\.CRArEo. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. Copyrighted 1881, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, July 7, 1881. $5.00 a Year. Published Every Vol. VI. 22 BEADLE AND. ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, No. 98 Wiiu1aM Street, New York, No. 102 Complete in this Number, Price, Ten Cents, CARITA. BY MRS. OLIPHANT. CHAPTER IL THE BERESFORDS, James Brresrorp and Annie his wife had been married for more than a dozen years—their only ehild, indeed, had nearly attained the age of twelve at the time when this history begins. They had both got footing on that plateau of middie age which, if it comes to something like level gvound at thirty, need not think of a descending stey for twen- ty years—the time of the greatest enisyments and most solid progress 7 of life. He was at one end and she at the other of the first decade; the one ap- proaching the forties, the other_ scarcely well owt of the twenties; both ready to-{augh x at the advance of SN Ns ) yet RNY years, Wich was as \\ but a joke to em, and neither having thought of bidding any grave farewell to youth. She was impulsive, enthusiastic, and nervous; he philoso- phical and specula- tive—a man ready to discuss any theo- ry in earth or hea- ven, and without any prejudices such as might make one subject of discus- sion appear less le- gitimate than an- other. ae were not very rich, but neith- er were they poor in any sense of the word. He had been called to the bar, but had never gone any further in that career. They had enough between them to live on without show, but without pinching,as so many people of quietly social, semi- literary tastes do in London. They knew a number of people. They saw all the ictures, read all the Books, and heard all the music that was NAN y Oe S Uy self a not unimportant, certainly not a useless, man. Mrs. Beresford, on her side, had the natural occu- pation of her housekeeping, and her child, whose education gave her much thought—so much thought that many people with full nurseries listened with a certain awe to her ideas of all that was necessary for her little girl, and sighed to think how much less was possible when there were six or seven little girls to think of, The child, however, was not so over-edu- cated’and overcared for as might have been fancied; for the parents were young, as I have said, very fond of each other, and fond of their own way; which attachments did not consist with the burden of dragging a small child with them wherever they went. The Beresfords liked to go about ‘‘ honey-mooning,”’ as their friends called it, and as they themselves going; not absorbed in any art, ras eee just enou evo- ae tion to ail to make their life full and pleasant. And there could scarcely be a pleasanter life. The fantasies of youth but not the sentiment of youth, had ended for both. Mr. Beresford had some mildly scientific pursuits, was a member of some learned societies, and of one or two new and advanced clubs where clever men were sup- posed to abound. Occasionally, in his comfort- able library, he wrote an article for a review or magazine, which was very much talked about by his friends, to the great edification and amusement of people who live by writing articles and say noth- ing about thém. This gave him’an agreeable sense of duty to add seriousness to his life; and he was never without occupation—meetings of committees, scraps of semi-public business, educational and other rojects, which, for the moment at least, seemed 3} of interest to the world, made him feel him- “OH, WHAT A FARCE IT WAS!” SHE THOUGHT, AS SHE SANK DOWN BESIDE THE BED, were not displeased to call it, by themselves, over the world. They would start sometimes quite suddenly, to the Riviera in the middle of winter, to escape London fogs and wintry chills; to Paris at Easter; to Scotland in the autumn; even to Norway sometimes, or such difficult places; and it stood to reason that they could not take the child with them when they started quite suddenly on these delightful journeys. For these journeys were delightful. They were well enough off not to require to count the cost; they went lightly, with little ngpage and no servants, and they went everywhere together. But it would have been bad for the little girl; therefore she stayed at home, under the care of the best of nurses. who had been Mrs. Beresford’s nurse before the child’s; and the father and mother, like two lovers, roamed light- ly about the world. But when they were at home, Mrs. Beresford talked a great deal about education, and had plans enough to have educated six prin- cesses, let. alone one little girl of undistinguished lineage. It was a very lucky thing for all parties, their friends said, that they had but this one child, Had they been hampered by half a dozen, what could they have done? It would have changed their lives completely. And one of their many felicities was, that whereas they were preserved from the old-maidishness of childless married persons by hav- ing a child, their freedom of action was preserved by the fact that they had but one. And they were wonderfully free of other relations who might have hampered themi. Mrs. Beresford had béen an orphan from her childhood, brought up by her grandmother, who, in the course of nature, was dead, too; and Mr. Beresford’s only two relatives were a wealthy aunt, Charity Beresford, who lived in a pretty house in the country, within driving dis- tance of London, and with whom lived, his elder sister Cherry Beresford name after her aunt, and living in considerable subju- gation to that ener- etic woman. Miss eresford