rately committed on her own innocent, sleeping child, rendered her a mark for detestation throughout the kingdom. The deceit she had practised upon him who was now her husband, Frederick Lyvett, also came in for its share of opprobrium. Not one, no not one, had been found to pity or excuse her, in spite of her youth and beauty. The learned judge had said, in passing sentence, that never had he tried a woman whose crime was of a deeper dye, or upon whom punishment would be more justly inflicted, and he adjured her-and it was here his feelings gave way to give her mind wholly to repentance and to prepare for death, for that no mercy whatever would be accorded her in this world. The unfortunate creature was hissed by the idlers outside when she was removed from the court, as she had been hissed at her appearance there, and people gloried in saying to each other that they would gladly walk ten miles to see her hung. Public indignation spoke out loud against the miserable criminal, Sophia Lyvett.

A small knot of men stood talking together, ere they left the court, some of them in barristers' gowns. The attorney-general had hastened away, but the second counsel for the crown lingered. He was on intimate terms with the legal firm, Lyvett, Castlerosse, and Lyvett, upon whom so great a disgrace had fallen, through Frederick Lyvett's headstrong connexion with the unhappy woman. A junior partner in that eminent firm, a Mr. Jones, made one of the group. He was a lion amongst them in court that day.

"Of course," he observed, "there was no hope, from the first, that she would get off, but it will be an awkward stain, mind you, to have clinging upon the family. James Lyvett-it's true he is the very incarnation of pride will never hold up his head again."

"It's bad enough for him, but what must it be for Fred himself?" quoth a queen's counsel.

"Poor fellow!" responded Mr. Jones, "he has never held up his head since she was taken."

"Is he disenchanted yet, Jones ?" demanded Mr. Dunn, a very young man in a wig.

"I should think so. It was an awful piece of duplicity to palm off upon him."

"The marriage, you mean."

Mr. Jones nodded. "But Fred did play the fool richly, there's no denying it."

"Every man does, when he makes a low woman his wife," observed the silk gown.

"And Fred has the pleasant consolation of knowing that he plunged into it of his own accord," returned Mr. Jones. "Mr. Lyvett said the other day, that he must be what was it?-a martyr to remorse, or some such poetical sentence. They said all they possibly could to him, Mr. Lyvett and James, and his mother too, I believe, to dissuade him off the girl, and the more they said, the more obstinately Fred was bent on having her. They told him she would bring on him a life's disgrace = and so she has."

"But they could not have known about the-the child ?" cried Mr. Dunn.

"What a fool you are, Dunn!" was Mr. Jones's answer, its compli

mentary tone being accounted for by the fact that he and the gentleman were close chums. "If they had known about that, they would have locked Fred up in a lunatic asylum first; and Fred himself would have gone to one, rather than have done it. Fred's not short of honour: he only wants brains."

"There's many a one with less brains than Frederick Lyvett who contrives to make a show in the world," remarked the queen's counsel, significantly.

"You know old Castlerosse,” resumed Mr. Jones, "how hot-headed he is ?"

A nod from his hearers.

"Well, old Castlerosse, by the strangest accident, happened to be down at the country place where Fred went to get married. Fred thinking he should do the job all quietly, in an out-of-the-way, rustic parish, and nobody be any the wiser: like she thought, I suppose, when she made a noose in the packing cord. And just when the parson had come to the interesting sentence, Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?' old Castlerosse started forward, like the ghost in the play, and forbid the marriage. Charley Castlerosse says he wished himself up in heaven just then.'

"Charley Castlerosse !"

"He was down there, acting bridegroom. No-what d'ye call it ?groomsman. Charley told me he knew it was all up with him, the moment he heard his uncle's voice; and so it has proved; for old Castlerosse won't do the least earthly thing for him since, and the fact has got about, and Charley, poor fellow, daren't walk through Middlesex for fear of the writs. But I was going to tell you. Old Castlerosse, in his rage, nearly rose the church roof off, and finding that was no go, calmed down to entreaty, and did, all but, go prostrate on his knees to Fred, praying him to stop the marriage, or at least to delay it till Mr. Lyvett's appearance, who was speeding down on the telegraph wires. It was of no use, Fred was like a mule, would hear no reason, and ordered the parson to proceed. So he and the girl were made one, old Castlerosse protesting against it, and telling him he was entering into perdition."

