"For some weeks after those scenes in Langton's office they heard no more of Ryland. During that time his unhappy wife continued in the same mental lethargy, repeatedly asking for her baby, but betraying no emotion and giving no sign of violence. I looked in at her lodgings about twice a week. Her doctor, Dr. Sherwood Freeman, and I quite agreed as to the case. There was little or no hope of a mental rally until either the child was restored or her mind received some shock which should counteract the one occasioned by its loss. In the mean time Langton had, as soon as possible, instituted legal proceedings against Ryland. I don't know what the nature of those proceedings was, but he held out slight hope of speedy relief; the case, it seems, was one full of difficulties at best, and the block in the courts filled him with despair.

In about six weeks from the day I was in Langton's office, Ryland wrote to say the child was ill, and that he would deliver it up on condition of getting a thousand pounds.

"Ah!" said Langton to me the evening he got the letter, "so the threats of law have already beaten him down two hundred. The illness is a lie to force us to terms. I shall not answer that letter."

'Well, Melton, as you may guess, I was by this time greatly interested in the cases, legal and medical. In a week I called again upon Langton, and to my astonishment found Mrs. Ryland there.

'The explanation was very simple. The child had really been ill of scarlet fever, all possible care had been taken of it, but nevertheless it had died, and was to be buried that day; and Langton and the vacant-eyed woman were setting off now to the cemetery.

Ryland would not allow the mother to approach her dying child, but when it was dead he seemed to think he might run some ugly risk if he did not allow the mother's attendance at the interment, and Langton and she were now going. I examined her closely, but could observe no change; the channels of her reason were frozen up, and in precisely the same condition as on the day of her bereavement.

"May I go?" I asked.

"Certainly," said he; and in a little while the three of us got into a cab and drove to the cemetery Ryland had named.

The same unbroken shadow of mental gloom hung over the unhappy woman. During the whole drive she never spoke a word. Her eyes were cast down most of the time. On the few occasions when she lifted them they sought Langton's face, but there was no

question, no excitement in them. It was plain from their appearance that reason was an exile, but the land reason had left behind remained still unoccupied by anything save the spirit of the void.

'When we got inside the gates of the cemetery we ascertained that the body of the child had not yet arrived.

'Langton turned to me and asked, "What do you think will be the result of to-day?"

"I think," I answered, "that it will bring about the crisis, followed by perfect sanity or violent insanity; but there is no telling which."

After a while a mourning coach drove in. I will not drag you through all the small events of the interment. It will be sufficient for you to know that the father of the child was not present, and that during the whole time it occupied she never altered in the least.

'I felt greatly disappointed. I had been quite confident of the lifting or development of the affection now paralysing her brain.

'When it was all over we returned to the cab as sober as could be. I had been greatly deceived, and I could see that Langton's last hope was gone.

'When we had got about half-way back she suddenly looked up into Langton's face, and said,

"We have left something behind us."

Langton and I looked round the cab. The three umbrellas were all right.

""No," answered Langton, "I don't think we have left anything behind."

"In the cemetery?" she asked.

"No," I said. "No."

"We have," she said. "I know it, I feel it. As he drove away, I heard my child cry. As we drove away now, I heard my child cry. Ah, gentlemen, let us go back and take my child up out of the wet grave. If you give him to me and let me hold him against my breast he will get warm. Ah, gentlemen! let us go back for my darling! My baby son! My own! My own!"

'She threw her arms out towards us with the anguish of a mother's broken heart on her face, and the knowledge of her childless fate in her eyes. Then all at once her body began swaying slightly, and with a low moan she buried her face in her hands. and burst into tears.

'She had lost her child, but had regained his image, and her brain was healed. She had lost her child and regained his image, and her heart was broken. The mad live long and howl about our

paths; the broken-hearted creep quietly into the shadows and silently dig their own graves, and in a little while crawl into the earth with gentle sighs and gentler smiles.

'There is now no heat in her poor breast to warm her poor babe. She has been dead a week.

