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mg uumemmg 111 ms tone. "A moment‘s thought will remind you that you never told me anything of yourself or your be- longings. Your after-conduct proved that my antecedents were of importance to you â€"-they were important enough for “And could I guess that La‘ was your sister P" she éskedhotl; ing something in his tone. “A I thought will remind you that y‘ told me anything of yourself or longings. Your after‘condnch “1 have asked you to come,” he said. “It seemed right to me thata few things should be settled between us. 1 have to thank you for complying with my re- quest." She bawed her head ; and, after a. moment, he went onâ€"“It was a. sur- prise for me to see you last nightâ€"a. very great surprise 1" “It'was not a less one for me to see you," she interrupted. “I should not have been likely to seek to make a. home here, had I known.” “And yet,” he rejoined, “it was not such a. very unlikely thing to contem- plate that I might at one time or another vigi‘trmy sisterf” Miriam walked by his side in silence, her head well erect, an air of protest in her face, looking like a beautiful captive princess He switched reztleasly at; the branches with his umbrella as he walked, a. look of ombarassmenc on his bronzed face, a huskmess in his voice when he be- gan to speak. The parish of Esstwick was but a sub- urb of the town of Newton, and the town encroached yearly on the suburb. The road along which Miriam briskly walked Wss adorned with villa-residences, let and unlet, while many more were in the course of building. The road was not picturesque in anyway, nor a. favorite of Miriam's. The chapel, a thorn in the flesh of ti: Robert Hicks and his protege, the Rector, stood by itself at the bound- ary of the parish. It was a dreary ediw fice enough. the villa-residences for the present holding aloof ; but fields on either hand were marked out for building purposes, and black boards therein on tall poles called the attention of the rich and speculative to the admirable sites to be disposed of. A dreary lane, looking miserable and uninviting enough on this bleak November day, ran up one side (f the chapel, and it was st the entrance to this lane that Kingston Keene stood as his wife came up. She silently bowed her head no him as he silently raised his hat. then turned into the muddy lane. “Will you be good enough to come this way '1?" he said. "We shall not be inter- rupted here.” J‘Mind no oneu nins away with you," she said, laughing “You always look youtlbagt i_n your furs." ‘ thtle fair of that !” Miriam declared, as she nodded farewell. “Come forward and let me look at you. Aye. yop weJIK vyrappgd pp ' The gm‘ shovred her-szslf it; her long aealskin coat; and hat,her friend regarding hep‘xi'thydmiring eves. “Going out ?" cried Mn. Archer, in surprised accents, looking up frum. her book, as Miriam presented be man before her. “My dear, what a. day! Better by half stay at home over the fire with “The day isn‘t so bad, Georgieâ€"dull, but the mud is high enough to keep off the rain. Good-bye. I shall be back be- fore dusk.” "He shall not think I am afraid," she said. “Better see him, and have done with it I” Howyéver, as the appointed time drew near, she saw fit to alter her firac deci- sion. In the course of that day another letter we: brought to her. “I insist on speaking to you.” it ran. “1 will wait for you by the chapel on the Newton road from three to four o‘clock this afternoon. If you fail to appear, I shall call on Mr. Archer, and explain to him the difficulty in which I am placed.” To this Miriam deigned no reply. “Let him insist, let him explain !” she muttered. “I am not bound to do his bldding, I thank Heaven 1” i “He thinks I knew that; he was here : he thinksâ€"great Heavenâ€"I nought him ! He shall find out his mistake," she said, and twisted her abundant wavy locks about her head with firm unwavering touch. “Havana.” not wait long,” said Miriam, and, tearing the note into four pieces, she flung them carelessly into the fire burn- lng newly in her grate. Then she turnei to a. devonport standing in the window of her pleasant room, and wrote her te- ply; “You are mistaken ; your presence was as great a surprise to me as mine was to you. I see no necessity for the interview of which you speak. It would be an an- noyance to me in every way. I decline to grant it." A Having deapaYched this concise epistle, Miriam proceeded with her interrupted toilette, brushing her long hair an the glass which gave back to her vision a. acornful lip, a. proud and steady eye. “My presence was, of course, no such surpnse to you as yours was to me. I recognized you instantly. It is necessary that we should