cigar, quietly and by himself.

They had gone out into the mist and darkness, and mist and darkness hung impenetrably over their memories.

Among all the painful duties that devolved upon Canon Kingsworth that of disclosing what had passed to James’ wife weighed on him by far the most heavily.

It was due to her that the family should now recognise her claims. She had, according to James’ story, been living at Dinan, and there the Canon went to fetch her, leaving the other poor young widow in a strange state of silent stunned grief. As soon as might be he returned, bringing Mrs James Kingsworth and her baby with him. She was a pretty young woman, and her reception of him before she knew the sad news he had come to tell had impressed him favourably; but now she was in a state of anger and half-realised grief, speaking of James as if he had been in all respects perfection in her eyes, and only now and then rousing herself from her distress, to remember that her child was disinherited. Canon Kingsworth was very glad to see her safely in her room and under charge of the housekeeper, and as he turned into the library to consider the situation, his other niece stood before him, with a letter in her hand.

“Uncle, I have found it. Here is James’ letter. I found it in the writing-case George always used. Now there is but one thing to be done. My baby shall not profit by this injustice. Let James’ child take it all. It is not Katharine’s.”

“Hush, you do not know what you are saying. Let me look at the letter.”

He glanced it over, and said gravely, “Yes, it concurs in all respects with what James told me. Mary, it is impossible now to judge. The past must be laid to rest. The will is valid, and secures this property to your child. Nothing that you can do can alter it. Some provision it is no doubt necessary should be made for James’ daughter out of the estate, and I need not ask you to show kindness to one as bitterly afflicted as yourself.”

“It is a burden that I cannot bear,” she said, passionately. “How can Katharine prosper under it! At least there must be full confession.”

“Stop, Mary, what is it that you want to confess? Remember you know nothing.”

“I know that Mr Kingsworth did not get that letter. I know that my child has her cousin’s right. If he—if George had no time to do justice, I must do it for him.”

“Recognise and receive her kindly, that is the first thing to do.”

That was a strange interview between the two young widows, widowed so suddenly and so recently, that neither bore any token in her dress of her condition—both suffering under the same loss; both with the same comfort left to them.

Mary approached with reverence for her sister-in-law’s grief, with a sense, keen in her soul, of standing in her place—but the other was shy and hard; till the mention of her husband’s name broke down her reserve, and she sobbed out her misery at his loss, in such evident ignorance of his character and himself, that any attempt to explain the state of the case, any apology offered, only seemed an additional injury. Mary made her statement, notwithstanding all the tears with which it was met.

“This letter was not given to our father-in-law. He never knew the truth about your marriage. I can but ask you to forgive,” she said, with a bitter proud humility. “I am afraid that your husband’s errors were not put in the best light before his father.”

“My husband’s errors! How dare any one say he had errors! If he had, I will never hear a whisper of them now! now that I have lost him,” sobbed Ellen Kingsworth, while Mary stood silenced by a view of wifely duty so unlike her own.

Ellen turned away from her with manifest suspicion and dislike, and Mary having relieved her conscience was too much absorbed in her own shame and dread—in the terrible fear of she knew not what, to show sufficient tenderness to overcome the repulsion.

In a day or two, however, Mrs James Kingsworth’s mother, Mrs Bury, arrived on the scene: a gentle ladylike woman, who had worked hard at school-keeping for her living, and who avowed that her daughter’s secret marriage had been made without her knowledge, and afterwards concealed greatly against her will.

She expressed much less surprise than Ellen had done at the disinheritance of her son-in-law, of whom she evidently had formed no good opinion, refused at first with some quiet pride the offers of assistance for Emberance’s education, saying that she and her daughter were far from being unable to support her; but perceiving how earnestly and sincerely the Kingsworths wished to make this arrangement, she replied that it was an acknowledgment of her daughter’s position, and as such she accepted the allowance offered—a small one—for the affairs of Kingsworth had been much hampered by James’ debts. Katharine Kingsworth must owe to her long minority, or to her mother’s wealth, the means of supporting her inheritance.

These matters settled, and the sad double funeral over, Mrs James Kingsworth and her mother and child went away from Kingsworth, doubtless with much sense of injury and disappointment; while Mary was left, feeling as if a burden had been laid upon her, that would crush the brightness out of her life for ever—the brightness, not the energy nor the resolution. She looked forward through the years, and set one aim before her—to undo the injustice which she believed her husband to have done, and to free her child from her unlawful possessions.

How she succeeded, the sequel will tell.