was the richest member_ of the family, and her nephew had ee tations. from her, and Charity was the favorite female name of this branch of therace. Butthe idea of calling her child Charity did not at all sees young Mrs. Beresford when hér baby was born. She was be- iled, however, by the unusual look of it, which charmed her into calling the little girl by the more melodious name of Carite, con- tracted prettily in- to Cara in the draw- ing-room, end Carry in the nursery. Aunt Charity growled when she heard of it, but did not other- wise complain, and ee Aunt Cherry eclared herself un- feignedly glad that her little niece had escaped the worse consequence of a symbolical name, When the young couple went away leasuring, little ara very often would be sent to Sunninghill, to pass the quiet days there under the charge of ar the aunts; and-so all responsibility was removed from the minds of the parents, They had a letter sent to them every day to assure them of her welfare, however far off they might go —an_ extravagance which Aunt Charity condemned loudly, but which Aunt Cherry was proud of, as showing the devotion of the parents to little Cara. The child herself was very happy at Sunninghill, and was a much more prominent person there than at home, where very often she was in the way and in- terrupted conversation, For a father and mother who are very fond of each other, and have a great deal to talk of, often, it must be allowed, are ham- pered by the presence of one curious child, with uick ears and an inconveniently good memory. In this particular the half dozen would have been more easily managed than the one, Thus the Beresfords led a very pleasant life. They CARITA. had the prettiest house—naturally, traveling so much as they did, they had been able to “pick up” a great many charming things. You could scarcely See their wall for pictures; some very good, one or two wonderful windfalls, and the rest pretty enough; nothing strikingly bad, or next to nothing. Where other people had ordinary china, they had genuine old faience, and oneor two plaques which «Raphael himself might have seen perhaps—Urbino-ware, with Messrs. Giorgio’s name upon it. Not to speak of the Venice point which Mrs. Beres- ford wore, there were brackets in the drawing-room hung with scraps of old point ‘coupe which many a lady would have been glad to triin her dress with; andl instead of common ~portieres, they bad two pieces of old tapestry from an Italian convent which devotees went down on their knees before. But I have not space to tell you how many pretty things they had, It was one of the pleasures of their life whenever they saw anything that pleased them to bring it home for the decoration of thar pretty draw- ing-room, or the library, which Mr. Beresford had filled with old vellum-bound volumes of curious editions, and pretty books in Russia leather which kept the room always fragrant. What was wanting to this pleasant, warm, full, delightful living? Noth- ing but continuance; and it had not struck either of them that there was any doubt of this for long—long years atleast; What a long: way off three-score years and ten look when you are not yet forty! anc death looked further off still. No one thought of dy- ing. - Why should they? . For, to be sure, though we know very well that must happen to us sometime, in our hearts we are incredulous, and do not believe that we evercan die. The Beresfords never dreamed of anything so frightful. They were well, they were happy, they were young; and asit had been, so it would be, and a world so bright they felt must mean to go on forever. When Cara was about ten, however, the mother be- gan to feel less well than usual. There was nothing much the matter with her, it was thought—want of “tone,” a little irritability of disposition, a nervous temperament. What she wanted was change of air and scene. And she got that, and got better, as was thought, but then became ill again. No, not ill; un- well, indisposed, mal a son aise, nothing. more. There was nothing the matter with her aa! the doctors thought. Her lungs and heart, and ali vital organs, were perfectly sound; but there was a little local irritation which, acting upon a nervous temper- ament—the nervous. temperament was perpetually kept in the front, and all sorts of evils imputed to its agency. At Sunninghill, 1¢ must be confessed, they did not believe in the illness at all. “ Fudge!” said Aunt Charity, who had always been strong and had no faith in nerves; ‘don’t talk to me of your nervous temperaments. I know what it means. It means that Annie has fallen sick of al- ways having her own way. She has everthing she car desire, and she is illof having nothing more to wish for. A case of Alexander overagain in a Lon- don drawing-room, that’s what it is and nothing else, my word upon it, and I know my niece.” “Yes, Mr. Maxwell, perhaps there issome truth in what Aunt Charity says,’’ said Miss Cherry. “I think you know I don’t judge harshly——” “That means that I judge harshly,” said Miss Charity, bursting in. “Thank you, my dear. Well, —_ may call me uncharitable if you please; but ere’s where it is. Let James lose the half of his fortune, or all his china get broken, and she’d come around in no time—that’s what ails Annie. But as she belongs to a very refined society, and hasa silly husband, it’s called nerves. Bless me, Cherry, I hope I knew what nerves were, and all about it, before you were born.” “You could not know Annie before I was born,” said Miss Cherry, who was devoid of imagination. ‘I ho) = will give her your best attention, Mr. Max- well. My brother Jamesis a very fond husband, poor fellow! If a happened to Annie, he would never get the better of it, As for marrying again, or anythin; of that sort——” : Good heavens!” said the doctor; ‘‘I hope there is no need to take such an idea into consideration. We must not go so fast.”’ Miss Charity laughed. She was a great deal older than her niece, but much more sensible. ‘ There’s the seventh commandment to be thought of,’ she Said; for her remarks were sometimes more free than they ought to be, and put Miss Cherry toj the blush; and this was all the worse because she immediately walked out into the garden through the open window and left the younger lady alone with the doctor, who was an old friend of the family, and contemporary of the second Charity Beresford. Very old friends they were; even it was supposed that in their youth there had been or might have been passages of sentiment between these two now sitting so calmly opposite eachother. Dr. Maxwell, however, by this time was a widower, and not at all sentimental. He laughed too as Miss Beresford made her exit by the window. He was very well used to the family and all its ways. “ She wears very well,’’ he said, reflectively. “‘I ‘don’t think she has aged to speak of for these twenty years. WhenI used to be coming here in my early days, when I was beginning practice——”’ * oi z The rest of us have changed very much since en. “Yes,” said Dr. Maxwell, thinking most of himself; “* but she not at all. I could think when I look at her ‘that I was still, asI say, a young fellow beginning practice——” _Miss Cherry sighed—very softly, but still she did sigh; over forty, but still in_the position and with many sentiments ofa girl. People laugh at the com- bination, but it is a touching one on the whole. What ages of lingering monotonous life had passed over her since her present companion began his practice,since here Aunt Charity had begun to be an old woman! Dr. Maxwell had married, had lost his wife, had gone through perhaps sharper troubles than Miss Cher: had known. He was now middle-aged and stoutis. and weather-beaten—weather-beaten in aspect. and in soul—while she was slim and soft and maidenly still. The sigh was half for those uneventful years, and half for the undevelopment which she was con- scious of—the unchangedness of herself, underneath the outer guise, which was changed; but this was not safe ground, nor could it be talked of. So she brushed away the sigh with a little cough, and added, quickly: ’ ““T know perhaps what nerves are better than my aunt does, and I know Anniebetter. Tell me serious- ly, Mr. Maxwell, now we are alone, You don’t ap- prehend anything serious?. Should she go on travel- ing and running about as they do, if there is really anything the matter? No one can. be so mueh in- terested aslam. You would be quite frank with me?” ‘‘ Itis the best thing for her,” said the dcctor. “You, now—I should not say the same for you. You are a tranquil person and patient; but for her, the more she runs about the better. It distracts her and keeps her from thinking. If she worries, it’s all over with @ woman like that.”’ “She has so little to worry about.” ** Just so; and the less one has to bear the Jess one is fit for; that is to say,” said the doctor, getting up aud going to the window, “ the less some people are fit for. here’s that old aunt of yours to prove me a fool. Shehas never had anything to bear, that I know of, and she is strong enough to bear anything. Sixty-eight, and just look at her. There’sa physique for you. said, with a little outburst of professional enthusiasm, “that I admire—as straight as a rod still, and every faculty in good order. That a woman like that should never have married is a loss to the world.” Miss Cherry, who had gone to the window too, and stood by his side, looked out somewhat wistfully at her old aunt. Cherry was not like her, but took after the other side of the family, her own mother, who had died young, and had not possessed any physique to speak of. “It is very sweet to-day in the garden,” she said, inconsequently, and stepped out into the world of flowers and sunshine. Sunninghill was an ideal house for two ladies, a place which people who were shut out from such delights considered_quite enough for happiness. Indeed, Miss Cherry Beres- ford’s friends in general resented deeply the little plaintive air she sometimes took upon her. ‘‘ What could she wish for more?”’ they said, indignantly; ‘a place that was just too good to be wasted on two single women. There should be a family in it.’’ This was especially the sentiment of the rector’s wife,who was a friend of Cherry’s, and who felt it a personal slight to herself, who had a large family and many cares, when Cherry Beresford, with not a thing in the world to trouble er, presumed to look as if she was not quite happy. The house stood upon a hill, fringed around with small but delightful woods. These woods were on a level with the highest turrets of the great beautiful royal Castle of St. George, which lay full within sight in the afternoon sunshine. So you may imagine what a view it was which was visible from the old smooth velvet lawn around the house, which formed the apex to these woods. The’ quiet plain all around lay basking in the light under- neath, and the castle upon its hill dominated, with a broad and placid grandeur, that majestic sweep of country, with all its lights and shadows. The royal flag fluttered, in the breeze—the great. towers rose ray and solid against the sky. Green branches ramed in this picture on every side; the cuttings in the trees made a picture-gallery, indeed, of different views for different hours, according to the lights. “What a lovely place itis!” Mr. Maxwell said, with sudden enthusiasm; ‘I always forget how lovely it is till I come back.’ “Yes, it is beautiful,” said Cherry, who was used to it. “Ifyou are going to send them away, I suppose Cara may come tous forthe summer? that makes such a difference.” Cherry was very well used to the different lights. She acknowledged the beauty of her home, and yet I can fancy circumstances under which she would have liked a pretty little house in a street better. Man, nor woman either can not live by beauty alone, any more than by bread. “Here’s a pretty. business,’’ said Miss Beresford, briskly; ‘‘ half of my roses, I believe, spoiled for this year. Nosecondshow this time. Jones is the great- est idiot; he pretends to know every thing, and he knows nothing. Your protege, Cherry, of course. All the incapables hang on by you.” “T can’t see any signs of deficiency,”’ said the doc- tor, looking around. “Not at this moment; if there were, he should go onthe spot. If those two go off again, as you are al- ways sending them off, tell James I insis¢ on the child coming here. Ah, that’s what your women of nervous temperament do—leave their children at home in a poky London square, while they go wan- dering over the world. Tell them I wish it,’ said Miss | eresford, with a laugh; ‘ they never go against me. “They know how kind you always are.” “They know I’m old and will have something to leave behind me, that’s the plain English—as if J was going to accept poor Cherry’s subjection, poor soul, without rewarding her for it. It is she who will have everything when I’m gone. I’ve told them that, but still they think there’s a chance that Cara might cut her old aunt out. I can see through them. I see through most people,” she added, with a laugh, look- as him full _How could she know the thought passing through his mind at that moment, which was the abrupt re- That is the kind of woman,’’ Mr. Maxwell | flection, uncalled for perhaps, that for a professional man, who had made no extraordinary name in his profession, Cherry Beresford, though an old maiden, would not make such a bad wife? Could the old witch see. through broadcloth, and the comfortable coating of middle-aged flesh and blood, straight into a man’s heart? He grew red foolishly, as if that were possible, and stammered a little in his reply: “Tecan believe everything that is clever of you as well as everything that is kind; though why you la- dies should make such a point of having a little chit like that, who can only disturb your quiet in this paradise of a place—” : “Oh, how can you say so!” said Cherry. ‘The child’s voice and the child’s face make all the differ- ence—they are better than sunshine. They make the place beautiful. I would give it all, twenty times over, to have the child.” f ; “Whom her mother is very glad to leave behind aerct “‘Hold:your tongue, Cherry,” said the elder lady; “you mild little old maids, you are always ina way about children, I never took up that line. A child in the abstract is a nuisance, Now a man—there are advantages about a man. Sometimes he’s a nuisance too, but sometimes he’s a help. Believe them, and they'll tell you that marriage was always far from their thoughts, but-that children are their delight. That’s not my way of thinking... But I happen to like little Cara because she is Cara, not because she is a child. Soshe may come and take her chance with the rest.” Cherry had turned away along the garden path, and was looking through one of the openings at one of the views. ‘ She knew it by heart—exactly how the light fell, and where were the shadows, and the name of every tower, and almost the shape of every cloud. Was it wonderful that this was not so delight- ful to her as to the strangers who could not see that view every day in their lives? To some people, in- deed, the atmospheric changes, the effects of wind and color, the warnings and dispersions of those clouds, would have made poetry enough to fill up all that was wanting; but poor Miss Cherry was not poetical in this big way, though she was very fond of pretty verses, and even wrote some occasionally; but how she longed for the child’s innocent looks—the child’s ceaseless prattle! Her gentle delicacy was hurt at that unnecessary gibe about the old-maidish- ness, atid her supposed sham rejection of the hus- band who never came that way. ‘* Why should she talk of men—-especially before him? What do Twant with men?” said poor Miss Cherry to err, but my own niece—my brother’s child—surely I may wish for her?” And’surely there could not have been a@ more innocent wish.» CHAPTER IX ¥ A FRIGHT. aS ““WuicH you please—you are not gouryor rheum- atical, or anythin of that sort,” said Dr. Saxwell, almost gayly. ‘‘ Homburg, for instance—Hontows would do—or Baden, if i pes prefer that. I incline t the one you prefer; and enjoy yourself as much as you can—that is my prescription. Openair, novelty, change; and if you End you don’t relish one place goto another. The sea, if you take a fancy for the sea; and Sir William is of my opinion exactly. Choose the place which amuses you most.” “Tt seems to me,” said Mr. Beresford, “that these wise men are laughing at you, Annie. They know there’s nothing the matter with you. If Iwas not much obliged to them for thinking so, I should say you. had some reason to be offended. One knows what you doetors mean when you tell a patient to do whatever one likes best.” “ Tt means one of two things,” said Mrs. Beresford —‘ either that it is nothing, or that it is hopeless. Her husband burst into a soft laugh. “Well,” he said, ‘‘it is very evident it can not be the last—so it must be asI say. It is injurious to our pride, my darling; forI allow that it.is pleasant to ossess, either in your own person or your wife's, & Relicate and mysterious th of which it can be said that it baffles the doctors, without very much hurting the patient; but never mind. If you can bear this disrespectful verdict that you have nothing the matter with you, I assure you it makes me quite happy.”’ ire. Beresford looked at the doctor with very keen, eager eyes—eyes which had grown bigger and keen- er of late, perhaps from the failing of the round, smooth outlines of the face. She noticed that, though Maxwell saw very well that she was looking at him, he did not reply to those looks, but rather turned to her husband, and answered him, as if he had not no- ticed her. i ‘I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” he said; “ there is a little disturbance of the system, that is sometimes as serious as you could desire, and takes away the comfort of life perhaps more completely than aregu- = disease; but I hope that is not likely to happen ere.” “‘No, I don’t think it,” said the easy man. “We shall try Baden, which is the prettiest—unless you prefer some other place; in short, we shall go off without guide or compass, and do exactly what leases ourselves. We have done so, it must be al- owed, pretty often before; but to do it with the sanc- tion of the faculty—” re ** And the child as usual will go to Sunninghill? “Why should you say as usual, Mr. Maxwell? ’said Mrs. Beresford, with a suspicion of offense. Do you think I should take her with me? Do you sup- pre perhaps, that I might not come back again?— that I might never—see—” “This is $0 unnecessary,” said the doctor, remon- N CARITA. a strating. “ What must I say? tain of a thousand a year. well, I hope.” “When people are oh Tl, don’t you say much the same things to them? here was poor Susan Mait- land, whom you banished to Italy to die. People talk- ed of her coming back again. Oh, no! Iam not think- ing of myself, but of the subject in general. One needed only to look in her face to see that she would never come back.” ‘People have different ideas of their duty,” said Maxwell. ‘Some think it best not to frighten a patient with thoughts of death. I don’t know that one can lay down any rule. One is guided by cir- cumstances. ‘To some nervous people it is best not to say anything. Some are more frightened than others—just as some people are more susceptible to pain than others.” “Now I am going to ask you another question,” said Mrs, Beresford. ‘‘Suppose you had a patient very ill—I mean hopelessly ill, beyond all cure—do you think it is right to keep them alive as you do now, struggling to the last, staving off every new attack that might carry them off in quiet, fighting on and on to the last moment, and even prolonging that, when it comesso far, with cordials and stimulants? Keeping their breath in their poor suffering bodies till you get to the end of your resources—your dread- ful, cruel resources, that is what IE call them. Do you ‘hink this is right? I had an aunt who died dreadful- iy--of cancer.” “Ah! Anaunt? You did not tell me this,” said the doctor, off his guard; then, recovering himself, with something that looked like alarm, he said, hur- riedly: ‘‘ What would you have us do? kill the poor creatures? neglect them--refuse what aid, what allevi- ations we can——”’ “Tl tell you what I should like you to do if it were me,” she said, eagerly. ‘‘ When it was all over, when you were sure I could not get better, when there was nothing more in life but to suffer—suffer, then I should like you to make a strong, sweet dose for me o put me out of my trouble. Ishould like James to give itme. Do you remember what was said that time in India, in the mutiny? I don’t know if it was true, but people said‘it. That the husbands of some of the poor ladies kissed them and shot them, to save them; don’t youremember? That is what I should like you to do—a sweet, strong dose; and James would bring it tome and kiss me, and put it to my lips. That would be true love!” she said, growing ex- cited, the pale roses in her cheeks becoming hectic red; “that would be true friendship, Mr. Maxwell! ‘Then I should not be afraid. I should feel that you two stood between me and anguish, between me and ony—— Both the men arese to their feet as if to restrain her vehemence, with one impulse. ‘My darling— my darling!’’ said James Beresford, in dismay, ‘‘what are you thinking of?’ As for Mr. Maxwell, he walk- ed to the window and looked out, his features work- ing painfully. There was a moment in which the husband and wife clung together, he consoling her with every assuring word he could think of, she clinging to him with long, hySterical sobs. ** My love, what has put this into your head?”’ he said, half sobbing too, yet pretending to laugh. “My Annie, what fancy is this? Have you lost your wits, my darling? Why this is all folly; it is a dream; it is a craze you have taken into your head. Here is Max- well will tell you——” Here Maxwell made him a sign over his wife’s head so impassioned and imperative that the man was struckdumbfora moment. Hegazed blankly at the doctor, then stooped down to murmur fond words less distinct and articulate in her ear. Fortunately she was too much excited, too much disturbed, to notice this sudden pause, or that the doctor said nothing in response to her husband's ——_ She held fast by his arm and sobbed, but gradually grew calmer, soothed by his tenderness, and after a