meet; alone for once ; there are some words :hat must be said between us ; then I need trouble you no more. Will you please select place and arrange time of meeting 7” CHAPTER II. Before Mrs. King had left. her own room the next morning, a. letter was brought to her. . She divined whence it came, although she had never before seen the handwriting ; and it; was with more nervousness than she would have cared to acknowledge that she broke the sea]. It was dated the previous night, and began abruptly. foiam perused chi} twice, a look of disdain on her face. Then came a knock at the door. “If you please, mn’am.” said the house- maid, putting in her head, “the boy in waiting befow for an answer.” MIRIAM. guess that Lady Hicks qhe éskequtly, resent- “I think 1 need trouble you no fur- ther,” he replied ; then. aftera. moment’s hesitationâ€"“1b is dark and wet, and you have no umhrella. ; I will walk by your side. if you will allow me.” . “I should not dream of allowing it,” she answered shortly ; and, bowing her head, partly to free it from the protect- ing umbrella, partly in farewell to Mr. The short dull day was nearly over, the daylight fading s10w1y from the sky. The wind had dropped unnoticed as they talked, a. drizzling rain had come on. Mechanically Mr. Keene, having opened his umbrella, held it over his wife’s pre- occupied head ; so, walking side by side, they regained the entrance of the lane. Here Miriam, looking about her for the first time, became conscious of the in- creasing darkness, of the down-falling rain. “I have no objection in the world to tell you. My money*a few hundreds a. year â€"came to me from a. brother of my mother’s, who refused to help us while he lived. for the same reason which in- duced you to turn your back on us when we were in trouble and needed help” _ “And you selected Eastwick as a. place of reaidence~not permanent, I ima- gine 7” ' “Why not Q I have every intention of making it permanent.” “Eastwick,” he said, “is hardly big enough to hold you and me at‘the same time. One of us, 1 think, will have to go ” He spoke with intentional cruelty, his eyes fixed upon the darkening land- ecapf). “One of us must. go.” “Then it will not be l,’rahe answered, with quick decision. “Very good,” he rejoined calmly. “I_1_1_tha.t_caae {0g lgave me no choice.” “If that I should be “Nevertheless,” he remarked, “I must still ask you to answer one question which”â€"with a. cold smileâ€"“1 fear I shall have to ‘insist’ on your answering. What are your means of support at pres- ent 2 At the secondâ€"class schools did you make your fortunp, 0r-â€"" “D6 not trouElé [0 make any further conjectures,” 'ahg iqtergupted _ quickly»t ~â€"“one farthing of it? My mother took what you gave; I could not help that ; but lâ€"l Worked for my bread. Idrudged for years in second-class school: until I had fitted myself for something better, for When you freed me from yourself you freed me from another bondage. I was a slave to my poor mother no more ; I have been mistress of myself since then, and shall ever be. When you wrote to me just now that you ‘inusted’ on an inter- view. did you think that such a paltry show of authority would influence me? 1 came entirely of my free willâ€" as, pres- ently, I shall leave. I acknowledge no right of yours, and 1 fear no threat." “Thank you,” she said, with ii‘onical calm; “you are too liberal. Do not, however, imagine that the allowance to which you allude ever benefited me. Do you think that I would have touched your money,” she cried, with sudden fire “And from me," he returned bitterly, “till I learned it all too lateâ€"thanks to your disappointedlover. And so you see the wrong is not all on your side. I was trickedâ€"tricked into allying my honor- able name with onethat in every conceiv- able manuer hsd been dragged through the dirt. I was to have been tritked into paying your mother‘s debts and spendlug my life with the daughter of a forget for my companion. I declined. Who could blame me 2 ‘ There is nothing for which I can blame myself. You spoke just now of your povert fat least, I guarded you against thatâ€" saved you and your mother too from the life you wore lead- ing. That you are fortunately. however mysteriously, circumstanoed to be able now to dispense with all assistance from me is gratifying no doubt to you ; but 1 am of course anxious to continue to do what is right in the matter.” “As Heaven is my witness," she said, In trembling, solemn bones, “of that; last; disgrace of? inf my father, I knew nothing until that fearful dayâ€"I knew no more than you 1 I knew that we had no moneyâ€"my mother and I~-that we were in debt, that we moved constantly from place to place, thatâ€"that I was to be