The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1887-10-01 00:00:00

NI : pt THAN REVENGE.
THu
Author of "The Heiress of Atherstone Grange!

CHAPTER XXXL
e;
BAFFLED.
'A. sadder and a wiser man,
. He rose to morrow morn.'—Couuttnas.
TUB -Wild light died out of Horace Gayford's eyes as
Helen spoke, and he controlled his passion by a
mightier effort than anyone would give him credit for.
To her he Seemed like a madman only a moment
before, and it was wonderful to see the change that
appeared to come over him before be uttered another
word. He was no hypecrite in thus avowing a passion
for Helen Ranasay. From the first moment of their
meeting at Mr. Jarvis'e house his resolution had been
taken; he would make the beautiful girl who was
betrothed to his cousin his own, by whatever means
he could invent to win her; by fair means or foul, no
matter who suffered, or what obstacles had to be
removed, Helen Ramsay should be his. And he was
steadily working in his own fashion to the end he had
In view, when the events happened that upset all the
serenity of Hillford, and scattered all his friends to
different parts of the world.
Helen had been right in her estimation of his
character. He feared nothing ; believed in nothing;
the pulpit was with him a means of getting a liveli-
hood; r °thing more—except that it cloaked much
that he would rather have died than have made public.
In secret he was a libertine, and what Mr. Jarvis had
suspected—a lover of strong drink. No one could say
that they had ever seen the young clergyman intoxi-
cated, but the worthy Mrs. Brown could have told a
tale had she chosen, in spite of her constant laudation
of her late lodger.
He had been a good lodger to her; insomuch as he
paid well for all he had, and her silence into the
bargain. She could have told, if she had chosen, what
was the reason that Barney Grubb had such a
sovereign contempt for the popular preacher, and why
on the day of the picnic he had made the remark he
did about what the wood could reveal, if it could
speak. He had seen the parson, as he always called
him, there in company that was not quite what a
clergyman should choose, and he had been an eye-
witness to the sorrow and unavailing regret of one at
least of his victims—a girl who might have been
better with better guiding, and who but for Horace
Gayford might have been reclaimed, instead of being
found one stormy day in one of the river pools.
Barney Grubb had been the person who had picked
the poor corpse out of its watery resting place, and he
held a bit of paper still that he had taken out of the
bosom of the girl's dress. There were only a few words
on it, but they were to the purpose, and they cursed
Horace Gayford and his teaching as the cause of what
had come about. The girl was known to be a light
character, but there had been good in her if it had
been fostered; and under the cloak of his holy office,
the man who should have done what he might to lead
her back to the right way, had so far worked upon
her by his sophistry and fascination that she had come
to worship him almost as a god—to be scorned and
flung aside when his fancy was over, and to find her
161 a thing of clay indeed.
A whited sepulchre, indeed, was the Rev. Horace,
Ind Helen's instincts had been true when they told
her that he was an unbeliever; he preached glibly of
things that were to him as stories told by a winter
fire, and drew tears from his congregaticn by his gift
of eloquence, while he could have laughed at them
where he stood for credulous fools. He was a good
actor, and knew every trick of the dramatic art; he
would have made as good a living in a theatre if the
fates had so willed it.
But he had been no actor in the pursuit of Helen
Ramsay. Before he saw her he had sneered at love.
as Most libertines do, and had declared himself proof
against the tender passion. He liked to amuse him-
self, and if women were such fools as to take all his
endearments for gospel, why so much the worse for
themselves, that was all.
With the sight of Helen's beauty and grace, and
the sound of her sweet voice, he had been stricken
like a man with a fever, and the malady had been
upon him ever since. It was as if he were possessed
by en evil spirit that would give him no rest until his
end was accomplished. He hardly knew her then, nor
what strength of purpose and will there was under-
neath her gentle exterior; he believed that be
should win in the end. But the sudden chance of
seeing and speaking to her had carried him away, and
he had shown his hand too plainly.
Don't be afraid of me,' he said gently, and it was
well that she did not see the almost Satanic smile that
curled his lips as he spoke. I was forgetting myself,
and everything but the love that fills my heart.'
'Do not speak of that, if you please,' she replied. 'I
have said all I wish to say on the subject.
But I have not. Ah, Helen! my darling. I must
say it. The earth will never hold another woman for
me. I do not ask you to love me yet—it will come
in time. I only want you for my own to cherish and
love, as woman was never cherished or loved in this
lower world ; to be my own wife; the idol of my life;
my better angel till the grave closes over me!'
He was dreadfully in earnest, and Helen shivered as
