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“Rosalie, will you let me try to make you_ happy? Will you try micare ion me a. httleP I love youâ€"I have loved you smce the first moment I saw your face. Dou't you think I could make you happy, loym; you so annoy .aantha-t?” v I do not think of it. for a. moment. I do not. seriously entertain the thought. even for one second of time. A year ago it might. hawkseemed to me a. very de- sirable arrangement. It would restore Woodhay to the man who I always felt ought to have had it. But a. year ago I did not care for any one else. Now my heart lies buried in the grave that was dug for it down among the tangled ferns and leaves and grasses in my shadowy oombe one dayâ€"a grave whose fresh sods I have never visitedâ€"a, grave where with my dead love I have buried all hope. all megsure, all de§ire of life. a," , "I am sorry, if you really care. for me. Cousin .Ronald. I don’t know how you can”â€"â€"smiling slightlyâ€"“knowing how cross I am!" - “May I ask you one question. Rosalie?” I know what. the question is before I look round into his face. “Yes,” I answer slowly;.“I suppose you haze _a. right to ask.” .0“- .. -.,._- “V "W-" “I dq not want to ask it by reason of any rlght, and you. are not bound to answer .me.” ' . . “No: I am not. bound to answer you.” "Rosalie, have you ever fancied that you cared for any other man P" The question is put so gravely, so com- posedly, .that it does not startle me. I answer It just as gravely, jug as com- posedly, looking straight before me at the smgoth _gra_y flange-wank; ... 1-1, "Not fancied it, Cousm Ronald! I have cared for another man so much that. though you may be a hundred times better, a thousand times worthier, you can never be to me what he once was." “I am not going 1'10 ask you big name. But this man; Rosa-lie, it cannot be but that- he loved you in return?” “Oh, yes. he loved me!" "Then is he dead?" "No," I answer, with a. strange little sm_11e; “he is marrieg." For one moment Ronald Scott stands beside me in dead silence. I do not look at him; but. I can fancy the astonishment -â€"the dysgust. perhapsâ€"in his grave stem {feelâ€"has silence mxght, meafi either or of. . ~77§69r child,” he says at. lastâ€"and his‘ tone 1:; only pitiful. not disgusted at all â€":ppor ohéldz’ . - I do not look at him, and I do not think he is looking at me. But two great tears well into my eyes and fall upon my-aahy purple ugpwna “I will not trouble you any more, dear," he says, gently. "‘I would never have asked that question if I had dream- ed what yOur 'answer would be. But I could not think you cared for any oneâ€" it seemed so unlikely thatâ€"he would not cage f_o_r you.” ‘ I hold but; my left hand to himâ€"the one next, to himâ€"without turning my head. The foolish tears drop down my cheeks .and fall upon the gown whose dead vxolet shade VOliirver abhors. _ "'I shall Vbé' your' friend always. Rosa.- heâ€"remember that!’f THémst/oops and kisses my hand gravely. Adlspassionately, and wa’lks out of the room just, as Olive and Mr. Lockhart come into it. "There is no news in the paper to-day.” Olive says, icking up_1.he “Tlmes” from the floor where Ronald Scott had thrown it. “Is there not?" I answer languidly, still standing in the deep bay window looking out. . _ “I‘lqtlfipg that I call news. 011. _what She does not speak again for a minute or two. I suppose she is studying the paragraph which seemed to have attract- ed her attention. I am studymg the sun- set colors in the sky. the mystic glory of my sunset hill, the deep ruddy green of my shadowy woods. Mr. Lockhart has just wished us goodbye and left the room; Digges has carried away the tea things; Olive has more than once sug- gested that it 13 time for my ante-pran- dial drive; but I am in no mood for ex- erting myselfâ€"even to the extent. of put- ting o_n my hat. ' I n: A!!