the good old Sir Thomas Neville. We give the personal description of each, let their mental characteristics be drawn from the following narra

tive.

Grace, the elder of the two, seemed formed to justify her name, for her fully developed form was indeed graceful in its every movement. Her hands and arms-how beautiful they were! and her foot, in its delicately embroidered slipperfor Grace Neville delighted in the adornment of the person. Her face seemed a living sunbeam, with its covering of golden hair. Then her laugh -nothing could be-nothing ever was so liquid, so melodious.

And Ruth-dear good Ruth-tall and slight, even to a fault, with a pale and sallow face, whose want of lustre was forgotten in the depth of its expression. Hair of the blackest dye-eyes whose every look spoke an intensity of thought. Such was Ruth Neville. The peculiarity of her contour was character; there was character in her face, her form, her movements; even her hands were indicative of this peculiarity. White were they-white as marble, but neither remarkable for beauty of shape nor size, for the bones were large, and their development seemed to be increased by a peculiar habit she had of tightly clenching them when in any way excited. She was said to have been a wayward child; certainly her womanhood justified the idea-for Ruth Neville yielded to no human being her opinion or her will. I have seen her try to submit. I have seen the struggle to bow to the decision of others; I have watched the impotency of that struggle, and I have been fain to confess in the end that she was right in holding to her own opinion; for her judgment was excellent she was always correct in her decisions. But enough of description.

It was a summer's evening, and the two sisters sat on the flower enamelled lawn of the cottage, or rather one of them sat, and one reclined on the couch which had been wheeled into the garden for her accommodation.

Grace Neville, for she was the occupant of the couch, lay with closed eyes, in an apparently uneasy slumber, for she muttered words of unintelligible meaning, and turned restlessly from side to side.

"Bertram!"

A peculiar look passed over the face of Ruth as this name fell from the sleeper's lips-a look at first of anger and then of sorrow.

"Bertram, dear Bertram."

Ruth stood beside the couch, her hands so tightly clenched, the lips compressed, as if an angel had closed them with his everlasting seal, and her glance bent so sadly on her sister.

The sleeper opened her eyes as Ruth stood beside her.

"Ruth, sleep is turning hostile to me, and cheating me with such blissful remembrance of the past, that when I waken, the world seems to

my weary heart but one great charnel house. Dear sister, would to Heaven we could dash the past into that fabled lake of dim forgetfulness."

Ruth looked at her, and a smile of almost coutempt crossed her face.

"You would not do it if you could," she answered; "you love the past-gloat over it, cherish it in your waking thoughts; what wonder that it haunts your sleeping hours, when you thus woo it to you? Cast it from you, Grace; this sickly sentiment of years gone by unfits you for the present, unnerves you for the future; and remember what that future may be-think of the frightful cause of our sojourn here-the risk

She was stopped by a scream from Grace, who, shrieking, hid her eyes in the folds of her sister's dress, as if seeking protection there from some dreaded danger.

Ruth, I am safe, safe here, in this lonely place, unknown, unsuspected; besides, Bertram cannot tarry long, and then we shall all fly hence."

"We," and the words lingered on the lips of Ruth as the same smile once more stole across her face.

The evening sun said farewell to the glowing earth; the pale moon rose with her calm light; the thrush warbled his nightly notes, for in the Isle of Man his song is said to emulate the nightingale's. Grace had retired to rest; even the servants had sought their bed. The labour of all seemed done, all save one, that one Ruth Neville. She was sitting in the little drawing room of the cottage, an open letter on the table beside her, from which, occasionally, she repeated a few words.

"Be on the watch, they are on your track," she murmured, as her eyes ran over the written lines; "don't attempt escape yet-your only security is in your remaining in your present seclusion; wait until Bertram returns."

"Until Bertram returns!" she repeated the words of the letter; "but when will he return? And yet I must wait, for I cannot send her alone, and to accompany her would be destruction to our plans. Oh, God! that life should come to this; that she whom I have so loved, in whom I so gloried, should lie here now on so foul a suspicion-under so dreadful a certainty."

