sea, and which had never been manured
with salt or seaweed, has been burnt, and
in the ashes silver has been detected. But, if
plants contained silver it was not difficult to
infer that it existed also in animals. This
was proved to be the case by an experiment
which brought these remarkable researches
to a triumphant conclusion. An ox was
sacrificed to science, and in his blood was
discovered the same valued metal.

The explanation of these phenomena is not
very difficult. The sulphide of silver, or silver
in combination with sulphur, is very widely
diffused in nature. Salt-water attacks the
sulphide and converts it into chloride of silver,
which it dissolves by the agency of common
salt. So, also, the common salt contained in
the water of the earth acts in a similar manner,
dissolving out small quantities of metal,
which it carries off and transfers to plants,
and from plants it is received by animals in
their food.

What the value of the discovery may be,
remains to be proved. Wiseacres may shake
their heads, and pronounce it useless. But,
if no attempt be made to turn it to account,
one of two things will be clearly shown;
either that silver is not so scarce as some
people would make us believe, or else we can
do very well without it.

                      THE LATTICE.

              I SAT at my lattice window,
             And the night-wind whistled by,
             The silent stars but dimly shone
Through the lowering winter sky—oh, so mournfully!
     My hair was blown by the pitiless breeze
     That chanted a dirge through the forest trees,
And I murmur'd wearily, "Oh, be kind to me!"

             I rose in the morning early,
            Though my eyes were dim with weeping,
             I thought of the silent lowly home
Where weary hearts are sleeping—oh, so quietly!
     I lay me down by the churchyard tree—
     The branches heaved so lovingly,
Saying, "Rest near me! I will be kind to thee!"

              I sat again in my bower,
             Where the garden-flowers grew,
             The sun shone high in the noon-day sky,
My heart was shining too—oh, so cheerily!
     For a firm strong heart was beating near,
     And a soft voice whisper'd in my ear,
"Thou art all mine—I will be kind to thee!"

              That day has pass'd like a night-dream,
              So fair, but oh! so fleeting!
              The sunlight left me smiling;
But the moonbeams found me weeping—oh, so bitterly!
     For cypress-leaves entwin'd his brow,
     And his cheek was pale as the fallen snow:
Oh, it was hard! and he so kind to me!

              My heart is sad, yet I weep not,
              Though the soft, sad summer breeze
              Seems not as sweet as when it wav'd
That day through the forest trees—oh, so cheerily!
     From my lattice I look up to Heaven high,
     Where angels watch from the starry sky,
And then I pray, "Oh, GOD, be kind to me!"

                 THE DEAD SECRET.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. THE TELLING
                   OF THE SECRET.

FOLD by fold Rosamond opened the paper,
and saw that there were written characters
inside it, traced in ink that had faded to a
light yellow hue. She smoothed it out carefully
on the table—then took it up again, and
looked at the first line of the writing.

The first line contained only three words—
words which told her that the paper with
the writing on it was not a description of a
picture, but a letter;—words which made her
start and change colour, the moment her eye
fell upon them. Without attempting to read
any further, she hastily turned over the leaf
to find out the place where the writing
ended.

It ended at the bottom of the third page;
but there was a break in the lines, near the
foot of the second page, and in that break
there were two names signed. She looked at
the uppermost of the two—started again—
and turned back instantly to the first page.

Line by line, and word by word, she read
through the writing; her natural complexion
fading out gradually the while, and a dull,
equal whiteness overspreading all her face
in its stead. When she had come to the end
of the third page, the hand in which she held
the letter dropped to her side, and she turned
her head slowly towards Leonard. In that
position she stood,—no tears moistening her
eyes, no change passing over her features, no
word escaping her lips, no movement
varying the position of her limbs—in that
position she stood, with the fatal letter crumpled
up in her cold fingers, looking steadfastly,
speechlessly, breathlessly at her blind
husband.

He was still sitting as she had seen him a
few minutes before, with his legs crossed, his
bands clasped together in front of them, and
his head turned expectantly in the direction,
in which he had last heard the sound of his
wife's voice. But, in a few moments, the
intense stillness in the room forced itself upon his
attention. He changed his position—listened
for a little, turning his head uneasily from
side to side—and then called to his wife.

"Rosamond!"

At the sound of his voice her lips moved,
and her fingers closed faster on the paper
that they held; but she neither stepped
forward nor spoke.

"Rosamond!"

Her lips moved again—faint traces of
expression began to pass shadow-like over
the blank whiteness of her face—she
advanced one step, hesitated, looked at the
letter, and stopped.