caught her ear, as it issued from the lips of the infant in the arms of the nurse at the sight of the mother.

Lady Fairland turned to the child. It stretched forth its little arms towards her, as if to invite her embrace. She could resist no longer; all the mother rose at once in her soul; she rushed forward, snatched the child from the servant, strained it to her bosom with a feeling of agony, and burst into a flood of tears as she said in a tone that pierced every ear and touched every heart, 'Oh, my poor babe, my dear children, how can I bear to go away, to part from you!'

The two elder girls, seeing the tears, the passionate sorrow of their mother, and hearing her talk of going away, went up to and clung around her, and weeping bitterly for sympathy, yet not exactly knowing why they wept, asked her what was the matter, and why she talked of going away.

Lady Fairland kissed each with the warmest affection, but made no reply to their fond enquiries, and once more restoring the infant to the nurse's arms,

wiped the big drops that still coursed each other down her own cheeks, and made a strong effort to check her tears, and to recover her self-possession. She had a firm mind with all a woman's tenderness of heart, and now feeling herself equal to the task, prepared with a calm and dignified composure to complete it, and to go through the painful and necessary duty of the day.

She approached the table. Mr. Noland rose mechanically, for though incapable of being easily moved to anything like sympathy or feeling, he was awed by her presence and deportment: he felt at the moment that a noble spirit, maintaining its native simplicity and its sense of self-respect under the most trying circumstances, carries with it a force stronger than all forms and statutes. The moral law asserted its own rights, and the native majesty of truth acted upon him with an ascendency which none but the dull in head and the hard in heart could resist.

Noland could not.

He offered the pen to Lady

Fairland to sign the deed of separation, scarcely

knowing what he did-for the husband ought to have first signed it—but as he did so he gave an appealing look at that husband, and pronounced with strong emphasis the words 'Sir John Fairland!'—as if, in thus suddenly and emphatically addressing him, he would say, 'Can you thus let such a wife leave you and your children for ever?'

Sir John raised his head, like a man awakened out of sleep, scarcely conscious of what he saw or heard; as if still under the influence of some dream that had possessed his mind with images of doubt and terror. He looked first at the lawyer, then at his wife, and with a bitter glance at the children; but he neither moved nor spoke; he was deadly pale.

Lady Fairland for a moment occupied the chair which Noland had vacated, took the pen, signed her name with the firmest hand and the utmost deliberation, and then, not daring to trust herself with another tender adieu to the children, purposely turned from them, as she made some steps in advance towards the hall-door, where the horses were waiting for her without. Still she lingered, moved another step or

two, and again paused. Those who closely observed her thought they could detect the outward marks of an inward struggle: a wish to say something more, and yet an embarrassment, a feeling that made her reluctant to speak out; and she hesitated as she at length said the words, 'Before I go'-then stopped— a deep blush overspread her pale cheeks, and rose even to her temples, as she murmured, 'It must be spoken; I will not shrink from the task;' and turning directly towards her husband, she resumed her natural dignity of manner and deportment and thus addressed him:

'Sir John Fairland, there is one question which I must ask you before I quit your presence and your roof for ever. I ask it before these gentlemen here assembled to witness our separation. Have you, Sir John, any charge to make against my character since I have been your wife?'

'None, Madam,' replied Sir John, in a calm and serious tone, and without the slightest hesitation.

'Well, then, sir,' she continued, 'painful to me as the subject is to mention in this company, yet

it is due to my own honour that it should not be concealed. Sir John, I must tell you before all here assembled that I am again likely to become a mother. Do not defame me when I am gone; this is all I ask of you for myself. Be kind to my children, be a father to our dear girls, when I am far away; and may God forgive you as fully as I do all your. past unkindness to me.'

Tears rose in her eyes; she dashed them indignantly off, as if vexed at her own weakness, waved her hand, and turned to depart. But ere she could reach the door Sir John Fairland sprang forward, rushed between her and it, threw his arms round her neck, burst into an agony of grief that seemed to shake every nerve in his strong and manly frame, as he exclaimed, 'Stay, Sarah!-do not go. Let it not be said that a child of mine was born out of his father's house! Perhaps it may be a boy, and all may yet be well.'

Lady Fairland made no answer; she stood irresolute, neither returning nor yet offering to go forward. The two eldest girls came up to her, took her hands.