she looked at him; she made no reply. She knew how
useless words would be, and she waited to hear what
further he had to say; she was physically afraid of
him. She firmly believed he was a little out of his
mind, and she did not dare to rise yet, and so perhaps
provoke a personal attack. She could be seen from
the house where she was sitting, and she knew if she
had patience relief would come to her at last, and
words were nothing, however unpleasant they might
be listen to.
.‘ I am not offering you any empty-handed love,' he
went on. ' Since—since we met in Hillford I have
become rich, richer than ever poor Frank would have
been. My fortune is my own—unfettered, and it
shall be yours. Helen, the one aim of my life shall be
to make you happy—to surround you with luxuries,
and to lay at your feet everything that can m ke life
enjoyable, to—'
Love is not to be bought, Mr. Gayford,' Helen said
quietly, but with perfect distinctness, ' nothing that
sou can say er do will have the slightest effect on me;
'ou waste your breath and your time.
Again the curious smile curled his lips; Helen saw
te this time, and shuddered, there was something so
mslevolent in it. But she was pewerless to get away
without passing quite close to him in a narrow bend
of the rock, where she would be at his mercy if he
chose to touch her, and she felt as if she would rat her
die than let him lay a hand on her; there was nothing
for it but patience. He surely would let her pass
peaceably presently.
Nothing is wasted that is bestowed on you,' he
said. I would give my whole fortune for the delight
of calling you my wife for an hour. If fortune, or
fate, or whatever the power is that rules the world,
had not swept Frank from your side, I should have
come between you and claimed my bride. Helen, do
you believe in destiny—yours and mine have been one
since the day we met—you have felt it, have yeu
not?'
• I felt an ungenerous and unmanly persecution, if
that is what you mean, Mr. Gayford, Helen said with
as much calmness':as she:could affect. A persecution I
thought I should be free from here. Will you make
an end of this most unpleasant subjeet,l,if you please, or
must I call to those men yonder to free me from your
presence?
It would be worse for any man who chose to inter-
fere between me and the object of my wishes,' Horace
Gayford said in a low, hissing tone that sounded like
a thousand threats rolled into one. Nothing ever
stands between roe and my objects in life. list know
it, Heb n Ran say, as well as I do.'
Do you intend that as a threat? You cannot
force my love any more than you can buy it. Do you
want me to repeat my words, that I would rather dash
myself to pieces on the rocks beneath me, rather lie
down under the cool water there, and be drowned,
than listen to one word from your false lips that
I was not forced to hear? I will not listen to one
more word from you! Go, or I will call out to those
men for protection. They will not refuse to help me
when they understand that a man is insulting and
terrifying a woman.
' As you will. Call them if you like; but you will
Tot like, Helen.'
His tone of menace had changed to one of unutter-
al le tenderness—a tone that was far more difficult to
bear--and as he spoke Helen felt a strange chill piss
over. her; he Was looking at her with a fixed gaze,
and the mecking smile was on his lips still.
Let me pass—let me go,' she said imploringly, her
defiant manner vanishing in a sense of terror and
weakness that she could not combat. She must go
Mine at any price, even if she passed him and he took
her hand.
I don't want to frighten you,' he said, in the
same, tender voice. Go, if you wish; but the
time will come when you will seek me of your own
accord.'
Never:'
'lt will. You will come to me and tell me with
your own sweet lips that you will be my loving wife.
If can, wait for it. Golf will. I will not preventyou,
not touch you; but we shall meet again, and soon.
too.' ,
N'ever, never!' gasped Helen, rising to go, and
feeling as if her feet were powerless to stir from the
spot *lsere she stood. am going mad,' she said to
has& ; I mint get home, or I shall die.'
He stood aside to let her pass, and only bowed as
she' sko nt by him. He did not attempt to touch her,
and she passed slowly and with heavy footsteps, not
looking at him. Anyone seeing her going away
in that fashion would have thought that she was
going unwillingly, and yet no prisoner manacled and
behind locks and bolts ever craved for liberty with
greater vehemence than did Helen Ramsay to be out
of sight and hearing of the man she abhorred. • Go
in peace,' he said, in a low tone as she neared him;
will not, prevent you.'
He certainly did not attempt to prevent her; he
never even looked at her; butwhat then prompted the
impulse that came over her to look back at him, to
wait to imar if he would say any more to her. Like
a fiasit.of lightning there came into her memory the
scene at ihe Hermitage, when Frank Hatherleigh and
Mr. Jaryis had
.taken her to see what they thought
then was to be her future home; the same idiotic
inspiration was on her then, she had felt as if she
must do this man's bidding whatever it might be;
with a low cry she struggled with herself, apd it
peemed to pass away.
.'lt is the remains of my illness,' she said 0 herself,