She again turned to the letter-read and re-read it; and then holding one end to the lamp, watched it until every vestige was destroyed. Then she sat gazing vacantly-at nothing; for her mind was so pre-occupied, that she saw nought of the objects which surrounded her. How long she would have sat thus is uncertain, but a gentle tap at the window roused her to herself. She started, and at first thought it must be merely the striking of a leaf hurled by the wind against the glass; but a second knock told her that some one claimed admittance. Ruth had no foolish fear of burglars or midnight assasins, so she immediately rose and

Then she smiled on him, for she saw his heart was right at last. She saw that he was not altogether worthless; and, as she stood there so pale and quiet, her young brow (for twenty summers had scarcely passed over it) so very sad-a happy feeling of thankfulness stole over her-of thankfulness that she had drawn him from one more sin —for Ruth, despite all her principle, all her philosophy, was but a woman after all; and if she might, she could even now have loved Bertram Holt as passionately as when four years before she had plighted her troth to, as she had received his from, him. But that was all past now, and scenes of crime and horror had flitted by since, and stamped that sad face with care and woe.

"To-morrow evening, Bertram, be here. I will have all ready. I will prepare her to see you. Come by the mountain path, it is more secluded. Now good night, and God in Heaven

bless you."

She closed the door behind him, and then, as she sank on the sofa where lately he had rested, she wept as though her grief would kill her.

But Ruth Neville was not one to give way to impotent sorrow. So the first anguish over, she dried her eyes, and repaired to the bedroom where Grace slept so soundly, little dreaming of what the morrow held for her.

And when that morrow came, Grace listened wildly to the tale Ruth had to relate, and sobbed and cried, and sobbed again, until Ruth bade her be calm-bade her think of the solemnity of her position of the need there was for quiet energy.

And so that day passed, or was passing, rather for towards four o'clock Ruth Neville walked to the little quiet village near. In her walk she passed through the village churchyard with its quaint old church. How peaceful it looked-how still and peaceful; and how she longed to be resting there her beating heart silent for everher smarting spirit smarting no more.

As she turned down the narrow lane which led from the main road, two or three of the village children met her. One of them, a girl of about eight or nine years of age, was carrying a very young baby, carrying it so carefully, wrapping up its little bald head so lovingly in its flannel shawl. Some strange feeling agitated Ruth, for she shuddered as she looked at the peasant girl and her infant charge; but she did not forget to smile at the girl, and the smile was returned proudly, for the village children loved Ruth as dearly as she loved them.

Along to the main road-up to the rectory with its trelissed doorway.

"Is Mr. Gell at home." The good old clergyman stood before her. He knew her face, for he had often met her in the cottages of the poor Manx peasantry; and, although he did not know her full worth, he recognised her as a friend, an

listened to her gentle voice soothing the misery of some poor wretch-whispering hope to the almost hopeless-and he felt the bond of union between them resulting from the common aim of each— to do the one great master's bidding. So he took her by the hand, and led her into the par lour of his small but comfortable domain.

There was something in the air of that room, something she felt but could not describe, which touched a cord in Ruth's heart; and made the tears roll down her cheeks. And yet the room had nothing remarkable in it. The furniture was of the plainest description; but so clean. The narrow arm chair, in which the old man sat, with its threadbare covering; the scanty red moreen curtains of the windows; there was nothing remarkable in all this, unless it might be the visible fact of the economy which her dear old friend was obliged to practise-for he had become her "dear friend" during her eight months' residence in the beautiful island.

Now Ruth had formerly occupied a very high posi tion in the world, and had lived in great splendour; and although she cared little for gold, and gems, and fine furniture, houses, and dresses, still she liked those whom she loved to have them; and she looked on the meagre lodging of the good old man as utterly unworthy of him. But it is useless speculating on the causes which made Ruth cry so bitterly; one thing alone is certain, and that one thing is, that she did cry until she began to think how selfish she was thus to give way to her grief; then she reasoned with herself, and, as usual, she conquered herself.

She sat for some hours with Evan Gell, and she must have told him something of great import, for she persuaded him to do that which at first he refused to do, to come that night and marry Grace to Bertram Holt.

Ruth left the clergyman's house, and instead of going home as she ought to have done, for it was nearly ten o'clock, she bent her steps to the town of Ramsey. Lights were blazing in the shops; groups of men were standing and talking; women whispering or laughing as the case might be. An unusual stir seemed to prevail in the place, for all appeared to be speaking on one topic. Ruth's thick black veil hid her face from the passers by, but it was not thick enough to hide one hideous placard which was pasted against the wall in the full clear moonlight, which made everything as bright as day.

Her feet clung to the ground; she could go no further; there she stood shrinking before it, her eyes fixed on the one horrible word which in letters of giant size glared on her-that one word "Murder."

was

One wish, one thought-to tear down that paper-to have, to hold, to hide it. For once Fortune favoured her. A horse, at mad speed, dashed down the street, the rider dragged after him, his foot holding by the stirrup alone. Death

make no progress.