__ h_ “Yes,” I say QEEfi'ely, not dreaming how soon I shall make trial of his friendship; “I shall remember," awn vnv "Why‘ ligvu'as arrested the (lay befone yesterday on a charge of having murder- ed his wife!” ., -v.-. Three weeks before the‘ day Gerard Baxter was arrested on the charge of having made away with his wifeâ€"on the tWenty-tmrd- of.;.Ju1yâ€"â€"his ’mother-in-law, Ehza White, deposed to having gone to me lodgings to visit her daughter. The pmsoner opened the door-for her, and told her that her daughter had gone out, abput half an'hour before to buy some- thing in a nelghhoring street. She had gone home perfectly satisfied, and fully Intending to call again in the evening. but some business of her own prevented her doing this, and. when she repeated her vxslt on the followrngh morning. she was rather surprised to ear !rom her Ion-in-law' that her daughter had again is this?” "sue a horrible thing!” Olive ex- claims. “Allie, did you know that. Im- fortunatei Gerard Bagtey was _ma_rr1_ed?” “Yes,” I answer on mly, without turn- ing my head; "I knew it some time ago.” "I declare I don’t like to tell you about itâ€"it is enough to shock you if you had never known phe_ qutched pay}: "What 15 it?” I ask, confronting her. The girl is sitting on the corner of the sofa. looking up at me with a. white startled face. Olive Deane went away this morning, and Ronald Scott Eeft after luncheonâ€"- the house seems quite lonely and desert- ed. 'But I am» not thinking of either my friend or my cousin, as I sit. alone in my brown-paneled morning room at Wood- ha-y, holdin in my.ha-nd the “Times” of yesterday. had hidden the paper eway that I_ might study someghing in it at my leisure todayâ€"something that I al- ready know by heart. As I sit in the deep old-fashioned bay-windowflwith the paper in my hand, my eyes are on the blaze of color without. intently staring. I see no sunny garden precincts shut. in by tall green hedges topped by the blue sky. I see a man in a. prison-cellâ€"gaunt. haggardâ€"the man whom I still love with all the reckless obstinacy of my natureâ€"â€" the_boy whose weakness of purpose-has spyflpdlboth his life and my‘own. ,A,, L. "ye"-.. My-.. ...., .._- I believe every- word 05 the Lory he told to the magistrate bexore Wham they took him, though, in the face of such overwhelming evidence as was produced against him. I do not see that there was any course open to the magistrate hm the course he adopted. of committing him to prison to take his trial at the Octo- ber Sessions forithe murder Qf_ his_ Wife. The account of the examination ‘before the mggietrate is ghen in full 1n the paper 1n my hand. under the heading of "Police Intelllgence." I have mastered every particular of the case, weighed every grain to be brought home to,. the wretched lad who is to stand his trial in October, I am as entirely convinced that he had no hand or part 'in it as 1 am that I had no hand or part in it mygeif. CHAPTER VIII.â€"(Oont'd) OR, THE MEMORY OF A BOY WITH DARK EYES. SEVERE ' TRIAL ; CHAPTER IX. gone out. 9n neither occasion had he invited her mm the room, but had stood in the ’doorway to answer her inquiries. He said her dau hter was quite well and that he'expected er in every minute; but he did not ask her to wait; nor had she time to waste waiting for her. She thought Gerard Baxter's manner rather odd and surly; but then he never had a. very pleasant manner. and it made no im- pression upon her. She was so sure that he had been telling her the truth on both occasions that she never thought of mak- ing any inquiries among the neighbors. In answer to the magistrate, she said the lodgings were very poor ones. Gerard Baxter was an artist, and could. not al- ways sell his pictures; but he had made some copies of pictures for churches, she thought, and they had brought in some money. They never were in actual want. She went. on to say that. she had not called