while made a half-smiling, tearful apology for her weak- ness. It was after dinner, on a lovely summer even- ing, not more than twilight, though it was late. The two gentlemen had been lingering over their claret, while she lay on the sofa waiting for them, for she did not choose to be shut up up stairs all by herself, shesaid. After she had recovered they went to the drawing-room, where the windows were all open,and a couple of softly burning eS lit up the twilight with two half-veiled moons of light. There was not a lovely prospect as at Sunninghill, nothing, indeed, but the London square, where a few trees vegetated, i= room enough for the dews to fall, and for ‘* the ittle span of sky and little lot of stars” to unfold themselves. But even London air grows soft with that musical effect of summer, and the sounds of ee voices and footsteps broke in with a faint, far-off sound, as in dreams. The country itself could not have been more peaceful. Mrs. Beresford, half ashamed of herself, sat down at the little bright tea-table just within the circle of one of the lamps, and made tea, talking with a little ages at gaiety, in which, indeed, the natural revulsion of relief after that outbreak of alarm and melancholy was evident. It was she now who was the soul of the little party, for the doctor was moody and preoccupied, and her husband watched her with an anxiety almost too great to be kept within the bounds of ordinary at- tention. She rose, however, to the occasion. She began to talk of her probable travels, of Baden and Homburg, and all the other places which had been suggested to her. ‘‘We shall be as well known about the world as the Wandering Jew,” she said; “‘better, for he had not a wife; and now that we have nearly exhausted Europe, there will be nothing for us but the East, or Egypt—suppose we go to Heyptt that would be original.”’ “Not at all,” said Mr. Maxwell, who semed half to resent her new-born gaiety. ‘‘All the cockneys in I wish I was as cer- You will come back quite the world go to Egypt. Mr. Cook does the Pyramids regularly; and as for Jerusalem, it is common—com- mon as Margate, and the society not much unlike,” “Margate is very bracing, I have always heard,”’ said Mrs. Beresford, ‘‘ and much cheaper than a Ger- man bath. What do you say to saving money, James, and eating shrimps, and riding donkeys? I remember being at Margate when a child. They say there is not such air anywhere, and Mr. Maxwell says that the sea—if I like the sea - “As for bracing air, my love, I believe there is no place like St. Moritz. Do you remember how it set me up after that—that——” ‘*Give him a big, well-sounding name, doctor,” said Mrs. Beresford, laughing; if was only a bilious attack. But, talking of the sea, there is Biarritz—that would do, don’t you think? Itis warm, and it was gay. After all, however, I don’t think I care for the sea. The Italian lakes are fine in the autumn, and asit gets cooler we might get on to Florence, or even Rome— or Kamtchatka, or Timbuctoo, or the Great Sahara,”’ she said, with a burst of laughter. ‘* You are com- plaisance itself, you gentlemen. Now I'll go and sing you something to reward you for humoring me to the top of my bent, and licensing me to go where I please.”’ She had a pretty voice, and sang well. The piano was at the other end of the room, the ‘* back drawing- room, of the commonplace London house. The two men kept their places while she went away into the dim evening, and sat down there, scarcely visible, and sang. The soft, sweet voice, not powerful, but pene- trating, arose like a bird in the gloom. James Beresford looked at the doctor with an en- treating look of anguish as the first notes arose into the air, so liquid, so tender, so sweet. ‘“Are you afraid? tell me,” he said, with pathetic brevity. Maxwell could not bear this questioning. He start- ed uP, and went to look this time at a picture on the wall, “I don’t know that I have any occasion to be afraid,” he said, standing with his back turned to his questioner, and quite invisible from the piano. “I’m a nervous man for a doctor, when I’m interested in a case——”’ Here there was a pause, for she had ended the first verse of the song, and the low warble of thesymphony was not enough to cover their voices. “Don’t speak of her asa case,” said Beresford, low, but eager, as the singing recommenced; * you chill my very blood.” ‘I didn’t mean to,”’ said the doctor, with colloquial homeliness; and he went away into the back drawing- room and sat down near the piano, to escape being questioned, poor Beresford thought, who sat still mournfully in the narrow circle of the lamplight, —— himself whether there was really anything to ear. The soft security of the house with all its open win- dows, the friendly voices heard outside, the subdued, pleasant light, the sweet voice singing in the dimness, what a picture of safety and ceietoe it made! what should happen to disturb it? y should it not go on forever? James Beresford’s sober head grew giddy as he asked himself this question, a sudden new ache un- dreamed of before leaping up, in spite of him, into his heart. The doctor pretended to be absorbed in the song; be beat time with his fingers as the meas- ure went on. ‘Never in the memory of man had he shown so much interest in singing before. Was it to conceal something else, something which could not be put into words, against the peace of this happy house, which had come into his heart? Fortunately, however, Beresford thought, his wife forgot all about that agitating scene for some days. She did not speak of it again, and for about a week after was