Helen Tolleton, in her great disappointment, had felt that if she were spared this, she could bear the rest.

She knew what sort of eyes would have looked down on her; cold, cruel, exulting, rudely familiar eyes. She saw them many a night in her dreams.

And now at last they vanished.

All through the hours of that long, light, flickering night which followed the eventful day, Helen lay awake.

She did not want to sleep. She was not restless. She was willing to lie still with her face turned to the window, looking out.

The clear serene heavens, the pale shadow of the moon on the garden pond, the hush, the calm over the land, were all in harmony with the peace which filled her soul. She felt a swell of thanksgiving.

Anew she planned the life that was before her; the easy, happy, good life.

Old shifts, and tricks, and stories thrown behind her ; new graces, beauties, accomplishments, and adornments, hers. It was impossible to cheat her fancy of its flights.

At length daylight broke, and sleep followed; and though filled by dreams fabling the truth, or distorting it into fantastic forms and shapes, still the sun was high in the heavens ere she unclosed her eyes.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

OH, MY LORD, HAVE YOU HEARD THE NEWS?"

APRIL fool's day. Not a breath of wind to stir the larches; not a passing cloud to darken even with April tear-drops. Birds jubilant in the woodlands. Budding hedgerows, primroses, violets over all the land. Sweet scents and sweet sounds. Sweet old England on a day like this!

Down stepped Lord Sauffrenden through the village with an elastic tread. All the world was right with him again. He had just arrived from London, prospered in his ways; and now had the dear delight in store of narrating to his wife, his friends, and the public generally (in confidence), the particulars of Colonel Aytoun's dinner-party.

All day before, he had been bursting with the intelligence. He had had no one to confide in. Philip had gone off somewhere, and he had been forced to remain in town. He was aching with desire for a listener, and a listener was now at hand; for Milly, whatever she might pretend, would enjoy the scene to his heart's content.

Nevertheless, as he passed the post-office door, he yielded a few minutes to turn aside and inquire for his letters. The evening post was in. His own bag would convey them to the Castle half an hour after his arrival; but what idle man likes to wait half an hour for his letters ? Great men, busy men, hard-worked men, are fain to get away from the penny post; men who do nothing, never.

To Sauffrenden it was often the event of the day.

Was this why he was so often found in the little shop? Not altogether. He learnt a great deal there. He saw strangers; he heard talk. He loved to linger, sit down, chat, and look about him. He loved to feel he was wel

come.

Welcome he was. They would not have known the place without him. Everything fresh was laid aside for his inspection. Every scrap of news served up, as it were hot, between plates.

The Hunts from their windows were his respectful watchers. Dr Hunt, so soon as he saw the grey shooting clothes disappear among the newspapers, would put himself in the way. Mr Rodney would sigh his very, very mildest sigh over so much wasted time. Mr Bartlett growl his faintest growl at the affront to the bank.

For they all liked him; they all cherished him. He was one of themselves; a father, husband, brother, son of the soil.

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'Oh, my lord, have you heard the news?"

The postmaster knew he would call; had been waiting for him; would not have missed being the one to tell him first, for the world.

"Aha! it's out already!" thought Sauffrenden, beaming all over. "No, Fletcher, I have heard nothing. I have been away. Just come down by the 7.10."

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"Indeed, my lord! You have heard nothing, then?” No; but I own there is something I should not be surprised to hear. I suspect it's that, eh? Mr Smith?"

"It is indeed, my lord," solemnly.

“You did not look for him so soon back among you?" "No, indeed, my lord," still more solemnly.

then this to follow!" added Fletcher, moralising.

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"And

'Why, man, you look as if it were his funeral. I think Mr Smith's friends have every reason to congratulate him." 'My lord !"

"I do, indeed. Why not?"

"Your lordship surely does not understand

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Perfectly, I assure you, and what is more, I approve." The postmaster rubbed his head in perplexity. "It only happened this afternoon," he said, wistfully.

