been very unwell during my absence, and the doctor thought the sea-air rather too strong for her, in her present state of health. I trusted this doctor; he was a very kind, fatherly man, of large and varied experiences; and he had been very attentive to Olive all through the winter; indeed, his practice was chiefly among ladies, feminine maladies being his speciality. I told him I hoped all would go well with Olive, and he assured me that there was no reason why it should not be so:-"Only," he added, "you will have to be very careful of her afterwards! she is not so strong as I could wish, and though there is no present reason why we should alarm ourselves, we must not forget that the first Marchioness of Dovercourt died of decline a few months after Lady Olive's birth."

May came with its flowers and its sunshine, and I began to be painfully anxious; but Olive was full of hope and extremely happy. And one bright morning, very early in June, the kind DuchessLord Edward's mother-who had taken Olive as well as Maude into her maternal heart, came to me, as I sat in my study vainly trying to write a chapter of my book in hand, and told me, betwixt tears and smiles, that I had a little daughter, and that Olive was not only quite as well, but "better even than could be expected."

"You are sure Olive is going on quite well ?" I asked of her Grace; a heavy weight lifted from my heart.

"She could not be better, I assure you, Hugh Vassall. The doctor is quite satisfied, and so is nurse; the great thing now will be to keep her from exerting herself too soon."

"And the baby, my dear Duchess ?"

"As fine and lovely a child as you could possibly desire! And so strong; though I am sorry I have not to announce the birth of a son."

"I am quite satisfied; I hope my dear wife is content."

"She lies with the little thing on her arm in a sort of quiet ecstasy. She would not change her little daughter for half-a-dozen boys. It is the way with us mothers; we always fall into raptures with our babies-and Olive is one of those women to whom motherlove and mother-pride seem to come as naturally as honey-making to the bees."

The month that followed that auspicious morning was one of the happiest of my life. The baby throve apace; a healthier child was never born, the doctor frequently assured me; and as for Olive, that stately dame, the nurse, declared that she never did see a lady so full of spirit, and so blythe, and so quick at getting well, as my Lady Olive. Of course Mrs. Nurse was a horrible tyrant: it is part of the profession, no doubt, to triumph over and to humiliate unfortunate husbands. But our nurse was very gracious to me considering who I was, and after the first few days she did not

object to my spending very much of my time in my lady's chamber. She even allowed me to take baby from her arms, and assured me that she had “never seen a gentleman handle an infant so gainly; I was worthy to be a woman, and she could not say more than that." Nurse did not approve of masculine creatures, unless they were under three months; up to that time she adored them, and served them as if they were born in the purple, and she their sworn and abject slave.

"Olive Helena,

The baby's name was, of course, to be Olive. please, dear?" my wife whispered to me one day. mamma's name and mine to be coupled in our babe's. mind?”

“I should like

Should you

Mind, indeed! It was the very thing I wished, and it was so sweet of Olive to propose it herself. The christening was to take place with all due state and ceremony as soon as baby's mamma should be officially declared "quite well," and that would very soon be, everybody said. “And, indeed, I believe I am quite well now,” said Olive, making a little moue first at me and then at the baby; "only etiquette, which is as great a tyrant as gentility, prescribes certain arbitrary periods of repose and seclusion."

“Very prudently prescribes them, my lady,” put in nurse, with her most sagacious air. "Your ladyship has done wonders, but you are not strong yet-very far from it, indeed."

The Marquis, whose health was wonderfully restored, was to come to the christening. He was as proud and delighted as could be with his first granddaughter. Maude had two great romping boys, who made "ever such an uproar." The Marquis, like myself, preferred little girls, though, when Maude herself was born, he complained, I believe, of her unlucky sex. I wondered whether I should have preferred girls had Providence given me a boy. Lord Felixstowe, Maude, and Mary Craven were to be the sponsors; but the Duchess was to stand proxy for the young widow, who could not of course be with us.

CHAPTER LII.—WHAT THE DOCTORS SAID.

But the bulletin which was to announce Lady Olive Vassall perfectly recovered was still delayed. After a while we began to be uneasy, for convalescence had proceeded so rapidly up to a certain point, after which there seemed to be so little progression that we were fain to assure each other from time to time that there was actual relapse. She was not worse, said nurse—“Oh, no, not at all worse," echoed nurse's satellites. "Only she doesn't get up her strength, my dear," the Duchess told Maude, who was concerned to find her sister still an invalid. Olive herself laughed at our

anxiety; she was all but well, she continually assured us, if she could but get a little stronger. It was the hot weather; heat always did tell upon her, even as a girl, and now, of course, under the circumstances, it tried her and retarded her recovery. We should see how quickly she would get up her strength when the thermometer fell.

And it did fall, and the atmosphere gradually cooled, till some of us began to talk of chilly evenings, and still the promised amendment did not take place. Every day Olive said, "I shall be better to-morrow, my dear," and when to-morrow came, the same intense languor and lassitude prevailed. Nurse had to leave us, "her next lady being due," she said, and I hoped that a change in attendants might be useful, for lately I had not liked nurse's countenance, and I fancied her manner depressed her mistress. Yet still there was the same complaint-" so weak, so very weak! so much exhaustion! &c. &c. I spoke to Dr. Vanner myself, and he replied, "I must confess that I am extremely dissatisfied with her ladyship's slow progress. My patient, I am sorry to say, exhibits a singular want of power, a sort of physical inertia, which under the circumstances are not to be desired. I must confess that it is a case which baffles me a good deal, and I should like to consult with Dr. Barker, if it could be arranged without alarming her ladyship."

