by which she and her husband had just entered, was the same muffled figure-motionless as a statue.

Then a strange sensation came over Marie. It seemed to her that that form was already as familiar as if she had been gazing upon it for years!

But in another instant she had beheld her husband dart from the door, who, seizing the woman's arm with such violence that the poor creature actually reeled under the shock, dragged her forcibly away—and in a single moment, both had turned the corner, and were out of sight.

Marie was not naturally of a jealous character. She had that tender trustingness of disposition, that ever accompanies the highest species of love that, where it once bestows affection, gives also faith and confidence unbounded. But here it was impossible for these to remain unshaken. There was mystery-mystery and deception somewhere; and a thrill of nameless apprehension shot through her, as she remembered many a dark allusion -many a mysterious warning her husband had given utterance to at various timesmany a murmured word of unexplained im

port that had escaped him in the unconsciousness of midnight slumbers. This woman!

who was she? and why had he sought to conceal his knowledge of her? for, that he did know her, there could not be the shadow of a doubt.

Marie retired to her room, and pondered anxiously over the course she should pursue. What would be the best-to tell him what she had seen, and tenderly invite his confidence; or, acting on the advice he had so often and so emphatically given her, refrain from even the slightest interference with his secrets. Inclination and affection both prompted to the former course, but she would not decide hastily. She would act with prudence, and be guided by circumstances.

A couple of hours elapsed before he returned; and, when he did appear, the excuse he made for his absence, had not in it even the semblance of reality. But she received it without a word-she would not tempt him to the invention and utterance of further falsehoods by anything she could say.

The whole of that evening she watched him with the anxious eye of love. Too well she knew and noted the symptoms of an unquiet

spirit, and a conscience ill at ease. He was absent and pre-occupied-depressed toothough striving to conceal it; forcing sudden bursts of merriment, both startling and unnatural; gazing often with those clear, prominent, cruel eyes on vacancy, till suddenly recalled to recollection by some unexplained cause, and vainly endeavouring to resume the conversation at the point where he had left it, with an air of indifference and unconcern. Sometimes he would pace the narrow room with rapid and eager steps; sometimes, throwing himself into a chair, he would cover his face with his hands, and so remain in deep abstraction. In short, there was miseryanxiety-unrest-in every look and move

ment.

At length she resolved to speak. It might be that her words, gentle and sympathisingher tender love, might have power to soothe that troubled spirit-to whisper comfort, if only grief oppressed it-if guilt-repentance, amendment, hope!

"Who was that who followed us this evening?" she enquired, trembling in spite of herself at the desperate boldness of the question;

"I saw you leave the inn, and join her afterwards-Who was she?"

He was sitting with one hand shading his face; and, as her words, soft, but perfectly clear and distinct, sounded through the silence, he made a sudden—and as though involuntary movement, something like a half-suppressed start; then he relapsed into utter stillness, and so remained for awhile. It might almost seem as if had not heard; but she knew better—she knew that those words had penetrated not only to his ears, but to his conscience.

He uncovered his face-it was deadly pale. He looked at her sternly, and the glance of those stony eyes was indeed terrible. Still, she felt a kind of relief that the ice was broken-the worst over!

"Have I not warned you?" he said at length, keeping his look stedfastly on hers"Have I not warned you warned you again again and

again ?"

66

....

Oh, Charlie-but I am your wife! If you have sorrow, may I not share it? If remorse, may I not sympathize with it? .... Ah! it is no idle curiosity that moves me-no vain desire to pry into your secrets. cannot see you wretched, anxious, remorseful,

But I

as I believe you are to-night, and not long to breathe one word of comfort, and of hope! Dear Charlie, you may trust me"

But the transparent, stony eyes did not relax, though for one brief instant they turned away from the tearful, beseeching look of hers.

"You are bold," he said; and he paused66 very bold to venture so much in defiance of my cautions. Now, hear me-once for all. I have warned you, as you well know, again and again, quietly-coolly-deliberatelyagainst seeking, with that insatiable curiosity and infernal love of meddling, which, I suppose, is inherent in your sex, to know more of my—my past career than I have thought fit to reveal. I have warned you-it seems vainly; now then it comes to command-to the exercise of authority. Mark me, you must obey-you have sworn it at the altar-"

Sadly, sorrowfully, she inclined her head in token of submission. "It is true," said she, softly.

"Then, understand me. For the future you leave me and all belonging to me alone. If I have secrets, shun them-if guilt attach to me, be thankful that you know it not. Ask no questions-attempt no discoveries-above