Elizabeth thought, and wondering what was wrong, the girl suppressed a feeling of indignation at the woman's coolness in entering without knocking, and putting it down to forgetfulness caused by some worry of mind, let it pass without remark.

"Mrs. Arrowsmith wishes you to go to her bed-room at once," Jane said in a voice and tone of exceeding rudeness. You are not to delay a moment. She has a question to ask you."

Elizabeth looked at her, her eyes flashing.

"You forget yourself-and who you are speaking to, Jane, I think," she said, her head erect. "Please tell Mrs. Arrowsmith that I will be with her in a few moments."

"The sooner the better, or she'll be in to you. She's in a tearing temper," cried Jane, and she flounced out of the room, banging the door loudly behind her.

"The woman has gone mad," thought Elizabeth, fastening a few flowers in front of her dress, her fingers trembling with agitation. "But what can have happened? Something must have gone wrong to make her so insulting and Mrs. Arrowsmith so angry. I must really go and see.”

Flora Gibbons and her mother stood together near the fire in the bed-room, conversing in low, eager voices. They did not look up as Elizabeth entered, and awed by their pale, anxious looks, and suppressed tones, the girl paused uncertain whether she should interrupt them, or steal quietly away.

"Jane was dreaming; dear Mrs. Arrowsmith is not angry," she thought quickly. "She seems in trouble and so does Mrs. Gibbons. But "

Flora raised her head, and turned suddenly scarlet, as she saw Elizabeth lovely and charming in her simple white muslin, a spray of pure white flowers on her breast, standing on the threshold, the dark oak doorway framing her as a picture.

She is there," she whispered in her mother's ear. See Elizabeth is wondering why you have sent for her, and oh ! (with a little gasp), "how sweet and innocent she looks!"

With a long drawn sob, Mrs. Arrowsmith clutched the shelf of the mantel-piece, and leaning against it, for a moment, as though to steady herself, dashed one hand across her eyes, and then turning suddenly, faced Elizabeth, without looking at her, however but keeping her gaze fixed upon the floor.

"Come here, child," she said huskily. "See I have something to-to show-to ask you." And trembling visibly, she held an empty jewel-case towards the astonished girl.

Elizabeth went quickly to her side, her long, white dress

trailing softly behind her, her sweet face anxious and perplexed. her eyes full of wonder and inquiry.

"You remember, the beautiful diamond cross, that was in this case, and that I told you was so valuable ?" Mrs. Arrowsmith asked, looking up sharply, as though longing to read the girl's inmost thoughts.

"Oh! yes. Of course, I do," Elizabeth answered, a vague feeling of uneasiness creeping over her. "You locked it up in your secret drawer, a drawer impossible to find, you said, unless by someone who had seen where it was, and how it opened. You told me no burglar could ever discover it, and that your jewels were, therefore, quite safe."

"No burglars have discovered it," Mrs. Arrowsmith's breath came thick and fast, her bosom heaved painfully. "But a thief has someone in the house-who was afraid to take too much at once, and so in my absence has stolen the cross." And with an imploring expression and gesture she once more held the empty jewel-case towards Elizabeth.

"This is terrible," cried the girl. "But who can have done it? No one in the house, you told me, knew how to open that drawer."

A shiver passed over Mrs. Arrowsmith; she dropped the empty case on the dressing table, and a deep sob escaped her. "One person alone knew about that drawer, Elizabeth," she said, and her words were scarcely audible, so great was her emotion. One person as dear to me as a daughter. I— I showed it to her-and explained how it was opened myself."

Elizabeth started, and turning white to the lips, uttered a cry of anguish. "You showed it to me. But you do not mean you cannot think that I-I to whom you have been as a mother-that I would touch it? Oh!" with a little moan, "for God's sake don't say-don't suggest such a thing. It would," flinging her hands before her face, "be far too terrible."

"I must-think it-in spite of myself," Mrs. Arrowsmith cried. Then bursting into tears, she sank upon the sofa, and buried her face in the cushions. "I'd rather lose every jewel I possess than believe it. But-the thing is forced upon me.”

Elizabeth white as the dress she wore, with clenched fists and set teeth, stood speechless before her accuser. Erect, motionless, rigid she seemed suddenly turned to stone.

Mrs. Gibbons looked at her mother heart-broken, and torn with grief, and then at the young girl so lovely and tragic in her misery, and felt deeply sorry for both.

You must not be surprised that my mother should suspect you, Elizabeth," she said gently and sadly. "For everything points to you, as the makes us think that you took the cross, perhaps, only to return it. First, you knew the drawer-then, you were seen running out of this room, where you had no business to be on the night of the ball-by my mother herself and my brother, Charles."

A spasm of anguish passed over Elizabeth's white face. Her lips parted, but she shut them tightly again, and made no remark.

