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was but too evident, spent almost his last moments in gross illtreatment of her. She made no demonstrative lamentation over him now that he was gone, but just stood for a few seconds looking down at him with a curious expression upon her handsome but haggard face; then she turned away shuddering from the fixed stare of the sightless eyes-turned away, without one sigh or one tear-and disappeared into the inner room, which she had shared with the dead man as his wife.

The English and Americans naturally made inquiries about the pair who had never been seen at the table d'hôte, or in any of the public rooms, and found that they were known in the hotel as Captain and Mrs. Douglas.

A fortnight passed, the wonder and excitement of the attempted murder and the successful suicide were over. Mr. Sinclair's arm was almost quite well again ; he carried it in a sling, and he looked pale from the confinement and loss of blood, but otherwise he was well as usual. Captain Douglas had been buried, without any pomp, in the English cemetery; all expenses had been punctually paid, and Mrs. Douglas with her child had gone to another hotel in the town; people wondered why she had not left M- altogether; but there are always people ready to wonder at the sayings and doings of others.

The career of Mrs. Douglas up to the time of her marriage had been commonplace enough. When at seventeen she had met Edward Sinclair for the first time, she was the spoiled and admired only daughter of Squire Lindsay, of the Meadow Lawn, near the well-known cathedral and garrison town of CLindsay was entitled to take higher social rank than that of a yeoman, and yet he was not exactly looked upon as a county magnate; but he could boast of respectable ancestors, he was moderately rich; and his pretty, only child was popular and admired.

She was taken notice of by the childless wife of the bishop, and petted by the wife of the dean, who had married off her own daughters, but who was fully aware that the presence of a pretty, lively girl added to the attractions of the deanery. Fredericka therefore played croquet and flirted with the curates on the episcopal lawn, and she dined constantly at the deanery, where she met officers with their wives, and officers without wives; and she went to all the garrison and bachelors' balls, public and private, and made out life very pleasantly for herself; and if it sometimes occurred to her that her old father must feel lonely in his “Moated Grange,” she would quickly put the thought away, contenting herself with the popular idea that pleasures are not for the old.

She had many admirers, and one or two lovers. Edward Sinclair, at that time a poor, hard-working law student, with uncertain expectations from a rich relation, was the most devoted of the latter, and he loved her with all the passionate intensity of his quiet, earnest nature. We are often told that vain, frivolous women are all heart beneath their gay and worldly exterior, but Fredericka was vain and frivolous to the core; she had no wish to bury her bright beauty in poor obscurity; and yet there was something about Sinclair which impressed her almost against her will, and which she persuaded herself was love-had he been the acknowledged heir of his rich relation, she would have had no doubt whatever about her feelings for him; and yet, poor as he was, she encouraged him, and made him happy by promising to be his wife when success in his profession made him able to marry. “I shall be quite old by that time,” she would argue with herself, “and I shall not mind so much settling down as a poor man's wife; and until we are married I can enjoy myself.”

But before the engagement had lasted for a year, Fredericka had not only deserted Sinclair, but her poor old father also, and had eloped with a Captain Douglas of the —th Hussars; the regiment was under orders for India at the time, so Mrs. Douglas never returned to C as a bride, and never saw her poor old father again ; he died soon after she left him, leaving her the moderate fortune of four thousand pounds, well invested, for her sole use.

Then, as is sometimes the case, events, great to those who are affected by them, followed quickly one after the other; before Fredericka's honeymoon was over, Sinclair's rich relation died, and the disappointed and melancholy young law student came in for a splendid estate and over twelve thousand a year. When Mrs. Douglas heard the news, it is not too much to say that she most heartily wished herself once more Miss Lindsay, for she had already discovered that her handsome husband had very little besides his pay; that he was heavily in debt, and that his temper was by no means perfect. However, she could not undo what she had done, so at nineteen she sailed for India, and ten years had passed before she and Edward Sinclair met again.

During the interval which had elapsed between Fredericka's departure for India and his sudden meeting with her at M

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Sinclair had never heard of her but once; he supposed she was alive, and he hoped she was happy and prosperous. He had gone on loving her earnestly, doggedly, and faithfully; he felt that she was not worthy of such devotion; he had a dim consciousness that he had altogether idealised her, and that she probably would not have made him happy; that his love of seclusion and his studious habits would have been irksome to her; but, in spite of all this, her desertion had shadowed his life -had made him at five-and-thirty prematurely old, and he longed to have her for his own with as much intensity as he had longed eleven years before, when she had looked fondly into his eyes and deceived him.

Feeling thus when she was far away out of his sight, and when the hope of meeting her again was too faint to deserve the name of hope at all, can it be wondered at, that, at the sight of her in sorrrow and suffering, evidently ill-treated by the “scoundrel,” as Sinclair called him, to whom in a rash moment she had bound herself—the sleeping passion should have blazed up more fiercely than ever, or that he longed to take the beautiful creature, who had already deluded him so cruelly, to his heart and home, to lavish his wealth upon her fancies and caprices, and, if possible, really to win her heart at last ?

