Agnes was now attacked, and almost overcome, by a violent temptation. She would be revenged ―amply revenged! She would leave Frances alone with those whom in her delirium she knew not. "I am her only comfort, and I will go. I will leave her. I cannot stay here. What is there to detain me? I will leave her friendless, as she left me—yes, friendless, for she knows none but me. I owe her no debt of gratitude; why should I remain ?"

Long did Agnes battle with those rebellious thoughts; the temptation was most violent, and assaulted her again and again. She must go; she must never see Frances more. Thus did the tempter plead. And pacing up and down the room, her hands clasped to her forehead, she fought against human nature, and prayed for grace and strength to assist her in coming to a more Christian frame of mind.

In answer to her prayer came better thoughts. She remembered that Frances was not a Catholic, and could not be expected to regard her sin in the same light in which it appeared to her.

Sobbing violently, she threw herself upon her knees and prayed-prayed long and fervently. Humbling herself before her God, she said, "O my God, help me to overcome these wicked feelings; grant me grace to forgive her who has injured me. O, pardon my uncharitable and revengeful thoughts!"

She prayed for Frances, that the choicest blessings might descend upon her; and ere she

rose from her knees, her resolution was taken. She would not leave Frances; to watch and tend her should be her constant care. "My whole life," she said, "shall be devoted to her happiness. If this illness, which every day becomes more alarming, should be her last, the secret she has just divulged shall remain for ever buried in the inmost recesses of my heart; but if God spare her life-and that He may do so, I most humbly pray

-no look, no act of mine shall betray the secret. I possess. To make my sacrifice more complete, I offer all the suffering that I have endured' through her fault, and all that I may yet endure, for the conversion of her who has wronged me."

She hid her face in her hands, and thus remained till she became more tranquil.

On reëntering the sick-room Agnes could at first scarcely overcome her aversion for the unhappy Frances; but this feeling vanished when her fell eye the wasted form. She thought upon of the time when she had first seen her; how she then marvelled at her vivacity and never-ceasing flow of spirits; and how, when in later years they had met again, so fearful a change had taken place in her whole appearance that she had scarcely known her. And this change, Agnes now felt sure, had been caused by remorse. Frances had injured herself more than Agnes, who, as she stood gazing on the unconscious invalid, thought of all that each had suffered, and acknowledged that her own had been the lighter burden. She thought again of how mysteriously they had been

thrown together, and recognised the hand of Providence in thus bringing her to the side of Frances.

She remembered the affectionate kindness that Frances had continually shown her during the past year, and her heart softened towards the unhappy being who had suffered so much on her account.

She pressed her lips to the fevered brow, and murmured, “No, Frances, I will not leave you; and, if you die, no word of mine shall tarnish the brightness of your memory."

Yes, whether Frances lived or died, for her sake Agnes would sacrifice all. Kneeling down by her bedside she renewed her resolution.

was Agnes's revenge.

Such

CHAPTER XXVII.

EDITH.

"I love thee still.' Shall I forget
What thou hast felt for me?
And since the hour when last we met,
No hope hath been for thee.
Thy faded joys, thy blighted name,

Thy life of unmix'd ill;

O, canst thou say, in spite of blame,
'My friend, I love thee still' ?"

"Unchill'd by the rain and unwaked by the wind,

ΑΝΟΝ.

The lily lies sleeping through winter's dark hour;
Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower."

MOORE.

SEVERAL days passed by. Frances had been ill a fortnight, and still continued to grow worse. The devouring flame, which for years had been her constant companion, had done its work, and made fearful ravages upon her constitution; and now, becoming daily weaker, she was so totally prostrated that the doctors acknowledged her life to be in the balance.

The anguish of her distracted husband no words can describe. No occupation could for a moment divert his mind from the distressing

thoughts which haunted him. When away from his wife's bedside, he was miserable and anxious; and if permitted to enter the room, the sight of his beloved Frances, so changed and so utterly unconscious of his presence, was positive torture to him.

One day when he had been sitting watching her for hours, and had heard nothing from her lips but wild and random sentences, which fell without meaning on his ear, he left her with a feeling of despair, saying, as he closed the door, "How long is this to last? Will she ever know me again ?"

Once possessed of this idea, it preyed upon his mind to so fearful an extent that each minute seemed an hour until the next visit of the physician, whom he intended to question on the subject.

They had a long and painful interview; and Mr. Clyde at last wrung from the reluctant lips of the doctor the admission that, should Frances recover, which was just possible, he could give no assurance that her mental faculties would not be permanently impaired.

The agonised husband quitted the room without a word: this was almost more than he could bear.

At Ferncliffe, the news of the baby's death and of Frances's sudden illness had filled everyone with grief and anxiety.

Mrs. Percival, full of affectionate sympathy for her niece, regretted that she could not undertake