pleasure. The consciousness of what he had passed through made him a coward, made him hopeless of ever really attaining any kind of superiority whatever from which he might sublimely look down on her, and to which he might lovingly call her up. The hallucination which had seized him for a few days after receiving the undiscriminating valueless praise of his neighbours had also passed away, and moroseness had settled down upon him so heavily, that only by the aid of wine could he assume, with any comfort or chance of success, the airs of one who still fondly loved. For a time Sarah was pleasantly deceived, and she drank-in the free, sweet assurances of tender and anxious love, with all the relish of a woman when her need is greatest, and her whole nature is greedy for the dainties of affection. But as her own soul insensibly grew like unto the glorious Being in whose fellowship she lived increasingly, words and looks which aforetime would have passed unheeded jarred cruelly, spoiled the peaceful harmony of the spheres with which her meditations thrilled and bounded. Still, as her desire for highly-wrought affection grew, the supply came fast and sweet, and warm with heavenly life. The voice which had pleaded its own love now descanted on the higher love, which needed no plea with her, but nevertheless fell all the stronger on her ready spirit when it was breathed by that dear, eloquent voice. Often, in the darkening room, she would lie, as in a delicious dream, upon the couch, and open her whole being to him who spoke as if from a purer world than her own, bending over her as might an angel servitor. But her delusion could not last. When the lamps were lighted one evening there was no pause, no change; the low, musical drone went on, the lessons of immortal wisdom fell still, as from one inspired; she turned in the full blaze of light to smile her unspeakable joy—and oh! what saw she? Who was that jabbering ape lolling over her, as if some drivelling maniac had seized upon her very heartstrings to play awhile before he broke them - tore themcrushed them evermore? Who was that leering demon looking through the windows of her husband's soul, laughing, spying her innocent gladness, as of old the serpent peered from the rich foliage of Eden, envious and full of malice? Oh! it was

a cruel shock to know at once, beyond the power of excuse or explanation to alter or to hide, that her husband was possessed, and that the very prophecy of God was blasphemy, when spoken through him. Was confirmation needed? Alas, it was nearer than she thought! In the bright freshness of the winter morning she reproached herself with undue haste and all-unfounded fears, and in her guileless love she touched the string which but last night had answered in full chords of heavenly music; but now there was no answer, or it was the rude utterance of the real man, the embruted one. There was the sullen, peevish retort, the repudiation of all sympathy in the jargon which he might have spoken in his cups-above all, there was the curse of reproach; and he who had bent above her couch in angel attitude leaped from her embrace, as though he loathed her wholly-charged her with taking mean advantage of his folly, in trying to make him a Methodist like herself, threw back in disdain the heart-breaking plea for pity, scowled in his trembling, deathly madness, till the good God shut her up in his cloud, deaf, blind, heedless, while the brutal possessed raged and swore. For hours she lay bewildered, sinking ever at the first return of memory and thought into fainting, swooning, seeming death. Hours after, when the day was dying, the cruel one stepped lightly in, and burying his head in her bosom, breathed forth passionate remorse for his vile deed, and even as she gave him the blessing he prayed so earnestly, she knew it was a vain blessing, that she was casting it away; she knew that he, the proud, the rarely faulty, was far away, and not that crouching, moaning thing that dared to deface her bosom with false tears. Oh! it was enough to kill her, to know that if love ever had been it was gone now, that if hope ever had hovered on their union it had winged its flight now, for only from lips fired by demon influence could she hear the language she had loved to hear -while from her own, her old, her only dear one in his right mind, she could only expect the repetition of the blow which felled her almost to the grave in its first descent.

In such a case as this, resignation quietly and unconsciously becomes despair; she had not strength-indeed, she had no will to battle; for no force, not even that mighty power of

truth which will sometimes sway the conscience, could avail her: 'twasa fresh, uncracked, unspoiled love which she pined to possess, that she might, without a fear or pang, lay the baby in those arms to rest securely, if she should be away in heaven, able only to watch. Such love there was not now; it could, at best, be the self-distrusting love of the feeble penitent; and could she calmly trust her unseen treasure to the embrace whence she herself had once been flung in passionate fury. Despair was the drear name of that sepulchral quiet in which she dozed away the hours of her anxious watching; despair of him, and of his love, and of his power to protect her little one, and of his power to redeem and save himself. But not absolute despair: she had been too recently, too frequently, too close to the Giver of faith to be plunged by any hand, human or demoniac, into real, starless despair. But now all her hope was on high, and the serenity, the simple dignity, which her towering hope gave her, attracted Charles's notice; it looked according to his changing mood-now like unforgiving pride, now like cold indifference to him and all things else; but sometimes he thought it was a cloud of glory falling all around her, to separate them henceforth, and to bear her up to her home above, whose home on earth he knew was stripped of all its blessedness for her. Was there not the gnawing of the worm within, as thus he thought? Ah! yes; but that worm might have been shaken off, if its fangs had been fully felt, or if there had been no immediate remedy; and so it dared to make him feel a little of the anguish one day to be inflicted by remorse- -dared that it might bid him drink the deeper, and the while bore its foul channel to the centre of his heart.