again for several days, being ra- ther hurt with her daughter for never coming near her. She had been in the habit. of running into her house every evening almost when her husband went out. They had not got on very well- to‘ gether. Her daughter was a child al- most, and very thoughtless, and Gerard Baxter was soured by disappointment and poverty, and had lately begun to drink â€"â€"not hard. but more than was good for him; but he wan never cruel to his wife at the worst of times, so far as she knew. Mrs. Eliza. White‘s evidence was so impar- tial that it produced a. strong impression m her favor in the Quart. t For a. whole week she saw nothing of her daughter, nor did she go to her lodg- ings to inquire after her. She blamed herself very much for it afterward; but she had to earn her own bread by wasn- mg, and had lodgers to lookefflzr. At the end of a. week she went, however, and found the door locked; then she turned into the room of a neighbor on the next floor, a. woman named Haag, the wife of a. German who played the violin in the orchestra of some thea‘ref she forgot what theatre. Mrs. Haag said that. she was surprised‘to hear her mak- ing: inquiries for her daughter, since Bax; tor had told them all she had gone to stay with some cousins in the country. They had not seen or heard anything of her in that. house since the twenty-sec- ond of July; Mrs. White herself had seen her on the twenty-first. _ Mrs. White then resolved to wait till her son-in-law should come in; but, though she sat with Mrs. Haa-g for more than two hours. Baxter did not make his; appearance. Meanwhile Mrs. Haag told her all she knew:how for three days Baxter had told them, when they inquir- ed for his wife, that she had just gone out and would be in presently, and on the fourth had told herâ€"Mrs. Huangâ€"that she had gone to visit, some cousins in the country. The neighbors suspected nothing. ‘When they asked for her later on, he said he had had letters from her, and even gave them messages which she sent to them in the letters. He looked dark. Mrs. Hang said; but then he always did look dark. and kept himself very much to himself. She did not. think they bed got on very well of late. He left his Wife alone very much, and they all pitied herâ€"she was so youngâ€"a mere child, and so pretty. 0n the morning of the twenty- second. they had words about something; sheâ€"Mrs. Hangâ€"heard him threaten to rid himself of herâ€"to choke her, she thought he said; but such threats were common enough in that tenement-houseâ€" sho had never given them a. second thought. Mrs. White had no diffipulty in identi- fying the body, though It had been In the water a. considerable timeâ€"three weeks, the surgeon said, who made the postmortem examination. The face was much disfigured from the action of the water; but the beautiful red_ gold hair, the small even teeth. the girl’s height and age, the wedding-ring on her finger. were all conclusive evidence. Her clothes were poor. and had no mark upon themâ€" a black cashmere dress, black jacket. and a little brooch"with hair in it, which Mrs. White at once recognized as having been a' present from herself to her daughterâ€"- she had put the hair into it herselfâ€"it, was her father’s hair. Mr. and Mrs. Haag had also identified the clothes, but could not remember the brooch. Mrs. Hang being called up, corroborated Mrs. White’s evidence in every articular. The pri- soner obstinately re used.to answer any questions put. to him by the bench, and maintained all through the inquiry a. sul. len demeanor, which had considerably prejudiced the _cot‘1rt ag‘aint hips. Mrs. White, finding Baxter did not. come back. left. Mrs. Rams, and _went home. She knew Lilyâ€"her daughter’s name was Elizaâ€"the same as her own, but she a!