thing with them. Through the hall, and up the
stairs the tangled hair dripping at every step,
and leaving a trail which the red torchlight turned
to a trail of blood up—the stairs and through
the passages to her own room, where the old
familiar clothes and jewels lay scattered about,
as if she had only that moment left them and
then the rough hands laid her gently on the bed,
and the wet of the long loose hair and wringing
clothes dripped heavily, drop by drop, like
blood, upon the floor.

Laurence stood face to face with that ghastly
thing. But he must not falter now. The sin
that he had done in passion he must not
betray by cowardice. He stood the ordeal calmly
and courageously. Even Clarke Jones, narrowly
watching him—Laurence knowing that he was
so watching him—could not detect the quiver
of a muscle. He affected no sorrow, made no
lamentation; but stood quietly by the bed, looking
at the corpse in silence.

"It was well done!" said Clarke Jones, as if
speaking to himself; the men answering in their
broad northern accent: "Yees, we spaired nae
pains!"

The inquest was held, but no kind of evidence
was adduced. No one had met the lady, no
one had seen her. Her mental condition was
notoriously so unsettled as to make an accident
or a suicide the most likely thing possible. An
open verdict was returned, "Found Drowned;"
and Laurence left the inquest-room without the
shadow of a suspicion having rested on his name.
He buried her with the rightful amount of pomp,
and Clarke Jones was invited to the funeral,
and took a prominent part at it.

Old Mrs. Grantley returned to the Hall. She
had lived in town since her unbending daughter-
in-law had forced on her so humiliating a
retreat; but now she came back in all her proud
regality, and undertook the management of
affairs as naturally as if there had been no inter-
regnum. Laurence proved the will, administered,
and took possession of his late wife's
property; and when the lawyer who had drawn
up, and knew of the execution of, the second
and secret will, came down, all in a blaze
and turmoil, to oppose proceedings and institute
a search, Mr. Grantley received him with
every imaginable courtesy, showed him Annie's
papers, opened her secret drawers, gave him
access to her boxes, &c., nay, even volunteered
a search through his own private drawers and
store places as well, eager to have everything
investigated and made plain and clear. And
as, in spite of all this care, no other will
could be found—who knew this so well as
Laurence?—not even a scrap of paper expressing
last wishes; and as his client was gone, and
could bring no more business into his hands;
and as Mr. Laurence Grantley was here, and
might add hundreds to his income; and as it is
always better to conciliate the living than to at
tend to the desires of the dead—for, is not a live
dog better than a dead lion?—the lawyer
pronounced himself satisfied, and went back to
London, baffled and routed. He felt convinced,
being versed in hidden iniquities, that there was
some sinful dealing somewhere; but he had
to proof, and without proof, of what use the
strongest suspicious?

So, things went on bravely enough. The
property was gradually disencumbered, old debts
were paid off, old pressure was removed; and
once more the sun shone brightly over the house
of Grantley, and happiness seemed again possible
to Laurence. A white marble monument was
erected to the memory of Annie Grantley, and
every one said that Mr. Laurence could not
have done more than he had done, and that he
lad acted well and handsomely throughout. He
wore his mourning grace fully, and without
ostentation; had the proper width of crape, the
proper depth of black; while Mrs. Grantley was
beyond measure queenly in her maternal sables,
which she took care to have made as deep and
tragic as custom would sanction.

In the small village of Eagley, Jane Gilbert
was taken from the workhouse and comfortably
lodged, was given a suit of black and bidden to
wear it, no one knowing why she had been so
befriended, or for whom she wore her mourning.
For Jane Gilbert had not the faintest idea that
Annie Grantley was her child; and the secret
rested now with Clarke Jones and Laurence.
Clarke Jones's mother had been Annie's nurse,
and, upon her death-bed, had told her son
how that the great heiress of Sir Thomas
Sibson, of the Grange, who all the world thought
was the daughter of his lady—for he had been
married, and his wife was a Lascelles, and had
died in Italy; so far Annie had spoken truly—
was only the natural daughter of poor Jane
Gilbert, a pauper now in the union, whom,
when Lady Sibson's maid, Sir Thomas had
ruined, according to the way of the Sibsons.
The child had been taken from its mother, and
given to Nurse Brown to bring up; and Nurse
Brown had done her duty by it, and had kept
silence, as she was bid, when her master claimed
it and put it forth as the daughter of his
late wife, and future heiress of what property
he could leave. The Grange was entailed—
luckily for the rightful heir—else that would
have gone to the pauper's daughter too. Sir
Thomas died while Annie was young—only
eighteen or so—and at his death the small
pension regularly granted to Jane Gilbert
ceased; and, habits of comparative luxury having
induced a certain uuthrift and indolence, Jane
had fallen from poverty to ruin, and from ruin
had slipped into the workhouse. Nurse Brown,
on whom the secret lay heavily, wrote to Annie,
and told her the whole story; signing the letter
in her maiden name, and omitting to say that
she was married had been married many years,
and was now the mother of a promising son, well
to do in the world. If she had entered into her
personal history, Annie would have known better how
to trim her sails to the storm when it came. But
a letter from Nurse Brown, pleading for an
unknown pauper called her mother, touched
Annie's heart as little as it would have touched
a heart of stone. She had no desire to seek out