may be wrong in me to say it, but I know he could be hateful sometimes, and I think he never liked me so well as he liked my sisters; and I always thought my stepmother was kinder to me than he was."

"God bless her for that!"

Thorndyke looks at the nurse, surprised at the earnestness of the words.

"Why, yes," he says, encouraged in his confidences by her sympathy. "She was always good to me, but I guess my own mother was superior to her, and father knew it; but they got along very well together, and she was good to him when he was sick at last."

"Did he prosper ?"

'Yes, quite well; but what he left wasn't much, divided among four of us, and mother's share out. I'll have a little to start me with, though, and I got good schooling."

"I am glad of that," says the

nurse.

"Why, nurse, what an interest you take in me; I think it very good of you, indeed. Is it so with all the poor fellows who get shut up here ?"

"George Thorndyke, let me tell you something which I must before you go away and I lose all trace of you. I knew that picture as soon as I saw it, for I saw it before you were born."

"Then you knew my mother! Where is she? Say! Is she living?"

"She is here. Can you forgive

her and love her ?"

They are not alone, so this revelation has to be made with hushed voices and guarded manner; but George Thorndyke says, grasping

her hands:

"I would rather you were my mother than any woman I have ever met; and I will work for you all the days of my life."

"Yes," she answers.

"Did that make the trouble, mother?" And he looks as if he thinks he has guessed it all.

"No, my son; if I had been a Catholic then, it would never have happened, and I should never have been here, and perhaps not you, either."

He refrains from any further questions, but goes on declaring that he will take her from there, and work for her. It is pleasant to this lonely woman to feel that here is a manly heart and strength to lean on which she may honestly claim, but she an

swers:

"No, George; I cannot allow it; you must work, and take a wife, by and-by, to yourself. I have my place and my work here, and there is another for whom I work too. But I have some money besides. There is no need for you to work for me, although I am here. Why, I am almost rich."

"Another ?" he says curiously, and scarcely noticing her last words.

"Yes," she says, and has the pain of blushing before her own son, as she tells him he has a brother. "There is another George who is as near to you as those sisters of whom you have told me. I named him George to fill your place, after the law gave you to your father and

not to me. O my son! I never meant to leave you. God knows I did not."

"I do believe that," he said; "but keep quiet, or they'll notice. Where is-my-brother?" There is a slight hesitation over the last word-ever so slight-and he puts it bravely, but she feels it. That nice sense of motherhood has always been so quick with her. In all her vicissitudes, it has never been blunted. She tells him where George Rodney is, and asks if he wishes to see him.

"Yes; I do, for your sake; and, besides, he is my namesake, and did almost crowd me out, which I can't allow, you know. But-is-is-Mr. Rodney living?"

Ah! what a keen although unconscious thrust is that!

Rodney is my maiden name, George, and I have dropped the other. The Catholic Church does not recognize me as the wife of any other than your father."

"Ah! I see," he says, in evident relief.

She goes bravely on to have it over: "But little George's father is gone from us, I do not know where; I never expect to see him again. Rodney was in your name too, George."

"I never knew that," he says. "Well, let it pass; perhaps your father did well to leave it out, and your brother keeps it now."

They are interrupted here, and the nurse leaves her son, to attend to other duties. He finds enough to think about, and wants no other company but his own thoughts.

It is not many days after this that George Thorndyke leaves the hospital; but he never lets a day pass without going to see his mother, and he meets his brother kindly, if not affectionately. But to all his entreaties, and for a long time, Agnes reVOL. XVII.-27

She

fuses to leave her hard life. means to "die in the harness" which she has voluntarily assumed. But at last her health begins to fail with the long strain upon her endurance, and the doctors say she must rest. F. Francis also counsels it. Now, and not till now, does she allow her son to make a home for her. It is a very comfortable one, for, with the money left her by Mrs. Vanderlyn, added to her long-saved pay as a hospital nurse, and George Thorndyke's wages in his trade, they live in quiet refinement, if not luxury. And Agnes Rodney is a happy moth-er of two good sons.

