The doctor's opinion was rather unfavourable, and he expressed a fear that the symptoms would end in brain fever. Now and then, Rose seemed partially, if not quite, conscious. On one of these occasions, she took Mrs. Metham's hand in her own, as the poor lady stood weeping beside the bed, and pressing it fondly to her lips, said "Do not shed tears for me, my best friend, my dear benefactress; I am ill now, but I shall be better soon. Sometimes I don't know what I am saying, my head feels so bad; so don't heed what I say, you nor any one; and when you leave me, let your Ann come-you see I may say strange things, and people would wonder-that was why I asked to be brought here, because your Ann is an old, faithful servant." Here Rose paused, and then lasping her hands over her head, while her eyes gleamed wildly, he said, "See, dear madam, he has come into the room; ask him to take off that black mask; he cannot disguise himself from Rose !"

With a look of terrified surprise, Mrs. Metham gazed at her favourite, who was now, she saw, becoming delirious; but yet her words struck a sudden pang to the heart of the unhappy mother, for she imagined they referred to Basil; and she feared that the poor girl had become the depository of some dark and terrible

secret.

The poor old lady summoned her trusty old waiting woman, Ann, and confided Rose to her care, cautioning her against admitting any one, save herself, into the room, and then descended to the library, in which there were assembled her husband, Mrs. Purcell, Dr. Burton, and Humphrey Berrington.

"How fortunate, dear Humphrey, that you should have come up to-night," said Mrs. Metham, seating herself beside the Cashier, "as Rose stopped here! The poor child felt she was getting very ill, and so wanted to come to me; you know, I love her as a mother, and this has been her real home."

"I know it, indeed," answered Humphrey, " and I would," be added, fervently, "that either my sister or myself could make you some return, however small, for the love and bounty you have shown us!"

"Hush!" exclaimed Mrs. Metham, placing her hand on his lips, and then adding, with a smile. "You and Rose are my adopted children,—what return does a mother want from her children but love ?"

"How came you to be here so opportunely to-night, Mr. Berrington?" inquired Mrs. Purcell, who had been talking very earnestly to Dr. Burton.

"A little business matter occurred to me after banking-hours were over, that I wanted to consult Mr. Metham about; and so I

rode over, expecting to fiad Rose in Winchester when I returned. As things have turned out, it is very fortunate.-And do you really think, Dr. Burton," he added, turning to the latter, "that my dear sister will have brain fever? what can have brought it on? Surely not the simple fact of meeting a highwayman, terrifying as it might be !"

"Oh, dear me, no!" interrupted Mrs. Purcell" and then, besides, 'twas no highwayman, and Rose must have known that full well. You need not smile and shrug your shoulders, Dr. Burton; but, to be sure, you were a shockingly rude man to me! However, I'll say no more-but, for sure, 'twas one of my admirers! prythee, can I help men following me about?"

"Certainly not, my dear madam; but really," added the provoking old Doctor, "t'would be as well if those whose hearts you enslave, did not pursue you with black masks on and pistols in their hand, for people would be apt to suspect they hankered after your purse rather than your person."

66

'My purse?" exclaimed Mrs. Purcell; "well, I should imagine the highwayman, if such you will have him, who stopped us on the heath, could hardly want that, when he is able to keep such a thing in his possession as a gold snuff-box, for he dropped one when he drew his pistol out, and Rose has it now. Wilson, my new footman picked it up, and gave it to me; and certainly, your sister, Mr. Berrington, must have lost her senses that very moment, for she snatched it out of my hand and put it in her bosom, and I and Beck were so alarmed at her violence, that we dared not say a word to her about it!"

"A singular circumstance !" remarked Mr. Metham; "it looks, certainly, as if it was some unfortunate wretch driven to distraction by the cruelty of our fair friend here--But, my dear, where are you going?" added the old banker, as his wife rose from her seat, and advanced towards the door with a faltering, uncertain step, her face looking strangely white and terrified.

Humphrey had started up and followed her, for she seemed scarcely able to walk, and she leant heavily on the arm with which he supported her.

"I am only going to see how dear Rose is," she replied, in an agitated tone; "and then I shall not come back to you any more to-night, for I do not feel well. I must have rest," she added, almost in a whisper, as she left Humphrey at the door; "yes, rest for the body, but for the mind there is no rest-only beyond the grave."

Mrs. Metham went straight to the room in which Rose lay; the latter was turning about from side to side, and talking very incoherently. With a firmer step, and a look of strong determina

tion on her pallid face, the old lady advanced to the couch, saying, as she did so, to Ann

"You undressed her: did you see in her bosom a gold snuff-box?"

"She has put it under her pillow; but, oh, my dear mistress! do not seek to know more," said the servant, bursting into tears and wringing her hands. "Alack! alack! Miss Rose has been saying fearsome things in her wanderings, and I fear there's something of truth in a deal of what she says."

"I must know the worst," replied Mrs. Metham, shuddering, as she drew the box from under the pillow. She then walked steadily to a table at the farther end of the room, where two wax lights were burning before a mirror; in that glass the waiting. woman saw the face of her dear mistress reflected, as she gazed earnestly at the box, and then opened it, and looked at the inside of the lid ; and as she looked, a change passed over her careworn face, her features appeared to grow sharp and pinched, and the pallor of her countenance seemed to merge into a greyish tint. Then she staggered as though about to fall, and groped her way as if in darkness; but Ann rushed forwards, and led her to a chair. The old servant heard her murmur some half-broken sentences, but the most she could distinguish was There was mercy for the penitent thief-there may be for him. O Basil, my boy !—amen, amen, I say to thee; this day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.'' -And so comforting herself, doubtless, with those blessed words from the Cross, which she was hopefully applying to her wretched, guilty son, the soul of Dora Metham passed away without sigh, or groan, or struggle.