As she approached her home, she was struck by the unusual sight of two men, who, avoiding the clear moonlight, as if to shun observation, stil! seemed to be keeping a very close watch over the cottage. With Ruth it was the determination, the work of a moment, to turn out of the path she was following, and take one, or rather force one, through the hedge which separated the enclosed field, or bog, from the road. This bog was unknown as a path, as it was not considered safe; but Ruth knew, that by keeping close to the hedge, and avoiding the centre, she could reach the cottage in safety by the mountain path. She was now so close to the men that she could hear all they said. The hedge alone divided her from them.

'We'll have the bird to-morrow, and the five hundred will be ours. Pity we can't get her tonight, but she can't get off."

Ruth waited to hear no more. In another quarter of an hour she was at home. And what a sight met her eyes. Grace in a state of helpless terror, clinging to Bertram, suggesting dangers which were not, overlooking those which were. Bertram sometimes soothing, sometimes angrywith a face of despair, driven almost mad, the brandy bottle near him, bespeaking the cheating source from which he sought to draw consolation; the clergyman trying in vain to calm these unschooled human hearts.

But there was one other in the room whom we have forgotten to mention; and this one was the old servant of the house, who had lived in the family from his childhood-a seemingly hard, harsh, unfeeling being, who loved naught on carth -save perhaps Ruth. Almost without a human sympathy, he lived unloving and unloved. Repulsive to all save Ruth-repelled by all except her.

Such was Herman Gotlieb, the old German servant of the Nevilles. His wife had been Ruth's foster mother, hence the affection of Herman for the child, perhaps. This same wife was also in the household of the sisters; indeed, this old pair, chosen for their fidelity to be their attendants, formed their whole retinue; for, as seclusion was the object of their Manx residence, all pomp which would have defeated the proposed end was avoided.

Herman was standing in the corner of the room and looking with cynical eyes at the group before him, when Ruth entered. Her hasty, agitated manner struck him, and he advanced to meet her.

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"Liebchen fraulein." He frequently addressed her thus frequently spoke to her in this familiar way, while his manner was invariably respectful to an extreme. "There is something amiss-something to weary the dear mistress;" and that illgrained face looked human in its sympathy with Ruth's evident suffering.

"Herman, come with me to the next room, I want your advice; Grace be calm-Mr. Gell, in ten minutes I will be with you, and then the sooner the ceremony is performed the better. Bertram, come with me."

She walked across the little passage and entered a room on the opposite side, her companions, those whom she had called, accompanying her.

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Bertram! look here!" and she drew the placard from her pocket; "the reward is large£500-large enough to tempt the bloodhounds to an energetic and successful search." He started as she uttered the word successful. "Successful I said:" and she told him what she had heard from the two men she had seen hovering near the cottage. "Don't tell her of this," she continued, "but urge on her the necessity of departure as soon as the marriage vows are spoken by you both. Bertram she must-shall go to night."

"And you? you will go with us ?"

Ruth hesitated. Not with you, I must remain and still suspicion; no entreaties BertramI am as firm on this as on all other points. Herman, you will accompany your lady on her way

for my sake Herman"-for she saw the hard lips forming a denial-you will take her and her husband - and she laid a stress upon the word, across the mountain; you know each path well-put the ponies to their ablest speed, for before the morning dawns, you must be here again, and ease my anxious heart by the intelligence that my sister is many miles away on the Irish Sea. The cutter lies in a creek three miles from Peel. Now go and look to the ponies, Herman; give them an additional meal of corn to strengthen them for this night's work."

With a sullen look, Gotlieb left the room to do her bidding. Then she turned to Bertram. "Now," she said, as she took his hand and drew him with her; "one more caution; watch Herman. When once mounted, hurry on your horses, do not stop, do not draw rein until you reach the cutter; once on board you are safe, but get there speedily. I know not why, but I mistrust Herman."

In half an hour more, Grace was the wife of Bertram Holt; there they stood that wedded pair-wedded so strangely, on the eve of banishment for life from their country, their friends; everything they had known from childhood-the one under a foul and heavy charge--made almost certainty by the weight of evidence against her; the other with his false heart only half given to her whom he had so sworn to love and cherish.

The sisters went to their common bed-room and

entered it together for the last time. Ruth sat down on the bed, and drew Grace near her.

