always understand these sorts of things better than men, and that she might, therefore, write what she pleased."

"It's not like as if he was a girl," the widow went on, "then he'd travel night and day to come and ask me all about the affair; but being a man, he'll be afraid. He'll think it must be something dreadful bad, and he'll just send me the money without a word. Perhaps he will write and ask me how much I want, though, and that would be better still. He will not come to ask, not he!"

And so the letter was written which Ross received in Capri, and which had so much distressed him. The writer, however, had made a great mistake, when she supposed he would be afraid to interrogate her as to the nature of the secret. The letter, as we know, was a hoax ; but was it destiny or fate that had caused it to be written and thus brought him home in time for-what?

CHAPTER V.

CHARLES AND PAT.

"When I was young ?-Ah, wofal when!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,

O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,

How lightly then it flashed along."

SAMUEL COLERIDGE.

CHARLES Ross returned home. Whither else He was heart-broken. It

should he go?

seemed as though the world had changed. The memory of his beloved parent was no longer dear to him. The very name of Ross sounded hateful to him. His father's kindness to him appeared now no less than a horrid mockery. He had shaken his father's hand-the hand of a murderer! He had thrown his arms round his father's neck-the neck of a murderer! He had hearkened to his advice the advice of a murderer! He had loved him, but his love was wasted-for he was a murderer! Was not this enough to

make him mad? Was not this enough to kill him? Yes, indeed, for it seemed as though in four-and-twenty hours he had aged four-and-twenty years!

But could it be true? Might not the woman have invented the story? Alas! the young man could not comfort himself with such re-assuring reflections. Had not his father on his death-bed spoken of a crime? and he, little suspecting, had supposed he meant some youthful imprudence, some trifling affaire d'honneur; but murder!—Great Heavens !-murder.

"And what might it be that's ailing your honor?" inquired Pat, the faithful Irish servant, with evident concern.

66

Alas! I can never tell you. Would to God that I had never known myself," returned the young man, with a great, agonising sigh.

"Misther Charles, Misther Charles! What can I do to comfort you, at all, at all? It can't be grief for the owld measther that's made ye ill. Ownly tell me what's the matther. Sure, and isn't it Pat Malone that asks? Pat Malone, that's known ye iver

since the misthress presented ye to the measther."

"I couldn't tell you, Pat, I could not indeed," said the young man, slowly.

"Sure, and it's meself would go through fire and water for Misther Charles. And who would go round the world if it's not meself to sarve the young measther? Sure, it's no one else I've got to sarve now."

"Very true, Pat, but still there are some things that must be kept secret; believe me, I would tell you if I could, if I dared."

Then, Misther Charles, it's meself as can do nothing for you barring spaking comforting things. Faix, and it's not a nice young measther, like your honor, as should be wasting his time with graving over what can't be helped; sure, it's a wife you ought to be thinking about. Lave the mourning to ould Pat. Sure there's a power of swate cratures as would have you for the mare throble of axing, faix, an they'd take and cry 'Divil take the asking',' so they would."

you,

Ross's pale cheeks flushed crimson for a moment, but only for a moment, as his thoughts wandered back to Geneva, and the

lovely girl whose acquaintance he had there made, nay, more, whom he had loved, but how was it possible to think of love with the awful word, murder, still ringing in his ears? No, misery and despair were his lot and his inheritance, not love, not hope!

Shaking his head, slowly, he answered, resolutely, "Pat, I shall never marry. What right have I to think of happiness now?"

And it's

"What's your honor after saying about happiness? Is it not a thing like whiskey that you niver can have enough of. Musha! the more you gets the more you wants. meself as thinks there is not so much difference between happiness and whiskey. One you axes for, the other you dhrinks. Come, Misther Charlie, it's not good for young people to despair. It's not thriving you'll be with it."

"But I am so miserable, Pat; so utterly heart-broken and wretched."

"Ah, now, don't say that, but take comfort and hope. Sure, an isn't faith, hope, and charity, called cardinal virtues? and if they is the virtues of the cardinals, they must be great virtues intirely. Then, Misther