- ways called herself Lilyâ€"had some cou- sins in Kent; and, though she‘was sur- prised to hear she had gone to pay them a visit. it was not outside the bounds of probability that she- should have done so. And, being troubled w1th her own concerns, she gave no more thought to the matter until the afternoon of the fogrteengh day of August. 0n the afternoon of the fourteenth of August a. policeman came to her. to take her to the mortual‘y. A body had been found floating in" the river near Black- friars Bridge; Mr. Han-g had happened to see it, and at once recogmzed it. as the body of Mrs. Baxter, and the girl’s mo-‘ ther was sent for to identify it, as her husband was not, to bgfpuqd. Here the witness fas so overcome. by grieffihat it. was .some time before the exammatioq could prpcepd. _ I believe Gerard Baxter to be innocent of the crime imputed to him. I have not aeked Ronald Scott his opinion, not Uncle Todâ€"I could not trust myself to ask them any questions. But I had heard Olive ask Uncle Tod at breakfast what they would do to Gerard Baxter, and Uncle Tod said they would try him, find him guilty most probably, and condemn him ‘to death. The guilt seemed most conclusively brought to himâ€"whether he would be recommended to mercy or not, he could not say. It might come out that there had been extenuating circumstanc- es; but, to Uncle Tod's mind, there were no extenuating circumstances. It wan a. 7 horrible, . businese altogether. So much I had read, studying every wordâ€"I think the sentences have burned themselves into my brain. They were no marks of .violence on the body, so far as could be ascertained; but, from the state it was in when found, this could scarcely be satisfactorily proved. It was supposed that Baxter had pushed his wife into the river on the night of the twenty-second of Julyâ€"the day Mrs. Haag 1111M! heard him threatening to take away er 1 e. It is a'h'orrible business. I think so, as I sit staring into my quiet sunny gar- den, into which even the echo of such evil deeds has never "come." It. is all so peaceful. sov orderlyâ€"the blarckhirds 'and thrushes. hop in and out of the tall thick walls of yew and beeehg. my peacock glim- mers up- and (10wa in the distance, faint pearly clouds float across the serene sky. How different it is from the wretched London street, perhaps more wretched court or alley, where ,the man to-whom I would have as freely given Wodhay. with all its gardens and terraces, woods and meadows, has worked and starved till it seems. that his misery has driven im mad! I hate the blue sky. the or- erli flower-beds, the ruddy gables, and carved window-settings of my quaint old house. I cannot. bear to look at them. thinking 11on little happiness they hams given me. If I had been what he imag- ined me, the penuiless girl learning music as a means of future livelihood, I wou7d have married him, and we should have been happy. But I refused him, because I was Miss Somers Scott. of, Woodhay Manor. And now all my woods and moms and meadows have turned to ashes between my teeth. . “Aunt Rosa, I am going up‘to London." “T0.London!” Aunt Rosa repeats, star- in: at me through her spectacles, aghasz. "Yes: I am going up on business.” “But, my dear Rosalie. youfire no mere fit to travelâ€"” “My dear Aunt Pvcsa, it. in just what I want»some va‘riety. I have telegraphed to Mrs. Wauchope to have my old rooms in Gnarleton street ready for me _to-mor- row. . , “You have telegraphed tOxMrs. Wau- chope! Do y’ou mean to tell me that you are_going un to those dreadful lodgings agamâ€"a-lonq?” “Why; I thought you might be going to glive:§,_pr to the Rollégtona’.” "The Rollesbons are in Denmark; and I don’t want to catch another fever in Dexter Square.” “Dear me, I forgot that!” - “Not that I am afraid of the fever,” 1 am bound to add honestly. "I am not in the least afraid of it;'but I prefer g‘o- ing to Carleton Street for a great many reasons." “And leave Uncle Tod with that cold on his chest? My dear Aunt Rosa. I as- sure