"Then, to-day," continued Mrs. Gibbons, "before we had been many hours in the house, you rush off on business to Dublin, leaving my mother to find out from Sybil Bindon that you had gone to raise money in order that you might pay the debts of your cousin, who had got into trouble in the bank. Is that true?"

"Quite." Elizabeth was now crimson over cheek and brow. "I had sent him all I had-the money you gave me for my salary or part of it," turning towards Mrs. Arrowsmith. But it was not enough, and so I went to a pawn-shop, for the first time in my life, and pawned three brooches, that came to me from my mother. That is the whole true story." "Elizabeth," Mrs. Arrowsmith started to her feet," tell me all-confess, child. Let me know where the cross is-and I'll hush the matter up. Say not one word ". "Too late, mother," Flora whispered, everyone in the house knows that the cross is gone. 'Tis the talk of drawingroom and servants' hall alike. Thanks to Sybil Bindon's evil tongue everyone knows that Elizabeth had been told the secret of the drawer, was hard up for money, which she required desperately, and had gone to raise it in Dublin to-day.'

No matter. If I redeem the cross-say I found it," Mrs. Arrowsmith cried feverishly. "I shall be able to stop that talk, avert all suspicion. But in order to do that I must know where the diamond cross is. Elizabeth, speak. Tell mefor your own sake-where it is to be found."

Elizabeth straightened herself. Her face was white again, but her eyes were full of a proud and angry light.

"You are unjust-and cruel," she exclaimed, clutching nervously at the flowers upon her breast, and crushing them ruthlessly in her trembling fingers "to believe such things of me. But I tell you-I swear-that I know nothing of your I never saw it--never touched it."

cross.

"Elizabeth," Mrs. Arrowsmith gazed at her longingly, but with doubt in her eyes, "if I could only be sure-of that."

A moan broke from Elizabeth's white lips, and she turned slowly away.

"I cannot say more," she said, looking back, her fingers on the handle of the door. "But some day God will prove me innocent. I leave myself in His hands. Good-bye. Late as it is, I return to Docwra to-night."

"Elizabeth," Mrs. Arrowsmith flung herself forward and threw her arms round the girl's waist. You must not do that. That would be to confess yourself guilty. To run away like a coward would be destruction. Stay and live it downand-and together we'll look for the cross.'

"Then," her lips quivered, "you do believe me innocent." "Oh, yes. I cannot look at you and think otherwise. Stay and help me to clear up this mystery. I cannot bear to see you go."

A sharp knock at the door startled them, and before anyone had the presence of mind to bid the would-be intruder to depart, Sybil Bindon pushed it open, and walked in.

Ah! I see," she remarked airily, a council of war. Well, and what has Miss O'Neill to say for herself?"

"That the whole thing is a mystery and that she knows nothing about the cross," said Mrs. Arrowsmith, hurriedly, and looking Miss Bindon calmly in the face. "It's just what I expected, of course, and we are all going to put our heads together and consider how we can best unravel the mystery. Elizabeth," taking her hand and drawing her across the room to the sofa," you sit here, beside me. Flora you take that seat and, Sybil, make yourself cosy in that arm-chair. We have just a quarter of an hour before dinner, and as we are all ready, we may give ourselves up to the consideration of the various pros and cons of the situation, before we go down to the drawingroom. Now, Betty, you must be the first to speak. What do you think is the best course to pursue? I'll never rest till I find my cross."

Betty turned white and red and looked helplessly round her.

"I-I don't know-can't think," she moaned. Then, with a deep sob, she threw her arms round Mrs. Arrowsmith's neck, and letting her head fall forward on her breast, burst into a loud and passionate fit of weeping.

(To be continued.)

CLARA MULHOLLAND.

A HOMESTEAD

FROM Waterville, where now we dwell,
Our stalwart steed had travelled well,
More Irish miles than I can tell.

The mountain road still upward wound,
Bogland and boulder all around,

And barren heights, with cloud-wreaths crowned.

But when the road turned downward steep,

We saw the wild Atlantic leap,

And lash the cliffs, and foams and sweep.

Descending slowly towards the west,
We reached below a haven blest,
St. Finian's Glen, our place of rest.

In Kerry sunshine's fitful gleam,
That ocean valley was a dream,
With its delightful mountain stream.

'Neath ferny coverts bounding free,
It sang, and joined in harmony
The mystic minors of the sea.

Beyond a silver-shining strand
Rolled in translucent billows grand,
We felt as though in fairyland.

Not so our worthy Mrs. Shea,
She was no unsubstantial fay,
And all her life was work-a-day.

White-kerchiefed head, clear, kind eyes keer,
Bare feet, skirt homespun, coarse but clean;
In her domain she reigned a queen.

Her dwelling was no cabin small;
Within was room enough for all,
Without were pigsty, roost, and stall.