as a token of the pardon which I craved; for I had won an unbroken peace with that utter renunciation. One day I knelt beside his bed, and took his thin, wasted hand in my own: "Adriance, dear friend," I said, "do not burden yourself with a single earthly care. Leave all to me; I will do for them as you would have wished." It opened his heart more fully; he told me of affairs at home, on what Bertha's prospect for the future depended. I already knew of the commercial crisis which made this of no avail; but he should die thinking that he had provided for her. Afterward he said, "Do not let me be carried away from this lovely land!" Bertha had returned then, and sat, as was her wont, stroking his dark hair, and the soft, curling beard that hid the ravages of disease. So I left them, with Bertha's tears and blessings, and the fond, clinging kisses of her children, and came back to my old way of life; happier now, since I knew that I was able to make them happy, and with a new interest in my gains, for now they were all for my heir Bernard. Then, too, I had a strange companionship in that lonely grave. I could sit beside it in the soft, departing flush of day, and look into my own heart and life, an humbler and a better man for his dear sake. I know not what conceit had given the name to my estate; but it appealed to me now-it was doubly "Mount Victory!" It never crossed my mind that the time might come when Bertha could be induced to think of marriage with another; and for myself, my vow seemed not only to have sealed my lips, but the It very fountains of my heart. "Oh my darling!" she cried out quickly. was the first real approach to the pangs of separation. "It is a great deal to ask you, Bertha; and my children are there too; but the dying have strange fancies. Let me lie under this beautiful, clear sky; let this soft air breathe over my grave. Bernard will be here to watch it. My boy will come some day. Will you promise?" How careful and far-seeing he was! He wished to save her that melancholy journey home, which would hourly keep alive the saddest of all memories, and renew her grief when the time for a final separation came. I could see it all, unselfish to the last, for it was but human to be comforted with the thought that she might watch and tend his grave, and his children be brought to kneel there. How could I be thankful enough that in all this no cowardly shame was burning in my heart, that I could look unfalteringly into his dear eyes conscious of my own rectitude to ward him! No love, no watchfulness, could stay the hour. No brother could have had a calmer pulse, a tenderer, purer pity, than I when I bore the fainting frame of Bertha in my arms from the last closing scene, peaceful as his life had ever been. She leaned upon me so entirely then, I wondered that I felt no temptation. The first ago nizing loneliness drew her so toward the friend who had shared her watch, and now so truly shared her sorrow. We obeyed his wish, and laid him almost beneath the shadow of the cross, close to our little English church; and then I urged her not to linger. I could not bear the sight of her patient grief, and I knew that her children would be her best consolers. I was with her when she met them, when they flew to her arms and covered her face with kisses. How lovely they had grown-how much she had left in them! But that was all. Had Bernard lived, his fortunes were ruined; but she never suspected this. I arranged every thing; all but one transaction independent of his regular commercial life. He had given me a note of it, but charged me not to open it until the time should mature; and of this he made a penciled record on the envelope. So the time wore on, till, by the date upon the paper he had given me, my presence should be necessary in England again. Three years had passed, and I was selfish enough to hope that the venture had failed, so that I could still supply all the needs of my dear ones. They welcomed me as if they had been mine; Bertha with almost her old radiant smile; the children with a recognition and affectionate remembrance I had scarcely looked for. I know not what attracted my eyes to the mirror as I sat down with Bernard and Lelia hanging about my neck; but I could not help looking at my own face in the midst of the fair group -so dark, so weather-beaten-I seemed suddenly to have passed my prime. Bertha's sweet face, still shaded by the close, transparent fold of her widow's cap, looked over my shoulder; and in the mirror I scanned it as I would not have dared otherwise to do. The same tranquil loveliness as of old, softened but not gloomy from sad experience. The fresh young lives of her children had saved her from that. I was her guest that night, and we talked tenderly of the past, and of him whom we both mourned. It seemed to draw me very near to her, not with the old hungering, for that would have startled me; but she seemed so inexpressibly dear; it was enough to know that I sheltered her from the cares of life-a strange pleasure to remember that but for me she would have them upon her like an armed host. "But you have not told me what this errand is," she said, as the hour grew late and we heard the steps of the household stealing off to rest. "No; I do not know myself. To-morrow is the day the package was to be opened. I have it here. We might read it together. Dear Bertha, could you bear the sight of his own handwriting?" She took the letter eagerly. tears dropping on it as she pressed the feeble, irregular lines to her lips. "Shall I read it?"