you I am very well able to take care of ignyselft'f‘ rv‘WVhei‘er else would you have me go, Aunt. Rosa?” “If you go, I shall go with you," Aunt Rosa, isajy-s degisiyelyL “You will take Nannette With you, of course?” . - “Indeed ,I ,shall .do no such thing,", I answer at once. My new maid is a. weari- ness to me. If old nurse Marjory had not been yast her work, I would never: have installed her in the lodge and hired thjg pert Flzench souszet’ge in he; stead; ' ‘jBu‘t; my dééi‘wchvild,’ it"ié a’m’ iniheai‘d-of thmg for a. girl in your position to g0 up tqulogigipga in_ pondon >a.19n§.”_ Aunt Rosa. does not lxke the arrange; mgr} from any poigt A9_f _vie_w. “Nobody need know. Andl‘it is not as if Mrs. Wauchope were not. an old friend; and I shall only be gone a. day or two probably. If anything should happen to detain me in townkyou may follow meâ€" Ii’f you like, and if Uncle To?“ cold is etter." "You are very self-willed, Rosalie. You were always headstrong, since you were a baby of three years old. If ever a. girl wanted a father or mother to control her, I think you wanted them. As for your Uncle Todhunter, if A- you had cried for the moon, he would have tried to get it for you. 1 often told n he spoiled, you, and so he did.” Aunt, Rosa stares at me, scandalizedâ€" thigg tinge ovgr the rim of her fipectaclgp. "I think I was always obntinate, whe~ ther Uncle Tod spoiled me or not. Aunt Rosa, do you know Cousin Ronald’s ad- dress in town?" “’1‘... nu... "Not unless .' should want him. auntie. But it is always well to know the_ad- dress of a. friend in London.” "SiiVRéfiiaflli Scot-t 1~ .q. perfect gent!»â€" man. What will he 1 k of this freak “I wish it were something to you."-Aunt Rosa. says a. little wistfully, looking at me. “He is a. fine fellowâ€"a. true} gen- tleman; and he cares for you, Rosalieâ€"â€" he asked your Uncle Todhunter’s permis: sion to pay his addresses to you. But. I suppoe you snubbed him, as you snubbed all the rest." “My dear Rosalie, are you goifig to Sir Ronald Scott’s hotel in London to call upggl him_?" 3 “That I will not do anything- unbecom- ing. My dear Aunt RosanlI can be very steadyâ€"when I like; and I‘L'am sure you can trust, to the chivalry of your friend Ronald ,Scott." ;fV-Eouxr'rsrrfiorsréfie?” Do §oti sfipfiose 'he will apprquof _Â¥01_1‘:1_‘ going up to Lon- don afine like t-His? "Ro 1d Scott’s opinion of my proceed- ings i not of vital importance,” I an- swer, throwing up my head. “Whether he is pleased or displesed matters very little to me. I am going up to London on business which nobody else could man- age for me. If he chooses to disbelieve my assertionâ€"should I {eel called upon tommalre ifiâ€"it is nothipg to me.” Aunt Rosa sighs. She would be so glad to hand me over to some good steady man like Rona-1d Scott, who could keep me in order. She would be so thankful to wash her hands of me and my vagaries, fond asrshe is ofvme, once and for ever; wJLâ€"I'e 's's Etéyifi Qtâ€" filveNâ€"Hoit-él your uncle always goes to in London. But I do hope. Rosalieâ€"” ' “‘Dear Aunt Rosa,” I answer gravely, "you cannot like Ronald better than I do; and what I said to him I said as gepily as I could." _ “Because I oould not care enough tor him to‘marrx him, finntie.” “I don’t despair but that, you will come to your senses some 'day, and marry him,” she says. deliberately, getting up from the luncheon table. “I think your Uncle Todhunter would die happy if he knew that you _were married to such a. man as Sir-Ronald Scott." "V'FWfiyr 7mm? you have said it at. all. child?” ' “You're looking poorly enough still,” Mrs. Wauchope says, regarding me by the light of the gas in her great dingy drawing-room. “I don’t know whether it’s the bonnet, or what; but you look ten years older than you did when 'you were u13_her_e_ with melih thg _Spri-I}g.:' V ..,, new mu. .. .. my -,--...,. , Mrs. Wauchope is truthful, if she