It had rained heavily during the early part of the day. The glasses were up, and so bespattered with the mud and rain, that it was impossible to see through them. Sir Henry let them down; saw a confused mass of carriages; and could clearly discern a mourning coach.

He did not give himself time to breathe his misgivings; but flung the door open, and sprang from his seat into the road. It was still three or four doors from Mrs. Vernon's house, and he prayed to God that his fears might be groundless. As he approached nearer, it was evident that there was unusual bustle about that house. grasped the iron railing, and clung to it for support; but with every sense keenly alive to aught that might dispel, or confirm that horrible suspicion.

Delmé

Two old women, dressed in the characteristic red cloak of the English peasant, were earnestly conversing together-their baskets of eggs and flowers being laid on a step of one of the adjacent houses.

"So you knowed her, Betsy Farmer?"

"Lord a mercy!" responded the other, "I ha'

knowed Miss July since she wa' the height of my basket. Ay! and many's the bunch of flowers she ha' had from me. That was afore the family went to the sea side. Well! it's a matter o' five year, sin' she comed up to me one morning-so grown as I'd never ha' known her. But she knowed me, and asked all about me. And I just told her all my troubles, and how I had lost my good man. And sure enongh sin' that day she ha' stood my friend, and gived me soup and flannels for the little uns, and put my Bess to service, and took me through all the bad Christmas'. Poor dear

soul! she ha' gone now! and may the Lord bless her and all as good as she!"

The poor woman, who felt the loss of her benefactress, put the corner of her apron to her eyes. Sir Henry strode forward.

Mutes were on each side of the front step. A servant threw the door of the breakfast room, open and Delmé mechanically entered it. It was filled with strangers; on some of these the spruce undertaker was fitting silk scarfs; while others were busy at the breakfast table.

An ominous whisper ran through the apart

ment.

"Sir Henry Delmé?" said the rosy-cheeked clergyman, enquiringly, as he laid down his egg spoon, and turned towards him.

"I trust you received my letter. Women are so utterly helpless in these matters; and poor Mrs. Vernon was quite overpowered."

Delmé turned away to master his emotion. At this moment, a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder, and Mrs. Vernon's maid, with her eyes red from weeping, beckoned him up stairs.

He mechanically obeyed her-reeled into an inner drawing room-and stood in the presence of the bereaved mother.

Mrs. Vernon was ordinarily the very picture of neatness. Now she sat with her feet on a footstool-her head almost touching her lapher silver hair all loose and dishevelled. It seemed to Delmé as if age had suddenly come upon her.

She rose as he entered, and with wild hysterical sobs, threw herself into his arms.

My son my son! that should have been.

Our angel is gone-gone!"

Delmé tried to speak, but his tongue clove to his mouth, and the hysteric globe rose to his throat.

Suddenly he heard the sound of wheels, and of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

He imprinted a kiss on the old woman's forehead-it was his farewell for ever!-gave her to the care of the maid servant-and rushed from the

room.

He was stopped on the landing of the staircase by the coffin of her he loved so well. The bearers stopped for an instant; they felt that this was no common greeting. Part of the pall was already turned back. Delmé removed its head with trembling hand.

"Julia Vernon. ætate 22."

He dropped the velvet with a groan, and was only saved from falling by the timely aid of the old butler, whose face was as sorrowful as his own.

But there was a duty yet to be performed, and Delmé followed the corpse.

The first mourning coach was just drawn up. An intended occupant had already his foot on the step.

"This place is mine!" said Sir Henry in a hollow voice.

The cortège proceeded; and Delmé, giddy and confused, heard solemn words spoken over his affianced one, and he waited, till even the coffin 'could be discerned no more.

Thompson, who had followed his master, assisted him into his carriage, placed himself beside him, and ordered the driver to proceed to the hotel. But Delmé gave a quick impetuous motion of the hand, which the domestic understood well; and the horses' heads were turned towards the metropolis.

The mourner tarried not, even to bid his sister farewell; but sought once more his brother's grave. Some friendly hand had kept its turf smooth; no footsteps, save the innocent ones of children, had pressed its grassy mound. It was clothed with soft daisies and drooping harebells. The sun seemed to shine on that spot, to bid the wanderer be contented and at rest.