notice to Mr. Sandison and Tom that something unusual had happened. The men told where and how they had found the stricken woman. While they carried her up-stairs to her own room, Mr. Sandison, going into the dining-room to search for some homely restorative, discovered the ravaged Bible. And Kirsty, cowering down beside Tom, sobbed out,

'I missed you last evening, and I didn't think I'd dare to face her again; so I was watching about for a chance of seeing you this morning. It seems just like a providence. Poor old lady! She makes me think of dear old grannie. I'm glad she was dead before she knew that I- Oh, Master Tom, I've been a wicked woman! D'ye mind that picture you gave me in Lerwick, because I fancied it was like grannie? Well, I'd always kept it, though with its face downwards, in my box, because I couldn't a bear to see it. An' only the other night, Cousin Hannah-her I've been with since I went wrong-got it, and took it out o' the little frame, that she might put in something else, and she tore up the little picture o' the good old wife at the wheel! An' ever since then it's haunted me! As long as I could keep it at the bottom of the box, out o' sight, it seemed different. But once it was tore up it's

never been out o' my sight. An' it's been more like grannie than ever. An' I'd come to ask you, Master Tom, if you thought there was anybody who would let me do a little rough work to earn a bit of honest bread, an' I'd promise to keep out o' their sight.'

'In the meantime,' said Mr. Sandison, as if he had not heard a word that she had said, though he had entered the room and had stood behind her while she was speaking,-'in the meantime, perhaps you will kindly give a helping hand in this house of trouble and sickness. At present there is no woman here to wait upon -my mother!"

Kirsty gave a low cry of eager obedience, and sprang up-stairs. Mr. Sandison threw Tom a glance, which emphasized and illuminated his last words. Then he, too, went slowly up-stairs. But he did not go straight to the attic. Tom heard him unlocking the closed doors, and then he heard him pacing with slow and heavy steps about those long-deserted chambers.

That morning's post brought Tom an elaborate little box containing the wedding cards and wedding cake of Robert Sinclair, Esquire, and Miss Henrietta Brander, and in that morning's paper he saw the announcement of their marriage at a fashionable church.

ROUGH THE OPENED DOORS.

the day doctors came and went at r. Sandison's summons, but he mself was not visible, and poor ing down-stairs on divers errands, llison's only source of information. d that Mrs. Allan had had a later on, that it was little likely ever be about again,' though, they was no danger for the present.' light Mr. Sandison came into the ere Tom was seated rather forlaid his hand on the young man's th a strong and yet a half-caressing

th me,' he said; we will have no s in this house. We will let the ow through every place, as God hall, and as it always must, at

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He led the way up-stairs. He opened one of those mysterious doors-no longer lockedand went straight into the room. Seeing that Tom hesitated on the threshold, he turned and said, 'Come in, come in.'

What little daylight was still lingering outside found now free access to the apartment, for the white blinds, ashen with age, which had hitherto shut out any obtrusive gaze on the part of inquisitive opposite neighbours, were at last drawn up. The windows themselves, too, had evidently been open for some time, but the gentle breezes of a calm spring day had not yet sufficed wholly to dispel the ancient, stagnant atmosphere, and perhaps it was very well that the fading light was merciful to the dimness and dust of years of neglect.

What did Tom see?

Tom saw only what, to a heart which has power to understand it, is ever the most tragic sight of any, the signs of a hopeful, cheerful, ordinary life, which has been suddenly arrested by some great blow, some awful agony. He saw nothing but a pretty little apartment, prepared with care and taste, and full of those touches which betray a strong human interest. There was a stand filled with flower-pots in the central window, wherein the dead plants stood

like skeletons. There were pictures on the walls, beautiful steel engravings-there was one of these standing on a chair, with the hanging cord drawn through its rings, but not yet knotted. This was Landseer's touching presentment of the faithful dog resting its head on its dead master's coffin. Peter Sandison had put it out of his hands, all those years ago, that he might open a letter which was brought to him a letter whose mercenary falsehood and perfidy had closed those rooms from that day to this, turning the happy home that was to be into the charnel-house of dead hopes that could never be.

'Ay, I have Peter Sandison.

been very foolish,' broke out

'I need not tell

'I need not tell you the tale. I daresay you have heard as much of it as needs be. I am not the first man-and I fear I shall not be the last-who has lost his sight of God, and his joy in God's world, because he had happened to fall in love with the wrong woman!'

The sadness and pain of a lifetime was crystallizing, as in true hearts they always do crystallize, sooner or later, into humour. A good deal of heart-break goes to the making of epigram. The human mind throws out its sparks, like metals do, beneath hard blows!