suffer is as nothing," he remarked, "compared
with the importance of preserving that pure
name from the contaminating contact of the
world. There! We have reduced it to a little
harmless heap of ashes; and our dear impulsive
Rachel will never know what we have done!
How do you feel?—my precious friends, how
do you feel? For my poor part, I am as light-
hearted as a boy!"

He beamed on us with his beautiful smile;
he held out a hand to my aunt, and a hand to
me. I was too deeply affected by his noble
conduct to speak. I closed my eyes; I put
his hand, in a kind of spiritual self-forgetfulness,
to my lips. He murmured a soft
remonstrance. Oh, the ecstasy, the pure, unearthly
ecstasy of that moment! I sat—I hardly know
on what—quite lost in my own exalted feelings.
When I opened my eyes again, it was like
descending from heaven to earth. There was
nobody but my aunt in the room. He had
gone.

I should like to stop here—I should like to
close my narrative with the record of Mr.
Godfrey's noble conduct. Unhappily, there is more,
much more, which the unrelenting pecuniary
pressure of Mr. Blake's cheque obliges me to
tell. The painful disclosures which were to
reveal themselves in my presence, during that
Tuesday's visit to Montagu Square, were not at
an end yet.

Finding myself alone with Lady Verinder, I
turned naturally to the subject of her health;
touching delicately on the strange anxiety
which she had shown to conceal her indisposition,
and the remedy applied to it, from the
observation of her daughter.

My aunt's reply greatly surprised me.

"Drusilla," she said (if I have not already
mentioned that my Christian name is Drusilla,
permit me to mention it now), "you are touching
—quite innocently, I know—on a very
distressing subject."

I rose immediately. Delicacy left me but
one alternative—the alternative, after first
making my apologies, of taking my leave. Lady
Verinder stopped me, and insisted on my sitting
down again.

"You have surprised a secret," she said,
"which I had confided to my sister, Mrs.
Ablewhite, and to my lawyer, Mr. Bruff, and to no
one else. I can trust in their discretion; and I
am sure, when I tell you the circumstances, I
can trust in yours. Have you any pressing
engagement, Drusilla? or is your time your
own this afternoon?"

It is needless to say that my time was entirely
at my aunt's disposal.

"Keep me company then," she said, "for
another hour. I have something to tell you
which I believe you will be sorry to hear. And
I shall have a service to ask of you afterwards,
if you don't object to assist me."

It is again needless to say that, so far from
objecting, I was all eagerness to assist her.

"You can wait here," she went on, "till Mr.
Bruff comes at five. And you can be one of
the witnesses, Drusilla, when I sign my Will."

Her Will! I thought of the drops which I
had seen in her work-box. I thought of the
bluish tinge which I had noticed in her
complexion. A light which was not of this world—
a light shining prophetically from an unmade
grave—dawned solemnly on my mind. My
aunt's secret was a secret no longer.

MARGINS

We all have a margin. The very poorest of
us, outside confessed pauperism, have just a
little more than is absolutely necessary to keep
body and soul together—just a little bit of
extra fringe to play with at our pleasure. And
it is in the employment of this margin that we
show our real disposition of mind, and prove
what is our idea of the best things of life.
There are some people who put it all into
pleasures. However poor they may be they always
have enough for theatres and tea-gardens
and Crystal Palace fêtes, and sea-side jaunts,
and the like. Go where you will, at considerable
cost to your own tolerably well-filled
pocket, and as you suppose at considerable cost
to the pockets of all the company, these poor
yet affluent people are sure to turn up, radiant if
shabby, seeing everything, and enjoying everything
quite as royally as if their units were tens
and they counted their income by bank-notes,
instead of small cash. You do not see a trace
of anxiety on them, nor a hint of the pinchings
and privations at home; they do not carry
their meagre larder about with them; and
though they are almost always shabbily dressed,
they are as self-content as if they were the
best attired in the place. They go to see,
and not to be seen; and their glory is to
be able to say afterwards that they have been
to such and such a place, and assisted at such
and such a fête. And, dear! they looked out
for you, and made sure they would meet you,
and how was it that you did not go? You
could not afford it? What an idea! Why,
you are better off than they are, yet they could
manage it. They like to see what is going on,
they say—and they carry out their liking; and a
poorly furnished larder and faded finery do not
count in the summing up. These are the people
who go to Epsom races by train, third-class,
and to fêtes in omnibuses; who are frequent in
penny boats, and know all the cheapest modes
of transit everywhere; people who care for
pleasure not for show, for racket not for
comfort. Well! they enjoy life in their own way,
and for the most part are easy-tempered, jolly
kind of folks, who never make troubles which
can be avoided, and who do not add to those
they cannot escape.

Then others employ their margin in keeping
up a certain domestic style in the matter of
"buttons" and the like. A page and a char-
woman, if they can compass nothing better;
but at any rate the page and his buttons and his