'I am susceptible of everything. I will never come
out of doors by myself again while I am here, and I
will go away as soon after to-morrow as I can.'
She looked back to where she had left Horace Gay.
ford; he was not looking at her, his face was towards
the sea, and she quickeded her pace, feeling thankful
that she had not been followed. _ _

'He will not dare to come after me to the house,'
she said to herself; and as she said the words she was
conscious of a strange horror. She wanted to go back
to where she had left him, to stand before him with
folded hands like a chidden child and wait his orders;
she struggled with it and herself, tried to think she
was nervous and fanciful, but the feeling grew till
the perspiration stood upon her forehead in drops
with the effort she made to fight against it, and it was
with the greatest difficulty that she got home and
shut herself into her own room.
She could not analyse the feeling—it was painful, it
was shameful; it made her cheeks hot with blushes
when she tried to find out what it meant. She seemed
to hear Horace Gayford's voice calling her, Come
come,' it said, and each time more importunately than
the last, and she felt if it called much longer that she
would have to obey. She must go to him, no matter
where he was, go and say in spirit if not in words,
'Hail master 1' and then take all the destiny that came
with the mastership.
What shall I do? What shall Ido ?' she wailed to
herself, as the feeling grew, and she felt that by-and-
by she must run, just as she was, dishevelled and tired,
to the place where she had left him. What would he
do with her? Where would he take her? What was
his power over her? She looked round her pretty
room to assure herself that she was not dreaming;
there it was, just as she had left it when she went
out—the presents she had received all before her, and
Barney Grubb's pretty basket banging in the window,
all mementoes of friends who loved her very dearly,
and in the midst of it all this dreadful nightmare of
Horace Gayford's presence. She must escape; but
how? No matter where she went, she would still
have to turn back at his bidding, still have to go to
hin,, as she was going now.
There was no one in the house but the servants;
Mrs, Churchill and her daughters had gone out sinne
she left the house, and if they had been there she could
not tell them of her madness.
'Helen! Come, come!'

The voice was only in her excited imagination.
Nothing sounded, no one spoke; but it was as real
to her as if the speaker had been at her elbow, and
the impulse was so strong on her to go that she clung
to the window-sill to hold herself back.
No, no,' she gasped. Save me! save me and
even as she spoke the influence that was holding her
seemed to snap, as it were, and give way all at once.
A cold chill came over her, and she sank to the floor.
She did not faint, but she felt as if she should die, and
it was some minutes before she could recover herself
sufficiently to remember where she was and what had
happened to her, with difficulty, for she was shaking
all over, as if from an ague fit.. She dragged herself
to the washhand stand and dipped her face into the
cold water in the basin; it revived her, and she sat
down to recover herself.

