"Come, dear Ralph, the end to which we are bound must excuse the means to obtain it. Nay; I do not tremble. I would dare as much-aye, more-alone, for her sake, poor lost one! But he held back still; for the course she was about to take was a bold one, and he feared its consequences.

"Ruth," let me seck her. Night and day will I walk until I find her." But still Ruth said no. "You would not know her, and even if you did she would not come with you. I remember her impetuous nature only too well to hope that. Did she dream of being discovered, she would seek self-destruction rather than a meeting with us. No, Ralph; I must go. I know my influence when present over her at least, I know what it was once. I can only hope that it is not all lost. I will be ready soon, dear Ralph; don't fear for

me.

She wrapped a large shawl round her, and put on her own little quiet straw bonnet, and then, clasping his arm-for, notwithstanding all her boasting, she was a little bit afraid to walk about the streets all night-she stepped out.

As hour after hour passed, how those streets changed their aspect. At first they were blazing with light from the various shops, where glittering and costly wares were displayed. Crowds thronged along, all intent on getting over their daily work. By degrees, all this ceased; the brilliant gas lights were extinguished, the gay windows closed, and the busy passengers went to their several homes. The streets looked but the shadows of other days. Ralph felt the little hand clasp his arm more tightly, and a whisper fell on his ear-" Ralph, erewhile these streets were bright with the false light of night; now they are dark and lonely-a metaphor of her life."

"Pursue it farther, Ruth; the sun will rise to-morrow and shine with truer splendour on this now darkened place."

Her gentle eyes tried to smile through the sadness which clouded them.

It was now past midnight, and Ruth became more and more restless as each quarter was chimed by the clocks. We were going to say that her heart was sinking fast into despair; but Ruth's heart could never sink until it ceased to beat.

tracted Ruth's special notice, was a shawl which she wore over her shoulders. It was of crape-white, or that which once had been white-and covered with rich silk embroidery. Alas! Ruth knew it but too well. The pattern had been drawn and worked by herself-made for her wretched sister; given to her. Could she longer doubt that, the wearer of that shawl, Grace now stood before her?

Her startling eyes were fixed on the well-known garment; the face of the wearer was turned from her; she would have given the world to look at that face, and yet she dreaded its glance; for there was something in the figure which also reminded her of Grace, and she trembled lest her suspicion should be realised. How inconsistent is human nature-for this very purpose had she come-to meet her sister-even thus, perchance; and now, when she believed her to be there before her, she shrank from the knowledge which with so much pain and labour she had sought.

It was a terrible trial; more terrible than anything Ruth had gone through; more, far more terrible than that dreadful night in Castle Rushen, when she waited hour by hour for intelligence of her sister's escape,—more terrible than that moment when she stood before the infuriated mob, and let them bind her tender hands, and lead her where they listed,-far more terrible than that fearful storm, when life and death seemed tossing in the balance, and this world appeared to be fading into the deepening hues of a near eternity— yes, this moment was more terrible than that. Then she beheld nought but the wreck of all things physical; now before, her-there, shrouded in those white garments, was the far greater wreck of all morality-of all that makes life happy-useful— worth having. The calm serenity of heaven's light destroyed-the stormy tempests of the base human heart loosened, to hurl the poor, frail, human bark to destruction.

Ralph, I must speak to that girl," and with a hasty step she stood beside the white robed figure. In her excitement her hand was laid on the girl's shoulder, and then the face was turned towards her.

It was not Grace, but a stranger; a poor young creature of some nineteen or twenty tears of age, whose brilliant eyes and glowing cheeks told but too plainly, that even then, when the innocence of early youth should scarcely have passed, innocence to her had become a myth, a fable. The girl started and looked surprised as she felt Ruth's hand on her shoulder, and then her surprise gave way to annoyance, as, in a somewhat bold and arrogant tone, she inquired, "What she wanted ?"

"I beg your pardon," was the quiet, gentle reply; "I mistook you for another. I would ask"-but Ruth could get no further; a deep sob stopped her utterance, and she burst into tears.

The bold eyes of the girl were cast down, for there was something in Ruth's manner which touched the remaining atom of good in her heart. "Don't cry," she said, in an altered tone; don't cry. Sorrow is not for such as you; it belongs to us to the broken-hearted outcasts, who, having forsaken every feeling which woman should cherish, become aliens to all which she needs-kindness, sympathy, affection. Don't cry! come this way," and she pointed to a quiet and secluded street.