A year has passed, and Agnes sits: on a ferry-boat, in company with George Rodney, who is spending a short vacation with her. They sit near a man who is closely watching. them, but whom they do not observe. This man has a sallow, unhealthy, and dissipated face, but withal a rather handsome one. The hair is dark, the eyes are gray, but sunken, and restless in their expression. A very heavy beard covers all the lower part of his face. A broad-brimmed felt hat shades his forehead and eyes. He seems very curious about Agnes, and shifts his seat, and leans nearer to hear her voice every time she answers George's frequent questions. As they pass from the boat, he hastens to walk close behind her. He hears her say to the boy, "Wait, George, not so fast," and his eye lights up at something in these few words. mother and son get into a street-car. The man follows them, but seats himself on the same side, and at the other end of the seat. He keeps his head turned the other way whenever Agnes appears likely to look in his direction. He is at the end of the car where she will not pass him in leaving it.

The

When Agnes and George get off, he follows quickly, still without their noticing him. He sees the house they enter, surveys the neighborhood, repeats the number to himself, and then walks up the street and around the block, apparently in deep thought. When he comes around to the house again, he goes slowly up the steps, and reads "Thorndyke" upon the door. This seems to puzzle him. He looks around the neighborhood again.

"No; I am right," he says; "that is the church opposite, and this is the number, but what does this name mean! John Thorndyke is dead, but she seems to prefer his name! Well, I'll just see." And he rings .the bell.

"Is Mrs. Thorndyke in ?" he says to the maid who opens the door.

"There hain't no Mrs. Thorndyke," says the girl, taking it as a personal grievance that he is not aware of this fact.

"Oh! well, the lady of the house— Mrs. Vanderlyn," he says, not wishing to appear too ignorant before this austere damsel. Now she is exasperated.

"There hain't nobody of that name, neither; but isn't it Mrs. Rodney you want ?"

The moment he hears this name, he appears satisfied, and, without noticing the girl's rudeness, he says: "That is the lady I mean."

Well, she's in." And the girl waves her hand to the open parlor door, as if she disdains further words with him. She suspects he hasn't known the name of Rodney at all before she mentioned it. All his offence is in asking a question which she has been obliged to answer several times before to pedlars and others of that kind, but she visits upon him the accumulated vexation caused by his predecessors.

After he is left alone, the ma looks about the comfortable appoin ments of the room with a quick siness eye. He seems satisfied, ba has not much time for scrutiny, as s hears a step coming down the stan He rises, and stands ready to me Agnes as she enters. When he eye falls on him, she stops at onc and stands looking steadily at his without speaking, but growing ver pale. He comes toward her, saying "Agnes!" and holding out both hi hands. She does not take them, r offer any welcome, but says, in a cola quiet voice, "What do you waz of me?"

"Are you, then, so unforgiving t me, Agnes? After all my lon search for you, is this all the greeting you can give me ?"

"I do not know how long you search may have been, but I am sor ry that you have succeeded in find ing me. What is it you want of me?" she says, in the same cold tone

"To live with you, as I woul have done all these years if you had not so unaccountably hidden your self away." He says this with an ai of boldness, and of assertion of some right which he supposes she must recognize.

She smiles disdainfully. She di vines the selfishness of this move. and she sees that he is ignorant of the extent of her knowledge concerning him.

"Where have you been all these years ?" he asks, as she continues silent.

Come, now, Agnes, this is foolish. Why not be friendly? It is best for you to be so. I have seen you with the boy. He is mine, and I can claim him, you know."

"No, sir! you cannot do that." "You think I cannot? Pray, why? You are my wife, and he is my son."

66

He is your son, but I am not your wife," she says, in a firm tone. "Not my wife! But you were married to me. Oh! shame, Agnes! I did not expect that you, who insisted on the tying of that knot, would be the one to untie it. In what position does it place you and the boy if you are not my wife? I suppose you have considered that, and you must have advanced somewhat in your ideas to be so independent now of public opinion."

Her face is very pale, and her lips have been firmly set. There is a cold, stern light in her eyes as she answers: "I was never your wife. You were not free to marry me, even if I had been free to marry you. You were never divorced from your wife, so you can have no claim on me."

He looks astonished, and for a moment cringes just a little as she says this. But he rallies, and says, "That will not matter now, my wife is dead; do you know that? "Yes."

"You do? Why, how do you know so much, when I only know that bare fact? Pray, can you tell me any thing more ?"