'Four days ago I saw Ryland buying gloves-dark green gloves, a very quiet colour-in the Strand. He was looking very well. God bless me, Melton! but sometimes this world is too much for me!'

RICHARD DOWLING.

366

By Proxy.

BY JAMES PAYN.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE INTERVIEW.

'My name is Pennicuick,' said Raymond to the servant who opened the door to him in Bedford Place. 'I have been asked to

call upon some gentleman residing in this house, but whose name I do not know.'

"That is right enough, sir; it is Mr. Pearson. He is very ill at present, but I believe he will see you.'

This information affected Raymond in two ways: it was at once a relief to his mind and a disappointment. Mrs. Wardlaw had informed him that Nelly was taking lessons of a Mr. Pearson, and it was to the last degree unlikely that this artist-tutor could have any personal knowledge to his father's prejudice; on the other hand, this man might easily have guessed or discovered his affection for his pupil, and made use of that information to obtain an interview from interested motives, in which case he had postponed his journey for a very insufficient cause. However, his possession of the signet-ring was a mystery, even in that case, still to be accounted for.

On entering the sitting-room he beheld not so much a man as the skeleton or shadow of one, enveloped in a dressing-gown, and sitting in an arm-chair by the fire.

'I do not rise, Mr. Pennicuick,' said this ghastly figure, in a hollow voice, because I am too weak to pay you that courtesy. Pray take a chair.'

Raymond bowed stiffly, and sat down; the sense that he was being made a victim to some kind of artifice was strong upon him. You came hither, I conjecture, immediately upon the receipt of my note, and you did well and wisely in so doing; for, as you see-he pointed to his own haggard frame-there is not much time to lose. You are sceptical, I perceive, upon that point,' added he, after a moment's silence, and in harsher tones. "What was it, then, that secured your promptness in acceding to my request?' You sent me my father's signet-ring."

'Well, you got it; what more was there to be hoped for, Mr. Raymond Pennicuick?'

'Nothing.'

"Perhaps, however, there was something to be feared?'

Raymond felt his colour changing, but he answered in a firm voice enough, 'I have nothing to fear from any man. You wrote to me, as you stated, from your dying bed; you professed to be a friend (and, so far, I am inclined to believe you) of one who is very dear to me; and you also hinted at some connection with my late father, which your possession of his signet-ring seemed to corroborate. These seemed to afford claims enough upon my attention. But do not suppose that my coming here is any sign of weakness; any attempt at duplicity or extortion'

'Would fail in your case, I have no doubt,' put in the other curtly; nor is it necessary to employ such means towards a gentleman who, without compulsion, and of his own free will, has paid away 20,000l. or so."'

"This is intolerable,' said Raymond, rising from his chair. 'If you think to get any advantage from your knowledge of my having of late disbursed that sum, you are mistaken. Since you are acquainted with Miss Ellen Conway, it is no mystery to me how you learnt the fact, though I am surprised indeed that she should have made such as you her confidant.'

She did not tell me, however, that it was conscience-money.' 'And who are you, sir, that dare to say it was?'

'I am ARTHUR CONWAY.'

Raymond stood aghast. It is impossible,' he said; yet his eyes sought the letter that had summoned him, and which he still held in his hand with uncertain glance.

"Yes, the handwriting of a man survives the man himself,' observed the other in answer to it. You recognise me now, I see.'

'I do, I do,' answered Raymond with deep emotion. 'I thank Heaven with all my heart that you are a living man.'

'That is not on my own account, however,' answered the other drily.

To be frank with you, Captain Conway, it is not. My poor father died with—Oh, sir, he told me all that happened.'

6

Or what he thought had happened. I guessed as much directly I heard of that act of reparation.'

́Alas, sir, it was not that: reparation was not possible. I did, however, what I could.'

And at his request?'

'Yes, sir, upon my honour,' exclaimed Raymond eagerly. He knew that my first act after his death would be the repayment of the sum he owed you to your daughter, and he approved of it.'