"What's he coming

Ruth turned, and called Ralph closer to her side. The girl noticed the motion. "Who's that?" she said. for? does he belong to you?" "He is my husband." "And he lets you speak to me?"

It was a horrible thing, that the poor girl had learned such self contempt, that she could not understand any man, for any purpose, permitting his wife to run the risk of pollution by speaking to her. "But come away, they will be out soon;" and she pointed to the hotel. "You must not be seen here with me, or they'll think you one of us."

She took Ruth's hand, and dragged her down the street, for, as she spoke, the convivialists showed signs of departure. How careful that poor lost girl was of Ruth; how careful, even in the midst of her own wild recklessness.

"Stop, I cannot talk in this place; come under the shadow of those teees. Let him keep very near us; I can take care of myself, but you might be frightened if anyone came up to you. Now, what do you want to say? How very cold it is," and she shivered as she spoke, and coughed violently.

For some minutes she could not attend; bat, the paroxysm over, she turned to Ruth again.

What a dreadful cough you have," said Ruth; "surely you should not be out so thinly clad-and at night, too; here, take this scarf, and wrap it round your throat; indeed, my cloak is enough for me-pray take it to please me."

The girl's eyes filled with tears as she refused. "No; what does it matter whether I cough or not; I suppose it will kill me some day; so much the better. What have I to live for. A few years more, and I shall be old and ugly, and then my trade gone, my bread will go with it; and what remains--a dose of poison, or starvation. No, let me cough; better die by the cough now, than live for either of the other fates."

Ruth took the girl's hand, which drooped despondingly by her side, within her own.

"Forsake your present life," she said; "seek a better."

Ruth was thinking of another as she spoke. Perhaps that thought gave earnestness to her words.

"A better," the girl replied; "how can Iwill aught, except, indeed, those like myself, holding the sex of woman, consent to make such as I am her companion or associate. I am kept in my present state by the very circumstances of that state-shunned by my own sex, sought by the other for base purposes alone. No; I have fallen down the ladder, and I must lie grovelling at its foot. If I sought to rise, the world would throw me down again; therefore, till death, I must remain the outcast I have become."

"Not if I become your friend?”

The girl's large eyes seemed starting from her head; then, in a wild burst of feeling, she murmured:

"You are God's own angel; come here to give me a glimpse of the heaven I have lost; but once gone, the hell of this present life becomes only the blacker."

There was a fearful discrepancy between her words and tearful eyes, and the tawdry finery of her dress the glowing colour of her painted cheeks.

Let me see you deserve a true friend, and I will be such to you. Now, listen to me, for I want your help."

And at last Ruth nerved herself to speak on the one dreadful subject.

The girl looked eagerly at Ruth.

"That shawl, how and where did you get it?" I bought it."

"Of whom?"

"Peggy."

Ruth was silent; and then she drew a minia. ture from her pocket.

"Do you know any one who resembles this picture ?"

And she opened the small morocco case containing the portrait of Grace.

There were the blue eyes and the golden hair; the loving, mirthful expression of the half-turned head; the graceful throat and neck.

The girl, whom we should here call Rose, looked at the portrait attentively.

Ruth for one moment faltered. If ever she felt tempted to dissimulation it was now, but cnly for a second, then her strong, moral courage came to her aid, and saved her.

"She is my sister. Now, tell me all you know of her,"

"Your sister?"

And the manner of the wretched girl became more cordial, more respectful, as she repeated the words,

Poor, dear lady; how you must have suffered!"

"I have; but where is she?"

"Peggy is not in Liverpool. She has been here for more than twelve months, but now she's gone to the Isle of Man. I don't know where she's living, but I'll go and find her for you. Poor Peggy! And she's married! and he, her husband, is amusing himself, and letting her die by inches with her little child! She wrote to him for money, and he refused it; and then, when her child was starving, she took to the streets—and, then, there was no drawing back. Poor Peggy poor, dear Peggy. I'll go to-morrow and find her for you."

"I will go myself, and you shall come with me."

A sudden thought struck Ruth, that she would the more easily find Grace if her former unfortunate companion helped to seck her.