'I must get out of his way,' she-said to herself;
'far away, where he cannot even imagine me, or I
shall die, die. Ah, rather that a thousand times than
be his victim, his slave—and I should be— bah ! I
must not think of it. It is over now; but how soon
may it not happen again. He said he could make me
do what he wished. Ah, I know full well he can
The house was very quiet. The French vrvants
were in their own part of the house; the English ones,
the two maids who waited on the three ladies in-
cluded, were out of doors, none of them in sight of
the windows. There was no one to take note of
Helen's proceedings.
Mrs. Churchill and the two girls were not far away;
they were gone to make some trifling purchases at
the nearest shop, recollecting that the next day they
should be busy. They had improvised a little treat
for the servants and some children of the neighbour-
hood, to whose mothers the English ladies had proved
themselves real benefactors, and they had been select-
ing toys and gifts, and were coming home laden,
when they saw a little crowd passing from the beach
to the town. Something had happened, and they
went forward to enquire.
It was someone who had fallen from the rocks—at
least so they gathered; a fisherman who had over-
balanced himself, and they were taking him to the
hospital. No, he was not dead, they were told; it
was not known yet whether he was seriously injured;
but be had been picked up insensible, and he was
hurt, at any rate. The ladies were very kind to en-
quire, and they should have particulars when it was
known what injuries the man had sustained; if there
was anything they could do they should be told.
It was not till some days afterwards that the family
at Ardennes Villa discovered that the man had turned
out to be an English gentleman, instead of a fisherman
at Biarritz. His injuries had not been at all severe,
though he was stunned and rendered insensible; he
had only remained at the hospital for a few hours,
and then he had walked away, although he was advised
to stay at least a night. He seemed troubled about
something and very anxious to get away, and declared
the cuts and scratches on his face to be of no conse-
quence, as indeed they were not, except for present
discomfort and the unsightliness of the plaister neces-
sary to cover them.

CHAPTER XXXII.
DISMAY AT DIARRIT'Z.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of all.
—TawNYsow.
HELEN, dear, where are you? We have bought such
pretty things, and so cheap; I have not spent more
than half my money.'
So spoke Madge Churchill as she made her way up-
stairs to Helen's room, laden with light parcels, and
eager to exhibit their contents. She was not the
bright, happy Madge of the old Hillford days—the
girl whose every look was like a sunbeam, and whose
voice had the melody of a light heart in it. She was
sadly changed, aad her sweet face wore a look of
sorrow that would never quite leave it while she lived.
But youth is very elastic, and the first shock of Frank's
death had passed off and the edge of the grief for the
victim of the Asphodel disaster, and Madge was regain-
ing something of her former brilliance as the days
went on and her bodily strength returned.
She would never forget Frank; if ever she married
there would be always a lingering regret in her heart
for her first lover, the man whose looks and words
had been the first to awake the slumbering nature and
change her from a child to a woman. Her day would
come, doubtless, and she would settle down into
fair matron, with family cares and home -duties, but
she did not believe in that future at present. If any-
one had hinted at such a termination to her career
she would have indignantly declared that she would
never marry; that her heart had died with Frank
Hatherleigh, and that she was by no means sure, in
spite of returning health and daily increasing appetite
that she should not yet die of a broken heart.
For this day, at least, the pleasure that she was
helping to give other people was averting that
calamity, and she was oblivious of her cherished
sorrow. The mourning of the family for Mrs.
Churchill's nephew was a sufficient reason for their
refusing all invitations to parties and festivitiea
generally. They were none of them in the mood of
gaieties of any sort ; but it had entered their kindly
hearts that they might make the season festive
to their servants and to some of the children they
had made acquaintance with.
Madge chattered as she went upstairs, as her custom
Was—her mother often called her to account for her
careless hlbit ; but there were no secrets in their
house at Milford ; doors and windows were apt to
stand open, and conversation carried on in a fashion
most convenient to themselves. Helen's door was
shut now, and Madge knocked, thinking, perhaps,
Helen might be writing or reading, or perhaps lying
down, though she had entirely given up invalid habits,
and declared herself quite well. Getting no answer
Madge peeped in.
The room was empty. Helen was not there, and
something in the unwonted confusion of the place
struck her as odd. Miss Ramsay was generally so
fastidious about her belongings• and/could not endure
anything like a litter.
'She's come in,' Madge said to herself, as she took
note of what was lying about. 'She went out in that
hood, lam sure. A pretty piece of headgear that
Helen much affected was lying on the bed—Madge
had complimented her on her appearance in it only
that morning; and the shawl she had thrown round
her shoulders was there also.