married as the only chance of escape from such a. life ; the rest; had mercifully been kept from me." aid All the little color natural to the girl's cheeks fgded at the cm *1 words, leaving her face white as marble. “Of coutae I must leave you your woman’s privilege," he smeared; “You must make wild statements and use 0p- probrii us epithets unreproved ; but do not forget that something has to be said on my sideâ€"something l” be repeated, with a. bitter laugh. “You were a child ~â€"granted ; but not so much a. child that you could not tell right from wrong, nor know the meaning of what you did; not too much of a. child to have had lovers by the score, to have jilted them, to have been jilted by them: not so much of a. child that you did not lmow the meaning of the word ‘adventuress'izud that your mother wasflnor the meaning of the word ‘convict’iand that your father was; not so childish nor so innocent buo that you had learnt the art of making dupes, and you made_one_of me i" ' as you must have known all along, although you pretended that the know- ledge came upon you as a shock ; but. my feelings in the matter were not consula- ed, if you remember My mother's con- sent was asked and given." simply done. a. pretext, at least ; but you did not con descend to treat me as a. rational being who might have possessed some interest; In yours." “When we, together, committed that mad act five ycara ago," he began. but she interrup ed him. “I beg your pardon, the madness was aidne ; I did as I v The proje is all you have to sayito glad to be getting home, u trouble you no fur- theu. after a. moment’s dark and web, and you ; I will__walk by your e madness was 0 enough. I IS I had always tasteful to me. nounced, while a. fat cherub of a. year- old baby drew attention to itself by much infantine crowing. Miriam caught her up in her arms, cuddling the little head against her own neck as she caJried her down stain, while master Tommie, clinging to her dress, conscientiously “ Only don’t make him ill with sweets, as you did last Sunday,” the Rev- erend James stipulated, as he drew his wife away. Miriarfi eat and dreamed on for another half hour, with a somewhat sad and troubled face, then aroused herself with a sigh, and ran up to the nursery. Tom- mie, a. small and chubby urchin just pro- moted to knickerbockers, ran to her at once. and caught at her dress. “Tammie go down with Mim,” he an- “He is wise enough not to strain his authority in my case,” she said. “I am not his miserable down trodden wife, and, much as I delight in his eloquence, I should rebel at having to lend an atten- tive eat more than twice in one day. I shall have little Tommiedown all; tectly, and we will amuse ourselves after our usual arbless Sunday afternoon fashion. " Miriani looked . up, laughing, irhto the facegf her pastor and master. When next Miriam heard Mr. Keane‘s name mentioned, it was an- nounced, amid some surprise, that he had left Eastwick Park, to the great dis- appointment of its inmates, and had be- taken himself to London, where he had business which would detain him some little time. Two days after this news was conveyed to her she was at church, and it was somewhat of a. shock to Miriam, in face of such welcome intelligenceâ€"having turned her head, at the sound of a firm footstep advsncing up the aisleâ€"to find Mr. Kingston Keene quietly taking his seat in the Eestwick pew. After that hurried glimpse of him, she looked no more, but was uncomfortably conscious all through the service of that embarrass- ing presence, all insufficiently separated from her by the intervening aisleâ€"was troubled many times by the certainty that Mr. Keene's eyes were upon her. “Why could he not have stayed away '1” she asked her'aelf,as_h‘amed of her quicken- Little Mrs. Archer was a good and ten- der-hearted woman, but she loved her ease and was a thought less devout than her induigent husband would have pre- ferred. Standingrcloaked and bonneted by his side for afternoon service on that; mime Sunday, she looked a little envied; 1y at Miriam lying back in 3. Mg chair, luxuriously at ease over the draw- ingAroom fire. I wonder James does not make you come to church as he makes me?" James's wife said, jvitih a: pout {1nd arsmile. ed heart-beats and her nervous self-con- aciouaness. “He 15 fightâ€"there is not room in Enstwick for hlm and. me.” Mr. Keene could only catch glimpses now and again of the pale face be:ide him ; but he noticed the short quick breath she draw, and understood the de- jected droop of her head. In spite of his anger and unrelenting sense of injury, a feeling of pity and involuntary tender- ness stirred anew at his heart ashe walked by her side. A few paces from the