"Come home with me, poor child !”
Rose shook her head.

"Go home with you. No. What would the people where you are staying, say of you if they saw me go with you. Tell me where I shall find you in the morning-where, and at what time, and so surely as I am alive, I will be with you. There, that is your way-straight along that street, take the first turning to the right. Keep on by the church, then the second turning to the left, which will lead you to the hotel. To-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, on the pier."

She was soon lost in the labyrinth of streets. It was three o'clock before Ralph and Ruth reached the hotel. Perhaps the waiters looked suspiciously at them as they entered. They neither knew nor cared. Innocence frequently wears a questionable garb; so it was in the present instance. But whatever garb innocence may assume, she cannot disguise herself long; she is sure to be recognised at last. So, perhaps, the waiter did not look suspiciously at them after all; or, if he did, in all probability he discovered his suspicion to be misplaced, and eventually voted himself a blockhead for his pains.

There was no sleep in Ruth's eyes that night, and long before the appointed time she was on the pier, ready to step into the Manx boat, and proceed in quest of her lost sister.

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Ralph--can you see her who was to have met us here this morning?"

He looked round, but she was nowhere visible. Disappointed, Ruth stepped on board the packet, and, with a sigh, had just given up the girl, when a slight figure, whom she easily recognised as the outcast, stepped into the boat-a glance at Ruth being her only sign of recognition. And the packet left the pier, and was fairly out to sea; and then Ruth thought of the last time she crossed that troubled ocean. Her thoughts flew to the

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cold grey morning of her departure, when all looked so chill, and when her own heart was colder, more stormy, than all the dreary scene around her. Ralph saw her anxiety.

"Ruth-mine own Ruth!-let thy dear face turn towards me, and with its cheering smile tell me that I lighten, by sharing, this deep woe. Ruth, I bless Heaven for giving me the right to share it. Look on me, Ruth, and say I am a solace, a comfort to you."

And she turned and smiled as only Ruth could smile; for in the whole world we don't believe there ever was, or ever will be, such a smile as Ruth's.

There was a ball at Castletown, and everything pretending to any degree of exclusiveness was there. Dancing was kept up to a late hour. The supper was good, and, what was rarer still, the wines were excellent; so everyone was pleased, and the entertainment was proclaimed brilliant. "Mr. Mathewson, may we hope to see you on the 15th."

The speaker was the beautiful Lady Churchill, whose lovely face was said to be the cause of her very unlovely character and conduct-for she was one of those vain fools who, by their wanton frivolity and thoughtless levity, lay shame on the female character, and make man think woman but a pretty toy, to be purchased at some stated price. Little do such women dream of the injury they do to others; seldom do they reflect that, by example, they lead those of their own sex who can imitate folly, without being able to distinguish between that and vice, into a laxity of conduct which not unfrequently terminates in absolute sin. To this style of woman Lady Churchill belonged; and the person to whom she addressed herself seemed of a congenial nature to her own; for, with a few silly compliments, he accepted the invitation.

Roger Mathewson was one of that class of men whom, in a small town, you are sure to meet everywhere-a finger-post of society, seen at every corner-a dancing, nonsense-talking individuala great favourite with the fair sex, or at least with those amongst them who could not understand anything better than his vapid talk. He had been in the Isle of Man for several months, and had managed, through his talking, dancing impudence, to worm himself into society. His handsome face might have done something towards accomplishing this end-for it was indeed a very handsome face, and a profitably handsome face, too, he made it, as it was the means of his obtaining many an invitation which, without it, he would never have had; for Roger Mathewson had no riches to make him sought; indeed, one cynical old father, to whose only daughter the fortunate possessor of ten thousand pounds, the said Roger was extremely attentive, was once reported to have muttered something about "adventurer, living on his wits," which being a pleasant little remark, likely to be agreeable to the said Roger, and bearing unqestionable reference to him, was carried to

him immediately. But he only smiled when he heard it, and remarked, "that a man was decidedly lucky to have wits to live on." This might be very true, but it did not set the fact of a man having nothing but his wits to live on in a more creditable light.

After this short notice of him, which is quite sufficient for our present purpose, we return again to Ruth-a far pleasanter theme.

