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sional man’s wife as could be desired, even if he should rise to the woolsack. Many a lord-chancellor’s wife had been less intuitively a lady than she had shown herself to be in her lines to him.

“Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow!” mourned Edith Harnham.

Her distreas now raged as high as her infatuation. It was she who had wrought him to this pitch—to a marriage which meant his ruin; yet she could not, in mercy to her maid, do anything to hinder his plan. Anna was coming to Melchester that week, but she could hardly show the girl this last reply from the young man; it told too much of the second individuality that had usurped the place of the first.

Anna came, and her mistress took her into her own room for privacy. Anna began by saying with some anxiety that she was very glad the wedding was so near.

“Oh, Anna!” replied Mrs, Harnham. “I think we must tell him all—that I have been doing your writing for you—leat be should uot know it till after you become his wife, and it might lead to dissension and recriminations—"

“Oh, mis’ess, dear mis’ess—please don’t tell him now!” cried Anna, in distress, “If you were to do it, perhaps he would not marry me, and what should I do then? It would be terrible what would come to me! And I am getting on with my writing, too. I have brought with me the copybook you were so good as to give me, and I practise every day, and though it is so, so hard, I shall do it well at last, I believe, if I keep on trying.”

Edith looked at the copybook, The copies had been set by herself, and such progress as the girl had made was in the way of grotesque fac-simile of her mistress's hand. But even if Kdith’s flowing calig-