be happy again in the old way, and you will see that
your child only left you for a while, because she loved
you so dearly that she could make this great and terrible
sacrifice now, to insure your future comfort. I am
going into service, and when I have got a place, I will
write to you, my own dear friend, but I will not tell
you where I am, for fear you should come to take me
back again, and if you did, I know I am not strong
enough to refuse to go with you.

"God bless you, and O my dear, best, only friend,
believe that I love you, now I am leaving you, better
than ever I did in all my life, and that the only happiness
I look to on earth is the idea of coming back to
you. And I will come back to you before long: God
will bless my work, and we shall meet again, and
forget this heavy trial; I am sure of it. Once more,
blessings on you.

"Your poor child,

"EDMÉE."

His heart, then, had not misgiven him in
vain: she was gone, actually and positively.
—Whither and to what? The thought nearly
drove him wild: that little young, helpless,
beautiful creature, unsuspicious and
inexperienced as an infant, gone out alone and
unprotected into that great wide world of guile,
and sin, and suffering, and temptation, under
every form and every treacherous disguise!

He knew her courage, her resolution, her
high heart; but, were these enough to guard
her alone against the danger whose name is
Legion? And would not these very qualities,
aided by the wild spirit of independence and
adventure her gipsy blood and early training
had infused into her, tend to induce her
to bear up against every difficulty, to brave
every hardship in the pursuit of the aim she
had imposed on herself?

And now, where to look for her?

For three days, Claude Lafont, aided by
Paul, sought her, sorrowing, through every
part of the great metropolis; and sought in
vain. The fourth, Paul proceeded on his
mission alone, for Claude lay on his sick bed,
racked with pain, and grief, and fever, but
insisting on remaining alone, that the quest
might not be for a day interrupted.

Slowly the evening reddened and paled,
and the hush and dimness of twilight fell
upon the sick-room, and for the first time
since Edmée's departure, Claude slept.

Presently the door opened, and a shadow
stood on the threshold, noiseless and breathless
as shadows are; then it glided across
the room, paused, stood, and finally kneeled
by the bed-side. The sleeper's laboured
breathing stopped suddenly, he was not yet
awake, and still he was listening—something
—a consciousness, a hope, was rising in him,
combating the numbness of slumber; he
started, stretching out his arms, and
pronouncing Edmée's; it was Edmée's
voice that answered him; they were Edmée's
tears that fell on him, Edmée's kisses that
pressed his hot brow. Long and silently he
held her close in his embrace.

"Thou wilt not leave me again?"

"Never, never, never! Oh forgive me—if
you knew one half of what I have suffered!—
not of hardship or misery—I had got abundant
means to secure me from that—but from the
separation from you! Oh, I could not live
longer without seeing you! I thought just
to steal back—have one glance at you, and
then—then I knew not, cared not—what
might become of me; and I find you thus!"

"Edmée, tell me what was the reason you
would not marry Paul? You did not love
him. Did you—do you—love any other?"

She clung to him, hiding her face and
weeping silently.

"You will not tell me?"

"I cannot."

A wild, trembling, thrilling hope traversed
the obscurity of Claude's brain.

"Is it—I?"

"Who could it be but you!"

And so Edmée was married but not to
the pattern student, son of the pattern farmer.

ONE OF HER MAJESTY'S USUAL
CUSTOMS.

ONE and four-twelfths gross pairs garters;
four metronomes; thirty-five stereoscopes;
one and two-twelfths dozen pen-cleaners; three
and eleven-twelfths gross pen-holders going
at ten guineas—gone. Two mantles, of eight
ounces silk pillow lace; two pieces of seventeen
ounces figured silk broadstuffs; two
robe pieces, and one piece of seven mètres, of
silk manufactures; two habits and sleeves;
two pairs sleeves, one collar, one jacket, one
mantle, of needlework; one toilet-glass;
three pieces, twelve ounces scented soap;
one bottle, one gill perfumed spirit; three
dozen pairs habit leather gloves—any
advance upon twenty-nine pounds fifteen?
—Gone!

One of her Majesty's usual customs is to
place her royal interdict on any commodities
which, arriving from beyond seas, are sought
to be introduced into the United Kingdom
without payment of the Customs' duties
thereupon imposed; and the result is often
shown in such auctioneering achievements as
are shadowed forth in the preceding
paragraph. Dishonesty it may be, but is not
always. A little mercy is shown to those
who inadvertently fail to pay the proper
amount of duty at the proper time, to the
proper person in the proper place;
nevertheless, mercy has its limits, and
inadvertency, as well as dishonesty, occasionally
bears the burden of its own sins. Downright
smuggling meets with no quarter. If Lady
Glacé Chiné, of May Fair, sews up French
gloves in the lining of her dress, or if Alderman
Blogg's daughter plunges Valenciennes
lace into the mysterious recesses of her bustle
or her crinoline; and if these delinquencies
are detected by the Argus-eyed officials at
Folkestone or Dover, gloves and lace are
impounded.  If the bold smugglers of the
song-books and the Victoria Theatre land
casks of spirits by night on out-of-the-way