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THE WEDDING BELLS; “ I have said that in what I am going to tell you there is much to sudden and pain you,” Dick began, in slow volce ; “ but 1 want you, while you llsten to the short story, to remember always that if Grant Ellison had known that. his mother had found such a devoted and afiectlonate daughter in Glen Frith hls misery would have been infinitely less great. When he â€"heâ€"spnke of her,” he added, hesitat- lngly, “ it was always as being alone and childless. He did not know she had found a better child and sweeter com- forter than he could ever have been !” “ His wife l"â€"â€"aud a. deep flush stain- ed the speaker's pale face for a. moment â€"" his Wife was not; with him." “ How was that ’I” said Clara, quickly. " Sheâ€"ahe «rehe had left him 1” he answered. hoaraelyâ€"“ left: him at; Mei- boumo with another man, a rich sheep- ‘farmer ; buthill not insult your ears by speaking of her,” he continued, as ‘Clera Bank back in her chair very pale and trembling. “ She was utterly worth- less, and before he had known her six months his miserable domestic life had fully expiated his deceit: and disobedi- ence.” “ His own life was miserable and deso- late to a degree unusual even in the wild, rough life in the bush. He had been broughn up in such luxury and extrava- gance. that he was totally unfibted for the hardships he endured ; and those with whom he was forced to associate were nearly all of them beneath him In station and ancongcnial society.” I n. »‘ “ ErLuld be to her, much as I love her, what he was I” said Clara, “dbl. .... . .. 1 1 71316112 had his w'lte 2” Clara said, “0591):. . ~ [I u . l “ 0h! poor fellowâ€"poor fellow l" sobbed Clara. “ Do you pity him," Mr. Burke said, grimly. “ Surely he deserved his fate, hard as it was, for”â€"his voice softened and shook alitble as he wenb onâ€"“ in was ahard one. I myself, and Grant Elli- son has no sterner judge than 1 am, can- not: deny that. He had loved this wo- man madly ; he had sacrificed for her his name, his prospects, his future ; he had given up all, even his honor, for herâ€"ay, and he would have given his life willingly to save her a pangâ€"and she repaid his gitbs by the basest treachery s woman was ever capable of l" He spoke with a sudden passion, which showed that although hitherto he had feigned calmness, it was a. composure he was far from feeling, and assumed merely to'covcr 8. strong latent) emotion.‘ uu \av w. v. ..._-__ "‘ Sow 001113 gliééhow could she,” Clara said, pitifully, “when he loved her 2” “ An least she had nothing to reproach him with," Mr. Burke continued, strug- gling with his agitation. “ He had giv- en her his all, and he wou'd have worked with, all his might so than she should lack meshing, although he knew that she had had no love for hlmâ€"thah she was unworthy, selfish, mean, and vein. He had left her at Melbourne in comfort, with all the money he had in the world, sufiicient for her to live upon in luxury for several months, while he went up- country to get work. Six months after, when he was lying sick unto death at a sheep-station in Menindie, he heard casually from a new hand that she was gone with his lnforment’s former master to Sidney l Forgive me,” he broke off, earnestlyâ€"â€"“ forgive me if I speak thus to you 1” .IIQ'IIV n “ The news almost killed him,” con- tinued Mr. Burke in a moment, while Clara's tears fell fast. “ It brought him to death’s door, and for months he who had gloried In his strength was reduced to the most pitiable weskness ; he could nob move alimb, he could scarcely speak, he lay helpless and emaciated; and dur- ing all that: time the rough but klndly men about the station nursed him with a tenderness of which I cannot speak.” “ Was it then you knew him '3" Clara Bald, looking up at him for a moment, although the tears in her sweet eyes made his face seem blurred and indistinct. Mr. Burke hesitated a little. “ I knew him then,” he answered quietly, in a moment. “ He recovered at last ; death does not come to the miser- able, Ithink ; it did not come