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I interrupted her. "Tell me," I said with a faint smile, "have you any carnations growing here?"

of them.

"Carnations! I should think so! The place is full Isn't the odour delicious?" And as we reached the highest terrace in front of the château I I saw that the garden was ablaze with these brilliant scented blossoms, of every shade, varying from the palest salmon pink to the deepest, darkest scarlet. This time that subtle fragrance was not my fancy, and I gathered a few of the flowers to wear in my dress at dinner. Mr. Fairleigh now came out to receive us, and the conversation became general.

I was delighted with the interior of the house; it was so quaint, and old, and suggestive. There was a dark oaken staircase, with a most curiously carved and twisted balustrade- some ancient tapestry still hung on the walls—and there were faded portraits of stiff ladies in ruffs, and maliciously smiling knights in armour, that depressed rather than decorated the dining-room. The chamber assigned to me upstairs was rather bright than otherwise it fronted the sea, and was cheerfully and prettily furnished. I noticed, however, that it was next door to the shut-up and long-deserted studio. The garden was, as Mrs. Fairleigh had declared, full of carnations. I never saw so many of these flowers growing in one spot. They seemed to spring up everywhere, like weeds, even in the most deserted and shady corners.

I had been at the château some three or four days, when one morning I happened to be walking alone in a sort of shrubbery at the back of the house, when I perceived in the long dank grass at my feet a large grey stone, that had evidently once stood upright, but had now fallen flat, burying itself partly in the earth. There was something carved upon it. I stooped down, and clearing away the grass and weeds, made out the words

"MANON Cœur perfide!"

Surely this was a strange inscription! I told my discovery to the Fairleighs, and we all examined and reexamined the mysterious slab, without being able to arrive at any satisfactory explanation of its pictures. Even enquiries made among the villagers failed to elicit anything save shakes of the head, and such remarks as "Ah, Madame! si on savait!. or "Je crois bien qu'il y a une histoire là!"

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One evening we all returned to the château at rather a later hour than usual, after a long and delightful walk on the beach in the mellow radiance of a glorious moon. When I went to my room I had no inclination to go to bed-I was wide awake, and moreover in a sort of expectant frame of mind; expectant, though I knew not what I expected.

I threw my window open, leaning out and looking

at the moon-enchanted sea, and inhaling the exquisite fragrance of the carnations wafted to me on every breath of the night wind. I thought of many thingsthe glory of life; the large benevolence of Nature; the mystery of death; the beauty and certainty of immortality, and then, though my back was turned to the interior of my room, I knew,-I felt, I was no longer alone. I forced myself to move round from the window; slowly but determinedly I brought myself to confront whoever it was that had thus entered through my locked door; and I was scarcely surprised when I saw "the Lady with the Carnations" standing at a little distance from me, with a most woebegone, appealing expression on her shadowy lovely face. I looked at her, resolved not to fear her; and then brought all my will to bear on unravelling the mystery of my strange visitant. As I met her gaze unflinchingly she made a sort of timid gesture with her hands, as though she besought something.

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"Why are you here?" I asked, in a low, clear tone. 'Why do you follow me?"

Again she made that little appealing movement. Her answer, soft as a child's whisper, floated through the room:

"You pitied me!"

"Are you unhappy?"

"Very!"

And here she clasped her wan white

fingers together in a sort of agony. I was growing nervous, but I continued:

“Tell me, then, what you wish me to do?"

She raised her eyes in passionate supplication.

"Pray for me! No one has prayed for me ever since I died-no one has pitied me for a hundred years!"

"How did you die?" I asked, trying to control the rapid beating of my heart. The "Lady with the Carnations" smiled most mournfully, and slowly unfastened the cluster of flowers from her breast-there her white robe was darkly stained with blood. She pointed to the stain, and then replaced the flowers. I understood.

"Murdered!" I whispered, more to myself than to my pale visitor-"murdered!"

"No one knows, and no one prays for me!" wailed the faint sweet spirit voice-"and though I am dead I cannot rest. Pray for me--I am tired!"

And her slender head drooped wearily-she seemed about to vanish. I conquered my rising terrors by a strong effort, and said:

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"Tell me you must tell me"-here she raised her head, and her large pensive eyes met mine obediently -"who was your murderer?"

"He did not mean it," she answered. "He loved me. It was here"-and she raised one hand and motioned towards the adjacent studio-"here he drew The Hired Baby, etc.

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my picture.

He thought me false-but I was true. 'Manon, cœur perfide!' Oh, no, no, no! It should be 'Manon, cœur fidèle!'”

She paused and looked at me appealingly. Again she pointed to the studio.

"Go and see!" she sighed. and I will never come again. for me it was here he killed a prayer."

"Then you will pray—

Promise you will pray me-and I died without

"Where were you buried?" I asked, in a hushed

voice.

"In the waves," she murmured; "thrown in the wild cold waves; and no one knew-no one ever found poor Manon; alone and sad for a hundred years, with no word said to God for her!"

Her face was so full of plaintive pathos, that I could have wept. Watching her as she stood, I knelt at the quaint old prie-Dieu just within my reach, and prayed as she desired. Slowly, slowly, slowly a rapturous light came into her eyes; she smiled and waved her hands towards me in farewell. She glided backwards towards the door and her figure grew dim and indistinct. For the last time she turned her now radiant countenance upon me, and said in thrilling accents

"Write, 'Manon cœur fidèle!""

I cannot remember how the rest of the night passed; but I know that with the early morning, rousing myself

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