I believe that it is our house of which you are speaking,' said Otto, in a bitter tone.

Just as you please,' she answered, shrugging her shoulders, and turning her back to him as she went out upon the terrace, and vanished in the darkness; exactly as she had done on that very evening which Otto had, a few moments before, recalled to himself with such tender feelings. And, just as then, Celine did not come back, and the gentlemen supped together, whilst the third place at the table remained unoccupied, and Siword had not courage to allude to her absence, although he made superhuman exertions to keep up a conversation with Otto on indifferent subjects. But it was difficult to determine which of the two felt most relieved when the evening was so far over that Siword could speak of going home. As he took leave of his host, who had accompanied him to the gate of Beckley, he placed his hand on Otto's shoulder, and said, seriously—

'Otto, in every marriage, even in the best, there are days of light and shadow. I have been married myself, and I know this by experience. That I should have come to you on a dark day naturally annoys me, but you would do wrong to pay attention to it. Who knows how beautifully the sun may shine when I come again?'

The sun shines no more after it has set,' answered Otto, in a bitter, melancholy tone.

'Not till the night is over, but even the longest night has an end; and you know, Otto, that the night is darkest just before the dawn. Keep up your spirits, my good fellow.'

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE LAST QUARREL.

GAIN another week has passed. The month of May

tints of

is not yet at an end, and the tints of spring are still on the face of nature, which, retarded by the unusual severity of April, is making up for lost time with redoubled speed, and bringing into activity the old but ever new miracle of the revival of vegetation. The sun, not as yet carefully shut out, as in the scorching heat of midsummer, but appreciated and admitted freely into all houses, sheds light and cheerfulness, awakening in most hearts an echo which is in harmony with the young life out of doors.

In most hearts, but not in all.

Otto Welters' heart was one of these exceptions.

Even in his office, and on the desk at which he was seated, the cheery sunbeams danced up and down, but he himself sat gloomy and sunk in thought, without commencing many matters of business that awaited his attention.

A strange restlessness had come over Otto that morning, a restlessness which made him wake much earlier than usual, and drove him out for an early walk; it even followed him into his office, where generally he was able to put aside all cares and thoughts that might hinder him from giving himself undisturbedly to his work.

Here it was not his wont to dwell on the circumstances of his private life; here he was the advocate, and the man, with his needs and wishes, was thrown into the background by the force of his will and the absorbing exertions which his work required. But to-day the man

appeared to have the upper hand, and to work was almost impossible.

To-day everything was a hindrance and a trouble-the sunbeams which played on the white paper, the twittering birds in the lime trees before the house, the humming bee and the buzzing fly, as they came in at the window with the warm summer air, and the chatter of the children at play in the market-place, but above all the painful thoughts which filled his heart till it wellnigh burst.

It was almost as if this sunny, cheery May morning had brought him to the consciousness of the sharp contest going on within him, as if all the self-deception which had so long possessed him had departed, as if all at once he comprehended that the green oasis which he had fancied he had seen in the distance were but a mirage, which had made him overlook the dry, bare desert of his life. He shuddered when he thought of the future the future which could bring him nothing but the confirmation or increase of the wretchedness of to-day.

And when he looked back, his heart was wrung with self-reproach and remorse, for then he thought of her who in every sorrowful hour of his life came before his mind -of Mary van Stein, the noble, pure being whom he had thrust away, and with her a happiness which might have been perfect but for the weakness and inconstancy which had led his heart far from her.

He reproached himself for having ever married Celine, knowing, as he did well enough, that he was not the man to bear with or improve such a nature as hers.

He reproached himself in that he had exercised no influence on her for good; that in some things he was too weak and yielding, and in others too impatient, and that at all times he acted in opposition to her views. He

T

reproached himself for having betrayed the confidence which Mr Arnold had placed in him, and for having destroyed the happiness of Celine's life by a marriage which had only served to extinguish in her every noble aim.

Yes, indeed, in this hour, what was there which was not a matter of reproach to Otto Welters?

In this hour, it was as if he had drained the bitter cup of life to its last dregs-as if he had closed for ever his account as regards all hope of peace and happiness.

And yet in such a bitter hour as this there still smoulders in every man's heart a spark of reaction, which not unfrequently at that very moment rekindles into a new life of hope and courage, however contradictory this may seem. As by a thousand invisible springs, man is attached to earth and life-a life which often seems of so little worth in the eyes of others-so also the heart clings to happiness, and cannot, and will not, renounce it and never less than when that happiness seems to be sinking away for ever. Springing up from his chair, he paced up and down the room in great trouble and excitement, and gave utterance in a faint voice to the words which rang in his heart: Is it too late, irrevocably too late?'

No, not too late, with God's help! In this very hour, which witnessed the deep feelings which agitated him, he vowed that he would let Celine see once for all the suffering and misery with which his heart was lacerated.

She might misunderstand or ridicule him, but he would make a last effort to break through the ice-crust which shut up both their hearts; he would make one more effort to wipe out the past; once more he would begin his married life afresh, and it should, it must, be different from what it had been.

It was not yet eleven o'clock when Otto left his office, a circumstance for which there was no precedent in all the years during which he had been settled as an advocate at Dilburg.

He felt bound to take advantage of his present state of mind. An undefined plan came into his head, that he would tempt Celine to take a walk with him this fine morning, that he would lead her to the spot where he had first told her of his love, and would there impart to her anew all that he hoped and wished.

With hasty steps he walked out of the town gate-at an hour which otherwise always found him at his office; it was the very same hour, however, when he first went to Beckley, and now, in the full glow of the morning sun, the house looked just as it did then.

On approaching the house, no sign of life was perceptible. Only the groom, who was leading Celine's horse slowly up and down before the door, in evident expectation of its mistress, satisfied Otto that he should find his wife still in-doors.

In the new arrangement of the rooms after Otto and Celine's marriage, and in the early days of their affection and mutual confidence, a little room next to Otto's study was fitted up as Celine's boudoir.

These were connected by a door, and Celine's room had no other exit, and, as well as Otto's room, was in the front of the house,

Except when dinner or any other meal required the presence of the mistress of the house, Celine seldom or never came into the rooms down-stairs, and if she were not out of doors or in the orangery, Otto was sure to find his wife in this little sanctum, where her books and writing-table provided her with the only occupations which engaged her when in-doors.