Rec- tory gate they encountered Mr. Archer sallying forth at his wife’s command to seek for Miriam, and Mr. Keene resigned her to his care. And so for that further half mile Mir- iam trudged through mud and min at her husband’s side, as though she had played Joan to his Darby for many a year. The path was narrow in many places, and he had to flounder in the gutter to give her the best of the way ; she never demurred, that loftin repudiated umbrella. now held carefully over her head was a signal of defeat to her; she did not try again to escape from Its shelter ; she was beaten, she told herself, unnerved, unstrung I The excitement of the interview she had gone through, now that it was ever, be- gan to tell on her. How could she be dignified in her present wet and cold and drsggled condition? How could she at- tempt to assert the indepemlence of her spirit when he had been a witness to the terror with which a. handful of half-tipsy men hag inspired her? lights from ‘ the Windows and door streamed upon the road, illuminating for a space its mud and its puddles. As Mir- iam ma. :hed this patch of lip; ,t half a dozen men, noisy and hilarious, came out. For a moment she was in the midst of this boisterous and swaggering group ; then. seeing with dismay that they also bent their straggling steps in the direc- tion of the lonely road she must pursue, she drew back, shrinking into the shadow for a moment ; and in that moment Mr. Keene wae again beside her. “You are not frightened?” he ques- tioned ; and the instinctive desire to Shield what was weak and defenceless had given an unconsciously softened tone to his voice. “I shallwalk beside you for the; re_st of_therwayr should turn I the Rectory, tinue his Btr Park. This by a. public- there where which is no lights from‘ streamed upo Keone, she left hi quickly down the ID was well per] thing to take her ness of that rebut) not. light enough choose her Way abouuded in pit- abnuuded aloughs oi ing water abouk rltati ts now as welcome spot was marl ic-houseâ€"at what comer re human beings donung not so distinguished? 1 n‘the windows and d( the min c running off piE-tallra ms alde and walked away ,8 sloppy road. :rhaps that she had some- ar mind from the dismal- lrn journey. There was h to Ithow her where to By; the Newton road [t-talla in the shape of walked away wn 1n bor- .Ie aealskin through uttersurpriae. He looked up from the fire and turned to her again, the net- vousness gone from his voice and manner. He held out his hand to her. "But: 1 Have" told you that: I had yet something to say." He turned slightly from her as he spoke, and,leaning on one hand on the mantelpiece, looked down into the fire; then he askedâ€"“Will you come to me now‘! You are my wife; will you ahare my life, and my fortunes as my wife should?" She gnade no answerâ€"she was silent He paused a moment; she was still standing before him, regarding him with has same unvygvgfixgg eyes. “I have said. all th'étl' halve to say onthe subjecb," she replied coldly. “It seems to me an unnecessary as it is unpleasant to opegib all up again." “1 had hoped that we had hsd our last interview,” she said. “Is it not passible that you can spare me this?" “No,” he answered, “it is not pessible,” then he pauseda moment. “Will you not sit down?” he asked; but Miriam shook her head, standing erect and proud and fearless before him. “Since I saw you,” he began present- ly, speaking with some hesitation and even nervousness, “I have thought a great deal over things which you said. I have reviewed the circumstances of the case, all that took place five years ago. I have always told myself that I acted then in the only way in which it was possible for me, for any honorable man to act; but- I don’t knowâ€"you have also your Way Of looking at matters, and I would not wish to have done you a. wrong. ' My impulse was naturally to save my name from dis~ honor and my life from a too probable disgrace. I still think the action defen~ sible, although it may have been, as I now see, an action fraught with more terrible importance, both to you and me. than I have ever somehow considered it before." “Do not go,” said Mr. Keene; and Miriam, lleslbating, looked him questionv ingly iu the face, while baby, 11 wing in- spected the stranger, broke into a loud wail, hiding her face on Mitiam‘s breasts. “1 find that. there is still a. word I must say to youâ€"you must suffer me to say it no N." Then Miriam rang the bell, and gave the child into the nurse’s arms, Tommie, as he was led from the room commenting loudly on his sister‘s behavior. Mnism’s face had grown‘pale; but she spoke with ordinary quiet self posses- axon, standing proudly before her hus- band. looking