unusually lively and gay, stronger and better than she had been for some time, and more light in heart, talking of their journey, and making preparations for it with all the pleasant little senti- ments which their sn ks expedition had always roused in her. hen every thing was ready, however, the evening before a left home a change again came over her. Cara had been sent to Sun- ninghill with her nurse that day, and the child had been unwilling to go, and had clung to her mother with unusual pertinacity. Even when this is incon- venient it is always flattering; and perhaps Mrs. Beresford was pleased with the slight annoyance and embarrassment which it caused. ‘“‘Remember, James,”’ she said, with some vivacity, as they sat together that evening, “this isto be the last time we go honey-mooning. Next time we are to be respectable old married people (as we are, with our almost grown-up daughter). She is nearly as tallas Iam, the child! nearly eleven—and so very tall for her age.” “I think we might take her,” said Beresford, who, indeed, had often wished for her before. “She is old enough to bear the traveling, and otherwise it would do her good.” “Yes, this must be the last time,’’ she said, her voice suddenly sae intoa sigh, and her mood changing as rapidly. Ahouseis dreary on the eve of departure. Boxes inthe hall, pinafores ‘on the furniture, the pretty china, the most valuable knick- knacks, all carried away and locked up—even the habitual books disturbed from their places, the last Pall Mall on the table. The cloud came over her face, as shadows flit over the hills, coming down even while she was speaking. ‘‘The last time,” she said. “T can’t help shivering. Hasit grown cold? or isit eee one is walking over my grave, as people say x “= Why, Annie, I never knew you were supersti- ous. “No. It isa new thing for me; but that is scarce- y superstition, And why should I care who walked over my grave? I must die some time or other, and be buried, unless they have taken to burning before then. But there is one thing 1 feel a great deal about,” she added, suddenly, ‘‘I said it once before, and you were frightened, James. If you knew that I was going to die of a painful disease—must die— that nothing could happen to save me, that there was nothing before me but hopeless pain—James dear, listen to me—don’t you think you would have the courage for my sake to make an end of me, to put me out of my trouble?” ** Annie, for Heaven's sake don’t talk so! sense, but it makes mre unhappy.” “AS a matter of speculation,” she said, with a knowledge of his weakness, ‘you can’t think it would be wrong to do this—do you, James?” “Asa matter of speculation,” he said, and the nat- ural man awoke in him. He forgot the pain the idea had caused him, and thought of it only as an idea; to put it in other words, the woman beguiled him, and he got upon one of his hobbies. ‘There are many things one allows as speculation which one is not fond of in fact. People must have a certain power over their own lives, and I think with you, my love, that it is no charity to keep infirm and suffering people just alive, and compel them to drag their existence on from day to day. Notwithstand- ing Heaven’s canon ’gainst self-slaughter, I think people should be allowed a certain choice. Lam not altogether against euthanasia; and if, indeed, recov- ery is hopeless, and life only pain—”’ ““Yes, James,”’ she said, eagerly, her eyes lighting up, her cheeks flaming with the red of excitement, ‘*Tam glad you see it like that; one might go furth- er, perhaps—when from any reason life was a bur- den; when one was useless, hopeless, unhappy—” “Stop a little; we are going too fast,’ he said, with a smile, so entirely did the argument beguile him. ‘*No one is justified in treating unhappiness like a mortal disease; unhappiness may pass away—does pass away, we all know, even when it seems worst. I cannot allow that; neither would I let people judge which lives were useless, their own or other people’s; but illness which was beyond the possibility of cure ought to be different; therefore, if the patient wish- ed it, his wish, I think, should be law— Annie, my darling, what is this? what do you mean?” She had suddenly arisen from where she was sit- ting near him, and thrown herself half at his feet, half into his arms, “Only this,” she said; ‘“‘ promise me—promise me, James, if this should ever happen to me—if you had the assurance, not only from me, but from—the people who know—that I had a terrible complaint, that I could never get better—promise that you would put me out of pain, James; promise that you would give me something to deliver me. rou would not stand by and see me going down, down into the valley of death, into misery and weariness and constant pain, and, O God! loathsomeness, James!” She buried her head in his breast, clinging to him with a grasp which was almost fierce; her very fin- gers which held him appealing strenuously, forcing a consent from him. hat could he say? He was too much distressed and horrified to know how to shape his answer. Fond words, caresses, soothings of at kind were allin vain for use at such a mo- ment, “Far be it from you, my darling; far be it from you!” he cried. ‘You! oh, how bega A* let your im- agination cheat you so, my love? othing like this is going to happen, my Annie, my best, my dearest It is non- “ Ah!” shecried, “but if it were not imagination— promise me, James.” Whether she did eventually wring this wild promise from him he never knew. e would have said any- thing to calm her, and he finally succeeded; and hav- ing once more cleared her bosom