CHAPTER XVI.

"The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hands on kings.

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade. "

BEFORE we had half way traversed the outer chamber the sound of advancing footsteps drove us back to our retreat. The pace was not that of a loitering unadvised explorer-instinctively I threw my arm round Helen and stooped forward-" "Tis Fielding!" I ejaculated.

I could not control the impetuous impulses of affection-I flung myself upon his neck-I

could scarcely persuade myself that it was really Fielding-He had made a hurried movement towards Helen, but checked himself abruptly; there was a union of all the fine affections in the frank beaming eyes, in the half expostulating, half entreating offer of his hand. Helen yielded hers, but as if repentant of some emotion foreign to her mourning contemplations, she withdrew it hastily, sobbing her sister's name.

“Oh Fielding!" said I, "you are too latebeen-"

had

you

"Do not aggravate your grief and mine by erroneous fancyings of what might have been," said Fielding, in a tremulous voice: "no human aid could have availed Lady Sanford in the latter stage of her decline; yet I would have flown to her Walter, you know I would, had I received your letter or Miss Berrington'sthe latter followed me through Germany, halting for weeks at various posts, and only reached me on the eve of my return. Your letter, by an unaccountable omission, remained at my town house, where it was addressed, and you had left London before I received it-Are

you satisfied, Helen, that the slightest intimation of her danger would have drawn me to your sister, even from the pursuit of an enquiry on which my very existence hung? Are you satisfied Helen?"

Helen made a powerful effort-" We require no assurance of your friendship Mr. Fielding."

"Friendship!" repeated Fielding;—" my affection can no more change its essence than its object; as I have loved you, so I must ever love you Helen."

Helen looked at him incredulously; "I also Mr. Fielding, am unchanged; principles once reverenced are still supreme." She extended the medallion towards him. "It is my mother!"

Fielding gazed upon the portrait until his eyes were dimmed. "And this is Julia Derentsi!" he faltered; "her fascinating child resembled her, alas, too accurately!" He paused and regarded Helen with devotional tenderness. "Julia Derentsi was not your mother Helen-Marion was her only child."

I heard no more; a whirring of ideas, a doubt of what I had heard, or that I had heard

it-such was my state of mind: the most distinct of my conceptions shewed how much the mind had deviated. I conceived that Fielding was deceiving us, and I rushed through the apartments with a vague purpose of questioning my aunt, whirled, as it would seem, by some spirit not my own. But before I reached the causeway a dizzying sensation overpowered me-trees, skies, hills, all created things seemed flitting away: I grasped at the projecting fragment of a buttress, and sat down to recover myself. Ere long a murmuring of voices reached me-I looked up-Fielding was standing beneath the window-arch of the oak chamber and supporting Helen; the beaming intelligence of his fine countenance had never shone so cloudless; Helen's eyes were raised to his with a fervid expression of confidence. I caught some words of their discourse. We were the children of my father's second wife, of Margaret Wallenberg-Marion was our half-sister.

I arose and staggered homeward—a dreamy confusion assailed me, a clashing of sensations. Strange to say, I was averse from displacing the image which, as an attached, indignant son,

I had so long consecrated: yet the venomous fang which had murdered sleep relaxed its gripe-the interdict was removed-I blamed myself for a sudden thrill of joy-Helen would be happy-but Marion was dead!

I reached the cottage-I encountered no one; the morning's meal appeared forgotten. This had happened more than once of late; thus the absence of the breakfast array did not surprise me; but something unusual must have diverted Katy from her customary household observances the chairs were in confusion, and the shutters, carelessly parted, had half closed. An appendage, emblematic of its wearer, recalled the vision of Slauveen-the satin muff of Berga Schmidt lay upon the table; beside it something glittered—it was a ring—it was the signet ring of Madame Wallenberg-the signal that she had promised should announce her death.

The sight of an embroidered glove broke on my sad soliloquy-" The muff is Berga's-but the glove-"

"That glove is Madame Wallenberg's," said my aunt, throwing open the door of the study.