to him than, for he passed through many years of misery after that." 1 1| ,1 on “ View you with him when he dled ?” Clara said, tremuloualy. “ No,” he answered, slowly. “ Do you knowâ€"can you tell meâ€"â€"â€" Clara. began, but he interrupted her gently. I! “ There is no need to ask more, my child,” he said. “ I have told you all, and more than all, you need know ; and the time of which I speak was a time of mlaery to myseif not inferior to his, and it hurts me to go back to it." “ Forgive me,” Clara said, hurriedly. “ Fugive me. I did not know. May 1 ask you just one more question 2” she inquired, after a moment’s hesitation. “ Then We will not: speak of this again.” “ Ask, my child.” “ His wife ; did. you ever see her 7” “ Yea. I have seen her.” “ She was very beautiful '1" “ She was more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen before or since,” he replied, quietly. “ More beautiful even bhanâ€"thanâ€"Lady Ellison was in her youth." 1“ n “'Ithink ihub is almost impossible,” CHAPTER. X. RICHARD BURKE'S Lâ€"TORY. TELLING HER FORTUNE. By the Author of “ PBOVED 03 NOT Pnovxn,” E10. fellow l” Clara said, in a low voice. “Poor, darligg mother?!” “ YBu are ‘ better to her than ten aona,’ ” he said, turning to her for a. moment and putting his hand on hers, but Clara shook her head. ’ “He washer life," she said, tremu- lonely. “ You do not know how she loved him.” “ I think I do,” he said, tremulonaly. “ And he loved herâ€"oh ! believe that he did ; and in all he did afterward he was actuated by but one wishâ€"to undo in a measure the misery he had caused. Has she ever told you of that last; part- lng T’ “ No, only then he came.” ” Let me tell you, then. He came to Aahurst some days before he left Eng- land, and hung abouh the village, hoping to see his mother. He dared not send to her ; he feared his father‘s anger not for himself bub for her. ” “ Sir Douglas loved her dearly,” Clara. said. “But he was very proud and reso lute.” “Grant knew his father well ; he knew he should never be forgiven. but as the days went on and the time of his depar- ture drew near, he was almost in despair. One night, a fair summer night like this, he stole to the grounds and up to the drawing room windows. His mother was there and alone. From where he stood he could see the beautiful room, which was so familiar to him, and which had never seemed so beautiful and so dear as then, and his mother’s beautiful, sad faceâ€"his mother whom he loved, and whom after that night he was never to see again. Presently she came to the win- dow, and then she saw him. Do you think she waited to blame him, to reproach him'i Ah ! no ; she threw herself into his arms and clasped him to her heart.” “ Dearest mother 1" Clara said, softly. “ She went out into the air with him, and for an hour they sat talking over the future, she hiding her misery not to add to his pain. His f ether was away, as you are aware, so that no (113 knew of that interview. He told her his plans, and she prayed that he might prosper ; and then she lifted her eyes, and looked him straight in the face.” “ And are you happy, my darling 2" she said, steadily ; and how wistful,and auger, and tender the mother’s face was no words of Grant Ellison’s could dep’cb.’ “ Did he ulswer her ‘1” Clara a-aked’ her free baauniful in its rapt, m’wed at- tenfiicn. “ He could not ; he knew even then that there was no chance of happiness for him in his domestic relations. He pub aside the question, smiling ; but she understood the reason. She took his head in her arms, and pressed it against; her bosom, and he burst into tears then, as he had often done in his childhood.” “ How they must have suffered i" “ And then he had to leave her, and she begged him to be true to her, and he said that: if he lived she should hear flom him. Bub he broke his word. He could not write in her of his wrecchodness, and he felt that it was better she should think him dead.”. Wilda he said he would come back?” Clara askeé saggy.