Wherever is she?' she said to herself, and at that
moment Mrs. Churchill's voice called to her up the
stairs.
Ask Helen if she would like an early cup of tet:
Midge, dear.'
'Helen is not here, mamma.'
Not there?'
'No, mamma.'
Where can she be, then r
She must have gone out again,' Madge replied, 'she
has been in, and changed her things. Here is her
hood, and the shawl she had on this morning. I exirct
she has gone to meet us and has missed us. I wonder
which way she will come?'
Shall Igo and meet her?' Norah asked. I have
and I know Madgi
not walked as far as you, Mt 1322211.,
Is tired.'
'Suppose you do,' Mrs. Churchill said, it will not
be dark for some time yet.'
Norah went away, and put her bat on again, and
Mrs. Churchill and Madge set about arranging their
purchases, giving a word of caution to the elder
daughter as she went out.
Doti% come hack by the shore,
dear,' Mrs. Churchill
said; keep to the lighted road.'
'Yes, mamma: shall I send someone any other way?
I am going towards the town, of course.'
'Oh dear, no,' her mother replied. There can be
no danger to any of you; you will be sure to meet
her. She can only have gone out to meet us; she will
turn when she does not see us. I dare say we missed
her in Guiot's shop, we were some time there.
know.

North came back in about half an hour. She hld
been to every place where it was likely Helen would
have called on this particular day; but no one had
seen her. The servants declared she had not been
back (Once she went out in the morning; but they had
been at the back of the house when she returned, and
had heard nothing of her entrance. That was clu te
possible; she had made no noise, but there was the
evidenoe of her hood and shawl to tell of her presence,
and the absence of herg.walking dress to testify to her
'
having gone out again.
_ It was very odd, but Mrs. Churchill did not feel in

tne least alarmed. Helen seldom went anywhere with-
out their knowing where she was going to, but they
had several friends in the place—scme a considerable
distance off—and it was possible that she bad gone to
one of them; though what for or with whom they
could not tell. No one had called at the house, the
servants had seen no one about, and Miss Ramsay had
said nothing of her intention of going anywhere.
We had better have our tea,' Mrs. Churchill said.
We shall understand all about it when Helen comes
back again. It is odd she did not leave word where
shejvas.going to.'

I think he explanation of that is very easy,
mamma,' Norah said, sipping her tea with relish, and
leaning back in her favourite chair. She was tired
with her extra walk, and the rest and refreshment was
very nice.

'What is your explanation, child?' her mother
asked.

'Just this—there was no one here to give it to. It
is very evident that the girls were about their own
business this afternoon, or they would have seen her
come in. Depend upon it, the house was left to take
care of itf elf.'

But the servants, bekg questioned, declared that
they had not left the house to take care of itself.
They had been busy at the back, and Miss Ramsay, if
she had come in—which they were inclined to doubt
—must have come in through the side gate, and so
saved them opening the front door. They confessed
to a little gossiping about the ways of an English
Christmas with the servants at the next house, who
were benighted French folk, and had no idea how
Christmas was kept up in England; but there had
been no further neglect of duty than this, and the
gossip had been carried on over the fence that divided
the two bits of ground that did duty as gardens to the
houses.

