say the word that would be a worse punishment to him than death itself?"

"You must," whispered Mandola.

"I am a woman, and I have a woman's feelings, a woman's compassion, a woman's tenderness, a woman's dread of disgrace, a woman's generosity. Can I ruin him utterly? I ask you, Henry, can I?"

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But, Annette, he has injured you and he ought to be punished," murmured Mandola.

True, Henry; but still, the thought of what he would suffer mars my joy even now, and if I punish him will not the consciousness that I have done so blight my future happiness? Who am I that I should condemn a fellow creature to years of misery? Is there no way that I can spare him? Think. You say the place is mine. Well and good, why cannot I take it and have mercy on him, merciless villain though he be!"

"It is your duty to have him punished,' said Mandola, in a whisper, for he steeled himself to appear hard and unbending, knowing that the greatest service he could do her would be to over-rule her scruples.

"Yes, yes, but-I cannot! oh, I cannot!"

"Still-" began Mandola.

"Henry, Henry, put yourself in his place for one moment. Imagine what imprisonment would be to him! And if he died while undergoing his sentence, should not I feel almost as though I had killed him? Imagine the long, long days, the interminable nights, the never ending sense of shame, the coarse fare, the brutal companions that await him in prison."

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Very true," said Mandola, "but "

Imagine the distress of his parents. Think of the terrible blow to his poor mother, if he has one. Picture to yourself his father's feelings, his horror, and his sadness, and then say shall I forgive? shall I spare And, besides, think how unpleasant it would be for me to be dragged into a court of law as a witness. Stay, I have thought of a plan. You must go to him—will you mind ?"

"No."

"That is right, well, you must go to him and tell him that his villainy is known, but that he shall be spared on certain conditions. you understand?"

Do

"Yes."

"And these conditions are that he must give up The Grange, and swear never by word or deed to injure Mrs. Merton.”

"Can we trust him? Fancy if your kindness to him were to be the means of killing her."

"I think we can, for you must tell him that if he does not comply with the conditions I will immediately proceed against him in a court of law. Thus, as it were, his hands will be tied; I shall quietly obtain possession of The Grange, and all publicity and trouble will be avoided. Say, is not this a good plan?"

"Yes," was Mandola's answer.

"Besides you will be able to judge by his voice and manner whether he is to be trusted or not. Mrs. Merton's life must be protected before everything, and as to her wants-"

"He has money of his own inherited from his mother; he must make her an allowance as some slight return for what she has undergone," said Mandola.

Mrs. Foster considered for several minutes; then shook her head.

"I will make her an allowance, not he," she said.

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Why not he?" asked Mandola, thinking that his companion's generosity was being carried to too great an extent.

"I will tell you why I will not ask him to make her an allowance," returned Mrs. Foster, thoughtfully. "It is my wish that he should. have as little cause as possible to feel a constant bitterness towards her. If he had to give her money he would always be angry with her, he would never forgive her. The thought that he had to pay her as a reward for what she had done-for injuring him, would be very galling. No, he must keep his money, and I will befriend Mrs. Merton. Go, dear Henry, and arrange all quickly, and you, too, will I reward for your great kind

ness."

Oh, Annette, how noble, how great, how sublime a thought is this to spare your enemy-forgiveness!—yes, it shall be as you wish." And he hurried away to hide the emotion that her words produced on him.

CHAPTER IV.

CAN IT BE TRUE ?

"What win I if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of flitting joy,
Who begs a minute's mirth, to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy ?"

SHAKESPEARE.

CHARLES Ross reached the little town of D- late in the afternoon. No one knew of his return; he did not intend it to be known till after his interview with Hopkins; perhaps not then. He might leave England again that very night or at least the following morning without going to Woodland Hall at all. On alighting from the train, he called out impatiently to a passing porter to ask him the way to Red Alley.

He knew most of the streets in the townthe High Street, and the South Street, and the West Street, but he had never heard of Red Alley. He shook his head.

"Don't you know it?" asked the young man, sharply.