“ “He said : ‘If I live I will come back to you, mother,’ ” said Mr. Burke, un- steadlly. “But she could hardly hear him ; she had only strength to suffer. He lifted her in his arms, and carried her back to the drawing room ; she tried to smile at him, but her head fell on his shoulder and her eyes closed. She never saw him go ; he never knew how he gob away." “And he is dead '4’” feltered Clara. “He said, ‘If IliveI will come ,ack to you, mother,’ ” Mr. Burke said, huskily. “But, you see, Grant Ellison has never re- turned. There was a long, long silence then. Clara’s face was hidden, but her Imagin- ation had conjured up that last parting between the mother and her son, and her heart bled for that long-past m1ery. Richard Burke’s facejwas d ailylpaie in the moonlight, and his strong handa had closed over the rail of the baluuhrade with a grip which showed how moved he was at the remembrance of the man he had known and liked on the Australian sheep- farm. Pleasantly he turned (:0 Clara, and spoke in his usual manner. “You must go back to the ball-room now,” he said, cheerfully. “I have kept you out here an unconscionable Lime ;bn’o I hope you do not feel any chill, do you 7" “Oh! no,” 'Clara said, rising; “but 1 cannot go back to the ball-room. You see, Mr. Burke,” she added, trying to speaklightly, “I have been doing honor to your talent as a raconteur, and my red eyes would tell tales ; besides I am not in a. humor for dancing now,” she added, bqu_e_nly. “I ha-ve grieved you,” he said, gently, takhgg her hang in hga. “Oil 1 noâ€"please do not think 50! One or two things you have said have made me ypry happy]: ahg said, confusefily. “Yofi do‘n-o'b'despise mle now, doâ€"you? You know why I deceived you, and you forgile My? deceptign :2" “Would you feally have been glad if he had lived ?" he asked her looking down earneser into the flushed, tear-stained face. “Glad I Unspeakably, unubterably €13.41”. H “To lose Oharnock and your heirshlp?" he Eurauegiz _with _t:he 39mg intent gagzp. __ “.It would have been hisby everyTIght," she said, eagerly. “If sir Douglas had lived, he would have altered his will, I am sure." “But; if not ’1" he queried. “I would have given Grant back his own.” “You are generous ; and yet, Clara. I know few who could dispense with thelr heirship so well as yourself." “You are flattering me.” “No, indeed,” he answered. “Clara, there are two questions I wish to ask you. Will you forgive me if one seems indie- creet ? W hub is it T’ “We will keep that for the last. The first question concerns your adopted mother. Her 1055 of nightâ€"151$ incur’ able '1" “I believe motsâ€"I hope not,” she an- swered, earnestly. “You know it came after an illness. The London ocullsta give hope if she ever can make up her mind to undergo an operation, but shehesl- hates, and while her health is so delicate we dare not press her ; but when she is stronger, I hope-â€"I believeâ€"she will re- cover her eyesight egaln.” “The other question concerns your- self," he answered, a smile curling his lips under his heavy mustache. “You will :03 be angry 2” “Heaveri argnt ital” he said earnestly, mill holding he_r hands i_n big: “Angry with you ~â€" oh I no," Bald Clara, with a simplicity which showed that she intended no flattery. “You are sure you will not ?" “Quiue sure.” “Then I will risk in. Are you engag- ed to be married?" The color deepened in the soft: cheek. “I am not,” she said, steadily. “And if a friend of mineâ€"a friend whose happiness is as dear to me as my ownâ€"asks me if you are still free, if you are free to be wooed and won, may 1 tell hlm ‘yes 3’ ” “And tn; other question, Mr. Burke '3" tin} 291mg girl said, afger a. pause. The deep, rich tones were very grave, and tender, and sweet. Clara’s head drooped a little, and the small hands flab- tered in his clagp. 