It was all very perplexing, and as the evening wore
on Mrs. Churchill began to get really alarmed, and
hardly knew what to think. Helen was a free agent,
and came and went as she pleased; but though she
was fond of taking rambles alone on the shore, and
sitting with her book or work among the rooks, she
very rarely visited alone. There was no one she par-
ticularly accorded with in the somewhat frivolous
society of the French watering-place, and the one or
two English families that the Churehills visited lived
a long way off.
She must have gone to the Bolton's, mamma,'
Madge said. You know she was making a shawl for
the baby.'

'I knOw, my dear, but she did it up to-day to -send
by post. I think she did send it.'
'I know she did,' Norah remarked. • I heard her
tell Anne to post it. She would hardly go there after
writing to the house this morning.'
'There is no other place she Is likely to have gone
to.' Mrs. Churchill said gravely. • I really feel quite
Harmed.'

'I wonder if she has gone to old Babette's,' Madge
said suddenly, with an inspiration that seemed to
relieve their minds at once, and her mother looked
quite relieved.
Of course,' she said; 'she intended to go there to-
day, I know. I wonder we never thought of that
before.'
Old Babette was a pensioner of Mrs. Churchill's,
and Helen had taken quite a liking for the lonely old
Frenchwoman, all whose kindred lay at the bottom of
the sea, and was well nigh helpless herself—living in
a little cottage close to the sea, and patiently waiting
till the blessed Virgin should take her to join her lost
husband and her stalwart sons. She was always
cheery, and people were very kind to her.
But of all the ladies that visited her and bought the
trifles she was able to knit, there were none like the
beautiful English girl, with the soft sweet eyes and the
pretty mouth, whose lines told of quiet sorrow and
meek endurance. Helen had a way with her that all
old people liked. She was gentle, and bore with their
fidgets with a winning patience, and she could speak
French that Babette could understand, being quick to
pick up idioms and provincialisms, intelligible only
to those accustomed to hear and use them; and
Babette declared that she could talk to Helen as well
as she ever could to her own daughter—dead and
gone this many a day now.
'I wonder we never thought of Babette before,'
Norah said; but it is:getting dark now. Had we not
better send someone to see after her, mamma?'
Suppose we go ourselves, girls, Mrs. Churchill said.
We are rested now, and we should only fidget and
find the time very long while any of the servants went.
Besides—'
Besides what, mamma?'

hardly know what I was going to say. I think
it was that it would call attention too much to Helen's
proceedings to be sending the servants after her as if
she were a child. We will go and meet her. I dare.
say old Babette is ill or something, and we shall find
her installed as head nurse?

She rang the be'l and desired that dinner should b e
put back an hour, and bade the servants make Miss
Ramsay's room ready for her, with a cheerful voice
and manner that was far from real. She Was anxious
—more than she could tell. Helen had never absented
herself before, and she was terribly afraid that some-
thing had happened to her. But for the evidence of
the hood and shawl that she had worn in the morning
she would have fancied that they were all deceived,
and that Helen had not been home at all—that she
had met with some accident amongst the rocks, But
in that case someone would have told them; the
beach was too much frequented for any one to come
to grief there and not be seen.

it was almost dark when the three ladies set out,
the elder feeling terrified beyond measure, the two
younger ones rather liking the fun now that they
were rested, and drinking in the beauty of the scene
as they hastened along between the still sea, with its
star-like lights from anchored ships, and its soft plash-
ing on the shingle at their feet—and the bright lamps
and light; d windows of the houses on the other side of
ths m.

'Tie night was cloudless and the sky alight with
stars—more like a summer night at home than the
middle of winter. But even in England thatyear there
were green fields ana wadding shrubs, instead of the
orthodox snow and sharp frost. Father Christmas did
not wear icicles anywhere that winter, and the fireleFs
poor thanked Heaven for its mercy and rejoiced in the
unseasonable warmth that gave them a better chance
of food and work.

The housemaid went up to Miss Ramsay's room as
she was bidden, and prepared it for the return of its
mistress. She wondered a little at the disarray of
everything—Helen generally was so very neat and
fastidious in all her arrangements that there was very
little for her maid to do, and she shared that func-
tionary with the two other girls, while the housemaid
from Fern Bank, delighted to go abroad, did duty for
Mrs. Churchill. It was she who was putting things to
r ghts In Miss Bamsay's room, when the lady's maid
looked in and spoke to her.
never saw Miss Ramsay's things in such a litter
betore,' she slid. 'l've put them away, but you hid
better sec if they are all right.'
She storp,d as she spoke, and picked up something
from the floor.