is not comp/lunentary. Glancing at myself in the 89 green depths of the mirror over the mantelpiece, I am forced to acknow- ledge that. I do look tefi years older than when I last saw myself reflected between. the tall vases of imitation Bohemian glass which grace the mantelshelf. In defer- ence to Aunt Rosa’s old-fashioned notions, and for other reasons, I have endeavored to give myself as staid an appearance as possible. wearing the close black bonnet which Olive always said gave me a. de- mure look, though my dimples were against. me. And I am wrapped up in my long fur-lined cloak, and have alto-' gether ,the look of a respectable young widow, as I say to Mrs. Wauchope. laugh- ing, while she gets my tea ready with her_ own plump hands. “Isn’t this a. terrible business about Mr. Baxter?" she remarks presently. "I never got such a. turn in my life as when I saw all about it in the paper. And such a yqung lad as he is. too; andI believe she was little more than a child!” “Do you think he did it?" I ask, stand- ing on the rug. My landlady is busied at the table, With her back toward me; she does not look round, though I can scarcely kee my voxce steady while I speak the s words. “0h, everybody knows he did it!” “How can they know?" ‘ “But there was no one else to do it." « “That proves nothing." . - "Oh, but he was heard‘to threaten her! And then the stories he made up! And I believe she was a flighty little thing, and too pretty for her station in life. Those painters had spoiled her, for ever painting her picture. v It was only the other day I found her photograph up in his studioâ€"pinned to the wall." . A _thrill of something-like jealousy of the dead girl, whose photograph Gerard Baxter had cared to pinup in his room, runs like a. needle through my heart. But what right, have I to be jealous .of herâ€" thgnwretched child who had been bin in e. “Have 'you seen him since he gave up pajpting he‘re! Mrs. _Wa.ucho_13e?" ‘ q,. 7 “mum, new, .....,. ......,_-..-. “Once or twiceâ€"not more than that. I heard he was married; and I was sorry to hear it. knowing the kind of person he married. There was a, great deal of good in him, poor lad; but he was as unstable as waterâ€"he never finished any- thing. There are upward of twenty pic- tures upstairs, not .one of them finished. If they were any good, I'll sell them to pay up his arrears of rent: but they're nqghing _but useless _1_ur9ber."’ it A... "I wish you would let. me see them. Mrs. Wauchope. I shouldn’t mind taking some of them, off your hands. And, if Mr. Baxter ever comes to claim them, you can refer him to me.” ’ “You are welcome to see them, Miss Allie. The studio is just as he left itâ€" I never even let the bedroom since. You see I had a. regard for him, having known him so long; and I thought he would come back to me some day till I heard he hadflmarrjgd that giijl.’_’ After tea, Mrs. Wauchope takes me upfitairs. If the studio had had an un- tidy look when I first saw it, it looks likefimthing now but a. gloomy attic full of lumberâ€"the empty easel pushed into a. corner. the unfinished canvases covered with gray cobweba, every chair and table covgred ipch-gieep_wit-h (myth "Here is the photograph,” Mrs. Wau- chope says, taking something from _the table, and wiping it with her black apron. “A pretty face, isn’t it? I've known a man to lose his life for a, face that wasn’t half as Qretty g-afihat.” . -.. no." “Why, they say he was jealous, you know. She was a. fiighty little thing, and some artist was painting her picture, and Mr. Gerard didn't like it, That was what they were quarreling about on the morn- ing of the‘day i? Papneyfidfi’... "77'133u'é"v.v‘i{i£ ‘iafi'héTface to do with it?” I 3:115 vagyely. I stand in the light of Mrs. Wauchope’s mold candle, looking at the photograph in my hand. It is a. beautiful face-«an exquisite faceâ€"soft. and bright and inno- cent mafia, child’pt Early the next morning I transgtess all Aunt Rosa’s rules of propriety by taking a cab and driving to my Cousin Ronald Scott’s hotel. I find him finishing break- fast. half a. dozen/business-lettbera scat- tered about ithe table. “Ronald.” I say, in my honest fearless way, “I have come to put. a. promise you made me to theitestfl “I am glad to hear it, Roaalie,’.’ he an- swers, standing by the table. "I have refused the chair he oflered me, with the plea that. my cab was waiting below. _"l?),o you remember the promise. cou- sm ’ “I have forgotten nothing,” he says, Bing/Eng a._ little. _ H?i-.Â¥alfi "idâ€"1;. to >manage an interview wx-ph that manâ€"Gerard Baxterâ€"who is in pmson ‘for murdering his wife.” . Ronald Scott looks profoundly surppsed. “For me or for you?" he asks, his eyes onimy whitg face; “I will keep this for the present, Mrs. Wauchope. May I?” . Mrs. Wauchope nods. Lily Baxter’s photograph is in all the shop- windows; but she does not care to have i-t. at an. uvu.., --...v_. I “May I ask how you made his acquaint- ance, Rosalie?” "We lodged in the same house in Lon- donâ€"the house in Carleton 'Street. whet I am staying now.” A "But howâ€"" I, cannot help laughing outright at the exceeding gravity of his face. I think of the bunch of violets; but. I do not tell Ronald about themâ€"it is no different re- lating a. piece of thoughtless folly like thatâ€"i1: would seem so much more hein- ous an offense repeated under the cold unsympathetic eyes of my judicial cou- ":‘sz- me; You can be present, of course; I should wish you to be present. And it need not last more than five minutes, ifiso 1993.: Ronald Scott makes no answer what- ever for a. minute or two. He is standing by ,the table, one hand resting upon it, looking dowp_ ait me as I 190k .up 91; him. “I can try. Was he an acquaintance of yours?” “He was a friendâ€"was, and is.” "I should say ‘was,”’ Ronald observes, shrugging his shoulders. . “I say ‘is.’ ” I repeat stubbornly. “Ger- ard Baxter is a. friend of mine.” Ronald’s dark brows met in a. rather heavy fgowu. sin! ' “I cannot think how you ever made his acquaintance, Rosalie. If you had been lodging in the same house for fifty years, you should have had no acquaintance with him." ..‘.-â€" av..-“ .. -_., _. 1: As to his respectability,” Rona-1d say‘n ooldly, “that must be 'a. matter of opin- ion. Subsequent events have proved that he could not have been a, very respec- tzlzbl‘e acquaintance for you or any on e se.” ‘ "0h, subseq'ent events!" ' "But supposing there were no subse- quent events. This Baxter was a. poor artistâ€"a. Bohemianâ€"not exactly the kind of, friend Miss Scott’s friend's would have chosen to}: herâ€"at least, 3 thin}; not: “We'will not quairel about that,’~Ron-' ald. I dare say you are right;‘but it is too late tov bemoan my want of exclu- siveness now. What I Hwantwou to do is to manage that, I may‘ see my friend-if it is\ only for one momén .", .-.,. ‘ grfi "For what?” 'he asks rather sharply. “Merely Twas]: him a. single question.” Big looks at' me~doubtfullyp His {use him grown pale under all 'its sunburnâ€"as‘pale as___my‘__qwn. ‘ ‘ - n , ,u- 1-...“ "553.9310; ‘iiiifili §6ufiéan db thfia for me. Ronald?” v1 LU‘l .unu. “Oh, he was quite rpapectable! ’1 ‘met him in other places~m society. The Rolles’oona knew himâ€"he was at their house evqry day."_ _ _ “I fwilvlnfiéep niy promise, Rosalie. Bu‘t. it will ‘be altogethe: ,in defiance of my beggar judgment.” __ - - . "Then so much the more I thank you for keeping it. ’If it. 0031; one nothing to keep a. promise, there would not, be or.- casion for much gratitude, would there?” I19 James Street, _ Montr'oal. 308 Mefllnnon Building. TORONTO. - It Out CANADA SECURITIES CORPORATION, LIMITED Envestments for the New year We have to offer several first-class bond investments yielding 6 per cent. net, carrying our unqualified recom- mendation. CHAPTER L. They stop; headache promptly, yet do not contain any of the dangerous drugs common in headache tablets. Ask your Drugglsk about them. 25¢. a box. Why doesn’t she take NA-DRU-CO Headache Wafers WRITE FOR FULL DETAILS Nylon,“ Dnun AND cutmcu. Co. or CANADA, Lmrrn. 