1” “You may be“ him “yes, she said, in a. voice which rose scarcely above a whis- per, and a sudden, awifb glance of passion- ate delight flashed into Richard Burke’s dark, gray eyes. He said nothing, but bowed his head low before her, bending lower and lower until it; benched her hands, upon which he pressed his lips in one long, lingering, re- verential kiss. She made no efl’ort to prevent him, but stood perfectly still and motionless before him until he released her hands; and then, gathering up} her white gauzy draperies, she fled away from him with the speed and lightness of a fawn. For a few minutes Richard Burke stood still where Clara. had left: him, his face: pale with the intensity of his emo~ blon, his eyes bright wifh the softest loveiighb.» _- :3. .. ... ._ i _ “ My little ciarling,” he said, tenderly to himself, as be bent over the baluatrade â€"“ my pure, sweet, ingenuous darlingâ€"â€" can It belpoeslble that such happiness is In store for me 2 Dare I ofl'er her such a past as mine '1" He stood for some minutes silent and thoughtful, his face altexnstely grave to sadness, and brightening with a. sudden, swift flash of joy ; then he roused himself with an effort, and turned toward the windows to re-enter the house. As he did so there was a slight sound behind him ; he turned rapidly just in time to see a. dark shadow disappearing under the portico. Mr. Burke leaned over the balustrade and looked keenly arcund, but there was no sign of any one about. “ One of the servants probably," he said to himself, but nevertheless he walt- ed for a tow minutes, and then, seeing no one about the terrace or area, he re- entered the house, closing the window carefully after him. Meanwhile Clare, still trembling and agitated from her interview on the terrace had managed to escape through the hall unseen and b0 reach her room. There she sent) her maid with a message to Lady Mary, begging her to excuse her as she was very tired; and when the girl had gone to give the message, she went her- self to wish Lady Ellison, who had left hhe ball-room a couple of hours previous- ly, good-nighh._ ' "‘15 my Inother asleep, Ferris ‘1" she said. softly, ah the door, but Lady E111- aon’s voice answered her from within. “Ferris is down looking at: the dancing, my_(_inrllng. have b_e§p watglng_f9r_yqp. ’7 'Olara W‘Bnb in quietly ; thafikfnl' that Lady Ellison could not see the braces of emotion on her face. Her adopted mother was In her bed- room, while the dressing room through which Clara passed bore marks of the maid’s desire to see the dancing. Lady Ellison’s rich dress was thrown carelessly on the sofa, her laces were scattered over the table, and her dressing-case and jew- el-box were still open; but 01am, al- though her eye took In these details, paid no heed to them. She passed on into the bed-room. Lady Ellison was in her dressing-gown, sitting in an arm-chair be- side her bed. “My darling!” she said, burning her face toward Clara as she entered, and holging pqt her han_d. Thevglrl went to her side, and kneelng down, put; her head caressingly on the bung lady’s shoulder,“ “Dearést mother 1” she said fondly, her eyes filled with tears as she spoke at the thought of the son who had lived and died‘in such minty. “Are you going'to your room, Clark) '2" she said, tenderly. “Is the dancing over ?" “No, but I am very tired. Why are you not in bed, dear?" W V “I was not éleepy. Besides, I wanted to see my little girl. Dld I dream that agreab many people hold me that my CHAPTER XI. daughter was the belle of the ban '2" she added, smiling, and p11beng up her hand to stroke Clara’s cheek, but; the girl caught: it quickly, and held it In» both hers “ You dreamed it, mother !” “Did I? Perhaps so, dear; bub uhe voices sounded very real and lifelike, and they resembled my friend. Ted's. and Lord Henry Gnlu’s volcea, and Lard Anhilrst’s and Mr. Barke’u. My darling, how you started, and how hot; your hands are 1 Are you well, Olarie 2" “ Quite, mother, darling, but oh! so tired ! If I sit; here much longer I shall fall asleep on your shoulder. Let me help you into bed. dear, and then 1 will go toémy 13mm.” “ Thank you, dear,” aair‘ Lady E‘li- son, when she was in bed. “ Have a good sleep, my dearest. and good-night." “ Good-night, mother. Am I indeed your dearest l" Clara. answered as she went away ; and having allowed her maid to loosen her hair and replace the pretty ball-dress: with a white wrapper, she dismissed