"Perdition it has turned out, and no mistake," said Mr. Dunn. "There can be only one thing worse than having your wife hung, and that's your mother. I wonder Fred Lyvett does not hang himself, and get out of it."

"Fred's going on the Continent, there to hide his diminished head," said Mr. Jones. "He was only waiting the result of the trial.

been an acquittal

Had it

"It never could have been an acquittal," interrupted Sergeant Wrangle. "The proofs were too notorious.”

"Well, but there's an 'if' in all cases, and the law deals in flaws and miracles," persisted Mr. Jones. "Had an acquittal been pronounced, Fred would have stopped in England till he had rid himself of her by a legal process as it is, the law rids him of her by a more summary act, and Fred starts directly. This was Fred's own proposal, and was finally decided upon in a family conclave, which Mr. James refused to attend. He is awfully incensed against him, is James."

"How does he mean to live ?"

"He has an income, and the family will make it up more. So he goes to vegetate in Poland, or Siberia, or Hungary; anywhere that the English don't congregate, and there expiate his folly."

"I say, Jones," cried Mr. Dunn, watching the departure of the higher wigs of the profession, "did not you know her once ?"

Mr. Jones nodded.

me at the beginning." "How ?"

"I was getting spooney after her, but she cured

"Drew a knife on me."

"By Jove! A nice lot! I should think Fred Lyvett won't put on mourning for her. What a premium the windows will be at !"

II.

Ir wanted but three days to that fixed for the execution, and the wretched prisoner was in the condemned cell. Since the trial, she had been morose and sullen. Whatever her inward anguish may have been, it was not betrayed to those around her. The chaplain could make no impression on her whatever, his visits, his conversations, were suffered, not welcomed; and even her father and mother, who had been allowed interviews with her, were received in the same callous, sullen manner. Poor old broken-hearted people, who were convulsed with grief.

On this day, Friday, her mood changed. Whether it was the near approach of the end that was startling her to feeling, or whether-as may be inferred—it was that a sudden loophole of escape presented itself, most unaccountably overlooked before, cannot be told. Certain it is, that early on this day she grew strangely excited, demanding that her mother should be sent for without an instant's delay.

In compliance with her wish, urged in terms that almost startled the authorities, the mother was summoned. It would appear that the prisoner then put her in possession of certain details connected with her previous history, not known before. She spoke in an under tone; and those, whose duty it was to be present, caught but a word, here and there. The prisoner was urging her mother to some step, some exertion in her behalf.

"Sophiar," wailed the poor woman, through her tears, "I would go to all the great folks in the land, I would go to the queen herself, I would walk my legs off, if I thought it would be of any avail to save, or even lengthen, your life, poor child!"

"Don't I tell you it will save my life?" feverishly uttered the prisoner; "it must save it. After all I have now told you, do you think he will dare to refuse? Why do you stop here, losing time? It is short enough, for what has to be done."

"Give me a moment, child. Let me think over what and see my way clear. It has bewildered me."

you

have said,

The prisoner turned impatiently away, and the mother sat thinking, her head down, moving first one hand and then another, as the various points of what she was deliberating upon presented themselves to her mind.

"If your Aunt Foxaby was but in town, Sophiar!" she suddenly exclaimed, raising her head. "She might help in this."

"You don't want my Aunt Foxaby!" exclaimed the prisoner; "the less that move in this affair the better. Numbers would not avail with him. You can accomplish it yourself, if you please; and if you do not, and I suffer on Monday, you will be guilty of my murder."

Mrs. May rose, heaving a deep sigh. The first thing," she said, "is to find out where he lives. You say it is near Belgrave-square."

"I say it used to be, some street near there. I forget the name and the number. I"-the unfortunate prisoner looked round, as if, in a moment of aberration, she forgot her desk and things were not at hand, as in her own drawing-room-"I had the address; but it is not here. Get a Court Directory: you'll find it there."

"A what?" asked Mrs. May.

"A book called the Court Directory,'" irritably explained the prisoner. "They will let you look at one in a bookseller's shop: if not, you must go to the expense of buying it. You will not begrudge that to

save me."