The consultation was held, and the famous physician drank my choicest claret, and pocketed his fee, and of course. he wrote a prescription, and assured me that he fully agreed with his brother Vanner, and that his treatment of the noble lady had been in each and every particular most judicious. In short, her ladyship wanted power-wanted constitution, if he might be allowed to say so. Nothing could be better than the existing course of treatment; but let the patient try the newly-introduced tonic, which had brought back the Countess of Ryde, and the Princess Capriccini, and Lady Anna Maria Livingstone from the very gates of death !

But I knew that no tonic would ever make Olive strong and well again, and I sent for the Brighton doctor, who had given me a sort of warning of what might happen. He said the tonic would do no harm, but he did not expect it to work any startling change. "Had there been any mistake?" I asked him earnestly; "any neglect, any want of skill?" He assured me solemnly that no case could have been more carefully or more skilfully treated. "Nothing," he said in conclusion; "no medical science, no devoted care, no assiduous nursing could have warded off this-this treacherous decay of nature."

"It is decline, then?"

"I may not say it is not. Why should I deceive you, Mr.

Vassall? I might tell you that there were favourable symptoms, and that we might look, at least, for partial recovery; but I should only play with you, and treat you as a child. My dear sir, I am deeply grieved that I cannot speak hopefully; your infant promises to grow up a fine little girl; in years to come she will be your consolation."

So, then, my darling must leave me, just as I had learned to know all her worth, all her sweetness; just as I had learned to love her with a perfect love; just as we had found out how happy we were in each other, and in our little daughter. It was harder than ever to say, God's will be done!

The bright summer faded, and with its declining days Olive drooped more and more. Surely she knew of the great change which awaited her, yet not one word had either of us spoken in reference to the dread shadow which hung over us. I could perceive that she no longer talked of the future; that from saying "when I am well again," she had altered it to “ if I am ever well again." And by-and-by she gave up even this, and said nothing at all about her recovery. I dreaded the day when she would say openly, "I shall never be any better."

It came at last. It was a calm Sunday evening, and Olive and I were left alone together. The day had been cool and bright; the evening was still and golden. An unusual quiet pervaded the roads and the park, and church bells were chiming or tolling for the evening service. Olive lay upon the sofa; she did not leave her bed now till late in the afternoon, yet she thought she had a better night for the exchange. As she rested on her pillows I could see how wasted she was, how thin and white was the cheek on which the long, dark lashes rested, how hollow the temples from which the rich, raven hair floated backwards. How changed from the brilliant, stately Olive of other days.

"Are you going to stay with me, Hugh, this evening?" she said, presently.

"Yes, dearest. Linnett is gone to church, and I have sent Ellen away to enjoy herself as she pleases. I am going to be head-nurse to-night."

"Oh! that is good; just what I wanted. I shall have you all to myself, dear husband."

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Yes, you will have to put up with me alone; shall I read to you?" "No dear, not yet. I should like to talk, please; I have a great deal to say to you. Come and sit quite close to me, put your arm round me, and let me rest my head on your shoulder, there-so. That is nice!" And she nestled up to me, and gave me her little "Do you see?" she said, as she twined her weak fingers in

hand.

mine.

"See what, my love?"

"That my wedding-ring will not keep on any longer without a guard, so I wear this old diamond hoop of my own mother's. There is not much of me left."

"You are, indeed, painfully thin, my darling. I wish we could fatten you up somehow."

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"Thorley's Food,' or 'Beach's Condiment?'" she said, with her old silvery laugh. But the next moment she became serious. No, my dear, that cannot be. Nothing can be done for me, Hugh; I have known that for some time. Hugh, dearest, I suppose you know it, but I wanted to tell you myself that God is calling me away from earth. I am dying; going away from you, my darling. There! don't cry; I am not worth such great hot tears."

"You are worth the whole world to me, Olive."

"Am I, really? Tell me, Hugh; I have never asked you before, but I may ask you now, I think; yet do not answer if you would rather not. Do you love me best of—everybody?"

"Best of everybody, my dear wife!"

"I am so glad! For Hugh, dear, I was afraid I had been selfish. I ought not to have married you; knowing, as I did, that your first and greatest love had been given already, and that only a mistake had come between you and her. Still, when you asked me, she was out of your reach."

"My dearest, all that is as though it had never been. You have long been to me the sweetest, dearest wife that a man could have. I would not have changed you, Olive, for any other; no! not for any other woman that ever lived."

"My dear, dear husband, it is such a relief to me to hear you say it."

Surely you did not doubt me? You never thought I repented ?"

"I never doubted you. I had the most absolute dependence on your truth; but I thought when-when it came to pass that Mary was free again, you might—it would have been quite natural, you know; you might have felt your obligations to me a burden. Silken bonds have turned into fetters, you know, dear, and nobody to blame either."

"Let me say at once and for ever, dearest, that I did not and do not regret our marriage. I will tell you the truth. I shrank from it beforehand, feeling how much more power over me Mary had than you that the sound of her voice and the look of her eyes thrilled me through and through, while I could listen to your sweetest words unmoved. Do I pain you, my darling?"

"No; go on. But why did I not know?"

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Because Mary was already my friend's wife; because something