her, telling her she requir- ed no more attendance that night. As the maid was leaving the room she called her back. “ What time is it Baxbnr ’2" “ Nearly halfâ€"past twelve, miss.” “ 15 that all 7 I thought: It was nearly three. ” “ The dancing is to be over at one, Miss Clara. Her ladyship and Mr. Father- stone wished it to be a. very early party.” “ Very well, you may go, Baxter.” When she was alone Clara, although she had complained of such great fatigue, seemed by no means anxious to retire to bed She opened her windows, and sat looking out into the still, moonlit night in deep thought, recalling again and again the events which Mn Burke had related to hen. the tears running swiftly down her cheeks as she thought l-f Gram; Ellis‘vn’s sad fateâ€"of his great love repaid by base treachery-his faith with betray alt Then, from Grant Ellison her thoughts natural- ly turned to Richard Burke, and her heart beat quickly at the recollection of the tenderness which had come into his voice two or three times when he spoke to her â€"of those one or two sentences which came back to her now with a thrili of delightâ€"of those last low-spnken words--~ that long, lingering kiss. Clara stooped her head as she thought, and with the prettiest and shyest of gestures she laid her cheek down where his lips had rested, and went into a dream of which the hero was tall and grave and stately, with earn- est gray eyes and a splendid chestnut beard, and from which she was awakened by hearing steps and voices on the stairs and passages. Good-nights were ex- changed, and after a Few minutes a. quiet tranquillity settled ever the home-"the deep, unbroken stillness of repose A few minutes after the clock struck ave. Clara rose Blole and finished uwdress- lng ; but while she plalted up her hair her cheeks grew hot at the remombrane of the subject of that) dream, fur our little heroine was by no means susceptible to the tender passion, nor glven b0 senti- mental musinga'overldeal lovers. Hither- to her heart had been unfiouchefi ‘ny any of the adoration oflored to her fat quently ; but now she felb that her heart w 9.3 hers no longer. She was not sorry ; she was not ashamed Hu loved her aural}! or he would not have an >ken thus; anti Clam covered her face with hm hands as she thought oi her answur to bits question and the avowal it cow-mined. "He has been unhapva she saioi, soft- ly, to herself; “but. I will make him BO happy that he will forget- all the unhappi- ness of the past. Half an hour paaued ; the cloak struck the half-hour after two, then three, but Clara still lay wakeful and sleepless on her pillow. She was not uaed no nleepless nights, and she grew impatient: and rest- leas, trying one by one every means of becoming sleepy of which she had heard at variuos times. She counted aheadin up to s. hundred ; she repeated her multiu plicablon-table; she drank some water; and finally jumped out of bed, half-laugh- lng, half impatient. WC": I will take a turn in the passages,” she Haiti, slipping on her dressing-gown. “ 1 will go very quietly, and disturb no one," She opened her door noiselesely and 3 stole out. The long passages were very silent: ; the gas, turned down very low, made a. dim light. Clara walked two or three times up and down the passages, then she went down a short flight of steps which led into the pfcture-gallery, on to which opened a suite of rooms, In whleh were situated the bed room and dressingâ€" room occupied by Lady Ellison, the pee" sage leading to the bachelors' wing being on .he opposite side. A t the foot of the steps Clara. (topped, anal stood looking. with wide-open, dilated eyes, at some- thing or somebcdy in the plcture-galiory. As she looked every shade of color faded out of the girl’s face; her: breath came in awlft, hurried gasps; her hands were pressed to her breast, as if she were trying to stifle the m; id. hem-b throbs. For fullv five minutes she stood there, motionless, breathless, atmpefied; then she turned and fled, with fleet, frightened ~tepe, back to her own room. 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