-and the words were blurred and mingled before my own eyes as I commenced : "Do not think, my more than brother, that I have been blind to your love for my blessed wife." The words leaped from my lips before I knew their import. She started, faltered, sank down by my side again. I looked to see if there was anger or resentment in her face. "I did not dream of this, Bertha. Shall I go on? May I go on!" I felt an intuition of what would follow. "I have seen the struggle. She did not dream of it, and I have not betrayed you. I knew why you left us so suddenly; I understood that long since; I have felt for you, and asked God to strengthen you now. has. I believe the evil spirit is cast out. ward shall come; Bertha will yet love you; my children shall be yours. You have my blessing with them." "Bertha!" I believe He But your re "But is it true, Bernard?" and she looked into my eyes with a sad pity and—could I hope "Oh! Bertha, God knows what my love has been-is now. I can not deny myself telling you this, at least." So she became mine at last-mine with the sanction of Heaven, since we had his blessing. Not that I would rob him of one moment's recollection. We talk of him constantly-we stand by his grave together; we know better now why he wished to be laid there, looking forward to this; and his children are dearer to me than my own could ever be. I am satisfied that none have come to share the love of their mother and my ever-watchful care. ORLEY FARM. BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE.-ILLUSTRATED BY J. E. MILLAIS. CHAPTER XXIX. BREAKING COVERT. mistress across into the further field apparently with ease. In that field the dogs were now running altogether, so that a sheet might have cov HERE'S a double ditch and bank that ered them; and Miss Tristram, exulting within "THERE'S & doll, Miss Tristram had said her heart and holding in her horse, knew that when she was informed that there was no gate out of the wood at the side on which the fox had broken. The gentleman who had tendered the information might as well have held his tongue, for Miss Tristram knew the wood intimately, was acquainted with the locality of all its gates, and was acquainted also with the points at which it might be left, without the assistance of any gate at all, by those who were well mounted and could ride their horses. Therefore she had thus replied, "There's a double ditch and bank that will do as well." And for the double ditch and bank at the end of one of the grassy roadways Miss Tristram at once prepared herself. "That's the gap where Grubbles broke his horse's back," said a man in a red coat to Peregrine Orme, and so saying he made up his wavering mind and galloped away as fast as his nag could carry him. But Peregrine Orme would not avoid a fence at which a lady was not afraid to ride; and Felix Graham, knowing little but fearing nothing, followed Peregrine Orme. At the end of the roadway, in the middle of the track, there was the gap. For a footman it was doubtless the easiest way over the fence, for the ditch on that side was half filled up, and there was space enough left of the half-broken bank for a man's scrambling feet; but Miss Tristram at once knew that it was a bad place for a horse. The second or further ditch was the really difficult obstacle, and there was no footing in the gap from which a horse could take his leap. To the right of this the fence was large and required a good horse, but Miss Tristram knew her animal and was accustomed to large fences. The trained beast went well across on to the bank, poised himself there for a mo'nent, and taking a second spring carried his she had got away uncommonly well. Peregrine Orme followed-a little to the right of the lady's passage, so that he might have room for himself, and do no mischief in the event of Miss Tristram or her horse making any mistake at the leap. He also got well over. But, alas! in spite of such early success he was destined to see nothing of the hunt that day! Felix Graham, thinking that he would obey instructions by letting his horse do as he pleased, permitted the beast to come close upon Orme's track, and to make his jump before Orme's horse had taken his second spring. "Have a care," said Peregrine, feeling that the two were together on the bank, "or you'll shove me into the ditch." He however got well over. Felix, attempting to "have a care" just when his doing so could be of no avail, gave his horse a pull with the curb as he was preparing for his second spring. The outside ditch was broad and deep and well banked up, and required that an animal should have all his power. It was at such a moment as this that he should have been left to do his work without injudicious impediment from his rider. But poor Graham was thinking only of Orme's caution, and attempted to stop the beast when any positive and absolute stop was out of the question. The horse made his jump, and, crippled as he was, jumped short. He came with his knees against the further bank, threw his rider, and then in his struggle to right himself rolled over him. Felix felt at once that he was much hurtthat he had indeed come to grief; but still he was not stunned nor did he lose his presence of mind. The horse succeeded in gaining his feet, and then Felix also jumped up and even walked a step or two toward the head of the animal with the object of taking the reins. But he found that he could not raise his arm, and he roar for assistance; but the woods re-echo your found also that he could hardly breathe. Both Peregrine and Miss Tristram looked back. "There's nothing wrong, I hope," said the lady; and then she rode