She did not, on her arrival in Douglas, go to any large hotel, but sought the most unobtrusive in the place, and from thence, in the course of a few hours, removed to lodgings.

Rose attended her. How could Ruth tolerate such near her? some may say. How she did matters not; she not only tolerated, but she purposely kept the wretched girl beside her. She felt for her loneliness of heart, and if a shudder sometimes passed over her at that girl's terrible fate, the shudder was unperceived by Rose.

"The day is waning, lady, dear; and there is a wretched heart feeding on its own misery near to us, perchance. I feel idle here, when I have

so much to do elsewhere."

And she stood equipped for walking, before Ruth.

"I go with you, Rose."

No, dear lady; if you please, no. I can speed far better alone; indeed, indeed, it will be so. Go you to your bed. Ere to-morrow's sun rises on yonder tall peak, I will tell you if she be in Douglas: ere he sinks again to rest, you shall hear if she be in the Isle of Man. Indeed, you can but mar by accompanying me; think you that she would meet you willingly? I tell you that she would avoid you-would fly from you, did she even fancy you were near. Rest here unknown, and let me trace the path I know only too well. Tell her that I am right," the girl turned her earnest eyes to Ralph, and by their eloquence implored him to persuade Ruth to act as she advised.

He did persuade, and he convinced her that it would be far better for Rose to go alone; so alone she went; and as she stepped into the busy street, she lifted her poor, wan eyes to heaven, for a consciousness stole over her, that this was the first time she had gone out for years, to save and not to destroy.

Through and through each street and thorough fare, mingling with the drunken crowd, the wellhabited idlers, scanning each face; laughing, jesting, talking with all-lost ones of her own sex, and those of the other-whose sin, looked on leniently by the world, bears the same aspect in the eye of God. So passed the night away, and as the morning dawned, Rose met poor, heartsick Ruth with the words,

"She is not in Douglas. I now go to seek her elsewhere."

"Now ?"

"Yes, at once. Nay, lady, I need no rest-no food. I have that which I have fed on for years

-excitement. Thank all merciful heaven, it be of a purer kind than heretofore. Good-bye, poor lady-hope for the best."

Ruth, the good seed thou hast sown has sprung up already into a graceful plant, offering fruit to thy thirsting lips; for she who was hopeless until she met thee, now holds out the blessed balm of hope to thee.

Days, whether blissful or not, come to an end; and that one dragged its heavy length along, and as the shades of evening were deepening into the gloom of night, a weary figure, whose lagging footstep told of sore fatigue, ascended the staircase of Ruth's abode. "Water!"

And a deadly pallor spread over the girl's lips and face, as she sank on a chair fainting, worn out in mind and body; prostrate from an amount of fatigue rarely endured by woman.

Ruth held

a tumbler to her lips, but it was too late; the head dropped heavily to one side as Rose fell to the ground in a swoon. How tenderly Ruth chafed the livid hands! how anxiously she watched the death-like face! How fervent was the "thank heaven," as returning consciousness brought returning colour to those lips and cheeks.

"You are better."

"Yes; where-where am I ; and—this room?" She looked round her for a moment bewildered; then she remembered all.

"Oh! I know now; but let me think. I have something to tell," and she held her hand to her brow, as if seeking to imprison thought.

Ruth's very life seemed to hang upon her words, still she begged Rose to be composed. But remembrance had come back to the girlremembrance of the circumstances in which she was placed, and the deep anxiety her words must

Yes; but she needs help-we must speed. Do you know the place."

"I know it well. Ralph, we must start at once."

And again a carriage stood at the door, and a second time the galloping horses bore them on their way.

Straight on at full speed to Ramsey; up and down each rocky hill-once more on the summit of Laxey. There lay the bay before her, almost invisible now, for the night was dark, and the white foam, with here and there the reflected

glitter of a star in the dark waters, was all she could see.

On again through the two glens which border the road on either side of the entrance to Ramsey, How sombre they looked; the great trees almost formed an arch over head, and the swollen mountain stream rushed wildly under the archway of the road.

Into Ramsey; and the gallop of the horses' feet sounded strangely in the quiet little town at that time of the night. Lezayre is passed, and then the carriage turns from the main road. The driver stopped to inquire the way.

