favourite place on his knee, then checked
herself, and drew back again to the table.
Warning tears in her eyes bade her distrust
her own firmness, and read the letter where
she could not feel the beating of his heart.

"Did I tell you," she resumed, after waiting
an instant to compose herself, "where I
found the folded piece of paper which I put
into your hand in the Myrtle Room?"

"No," he replied, "I think not."

"I found it at the back of the frame of that
picture—the picture of the ghostly woman
with the wicked face. I opened it
immediately, and saw that it was a letter. The
address inside, the first line under it, and
one of the two signatures which it contained
were in a handwriting that I knew."

"Whose?"

"The handwriting of the late Mrs.
Treverton."

"Of your mother?"

"Of the late Mrs. Treverton."

"Gracious God, Rosamond! why do you
speak of her in that way?"

"Let me read, and you will know. I
would rather read it than tell it. You have
seen, with my eyes, what the Myrtle Room is
like; you have seen, with my eyes, every
object which the search through it brought
to light; you must now see, with my eyes,
what this letter contains. It is the Secret of
the Myrtle Room."

She bent close over the faint, faded writing,
and read these words:—

"To my husband,—

"We have parted, Arthur, for ever, and I
have not had the courage to embitter our
farewell by confessing that I have deceived you—
cruelly and basely deceived you. But a few
minutes since, you were weeping by my bedside,
and speaking of our child. My wronged, my
beloved husband, the little daughter, of your
heart is not yours, is not mine. She is a love-
child, whom I have imposed on you for mine.
Her father was a miner at Porthgenna, her
mother is my maid, Sarah Leeson"

Rosamond paused, but never raised her
head from the letter. She heard her husband
lay his hand suddenly on the table; she heard I
him start to his feet; she heard him draw
his breath heavily in one quick gasp; she
heard him whisper to himself the instant
after, "A love-child!" With a fearful, painful
distinctness she heard those three words.
The tone in which he whispered them turned
her cold. But she never moved, for there
was more to read; and while more remained,
if her life had depended on it, she could not
have looked up.

In a moment more she went on, and read
these lines next:—

"I have many heavy sins to answer for, but
this one sin you must pardon, Arthur; for I
committed it through fondness for you. That
fondness told me a secret which you sought to
hide from me. That fondness told me that your
barren wife would never make your heart all
her own until she had borne you a child; and
your lips proved it true. Your first words,
when you came back from sea, and when the
infant was placed in your arms, were:—'I
have never loved you, Rosamond, as I love you
now.' If you had not said that, I should never
have kept my guilty secret.
      

"I can add no more, for death is very near
me. How the fraud was committed, and what
my other motives were, I must leave you to
discover from the mother of the child, who is
charged to give you this. You will be merciful
to the poor little creature who bears my name, I
know. Be merciful also to her unhappy
parent: she is only guilty of too blindly obeying
me. If there is anything that mitigates the
bitterness of my remorse, it is the remembrance
that my act of deceit saved the most faithful and
the most affectionate of women from shame that
she had not deserved. Remember me
forgivingly, Arthur—words may tell how I have
sinned against you; no words can tell how I
have loved you!"

She had struggled on thus far, and had
reached the last line on the second page of
the letter, when she paused again, and then
tried to read the first of the two signatures—
"Rosamond Treverton." She faintly repeated
two syllables of that familiar Christian name
—the name that was on her husband's lips
every hour of the day!—and struggled to
articulate the third, but her voice failed her.
All the sacred household memories which
that ruthless letter had profaned for ever,
seemed to tear themselves away from her
heart at the same moment. With a low,
moaning cry, she dropped her arms on the
table, and laid her head down on them, and
hid her face.

She heard nothing, she was conscious of
nothing, until she felt a touch on her
shoulder—a light touch from a hand that
trembled. Every pulse in her body bounded
in answer to it, and she looked up.

Her husband had guided himself near to
her by the table. The tears were glistening
in his dim, sightless eyes. As she rose and
touched him, his arms opened, and closed fast
round her.

"My own Rosamond!" he said, "come to
me and be comforted!"

          CANTON-ENGLISH.

ON reaching Canton, about two years
ago, numerous novelties in human shape
were presented to my observation. Among
the foremost was a native tutor of the
Canton patois,—whose services had been
engaged to facilitate the study of this
particular dialect. On the morning of
introduction I was curious enough to take
notes of my first impressions of a Chinese