122 He does not answer, standing before ma,’ still leaning on the table, still studying my face. “Then, since that is settled.- I1 shall wish you good-bye, Cousin Rom .a ." “Where are you going?" “Back to Carleton street. I have wrib ten to Olive to come to see me.’_’ ' av“ -vn, -v. “Tlfere must be some way to prove it» â€"if the man is innocent.” """It"w£s'_' 't'oâ€"'£o Ge? this'iimH'that gnu. cage, 14;) to town?" ‘ “Yes.” \“But what is he to you. Rosalie, that you should concern yourself in his afâ€" fairs?” “He is nothing” to me.” ,"Then why mix yourself up in such a disgraceful husiness?”_ ‘ "fiecause the ma'nv 11v innocent, and I mpfit P17°Y¢ it?" _‘TI~’E‘0;e‘ it, my poor child! How could yqlel-ove it?” _ 4 ‘ 2L I believe he thinks my mind has not quite recovered from the eflecta of the feverâ€"he certainly looks at me as if he thought me slightly deranged. “I_have not studied the case. But my own impressions are that the man is guilty If I can manage_wha,t you want. me to do, where shall I meet you?” "If you' come to Carleton Street for me, I shall be ready to go with you.” “It will very likely be to-morrow.” “Then I shall remain at home all too morrow. And, if you fail, you will let me know?”. _‘V‘I_\;§li'lét you know. -I hope you are taking care of yourself. Cousin Rosana. Yoq » lo_ok thoroughly: won} Hou1_:._” “ 7‘6h’vf'5m' "€6,187 Valâ€"'5" iiiué' biz-ed from. th_e journey pprhapsfi' . . us“. v.-- “v..- "v, r-.. ._..‘._ I wrap my fur cloak about me, shiverâ€" ing, though it is August. Ronald walks down the hotel-stairs with me across the hall, in a. silence which I do not cafe to break. He puts me into the cab in the same almost stern silence. I do not glance back at him as the cab leaves the door, though he stands there bareheaded, looking after me. I am thinking of a.- man in prisonâ€"a. man whom I seem to love the more the world hates himâ€"the- more he seems to have made shipwreck. of his ownrmost miserable litle. I have heard Gerard’e storyâ€"I have asked the single question I wanted to ask; and the answer has confirmed my‘ own beliefâ€"Gerard/Baxter is innocent of' the horrible crime imputed to him. believe every word of the story he has} told me, as firmly as I believe that I am a living woman. He knows no more of the manner in which his wretched wife met her death than I do, except that he: had no hand or part ill it._ _ I have seen Gerard in prison. _Rona1d Scott managed it all fdr Insâ€"came with tag himself; ~to phe_ prisqper’s_ cell._ Once more The Royal Bank of Canada. is able to report in its Forty-second Annual Statement all previous records broken. Deposits increased over $16,000,- 000, which brings the total‘up to $88,294,000. Liquid assets amount to $47,738,000, being 49% per cent of the total liabilities to the public. Actual cash on hand, balances on deposit with other banks, and call loans in ,New York and London, England, exceed 32 per cent. of the total liabilities to the public. Total assets increased during the year from $92,510,000 t6 $110,528,000. Net profits amounted to $1,152,249” showing an increase of $200,913;E overxthe previous ‘ yerareequal to: 18,58 per gent: 3n Ithe’iiapital stock of $6,200,000. " Cominércial loans) amount to $59,646,000“; being 67.55) per bent: of the depo'sits,_‘ ‘ - Bayal-Bankaf ' Canada Had ' Baaaad Year. - As will be seen‘ from’these com- pa'rison'sfithe Bank- has ‘experiengedg a wonderfully pigspeljous yea}. Net Profits amounted to 13.58% (mi Stock, while Liquid Assets now stand at 4945.2, of " Total Liabilities to the Public. ED. 5 ll Oornhlll. LODDH. ENGLAID lieâ€""be" fiédnfinued.) EEUE 4â€"H