"Grace," she said, and the quivering lip told how much she felt the sorrow of the present hour. "I will not in this moment deceive you by even a cheating hope; this, my lost sister, is the last night we ever meet. In Australia you will be unknown; this terrible charge will no longer haunt you there; one word Grace; I charge you by all you hold sacred, by this our last interview, by the love our poor mother bore to each, to tell me now the truth. Did your helpless babe meet death at your hands?"

"No; solemnly I swear that I know no more how it died than you do. There has been foul treachery at work Ruth, for when I woke on that dreadful morning and saw the child dead by my side; my own hands and dress stained; the knife, the evidence of the crime, before me; I thought some one must have entered my room during the night and done the horrid deed; but my door was locked as I had left it, therefore I saw that such could not be the case. Then a dreadful suspicion crossed my mind. Could it be, I thought, that some devil had urged me in my sleep, from the frolic of a crazy brain, to the crime of murder? and I trembled, not at the crime, but at the consequences of that crime. I saw the trial, the disgrace, the shame-yes, Ruth, the shame-for although I had been so shameless, I feared it when it came in that form. To escape this terror, forgetful of the power of truth, forgetful of the power of Him who could make that truth apparent, I suggested the lie which defeated its own aim, and made me appear the culprit whose doom I sought to shun. I said that in the dead of night, unheard by me, some villain must have entered by the window and taken the poor babe's life. I broke the window to give colour to the tale, but in my haste I forgot to undo the fastening which must have been undone had any entered that way. I forgot that footsteps must have been found under the window had my tale been true. I forgot to forge the many links which the chain of falsehood needs to uphold it. But Ruth, let all the world curse me with the name of murderess, if you only think me innocent. The day will come when that innocence will appear; then, if not now, you will believe me; it may be not till then."

But Ruth did believe her. The horrid mystery remained a mystery still-an inexplicable fact but in Ruth's mind the stain of blood no longer rested on her sister's soul.

She did not understand how Grace could be innocent, for the evidence produced against her at the inquest had been conclusive; but Ruth, casting doubt and evidence aside, believed Grace innocent.

True, the window had been broken, but the fact of the fragments of glass having been found on the outside of that window, proved that the fracture had been done on the inside. Besides, the bolt which secured the window, as Grace her

self stated, was not unfastened, so that it was impossible, utterly impossible, for any one to have entered that way. Then the suspicion fell, and with apparently good cause, on the wretched mother, who, unfortunately, had only too much reason to wish the helpless being who owed its life to her removed from this world; for it was a disgrace to her-a shame. Grace Neville, the descendant of a noble family-the scion of a proud old house, had forgotten all-her station, family --all, in her affection for the worthless Bertram Holt. But to the present of our tale again. The night was far passing away, and even Ruth feared to break the parting interview, feared to hasten the last few moments she should ever spend with that dear sister. So there she sat, clasping poor Grace closely to her.

"Ruth! there is a subject on which I have never spoken to you, one that I cannot still be silent on, now that I am going from you for ever. Ruth, even above this horrid charge, above the terrors that have crossed our path, comes one thought," (she hung her head and withdrew her self from her sister's arms,) "Ruth, tell me that you forgive me for my sin towards you, for blighting your dear life; taking from you the very sun of its existence, Bertram. You loved him; and he loved you-ere I in an evil hour came between ye; sister, kiss me and tell me you forgive me for this; Ruth, I cannot, will not leave you until I have your pardon."

Ruth shook like a fluttering leaf. Alas! that affection had been the one ineffaceable phase of her life, for their engagement had continued for years-had been formed-spoken of by their parents in their infancy-had twined itself into every action of her life. She had lived for Bertram only; the books he liked she read; the ac complishments he admired she excelled in-he was her earthly idol; for her affection almost assumed the shape of idolatry, until with one blow every hope, thought, belief, was destroyed, and she saw Bertram Holt in his true colours, as a worthless and heartless hypocrite.

Grace waited for her sister's words, but waited in vain. Ruth could not speak on this one subject; but she clasped her sister to her again and again-and kissed the pardon she could not trust her voice to utter.

Not one moment now was to be lost; the horses were led into the mountain path, and Grace stepped from the cottage door, which for many months had been her home and shelter. Ruth, pale as death, led her on; the stillness of the night was such that their voices were sunk to a whisper, lest any walking in the neighbourhood should hear them. They turned into a path cut on the side of the hill, which gradually widened until it emerged into the broad road which led across the mountain.

Suddenly a shout-a horrid shout of human voices-met their car; shrieks-yells-the cries of an infuriated rabble.