"Oh, child!" uttered the mother, with a rush of tears, "how can you say these cruel things? I would give my own life thankfully to save yours."

"You will not forget the name?" said the prisoner.

The poor woman shook her head. "I shall only remember it, henceforth, too well.

Is he married?"

"What has that to do with it? No." How could she utter so deliberate an untruth? she, so near the grave!

Later in the day, Mrs. May found herself in the neighbourhood of Belgrave-square. She had apparently discovered the address required, for she ascended the steps of a house there without hesitation. A formidable footman, all splendour and powder, threw open the door. "Does Captain Devereux live here ?"

"No, he don't."

"No!" she uttered, with a petrified, scared look. "Where does he live, then ?"

"Colonel Devereux lives here."

"Colonel Devereux-perhaps it is the same," she added, after a pause. "Colonel Devereux was Captain Devereux once," the man condescended to add. "What do you want?"

"I want to see him," she replied, making as if she would enter. "Not so fast, my good woman. The colonel is not to be seen.' "Oh, but I must see him, I must see him," she returned, in excitement. "Please, sir! good sir! let me enter!" Her tears fell, her voice rose to a wail; she pressed forward, and he pushed back. In the midst of this, two ladies, who had alighted from a carriage, came up the steps. "Is anything the matter?" inquired one of them, turning a very plain, but kind face upon the applicant.

"This person wants to see the colonel, my lady. I told her he was' absent, but she does not believe me."

"Oh, ma'am, oh my lady," cried Mrs. May, her ears catching unconsciously at the title, as her equally unconscious hands caught humbly at the arm of Lady Harriet Devereux, "let me see Colonel Devereux, and I will bless you evermore. I am upon a business of life and death."

"Colonel Devereux is not here at present," returned Lady Harriet,

"but is it anything in which I can aid you? Step in: you seem in great distress."

She led the way to a room, the other lady entered with her, and the applicant followed. Lady Harriet untied her bonnet, and sat down. "What is the matter?" she inquired. "What did you want with Colonel Devereux ?"

"To see him, to see him. Oh, ma'am, please to let me see him."

"Colonel Devereux is not in England," calmly repeated Lady Harriet. "He is expected. He may be home even to-day, or he may not be home till next week."

"Next week!" groaned Mrs. May, the last words speaking to her a volume of despair. "Then it would be too late, for she would be in her dreadful grave."

"Can you not explain your business?" resumed Lady Harriet, surprised at the words, and interested in the stranger's deep and evident tribulation. "Who are you?"

"My lady, if I tell you who I am, perhaps you will turn from me with horror," she answered, the tears dropping from her eyes; "you will, maybe, order your servants to kick me down the steps of your house."

"I think not," said Lady Harriet. "I can feel for distress, no matter what may have led to it. Speak out."

"There's a poor creature-you must have seen it in the newspapers, my lady, for they was all full of nothing else-now lying in prison, a waiting to be hung," whispered Mrs. May, putting her hands before her face.

"Sophia Lyvett," interrupted Lady Harriet: and the other lady, one younger and far prettier, who had stood at the window, looking out, glanced hastily round.

"I am her most unhappy mother-oh, ma'am! don't despise me more than you can help. Indeed, we have always lived respectable till now, and I and her father would have died to save Sophiar from committing such a wicked crime."

66

"I respect your grief, my poor woman," observed Lady Harriet, after a pause of astonishment, "but it is of too grave a nature for me, or any one else, to alleviate. What was the purport of your application to me -to Colonel Devereux ?"

66

"I brought him a message from her. If I could deliver it to him, it might lead to the saving of her life. She knew him once.

as a governess, and she knew him then."

She was out

"At Lady Tennygal's?" interrupted the younger lady, interchanging a glance of meaning with her friend.

Mrs. May turned short round: she probably had not noticed that any one else was in the room. "Like it was, ma'am," she answered. "I think that was the name, but Sophiar, poor thing, was fond of keeping her doings a secret from us. Colonel Devereux-Sophiar this morning called him captain-was a brother of the lady's; he was a stopping there when she was."

"Well?" questioned the younger lady, who, though Mrs. May little thought it, was the Countess of Tennygal.

"She says he can help her now. He ought to, ma'am, for it is through him she is where she is.".