His tone is half satirical, haif beseeching. He really wishes to know more than the meagre information which he has gleaned from the neighbors of the house where Margaret died that a Mrs. Vanderlyn was buried from that house. The landlady has gone they know not where.

all.

It

He is anxious to know what has become of Margaret's money.. He thinks the priests have it; but he is not sure of this, however, for one person has told him that a relative who was nurse for the Catholic lady at the last inherited all her money. has puzzled him very much to guess who this person could have been. He has not succeeded in finding any record of Margaret's will. F. Francis and Mrs. Vanderlyn had thought it wiser not to have it recorded, considering Agnes' peculiar relation to Vanderlyn, who might yet return to dispute the possession of the money with her, or to trouble her. Now that Agnes seems to know something of his wife, it occurs to him that she may possibly be that relative who inherited the money. Knowing the disposition of each of these women as he does-the one for nursing the sick, the other generous and forgiving-he sees that, if they met at all, this might have been the consequence. Remarkable quickness of deduction and conclusion he has always possessed, and it serves him now, and makes him more determined in his designs upon Agnes; but he is desirous of playing his game adroitly. She, on her part, wishes to shorten the interview, and be rid of him.

"I can tell you," she says, "that your wife died as she lived, a saintly woman; that she was the kindest, truest friend to me I ever had. I knew from her the falsehood you told me when you said you were divorced from her, and the base deception you practised on me in pretending to make me your wife."

"For love of you, Agnes! There was no other way for me. Let my love be my excuse."

She disdains any notice of this interruption, and continues:

"It was an infamous falsehood

and treachery to me; but let that pass. I was almost equally to blame, for I had no real right to marry you."

"How so? You, at least, were free," he says.

"No; my husband lived. I was still John Thorndyke's wife in the eyes of the church."

"Church!" he repeats scornfully. "Martin Vanderlyn, I am a Catholic. It may modify your tone and remarks to be aware of that. I am proud and thankful to be of Margaret's faith."

He frowns, but thinks quickly that he may turn this to his advantage.

"Why are you called Rodney, then, and Thorndyke on your door, if you are Mrs. Thorndyke still ?"

He

"My son's name is Rodney. has no other, and I will bear his. I decline to account to you for the name on my door."

"You are very proud, Agnes, but I think it is best for you to be friendly with me, considering all things. I certainly am free to marry you now, and give the boy and you your right name and place. I should think you were the very woman to wish that. I happen to know of John Thorndyke's death, too, so I think you are as free as I am now, even on your own ground. Agnes, I never meant to leave you so long. I wrote to you, and got no answer. I have searched for you in every direction, and only now I find you. Why are you so unwilling to live as my wife with me, when you see that it would place you and your son in a more respectable condition ?" Agnes remembers Margaret's words: "See to it that he marries you when I am gone!" Then it had seemed doubtful if he could be persuaded to do so. And here he is suing for her consent. She remembers his son's position, "nobody's child,"

but she remembers also her firstborn son. She remembers the bold, false, bad heart and life of Martin Vanderlyn; she sees the possible effect of his evil influence on both her sons, as it formerly blighted her own life, and she shrinks in horror and disgust at the bare thought of such a stepfather introduced into their home. She answers his question without hesitation:

"I do not love you. I cannot respect you. You were false to your wife and false to me. I have been able to live happily without you all these years, and I shall live apart from you still."

He keeps down his pride, and appears yet to hope to change her resolution, thinking it may be only the result of a woman's pique. Moreover, he feels almost sure now that the comfortable home around her is purchased with the money left by Margaret. At all events, he is determined on getting a home if possible at her expense, and he does not scruple at any misrepresentation regarding his own means of support. To her last scornful words, he replies, with an air of kind consideration:

"But, Agnes, you will not always be able to support yourself as well as I can support you. I know not how you do it, but I can place you above the need of any effort on your part. Why can you not be frank with me, and tell me how you have managed to live? You did not receive all the money I sent, for some of it came back to me. Tell me, Agnes."

"Martin Vanderlyn, I will not accept anything for either of us from you. We can do without you, and we will. My decision is final.”

"Do you know the harm I can do you?" he says, in an angry voice, and with flashing eyes. "I can brand you to the world and to the boy.