with unwavering glance into his face. “Het‘s a. coward!" he dééiared, as he trotted ofl‘. “I‘ommie’s not a. coward; Tommie’ll take cue o’ Mim.” ‘Had the butcher really come? he won- dered, looking with terror at the strange man who stood before him, putting out; a. hand to Miriam, which she could not or would not. take. Instead, grasping the children, she fose from her chair, and moved towards the door. “Do not go,” said Mr. Keene: and “ (The butcher is comin ;, I've grown so big,’ " sang Miriam, in tragic accents of woe, they broke cfl' suddenly, with a. start which woke the child in her arms and made Tommie cling closer to her. Neither Miriam not he heard the door open, nor notlc ad that some one stood for half a minute earnestly regarding that group by the fire, imprinting a picture on he memory that he would never for- get, that he was to look at many a. time afterwards with such a pang of longing and regret as his heart had never before known. “Who can that be, Tommie? Some one to see nurse, I expect.” But Tommie was impatient. “Go on,” he saidâ€"“go on! You hasn’t sung me that about the pig yetâ€"that little pig what left; his mummie." “ ‘Where are you going to you littl pig? ’ " began Miriam, singing Tom Hood’s words to an improvised tune of her own. This tragedy of the pig was given in a manner which thrilled Tom- mie always. announced presentlyâ€"“not a. Sunday song, not. a. hymn.” So Miriam, in her rich sad voice, sang softly tohlm all the nursery rhymesâ€"nob a fewâ€"that she could remember. Tom- mie was a quiet and appreciative listener. Baby, from the soothing effect of the singing, or of the finger she incessantly sucked, had fallen asleep, when there came a. ring at the door, Miriam stopped for a moment. were he?" Those Sunday afternoons sp interrupted enjoyment of Mim with leave to play with her V the big pocket; at her throat, her pocket for the sweetie: whi lurked there, were times of int: joyment to Tommie. To~day sure was a. good deal marred by called for presence of baby, W] yet, he considered, no claim joyment of life. He eyed h tentedly‘as she sat sucking } and nlacidlv staring at the hhm Those Sunday afternoons spent in un interrupted enjoyment of Mim’a society, with leave to play with her watch and the big pocket at her throat, to search her pocket for the sweeties which nlway: lurked there, were times of intensest en- joyment to Tommie. Toâ€"day his plea.- sure was a. good deal marred by the un- called for presence of baby, who had, as yet, he considered, no claim to the en- joyment of life. He eyed her discon- tentedly‘as she sat sucking her fingers and placidly staring at the blaze of the fire from the shelter of Mim’s arm. That was his place on a Sunday afternoon, as baby ought to have known, and “Her’s greedy !" he declared, with a grieved quiver of his lips, when the intruder mad it evident she would not consent to be ousted from that pleasant resting place. Then Miriam kissed the sweet trembling mouth, and made room for him beside her in the big arm chair. mouth, and made room for him beside her in the big arm chair. The three of them made a. pretty pic- ture sitting ths reâ€"Miriam in her black dress, her dark silky hair a little ruffled, the fire playing upon broad bind! of gold at her throat and wrists, the children’s curly flaxen heads nestled against her. “Tommie wants a. song?" the little man announced presentlyâ€"“not a. Sunday bringing down both fast short legs on to every stair, remarked aggrievedly abatâ€" “Baby were a. bad girl. Her n'uughtn'h to cry, and to want to come down with Mim. because her were only a baby â€"her weren’t Mlm's dear little Tommie, were he?" Those Sunday afternoons spent in un I Have? told you that. I had yet g to say." He turned slightly as he spoke, and,leaning on one Why should I not dare? Of what. should I be afraid? But, having told you so much, I will tell you more, that, when once it was found to be impossible, when once we knew that 1 must; for my life or yours be bound to you, Ilaâ€"this man to whom you grudge the title of gentlemanâ€" aud 1 said fareWell for ever. We know how to accept the inevitable. He would have died rather than have run the risk of causing fresh trouble to me.