on. And let it be understood that in hunting those who are in advance generally do ride on. The lame and the halt and the wounded, if they can not pick themselves up, have to be picked up by those who come after them. But Peregrine saw that there was no one else coming that way. The memory of young Grubbles's fate had placed an interdict on that pass out of the wood, which nothing short of the pluck and science of Miss Tristram was able to disregard. Two cavaliers she had carried with her. One she had led on to instant slaughter, and the other remained to look after his fallen brother-in-arms. Miss Tristram in the mean time was in the next field and had settled well down to her work. "Are you hurt, old fellow?" said Peregrine, turning back his horse, but still not dismounting. "Not much, I think," said Graham, smiling. "There's something wrong about my arm-but don't you wait." And then he found that he spoke with difficulty. "Can you mount again?" "I don't think I'll mind that. Perhaps I'd better sit down." Then Peregrine Orme knew that Graham was hurt, and jumping off his own horse he gave up all hope of the hunt. "Here, you fellow, come and hold these horses." So invoked, a boy, who in following the sport had got as far as this ditch, did as he was bid, and scrambled over. "Sit down, Graham-there; I'm afraid you are hurt. Did he roll on you?" But Felix merely looked up into his face, still smiling. He was now very pale, and for the moment could not speak. Peregrine came close to him, and gently attempted to raise the wounded limb; whereupon Graham shuddered, and shook his head. "I fear it is broken," said Peregrine. Graham nodded his head, and raised his left hand to his breast; and Peregrine then knew that something else was amiss also. I don't know any feeling more disagreeable than that produced by being left alone in a field, when out hunting, with a man who has been very much hurt and who is incapable of riding or walking. The hurt man himself has the privilege of his infirmities and may remain quiescent; but you, as his only attendant, must do something. You must for the moment do all, and if you do wrong the whole responsibility lies on your shoulders. If you leave a wounded man on the damp ground, in the middle of winter, while you run away, five miles perhaps, to the next doctor, he may not improbably-as you then think-be dead before you come back. You don't know the way; you are heavy yourself, and your boots are very heavy. You must stay therefore; but as you are no doctor, you don't in the least know what is the amount of the injury. In your great trouble you begin to words, and the distant sound of the huntsman's horn, as he summons his hounds at a check, only mocks your agony. "Get But Peregrine had a boy with him. upon that horse," he said, at last; "ride round to Farmer Griggs, and tell him to send somebody here with a spring cart. He has got a spring cart, I know-and a mattress in it." "But I hain't no gude at roiding like," said the boy, looking with dismay at Orme's big horse. "Then run; that will be better, for you can go through the wood. You know where Farmer Griggs lives. The first farm the other side of the Grange.' "Ay, ay, I knows where Farmer Griggs lives well enough." "Run then; and if the cart is here in half an hour I'll give you a sovereign." Inspirited by the hopes of such wealth, golden wealth, wealth for a lifetime, the boy was quickly back over the fence, and Peregrine was left alone with Felix Graham. He was now sitting down, with his feet hanging into the ditch, and Peregrine was kneeling behind him. "I am sorry I can do nothing more," said he; "but I fear we must remain here till the cart comes.' "I am-so-vexed-about your hunt," said Felix, gasping as he spoke He had, in fact, broken his right arm, which had been twisted under him as the horse rolled, and two of his ribs had been staved in by the pommel of his saddle. Many men have been worse hurt and have hunted again before the end of the season, but the fracture of three bones does make a man uncomfortable for the time. "Now the cart-is sent for, couldn't you-go on?" But it was not likely that Peregrine Orme would do that. "Never mind me," he said. "When a fellow is hurt he has always to do as he's told. You'd better have a drop of sherry. Look here: I've got a flask at my saddle. There; you can support yourself with that arm a moment. Did you ever see horses stand so quiet? I've got hold of yours, and now I'll fasten them together. I say, Whitefoot, you don't kick, do you?" And then he contrived to picket the horses to two branches, and having got out his case of sherry, poured a small modicum into the silver mug which was attached to the apparatus, and again supported Graham while he drank. "You'll be as right as a trivet by-and-by; only you'll have to make Noningsby your head-quarters for the next six weeks." And then the same idea passed through the mind of each of them-how little a man need be pitied for such a misfortune if Madeline Staveley would consent to be his nurse. No man could have less surgical knowledge than Peregrine Orme, but, nevertheless, he was such a man as one would like to have with him if one came to grief in such a way. He was cheery and up-hearted, but at the same time gentle and even thoughtful. His voice was pleasant, and his touch could be soft. For many years afterward Felix remembered how that Felix Graham, though he was weak, was not stunned or senseless, and he knew well who it was that had procured for him that comfort. Griggs's cart." And then they stopped him a moment to ask for some