CHAPTER VIII.

CAUDLE.

TREAD lightly as you pass: be swift, but still upon your gentle errands. Hushed be every sound of mirth or household care, for this is the house of pain. Weep not, or, if you

must, hide the tear as it falls, for this is the pain of hope, the only sorrow which, apart from heavenly grace, grows surely into joy. Hush! and rejoice and tremble. Hush all beatings of the heart but sympathy and prayer. No thought of thine can stay, or heal, or hasten the sore grief that is upon the dear one now. Here is mystery in action, not dimly told in story, but presented to the time in all its unchanging solemnity. Here is the mystery of creation to be seen, not solved. May not the old-world story of the mighty genesis be true—so like in its simplicity and awful grandeur, so confused in its quick, startling changes, so far above all human insight; may it not be literally true that through the formless void, the double firmament, there rolled the thunder of a Creator's edict? "Let there be light." And when the light fell in showers on the mighty deeps and heights, God saw the fruit of his glorious work, and holy ones beheld, enraptured, the fair, gorgeous scene, until silence could no longer be, and the sons of Heaven's eternal morning, now first descending to the world, sang together. Here, in this birth-chamber, is the old glory revived -the glory of creation. The creature was not, save in the mother's loving thought. It was not, as are other beings, named, known, classed, counted; for us, at least, it was without form, and void; and as the great creation groaned in travail till the light fell, and none knew that there was a new creation but God himself, so now there is preparation, progress, tumult, heaving, melting, convulsion, till the light fall. Then does the fruitful earth rejoice; then do its sons and daughters, wondering as if at a first and only birth, sing aloud for joy. How wonderful, how awful, how clearly from the Lord is the birth of a child! Then close the listed doors, let fall the heavy curtains, let the crackling fire and the smothered whisper be the only sounds in the chamber of birth-more dread, if we but knew all, than the chamber of death. lowed be the sigh of travail, for the hour is holy, and twin eternities bend above the bed of pain, as of old the cherubim.

Hal

Charles had known in the morning that his wife was unwell; but he had asked-and when did he ever ask and hear a "Nay" from those sweet lips?—he had asked—and oh! how welcome was this slight sign of tender interest—whether

he might (did she think) bring his friends, to whom he was as good as pledged, to dine in a quiet way, just to see the old year out. In the evening, then, the host and guests arrived, hard set with hunger, and, forgetful of his wife, Charles bade them welcome in the rude fashion of their degenerated courtesy. The dinner was over, the wine was flying fast, and the hours too. In the middle of their merriment the door opened, and Mr. Mottram appeared, with unsteady gait, but with a most steady expression of face, and, going up to his master, that worthy whispered words which made Charles start, and turn on him the full fury of a drunken frown. Poor Mottram, not used to fear, was all the more frightened now, and he hastened to excuse himself.

"I didn't mean it, sir; I beg your pardon; it isn't fault of mine, Mr. Charles-I couldn't prevent it, you know; and even if I could, those infernal women (why there's a houseful of 'em up and down) would have choked me if I'd set foot on the stairs. Please sir, don't be angry with me."

"Go to, you fool, I didn't mean that. What am I to do. with these fellows? they won't budge for all the babies in creation."

Here Mr. Mottram's genius evidently recovered from its eclipse, for he rejoined, "Not the least occasion, Mr. Charles; you could hear a mouse creep in the passage close outside the door, for I listened just to see; and besides, my lady (I mean Mrs. Barton) is right away in a cockloft: goodness knows where they've put her-far enough from you, I'll be bound. Besides, in the circumstances, its fortunate they are here; you'll need some one to keep your spirits up, and I'm dreadfully in a low way myself to-night. You need do nothing at all. I'll just be prowling about, to get word how things go on upstairs, and come in and let you know."

"Very well, Mot, you can go, my boy: have a glass of wine?"

"Hallo, Barton! you're coming out in the democratic line rather. What does that 'wizened pig' mean by standing guzzling there right in my presence?" broke forth Sir Ethelred, of the Beetleskin estates, and the red nose.

"He brings good tidings of great joy," was the blasphemous reply in explanation.