Just on the outskirts of the village of Hounslow, there stood, in the last century, a small inn or hostelry, known as "The Dog and Partridge," kept by one Giles Dickson. Long ago, this small,

white house, with its wide, roomy porch, overgrown with dog-rose and sweet-briar, its little, old-fashioned latticed casements, and its quaint, irregular stack of chimnies, became a thing of the past. Its walls were levelled to the ground, and an elegant modern villa, with its fine ornamental ground, now occupies the spot where, so many years ago, Giles worked in his little garden, with its trimly. cut hedges of holly, and its flower-beds, the pride of his heart, radiant in summer with roses of every hue, from crimson to the most delicate white, mingling with other blossoms. Report said, however, that Giles had tastes far less innocent than his passion for the cultivation of flowers. He did not do any great amount of business at his inn, and yet he always appeared flush of money.

It had been noted, however, that Giles had gentlemen dropping in, and staying a night or so-not, apparently, men of business, but fine, dashing gentlemen, who, as public rumour hinted, appeared on Hounslow Heath in another character than that which they bore at the inn. However, mine host and his guests kept their secret, and Giles paid his way well, and was hospitable and genial in his manner; so that whatever folks thought of him, custom would drop in from the village, and some of its notabilities did not disdain taking a glass of ale in the pleasant, sanded bar-parlor-a veritable country inn parlor it was; -on the chimney-piece stood two busts, John Wesley, then, as now, a saint with almost all the lower classes, and the great Duke of Marlborough, while its walls were hung round with a series of coloured, or rather daubed, old prints of celebrated racers, with records of their respective achievements printed underneath. There was Lord Farnham's Conductor, that won his Majesty's plate of 100 guineas, at the Guildford races, 1st oJune, 1773; there was Mr. Vernon's chesnut-horse, Prophet, that beat Mr. Panton's bay-horse, Pancake, five miles over the Beacon Course, for 1000 guineas, Newmarket October meeting, 1765; there was Sir James Lowther's brown horse, Ascham, that beat His Royal Highness the Duke's King Herod, for 1000 guineas, five miles over the Beacon Course, Newmarket October meeting, 1765; there were also Lord Bolinbroke's Gimcrack, and Mr. Vernon's Otho, and other Newmarket winning horses.

"Yon is Mr. Page coming," said Mr. Yewes, a substantial looking old farmer, who lived not far off, "now, if he'll join us, we shall have some fine stories. He's the man to keep folk amused; and what a real handsome gentleman he is a prince couldn't look better nor he does." Most of the company assented to this remark; but some of them observed that he was not looking his best.

Giles hastened into the porch with some eagerness to receive his guest-a tall, handsome man, almost majestic in his height, seated on a fine chesnut horse, which was covered with white foam, as though it had been hard ridden.

We have seen this dark olive face before, so splendid in its beauty; but so haggard and worn, with premature lines and furrows marring its grace, like some fair landscape defaced by a stream of burning lava.

Mr. Page dismounted, and threw his bridle to Giles who chose himself to act the part of ostler, with an expression of angry impatience.

"Have you not been in good luck, sir?" asked Dickson, in a low voice. "The chaise passed here hours ago; t'was well laden, and I guess there was good booty, both inside and out, on the persons of the ladies and in their trunks."

"I wish thy confounded tongue had been cut out, ere thou had'st apprised me of this chaise and its occupants!" exclaimed Page, in a tone of concentrated rage and grief. "I feel beside myself, man! I have been riding about on the heath for hours, as though ten thousand fiends were after me! The chaise I stopped contained those who know me in another character than that of a base, despicable plunderer, highway-robber, in which vile guise I have appeared to them. This day's work has sealed my black fate-she recognised me," he added, in a lower tone, as though to himself. "Well, I care not now. Blow winds and crack your jaws!" As he uttered the last few words he strode into a small private room at the back of the house, and bade the landlord get rid of those drivelling fools in the bar-parlour as soon as he could.

When alone he paced up and down the room-a bright, pleasant little chamber facing the west, where the sun, which had shone out after the dull, murky day, was setting in clouds of crimson and gold.

Gradually the sounds of mirth and festivity from the bar-parlour subsided; so that the landlord, it appeared, had devised some means for ridding it of its occupants, and a deep silence reigned in and around the little inn. The evening wore on, and yet even Giles Dickson forebore to intrude himself on his guest, so long as he still heard, whenever he approached the door, that heavy, ceaseless tread, and those half-stifled exclamations of rage, mingled with oaths and execrations.

The sun was just setting, and its dying rays lighted up the whole of the room, where the unhappy man a prey to the wildest fury and despair, contemplated a deed that should seal with crime even the very last moment of his life. In his hand he held a pistol which, after ceasing at length to pace up and down the little chamber, he had carefully loaded. For a few moments he stood perfectly still, and motionless, facing the casement, with his eyes fixed on the western sky, then calmly and deliberately he raised the muzzle of the pistol to his mouth, and seemed about to draw the trigger, when suddenly, his hand fell, as though nerveless, by his side, the expression on his face changed from sullen defiance, to a look of mingled grief and terror, tears dimmed his bloodshot eyes, and his whole frame seemed shaken by the violence of his emotion.

At this crisis, Giles rushed in. He had indeed had his eye applied to a crack in the door for some minutes, and was on the point of making a sudden entrance, when he saw Page raise the pistol to his mouth, but was deterred for a moment, by seeing the would-be suicide abandon his resolution in what appeared to the andlord so inexplicable a manner.

Giles Dickson had been a Methodist in his early youth, and