and all its treasures were divided and shared, and how he was called, by the Almighty, to a higher and purer abode at His own side? I then said, Conny, that there was more than one moral to the lovely fable, and that that heavenly abode might be found even on the inhospitable surface of the long-occupied globe.

"Such is my bourn now. I must not say more yet I have pledged myself that nothing should be revealed at present, and to hold, after this one, no communication whatsoever, for three whole months, with any whom I have formerly known. Then, we can write, and even, perhaps, meet again, though not often.

"I have told you that you do not know all. You have something to learn, which I am not quite free to reveal, but which you will hear in time from others. I have written to your cousin, Conny see him, darling, and tell him, as I have, that I wish him to conceal nothing from you. He is well aware of what I have longed and prayed for on my knees to see accomplished. You have both within happiness such as this world can seldom afford. Oh! do not tempt the rigours of Providence by useless hesitations, scruples, or delay. All

your

reach

around you wish it even more than I had thought: none so ardently as I do. For the sake of the happy past, for the memory of all the counsel, and of the sister's vows that we two have shared, you will not reject my last parting word of advice.

Adieu, dearest. The grey dawn is breaking, and it is more than time that the fugitive should be on her way. In three months, with God's blessing, we may meet again for some happy fleeting hour, and then, I trust, you will bear another and still nobler name.

"CÉCILE."

We have said that the Saint's letter to her

uncle contained one for Lord St. Edmunds. ran thus

It

66

My dear Lord St. Edmunds,

"You will excuse, I am sure, my having delayed until now returning any answer to your very pretty lines. Constance and your father, when they tell you all that has occurred, will give you my best reasons for not having replied sooner. You will be surprised, indeed, to hear what apprehensions have arisen around you, and

how forgetful we have both been deemed of what we owe to our respective creeds and stations. I am not mistaken, however, I trust, in thinking that you will allow me to express the very sincere interest which I take in what concerns your happiness, and how truly I rejoice that you should have it in your power to secure, with the favour of Heaven, its most essential conditions. Few have known more intimately than I have her whose affections I have long and earnestly prayed that you should be so fortunate as to win. No one better than I can tell how deeply blessed he will be who may call her the partner of his life. It would be fearful, indeed, to pause or to doubt where so priceless a pearl may be possessed.

"I would willingly allude to another subject, which I believe to be in your thoughts as well as in mine; but while none can be more important, none also requires more mature consideration. Let, therefore, no hasty impulse, and, above all, no personal influence urge you to any precipitate decision. The truth, in due time, wherever it may be, will do its own work.

"Farewell. We shall never meet again, but

your happiness, and that of Conny, must always be my foremost earthly care.

"CÉCILE BASINSTOKE."

The day on which these letters were received and read was a gloomy one at Redburn Hall. It seemed as if the atmosphere itself were oppressed and burdened by some secret and heavy sorrow. We are speaking not figuratively, but positively. We have witnessed some such natural effect, and that not so long since, when, as it were in the full radiance of its lustre, the leading star of this Empire was obscured for ever. Then, as we departed with the dispersing crowds who had watched, and wept, and lingered to the last, it appeared to us as if the day-light of England were indeed darkened with that loss. So it was at Redburn on that day. Something was withdrawn, which had mingled so curiously with the life and breath of every one there, that nought could replace it—and yet it was gone for ever!

Neither Sir Charles Basinstoke nor his nephew were men to sit still, in such an emergency as this. Every domestic, every labourer, every tenant was interrogated. The railway

station was visited, each official there closely questioned, and the more active and intelligent retainers were dispatched, through the neighbouring country, to obtain information. Father Athanasius was sent for and handed over to the gentle inquisition of Constance; but it was all in vain. He who alone could speak to the purpose was pledged to silence, and they who would most willingly have been communicative, had all, without a single exception, been comfortably ensconced in their warm couches, whilst the Saint had been accomplishing her rapid and cheerless progress. Thus it was that a whole week elapsed ere, by a most ingenious and elaborate concatination of conflicting evidence, the worthy Baronet was enabled to trace the fugitive's steps as far as the pleasant little Nunnery of Clitheroe in North Lancashire. There he accordingly proceeded, and even obtained admission, but offers, entreaties, and menaces were equally unavailing. The presence of a recently arrived postulant was not denied, but her own repeated injunctions were appealed to, as debarring all without from any intercourse or communication with her during three whole months. The discomfited Sir Charles was