“ Several years ago I wa‘ Irunning a. fast express. One night we were three hours behind time, and If there’s anything in the world I hate it’s to finish a run behind schedule. These grade crossings of one- horse roads are nuisances to the trunk lines, and we had a habit of failing to stop, merely slackening up for 'em. At one crossing I had never seen a train at that time of night, and so I rounded the carve out of the cut at full tilt. I was astonished to see that a freight train was standing right over the crossing, evident- ly intending to put a. few cars on our switch. I gave the danger whistle and tried to stop my train, but I had seven heavy sleepers on, and we just slid down that grade spite of everything I could do. Quicker than I can tell you the brakes- man on that freight train uncoupled a car just back of our crossing and signalled his engineer to go ahead, which he did sharply, but barely in time to let us through. In fact. the pilot of my engine took the buffer off the rear car. Through that little hole we slipped, and lives and property were saved. N ow, the brakes- man was only a common railroader. yet saw that situation at a glance. b There Wasn’t time to run his whole train 011' the crossing, nor even half of it~barely time to pull up one car length by promquuick work. He kept his wits about him as, l venture to say, not one man in a. hundred would have done, and saved my reputg. tion, it not my life. He is now a. division superintendent on one of the best roads in this country. “Confrfimd him!” Kingston Keene ggid, through clenched teeth. “Confoqu Miriam looked at him, infinibe con- tempt in her eye. “He anathematised you,” she said bit‘ terlyâ€"“perhaps with better cause.” The Engineer's Storyof the Brake- 1mm. dead, or plasant?” V “How dare you tell me this!" he asked, suppressed fury in his voice. “How dare you?" At the sneerine: tone, she lifted her eyes again calmly to his face, and answer- cd_c331ibe11a.tely_â€"_â€" 7 “In that case I should have been his wife now.” The look which came into his face near- ly daunted her for a moment. him “ l‘hé matter was inquired into for me,” she said. “There isno reasen that I should not tell you that." At sight of that suddenly crimsoned face he started upright, hiahands clinched, his blood on fire with the hitherto um guessed at madness of jealousy. H9 wait- ed a. moment: to control his voicx “Some gentleman probably proucub those inquiries?" For the firs} time 5119 turned away her eyes from him, and a. rush of color stain- ed tllp pale face. gentleman-W “ And supposing “0f the latter part of your assertion you have probably assured yourself?" he rexlxarlggd spspiciously. “I do llOG behave it.” she said calmly. “Laws are to protect liberty, not to en- sure oppression. And if it were not soâ€" if I faded wish the tale which I should tell to prove my right, in apiteof any law, to keep myself as far as might be free from youâ€"why, then, as I said, Iwould kill myselfwbhat is all.” “No,” she went on more calmly, “1 cannot be forced to live with you, and you cannot be forced to let me go entire- ly free. I know so much of the laws of the land." And she meant it. The man knew that full well, looking at the proud fearless eyes, listening to the passionate scorn of her voice. “1 shall not do thin. But you are aware perhaps that, if it were worth my while â€"if I liked, I could ccmpal you to cm- sant to my proposal.’f firm lips. "I any I: you suppose for one m< consent to that? F0 women do you take me thatI would rather 1 wife now. that Iwox self? ’ Then. he ren gave a mm a lighter tr earnest,” 1 sufficiently day of my was the daj His faca had grown almost as white as here; the hand wuich had lain on the man- telahelf grasped the marble now with an uncorscious powerful grip,- his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Is that your final answer?” he aakud. “Final, though you asked me every day of your life on your knees for thirty years," she answered. urm ups. “1 say never-I flaw could you suppose for one moment that 1 should consent to that? For what manner of woman do you take me? Don’t you know that I would rather be dead than your wife no“, that I would sooner kill my- self? ’ Then. he remained silent, she gave a little rc )rnful laugh, and spoke in a lighter tone. “Besides, you are not in earnest," she went, on; “you have not sufficiently counted the cost. This is the day of my prosperity certainly, and that was the day of my necessity and helpless‘ mess; but I am still the daughter of my mother, remember, and the (laughter of mv father. You would still run the risk of sullying that honorable name of yours. Andâ€"and trouble might come againâ€"â€" some one might vilify and slander me once moreâ€"Who knows? When once you had owned me as your wife, it might not be so easy for you to turn your back on me, to slink away and leave me to bear the burden alone. N 0; you have no’ properly considered the risk you run, Mr. Keene." 'n aupposing that. I had been the law had been more com- (To BE CONTINUED.) You are right I'M-.9 hrough white but vex-I How could :d, and lives afid Now, the brakes- : rimilroader; yet fiance. ‘ There 19 train 03 the tâ€"barely time ; he was a-