Pontarlec is so kind and good, that you will not want for sympathy; and just now, believe me, that the seeing you will but add to your poor mother's sorrow."

Gentle and easily led, Marie soon resigned herself to the temporary absence that was required of her; and Alice returned to watch over her almost distracted sister, whose revelations of the past in the first hours of her distress, she felt might be such as should meet her ears alone.

On the first Sunday after their affliction Alice. Ellerton went alone to offer up her prayers to God. In her own heart's language she poured forth her supplications, kneeling on the paved floor of the old church, with the benign image of the mother of our Lady, the gracious St. Anne of Auray, looking down upon her devotions.

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The air was filled with incense, and the sacred edifice was crowded with kneeling figures. The solemn music of the Mass service swelled forth in a rich volume of religious sound, and deep reverence and silence reigned throughout the lofty temple, during the intervals of prayer and praise. The creed was not her creed, nor was the tongue her tongue; but this the English girl heeded not, as she bowed her head beneath those soul-inspiring sounds.

When the service was over she prepared to leave

the church, but the crowd was great, and she therefore delayed her departure till some of the congregration should have gone out before her. As she waited in the aisle, there passed in their outward course many a holiday-dressed peasant girl in tall white cap and crimson petticoat while not a few of the other sex, with flowing locks, full "braises,"* and gaily trimmed jackets, gave a respectful nod of recognition to the "Sassenach" lady, as they left the church.

It was then that a figure, differing greatly in appearance from the rest, attracted her attention. It was that of a lady in deep mourning, tall and finely formed. She stood so near to Alice that their garments almost touched, and the latter was looking at the stranger with some little curiosity, when she heard these words murmured softly in her ear.

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Miss Ellerton for I cannot be mistaken in my belief that it is she whom I am addressing may I speak to you alone? I have come to see you on important business, business in which you and those you love are deeply interested."

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Alice was taken by surprise, for the voice was a strange one to her, and in that "dim, religious light," and concealed by the thick folds of her crape veil, the features of the speaker were undiscernible. She could only say in reply:

'Certainly, I am going home; pray return with me." But the presence of the veiled lady seemed in some sort to oppress her, and her heart beat faster than usual. The stranger's next words did not tend to reassure her.

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"No, not home →→→ not at least to Lady Thornleigh's home. You do not know me, you could not know me. But No, I cannot say it only I was with Sir Philip Thornleigh when he died, and I bear a message from him to his wife."; basith pet dod Alice uttered a faint exclamation of joy.derd

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They were standing in the light of day now, and through the dusky crape she could discern a true woman's face, pale and sad.

"Oh, come at once," she cried, "come to my poor sister; she has so longed for one word from Philip. I do not know you, perhaps I ought not to ask you to take this trouble; but I cannot feel that a friend of my poor brother's is a stranger to me." an h.

Helen threw back her veil. Did she imagine that the sight of her uncovered face would reveal the truth to that unsuspecting being, and that thus the pain of 'explanation would be spared her? If this were her belief, she was mistaken; for she was obliged to have recourse to words.

"I will speak to you," she said, "before God's altar. Let us go into His House;" and they two went in.

Helen leant against a massive pillar in the nave; while Alice, who was weak and trembling, supported herself by resting her small clasped hands on the back of a Prie-Dieu; and looking in the face of her strange companion, seemed asking for explanation.

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Helen returned the gaze unflinchingly, and as she did so, some of the old bitterness born of the world's, and of woman's scorn of her, flashed out.

"Ay, look at me," she said, "look at the woman branded with shame, who has dared to touch with her

polluted finger the hem of your garment. The creed of some Christian women says, that I have no right either to speak to, or to come near the pure and good. And they are right God help me! But I will go soon, and trouble you no more."

Alice was alarmed; and an idea occurring to her that she was addressed by one whose intellects were disordered, she looked round her as though for pro

tection.

"Nay, do not fear me," said Helen, upon whom the expression of her companion's countenance was not lost. "Do not fear me, for I am sane as you are. The curse of madness is not on me; only I have been sinful, wearied, and persecuted.'

"God help you!" ejaculated Alice.

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"And now I am come to make confession," pursued Helen, a little encouraged by the tone of Alice's last words, "and in what more fitting place can it be made than here where, when but two are together, God himself has said, 'that He is in the midst of them?""

Alice bowed her head reverently.

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"Listen to me," continued the agitated woman. "My name is Helen Langton the name I went by: Vaughan. Have you never heard of me? Search your memory, and think, if in days gone by, you have never caught whispered words in which my name was uttered as that of an unholy thing."

"Never," said Alice, faintly, while something whispered to her what that strange woman was.

"Never! well, that makes my task the harder;" and she paused as if doubting how to proceed.

*“Oh! speak, pray! let me hear what you wished

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