Up that lane; turn neither to the right nor left, but go on until you come to that gateway on the right hand side. Stop there, at that point we will alight. Await our return, or go back to Ramsey, and be here again in two hours' time. Yet, no; await us as I said before."

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would be too much for her in that trying moment. She was hesitating what to do, when the voice of the child was again heard.

"Mother, poor Lily is going away-far, far away, into the bright, blue sky Lily used to love to play under. Mother, dear, tell little Lily of that heaven, and the angels, and him who loves little children like Lily. Mother, dear mother, speak to me of these things as you spoke oncebefore papa left. Mother, dear mother! tell little Lily of these things once more-only once more, before she goes away for ever."

But the flood of guilt had quenched these things in the mother's soul, and now in the hour of need, even at the prayer of her dying child, her tongue was mute. One moment, and then a sob, and then a wild, passionate, burst of words,——

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'Oh, God! oh, God!" she cried. "I forsook Thee, and now Thou dost hide Thyself from me

"Ralph, dear; don't enter with me; I would rather see her first quite alone. Rose, be very near, but not with me.'

"Lean on me, Ruth; let me uphold you." "No; now, in such a trial as this, I need a greater strength than yours, Ralph; one to uphold more mighty than yourself.”

He watched her as she crossed the little bridge and passed through the garden gate. He followed; for he knew not what she would have to contend with. He saw her enter the cottage, and for one moment stand paralysed at the door of the little sitting-room at the sight which met her eyes. Kneeling beside a miserable bed-a bed devoid of aught save a mattress, which seemed, from its tattered state, to have been gnawed and torn by rats-was Grace. And on that bed, moaning and tossing wretchedly, lay a child—a dying child; the poor, pale baby face pinched by disease and want; the little hands attenuated from the same cause; the feeble voice, almost too weak to be heard, except when fever gave it unnatural force and strength.

"Mother!" and the little feverish hands clasped the mother's cheeks; "Mother, give poor Lily water, and food, mother-Lily will eat."

The wretched Grace held a cup of water to the lips of the dying child; but the food was wanting -all had been already given. Probably had it been there the child would not have touched it, for when her thirst was appeased, she sank again to slumber, if that restless unconsciousness could, indeed, be called slumber.

So deeply had the mother's attention been fixed on her child, that she had not noticed that the only candle in the room had burnt down to a mere wick-another moment and it was extinguished, and then the room was left in total darkness.

And it was thus that Ruth was to meet her dearly loved sister-thus, in darkness, want, and sorrow! She feared to advance. She thought the shock, to Grace, of finding her there-thus

yet to me-my child, my dear, dear child-the only thing on earth left to cheer me-the one little ewe lamb, my only spot of happiness. Oh! take one where there are many, and save this one

to me.

Scourge me not in this way; in any other, but not in this way. Ruth, couldst thou see me now, thou wouldst pray for me, and thy prayer would avail, Ruth. I call on thee in vain. A black and horrible gulf separates us now." But, in that moment Ruth passed it, and the erring, wretched Grace, was once more pressed to her sister's pure, and loving heart. But how?

A wild shriek rang through that mountain air, and a death-wail followed on it!

"Lights-the carriage lamps-anything to relieve the fearful darkness of uncertainty!"

They were brought, and then the fearful truth became apparent. There, on the bed, lay the child-dead! the one great struggle over, the many struggles of the coming life avoided. Peaceful, calm, seeming as if she slept; her arms resting quietly by her side, her little face with a happy smile upon it. And Grace stood and gazed, neither speaking nor moving-her eyes steady and fixed on the child; her hands clasping her throbbing temple; her lips apart. The worst had happened; there was no further ill to fear; nothing could be so sad as this. There, before her, lay all she had lived for. Life, hope, thought, feeling, all were destroyed by the one frightful blow. Ruth was unheeded. That dead form was her world; she knew nothing beyond it; neither cared for, nor understood aught else. But although she was unconscious of Ruth's presence, Ruth was not unconscious of her's, and Ruth wished to rouse her from her stoney silence,—

"Grace, do you not know me?" for she had not spoken to her. Grace, dear Grace!" But Grace's eyes were still fixed on the child. Grace, am I not you sister, the Ruth whom you spoke of ?"

And then she turned, and for the first time, looked on Ruth; and the poor, faded lips began to