Once or twice Douglas's mocking laugh and sneering emphasis upon the word, when he had called Fredericka Mrs. Douglas, as well as his question, “Are you going to take her under your protection now?” occurred to and troubled the singularly pure mind of Sinclair. What could have been meant ? Surely the words were nothing but the unmeaning utterance of a madman. There never had been a doubt of Fredericka's marriage-her father and all her friends at Chad been quite satisfied on that point; she had even been presented at Court as “Mrs. Douglas" on her marriage by the sister of the bishop's wife, Lady Somebody, before she left for India with other ladies of her husband's regiment.

What could that "scoundrel" have meant? Should he ask her when they met again? or should he let her allude to the matter of her own accord ? He at length decided to be guided by circumstances, and he hoped most earnestly that she would volunteer an explanation ; he was absurdly and insanely in love with her, but yet he could not help shrinking with horror from marrying a woman who had been the mistress, and not the wife, of another man.

Sinclair had spent the greater part of the ten years which

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had passed since he became rich wandering about Europe, and now the idea of settling down in his own beautiful home in England with Fredericka took sudden possession of him, and he chafed against the length of time which he feared must be allowed to pass before she would marry again; he supposed it would be months before he could even venture to speak to her of his love after all she had gone through ; but he might see her, and perhaps be able to tell from her manner to him if, when the conventional season of mourning was over, she would think of him-not as a friend, but as a lover.

So it was that, with his honest, faithful heart brimming over with love for her, as a woman, but with a strong determination sternly to keep back every manifestation of affection out of respect for her bereaved condition, Sinclair presented himself at the door of the hotel, and asked for Mrs. Douglas.

She had sent every day to inquire for him while he was a prisoner with his wounded arm, and having heard that he was quite well again and able to go out, she was prepared for his visit. She was quiet and self-possessed when he came into her room, in every respect unlike the wild and dishevelled creature whom he had last seen flinging herself between him and her excited husband ; Sinclair felt as he looked at her as if that memorable scene never could have taken place, but the sight of her beautiful face almost overcame him, and especially was he moved by the faint colour which came into her pale cheeks as she and he calmly shook hands.

He did not know what to say; the depth of his feelings made him shy and silent. “I am so glad you are better at last,” she began, quite at

“I have been so grieved about you-so terribly anxious" “It was nothing," he interrupted eagerly,

he interrupted eagerly, “a mere flesh wound; you had no reason to be anxious, but I am very grateful. I was terribly anxious about you, left alone at such a time and amongst strangers ; I did so long to be up and about.”

“I cannot help thinking that you gave very material and efficient aid without being up and about,” she answered. “I have some experience of foreign ways, and I know that the presence of an Englishman--even wounded - saved me from endless trouble and worry.It was a pretty and flattering speech, but not altogether true, for during the first few days of his illness Sinclair had been very feverish, and had known nothing of what was going on; and when he came to himself

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he did not like, for her sake, to ask questions. “As it was,”

she continued, “everything was quickly done, but”—and her face grew troubled and almost fierce-looking from the expression of loathing which passed over it--"do not let us dwell upon that dreadful time; it is all like a bad dream.”

“Not all, I hope,” he put in, in his gentle, earnest manner; “I cannot call meeting you again a bad dream.”

Struck by the words and the tone, Fredericka raised her fine eyes to his face; before he could look up to meet them she had lowered them again, but a revelation had been made to her in those few seconds; she knew that Sinclair loved her still, and she resolved to reward his fidelity by becoming his wife.

But she answered his last remark first with a half-smile, and then said

Call it a bad reality then, Mr. Sinclair; you can hardly do otherwise with your arm still in this ;” and she lightly touched the sling as she spoke.

A man never quick at repartee or badinage could not be expected to answer such a remark with a light reply, so Sinclair remained silent, and brushed imaginary flecks of dust from the handkerchief in which his arm was slung.

Fredericka was puzzled what to say next; surely some explanation of the state in which he had seen her on that terrible night was necessary, if not absolutely due to him ; but she did not know how to approach the painful subject, and she wished he would allude to it of his own accord. "You spoke just now," he said presently, "of knowing

“ foreign ways very well; have you then been long abroad? Do you know, I thought you were still in India.”

You have not heard of me lately then ?" she replied, with a sudden jerk in her voice, and a quick look at him.

“I have not heard of you for years—not since a year after your marriage.

“Ah, my marriage !" she repeated, with a long breath; “my miserable, fatal marriage;" and then she covered her face with her hands and sobbed behind them. "You heard what he said that night, how he insulted me before you? Oh, God

, help me, that I should ever have lived to hear such words from him, for whom I had"

“Fredericka!" Sinclair was bending over her, and trying to force her hands into his. “Do not think of those cruel, unmanly words; it was the speech of a madman. Fredericka !

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