description, but the boy could tell them nothing to indicate that the wounded man was one of their friends. It And then the carriage followed Madeline, and might, however, be Augustus, and so the three there was quite a concourse of servants, and rode on quickly toward the fence, knowing no-horses, and ladies on the inside of the fence. thing of the circumstances of the ditches which would make it out of their power to get to the fallen sportsman. But Peregrine heard the sound of the horses and the voices of the horsemen. "By Jove, there's a lot of them coming down here," said he. "It's the judge and two of the girls. Oh, Miss Staveley, I'm so glad you've come. ham has had a bad fall and hurt himself. You haven't a shawl, have you? the ground is so wet under him." Gra But the wounded man was still, unfortunately, on the other side. No cart from Farmer Griggs made its appearance, though it was now more than half an hour since the boy had gone. Carts, when they are wanted in such sudden haste, do not make their appearance. It was two miles through the wood to Mr. Griggs's farm-yard, and more than three miles back by any route which the cart could take. And then it might be more than probable that in Farmer Griggs's establishment there was not always a horse ready in har"It doesn't signify at all," said Felix, look-ness, or a groom at hand prepared to yoke him. ing round and seeing the faces of his friends on Peregrinè had become very impatient, and had the other side of the bank. more than once invoked a silent anathema on the farmer's head; but nevertheless there was no appearance of the cart. Madeline Staveley gave a slight shriek which her father did not notice, but which Miss Furnival heard very plainly. "Oh, papa," she said, "can not you get over to him?" And then she began to bethink herself whether it were possible that she should give up something of her dress to protect the man who was hurt from the damp, muddy ground on which he lay. "Can you hold my horse, dear?" said the judge, slowly dismounting; for the judge, though he rode every day on sanitary considerations, had not a sportsman's celerity in leaving and recovering his saddle. But he did get down, and, burdened as he was with a great-coat, he did succeed in crossing that accursed fence. Accursed it was from henceforward in the annals of the H. H., and none would ride it but daredevils who professed themselves willing to go at any thing. Miss Tristram, however, always declared that there was nothing in it-though she avoided it herself, whispering to her friends that she had led others to grief there, and might possibly do so again if she persevered. "Could you hold the horse?" said Madeline to Miss Furnival, "and I will go for a shawl to the carriage." Miss Furnival declared that to the best of her belief she could not; but nevertheless the animal was left with her, and Madeline turned round and galloped back toward the carriage. She made her horse do his best, though her eyes were nearly blinded with tears, and went straight on for the carriage, though she would have given much for a moment to hide those tears before she reached it. "We must get him across the ditches into the carriage," said the judge. "If Lady Staveley will let us do that," said Peregrine. "The difficulty is not with Lady Staveley, but with these nasty ditches," said the judge; for he had been up to his knees in one of them, and the water had penetrated his boots. But the task was at last done. Mrs. Arbuthnot stood up on the back seat of the carriage, so that she might hold the horses, and the coachman and footman got across into the field. "It would be better to let me lie here all day," said Felix, as three of them struggled back with their burden, the judge bringing up the rear with two hunting-whips and Peregrine's cap. "How on earth any one would think of riding over such a place as that," said the judge. But then, when he had been a young man it had not been the custom for barristers to go out hunting. Madeline, as she saw the wounded man carefully laid on the back seat of the carriage, almost wished that she could have her mother's place, that she might support him. Would they be careful enough with him? Would they remember how terrible must be the pain of that motion to one so hurt as he was? And then she looked into his face as he was made to lean back, and she saw that he still smiled. Felix Graham was by no means a handsome man; I should hardly sin against the truth if I were to say that he was ugly. But Madeline, as she "Oh, mamma! give me a thick shawl; Mr. looked at him now, lying there utterly without Graham has hurt himself in the field, and is ly-color, but always with that smile on his counteing on the grass." And then in some incoher-nance, thought that no face to her liking had ent and quick manner she had to explain what ever been more gracious. She still rode close she knew of the accident before she could get a to them as they went down the grassy road, saycarriage-cloak out of the carriage. This, how-ing never a word. And Miss Furnival rode ever, she did succeed in doing, and in some man- there also, somewhat in the rear, condoling with ner, very unintelligible to herself afterward, she the judge as to his wet feet. did gallop back with her burden. She passed "Miss Furnival," he said, "when a judge the cloak over to Peregrine, who clambered up forgets himself, and goes out hunting, he has the bank to get it, while the judge remained no right to expect any thing better. What on the ground supporting the young barrister. would your father have said had he seen me |