"Just when I expected that it would happen; either to-day or yesterday at least. I thought he said yesterday” (sotto voce). Aloud, "Come, tell me what you have against it? What do you pull such a long face about? eh?"

"We shall miss Mr Smith very greatly, my lord. He hasn't been long here, and we didn't care very much about him when he comed. But there's nobody on the ground, you and my lady of course excepted, that's grown to be more thought on."

"Well, so he ought to be. But you are not going to lose him?"

"We have lost him, my lord."

The postmaster stared at Lord Sauffrenden, who stared still more at him.

"Lost him! How have you lost him?" He could not make it out.

"The news is just come in, my lord; I thought as how you could hardly have heard it. Mr Smith is dead!"

CHAPTER XXXV.

NO HOPE.

MR SMITH was dead, and within an hour of his death there was scarcely a man or woman in Eastworld who did not know of it.

It came upon them like a thunder-clap.

They did not want him when he came, as the postmaster said, but they knew what he was when he was gone.

His praises were in every mouth. It seemed as though, when living, he had possessed but half his virtues; and dead, the other half had been supplied him.

He was dead! He had been alive in the morning, and at noonday; and when even came, he was dead!

They talked of him in the past tense. They whispered of what he had been. He was no longer present with them; he was no longer one of them. He was dead. Strange ! Awful! Terrible! The commonplace words resounded in every dwelling.

When had it been?

Where? How? Who had been

with him? Who had seen him?

Was it true? Was it certain?

Alas! it was too true, too certain. The words were yet upon their lips when another and another messenger con

firmed the tale.

There had been no warning, no alarm. Not the gentlest note of preparation had sounded in his ears. He had been alive and well at five o'clock, and before seven he was gone.

It was

Of course they had come for the doctor. But the doctor had returned home confounded, and sad at heart. all over. His remaining could be of no use. that time every one knew.

And by

Lord Sauffrenden conveyed the news to his wife with a look almost of despair.

The Fultons refused to believe.

And at one house in the neighbourhood there was neither weeping nor wailing, neither question nor answer, but a great, cold, silent blank.

It was as though the bitter cup were to be twice drunk.

As a dream within a dream is first broken, leaving the dreamer happy still, because he fancies at least it is no illusion now-so had she been dreaming on.

Her first vision had been rudely dispelled. She believed she had awoke to reality. Alas! the second proved the more transitory phantasm of the two.

Slight, slight as the hope had been at the first awakening, it was hope indeed compared with this. "In the

grave," we read, "there is no hope;" no change, no return, no appeal, no reversion.

The sheaf was ripe for the sickle, and the sickle had cut it down.

At last small particulars began to creep out. Mr Smith had been up to town again. He had stayed there only a few hours. He had returned by the five o'clock train, ordered his dinner an hour earlier than usual, and stated that he was going out in the evening.

The servants were of opinion that he had never seemed in better health or spirits.

After giving his orders he had gone to his room to dress. John had taken him hot water, and remarked that he poured some out for shaving, which he never did at that hour, unless he were going into company.

He had reiterated injunctions that his dinner should on no account be later than six, and John had come down and told the cook; and the cook had been very cross when, at six o'clock punctually, she had sent in the soup, and a quarter of an hour afterwards her master had not come out of his room.

She had cried out about people talking to her of being in time, who had never been late in her life, and then keeping her fish on the fire till all the juice was like to be out of them—and at last John had gone up and tapped at the bedroom door.

The tap had been unresponded to, and he had tapped till he was tired.

At length he had peeped into the room. Not seeing any one, he had concluded that his master had stepped out; and was turning back to the door, when his eye fell on Mr Smith fallen down all in a heap, between the washing-stand and the bed.

He had tried directly to raise him, though greatly terrified, never having seen any one in a fit before. He didn't know whether they went cold in fits or not, but thought by his master's face he must be pretty bad.

He had called for help, but couldn't make any of the others hear.

He had got him on to the bed, and run down to fetch the rest.

The cook had said- -or else it was Martha-none of them

T