outpouring of a meek and humble spirit, praying for himself as well as the stricken souls by whom he is surrounded. It was the cry of the creature in affliction to his Creator:"Have pity on us, O God, for thou hast made us weak!" Mr. Arncliffe used the simplest words-words which would have risen to the lips of any of his hearers, and his voice was often broken and interrupted by sobs. It was indeed PRAYER! and shed a comforting influence over all, with one exception-Gerald. He had knelt mechanically with the rest, but if he heard or understood the words, they made no impression on his heart. Gerald was not resigned to lose Miriam, far less to forgive her destroyer. If Mr. Arncliffe perceived this, he knew human nature too well to press the subject further at that moment.

How shall I attempt to describe the sad scene, when they drew aside weeping, that the lovers might take their last earthly farewell. O woman's love! woman's heart! woman's

sures.

unselfishness! Who has fathomed your depths? What man is worthy of your inexhaustible treaThe sternest nature would have melted to observe how Miriam, to the very last manifested the ruling passion-love for Gerald, and the strange pertinacity with which he clung to the illusion that she would still re

cover.

"You will forgive him, dear Gerald; you will forgive all who have injured us. The good clergyman is right-yes, Gerald, something within tells me he is right. I shall die more. contented if I know that I do not leave behind a legacy of revenge."

Thus spoke the gentle one, imitating the example of Jesus, who on the Cross prayed for his enemies in these sublime words, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

"God

"You will get well, dear Miriam. You will-you must!" groaned Gerald. cannot permit evil to triumph over good."

"No," replied Mr. Arncliffe, solemnly "He will not, but it is not here that we are to expect his final justice."

The last coherent words that Miriam spoke were these

"O, my Gerald-my Gerald! who will understand you when I am gone?"

Then she grew delirious, and mingled scenes and events, which had happened long ago, with those which were quite recent, in the most touching manner. Miss Tomlins, while the tears streamed down her cheeks, was occupied in smoothing Miriam's pillow.

"You are Lady Lindor," said the dying girl; "I love you because you are so gentle and so good-all the cottagers say the same —not proud and haughty like

and Lady Augusta Welborne.

Lady Veneer,

No-you cannot love Gerald so well as I do, though you are a lady. I saved his life—he said so—he was drowning in the lake. Yes, Lady Augusta, I would die for him-he taught me Latin and French-he loves to hear me sing. Yes, Lady

Augusta, Gerald loves me-you shall not have him-I am to be Lady Lindor-when I am acMy beautiful Gerald !-brave

complished. and good-"

Then she lay for some time breathing heavily, though the doctor assured them she was not in pain. Suddenly she spoke again, in a natural and rational manner. It was the last flicker of the expiring light.

"It is growing dark-oh! so dark. Gerald, I don't see you-where are you? Gerald! Gerald!"

Miriam was dead!

Her sufferings and sorrows were over, and the spirit had appealed from man, to the eternal justice of God. Let us fellow-sinners be gentle to her memory.

“If she lov'd rashly, her life paid for wrong—

A heavy price must all pay who thus err,
In some shape; let none think to fly the danger,
For soon or late Love is his own avenger."

CHAPTER VI.

THE WONDERFUL CHANGE.

LET me beg the reader to suppose the lapse of nearly a year from the mournful event narrated in the last chapter, while I proceed to chronicle the position of the dramatis personœ preparatory to the termination of the story. We are all probably believers in the truth of the adage, which says, "Time works wonders," yet few readers, I fancy, will be prepared for the great change time had apparently worked in Gerald Lindor. In a word, he was engaged to be married to Lady Augusta Welborne! and what is still more