'What is it? asked the lady's maid.
'A stiletto out of Miss Ramsay's workbox, I sup-
pose,

'No, it isn't,' said the other, taking the pearl-handled
trifle out of Mary's hand, It's out of her travelling
bag. I had better put it back in its place. It wouldn't
be easily matched.'
Helens travelling bag was a dainty affair, presented
to her on her last birthday by her guardian. He had
been at some pains to select one that he thought she
would like, and the result was what Madge Churchill
called delicious.' The fittings were silver and
mother-of-pearl, and Helen's monogram was engraved
and stamp-'d on everything. She was careful of her
beg. and proud of it, laughingly declaring that-it was
the most itnportant article in her possession.
Tte girl went to the closet where it was kept, and
came out again with a scared look on her face.
The bag's gone !' she said.
'She's put it somewhere else,' Mary suggested.
Why should she? Where should she put it? She's
gone, Mary. She doesn't mean to come back again,
and she's taken her bag with her.'
Further search disclosed the fact that, besides the
bag, a travelling cloak and hat were missing. Helen
had evidently started for a journey; but there was
nothing to tell where she had gone to—not a scrap of
writing or anything to indicate the meaning of her
conduct.

What shall we do?' said Mary, in amazement and
alarm. Miesus will be so frightened. She's gone to
look for her at old Babette's. I beard Miss Madge say
so. She may be there after all.'
'She wouldn't take her fitted travelling bag to old
Babette's ; she's gone somewhere by train,' the lady's
maid said. 'lt's very odd. She's open enough
generally about what she does. Perhaps she's had
some letter that the mistress knows nothing about.
Her head's always full of that wretched murder
business. She fancies she is going to find something
out about it.'

'She never will. If the lawyers can't, lam sure a
parcel of women can't do anything. What shall we
do? Shalt we go after the mistress and the young
ladies?'

You may if yo z like,' the lady's maid said, with a
shrug of her shoulders. I don't see much good in it.
If she isn't at the old Woman's she'll be back fast
enough, and you will do no good in running after them
to tell them.'

Well, maybe not,' Mary said, and resigned herself
as best he might to waiting till her mistress came
back. She had other duties to perform, and she went
to them with a heavy heart. Helen had been very
kind to her, and it seemed to the girl that this un-
expected absence meant mischief.
Meanwhile Mrs. Churchill and her daughters, in
happy ignorance of what was being discovered at
home, made their way to the cottage of the old

It lay a little back from the sea, though full in sight
of it, and was approached by a rude flight of steps
cut in the rock, and protected by a rude handrail.
There s• as no sign of life in the cottage—not a gleam
of light to be seen; and Mrs. Churchill's heart sank
wry low indeed.
• Helen can't be here, mamma,' Norah said, in a sacred
voice. 'Babette is in bal.'
• We must wake her up and ask her,' her mother
replied. 'She has been here, most probably, and has
gone away again. We must know which way she
went.'
Babette was easily aroused; the aged sleep lightly;
and she showed no fear at being thus awakened. No
one would harm her, she said, when they apolcgised
for intruding on her. The Blessed Virgin was alway•
there to take care of her, and St. Ce..terirP ne vas

named after St. Catherine. No harm could come to
her. Questioned about Helen, she said she had not
seen her since the morning. The dear young lady had
been to her then and brought her—ah ! such gifts!
—and talked to her, and made the day seem so bright
for her. But she had not been back again. She did
not expect her. But Jules had seen her —Jules, that
came now and then, and brought her fish and vege-
tables. He had been there just at dusk, and told her
how he had met the young English lady with the sweet
smile and the bright eyes outside the town, with a bas
in ha hand and a shawl over her arm.

(To be continued.)