Their joy, their comfort, their desire, their gain,
Is fixed all on that which now they see.

All other sights but fained shadows be.

SPENSER.

JANET RUTHERFORD was not, as the reader may have remarked, exactly the most fitting consoler to minister to a mind diseased; but there could be no doubt of her capacity for meeting every description of bodily requirement. No nursing could be more efficient, no attendance more untiring; the occupation seemed to gift her with a tact and judgment quite foreign, under ordinary circumstances, to her impetuous and by no means reflective disposition. Under the influence of this vigilant and prudent care, Alice's health so far improved that at the end of a fortnight she was able to leave her bed, and was carried by her indefatigable nurse to her mother's former seat near the window of the sitting-room, into which the warm spring sunlight and the gay spring breezes danced pleasantly to bid her welcome.

This was indeed a day of triumph for Janet, who being, as we said, not at all of a reflective turn, had no misgivings as to how far that triumph was or was not

premature, or how much of it might be traced to the failure of Master Guthrie's alarming prophecy, and the fulfilment of her own indignant protest against what she now stigmatised as "croaking." She was but an ignorant, impulsive, half-taught peasant, and she loved Alice with so entire and disinterested affection, which had shown itself in so many incontrovertible forms, that we have no desire to moralize severely upon her shortcomings in some other matters. The only twinge of pain or foreboding which marred her pleasure that day was occasioned by the striking resemblance-never perceptible until then which appeared in Alice to what her mother had been during her last illness; and by the melancholy distinctness of the unnatural tinge of grey which discoloured the sick girl's beautiful hair-— both made her heart ache.

But to these sights, and the uneasiness they caused, two or three days sufficed to accustom her; and, in the leisure which Alice's tranquil period of recovery afforded, Janet's curiosity grew and spread amazingly. It would soon have degenerated into inquisitiveness— a lower form of the same propensity-but for the respect she bore to Alice, and a sturdy resolution not to annoy by intrusive inquiries, but to wait until she could enter on the subject spontaneously. Not being, as we know, in possession of the master-key to the whole secret, her lively imagination had started on a wrong scent; transformed certain occurrences to the bent of her own conjectures, taken others for granted, forged such trifling links as were wanting to complete the chain of evidence, and ended by constructing an

elaborate romance upon the inconclusive grounds which usually serve for such erections, with the materials provided by the fragmentary and often contradictory ravings of poor Alice, the scanty suggestions and yet more scanty facts derived from Mrs. Morison, and the abundant supplies of her own preconceived ideas, which, being indubitably possibilities, she had chosen to assume as the only probabilities. Of this castle in the air, it is of course superfluous to state that Lord Glencarrig was, in a manner, the corner-stone.

A slight but very characteristic action of Alice's put the finishing touch to her edifice of supposition, and established it immoveably in her mind. Alice had formerly had a habit, when unoccupied-a rare thing enough-of twisting round and round upon her finger the ring which Flora had given her, using it apparently as a sort of talisman to recall with greater force the different associations connected with it and the giver. This gesture recurred naturally during those days of listless weakness when the hands which had never known idleness could no longer employ themselves with their favourite labours, and once, after a little dreamy surprise at not finding the ring in its place, Alice looked at Janet, and saw her smiling at her embarrassment.

"Wait ye, hinnie-it's safe enough, the pretty sparkler, I hae it here.”

She fetched it accordingly, and slipped it on to the girl's finger, eyeing her curiously; she half feared, half desired to see some emotion manifest itself on her face. Alice raised her hand, and contemplated the shimmer

ing brightness of the jewelled circlet pensively for a minute or two; pressing the other nervously over her heart she leaned back on her cushions and shut her eyes, trying to exclude some undesirable remembrance or stifle some internal pain. When she moved at last, as if relieved, the ring rolled down on to the ground; alas! the little hoop would almost have surrounded two of her attenuated fingers now. Janet would have replaced it, but Alice gently refused.

"I shall not wear it again, dear Janet, put it bykeep it until" she paused, as if uncertain what the end of her sentence ought to be.

"Until ye hae forgotten him whase name was in yer heart whenever ye lookit upon it--eh, my puir bairn?" said Janet kindly, as she smoothed down the fair locks braided by her own careful hands.

A beautiful sudden glow, like the reflection of sunset on snow, flashed over the girl's countenance, but her sweet composure did not vary in the least.

"No, Janet, I trust I never shall forget him, but to wear that gift now would be a tempting of providence that hath brought me out of a fiery furnace to show me the greatness of my own folly. Put by Flora's ring, Janet, then come and sit beside me, that I may see your kind face, and I will tell you the truth of all that you have only guessed hitherto."

Janet's answer bordered on the heroic.

"Ye hae nae call to do that, my doo. Dinna grieve yersel' wi' raking up auld sores to please me, if ye hae nae broo yersel' to do sae."

"I have, for many reasons," she answered with quiet

firmness. "You must certainly have divined much already, and you have well deserved what confidence. I can bestow, and more, my second mother. I would not have you think that, whatever her faults may have been, Alice would deceive you or disgrace herself."

Briefly and simply she narrated all that the reader has already learnt, up to the close of her interview with Lord Dundee, dwelling on no particulars, nor repeating any details of that season of wretchedness, and not merely concealing with rigid secresy the name of the chief actor therein, but eliminating every little salient point which could guide her hearer into the track of discovering it. This, which would have been a most important omission to any one else, did not cool Janet's interest by a single degree; the hero of Alice's sad and singular tale stood ready created in her own mind, she placed him unhesitatingly in every situation described, filled up every blank with his name, and, as nothing in the whole story was of a nature to militate against this substitution, or to convey any impression of discrepancy, Janet congratulated herself upon her own remarkable perspicacity and indulged in mental comments upon the supposed inconstancy and heartless conduct of Lord Glencarrig which would have rather startled that nobleman. Still, as Alice did not think fit to change the style of her recital, and continued it to the end with the same careful avoidance of the name, Janet conformed herself as usual to her charge's lead, and neither pressed to be enlightened nor hinted at her own convictions. All she allowed herself was to convey in language rather energetic than polished her