of this perilous stuff, she regained her gaiety, her courage and spirits, and they set off as cheerful as any pair of honey-moon travelers need wish to be. Butafter she had left him and gone to her room pacified and com- forted that night, you may fancy what sort of a half hour that poor man had as he closed the windows, which had still been left open, and put out the lamps, as was his practice, for they were considerate peo- ple, and did not keep their servants out of bed. He stepped out on the ee and looked up at the moon, which was shedding her streamof silver light as impartially upon London housetops as if those white roofs had been forest trees. How still it seemed; every one asleep or going to rest, for it was late—a few lights glimmering in high windows, asen- sation of soft repose in the very air. God help this silent sleeping earth upon which even in her sleep dark evils were creeping! Was some one perhaps dying somewhere even at this serene moment? His heart contracted with a great pang. In the midst of life we are in death. Why had those haunting, terri- ble words come into his ears? CHAPTER III. HONEY-MOONING. Tue real honey-moon is not always a delightful moment. This, which sounds like heresy to the ro- mantic, and blasphemy to the young, isa fact which @ great many people acknowledge readily enough when they have gone beyond the stage at which it sounds like an offense to the wife or to the husband who is supposed to have made that period rapturous. The new pair have not the easy acquaintance with each other which makes the happiness of close com- panionship; perhaps they have not that sympathy” with each other’s tastes which is almost a better CARITA. practical tie thansimple love. They are half afraid of each other; they are making discoveries every Gay of new points in each other’s characters, de- lightful or undelightful as may be, which bewilder their first confidence of union; and the more mind and feeling there is between them, the more likely this is to be the case. The shallow and superficial “get on” better than those who have a great deal of excellence or tender depth of sentiment to be found out. But after the air have come to full acquaintance; after they have earned each other from A B.C up to the most diffi- cult chapter; after the intercourse of ordinary life has borne its fruit, there is nothing in the world so delightful as the honey-mooning which has passed by years the legitimate period of the honey-moon. Sometimes one sees respectable fathers and mothers enjoying it, who have sent off their children to the orthodox honey-moon, and only then feel with a sur- prised pleasure how sweet it is to have their own soli- tude a deux, to be left to themselves for a serene and happy moment; to feel themselves dearer and near- er than they ever were before. There is something infinitely touching and tender in this honey-mooning of theold. James Beresford and _ his wife, however, were not ofthese. They were still young, and of all the pleasures they had, there was none equal to this | close and unbroken companionship. hey knew each other so well, and all their mutual tastes, that they scarcely required to put their intercourse into words; and yet how they would talk! about every- thing, about nothing, as if they had just met after a along absence, and had thoughts to exchange on every subject. This is a paradox; but we are not bound to explain paradoxes which are of the very essence of life, and the most attractive things in it. It had been the habit of these two to go every where together. Mrs. Beresford had not the prejudices of ap English female Philistine. She went where her husband wanted to go, fearing nothing, and trotted about with him high and low, through picture-gal- leries and ojd churches, to studios, even behind the scenes of the operas, and through the smoke clouds of big ateliers, Nothing came amiss to her with him by her side. It is almost the only way in which a woman can enjoy the freedom of movement, the easy locomotion of a man. Mrs. Beresford went away quite cheerfully, as we have said. She forgot or put away her mysterious terrors. She addressed herself to allthe ordinary et which she knew so well. ‘‘We shall never beso free again,” she said, half laughing, half with a remote infinitesi- mal pang. ‘We shall have to go to the correct places and do the right things when Cara is with us.’’ *“ We must give up bric-a-brac,’’ she said afterward. “Cara must not grow up acquainted with all those dusty back premises; her pretty frocks would be spoiled, and her infantine sincerity. If she had heard you bargaining, James, for that Buen Retiro eup! Saying it is naught—it is naught, and then bragging of the treasure you had found as soon as it was out of the dealer’s hands.” “Well,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘I only do as other people do._ Principles of honor don’t consist with collecting. I am no worse than my neighbors.” ** But that will never do for Cara,”’ said the mother; “if you andI are not all her fancy painted us, we will not do for Cara. No; I thought you had never remarked her really. She is the most uncompromis- ing little idealist, and if we an ai her, James, I don’t know what the child will do.” “Tt appears to me that you are making a bug-bear of Cara.” “No; but I know her. We must give up.the bric-a- brac, for if you continue it under her blue eyes you will be ruined. If she was here she would make you 0 back and tell the man he has sold you that cup too cheap. “That would be nonsense,” said Mr. Beresford, in- voluntarily putting his hand into the pocket where he