"dear father and friend,—the words you spoke to me to-day admit but one meaning; you are jealous of my husband.

"then you must be—how can i write it?—almost in love with me."

"so then my poor husband was wiser than i. he saw a rival in you: and he has one.

"i am deeply, deeply shocked. i ought to be very angry too; but, thinking of your solitary condition, and all the good you have done to my soul, my heart has no place for ought but pity. only, as i am in my senses, and you are not, you must now obey me, as heretofore i have obeyed you. you must seek another sphere of duty without delay.

"these seem harsh words from me to you. you will live to see they are kind ones.

"write me one line, and no more, to say you will be ruled by me in this.

"god and the saints have you in their holy keeping. so prays your affectionate and

"sorrowful daughter and true friend,

"catherine gaunt."

"poor soul!" said griffith. "said i not that women are not wicked, but weak? who would think that after this he could get the better of her good resolves—the villain!"

"now read his reply," said father francis.

"ay," said griffith. "so this is his one word of reply, is it? three pages closely writ—the villain, oh the villain!"

"read the villain's letter," said francis, calmly.

the letter was very humble and pathetic; the reply of a good, though erring man, who owned, that in a moment of weakness, he had been betrayed into a feeling inconsistent with his holy profession. he begged his correspondent, however, not to judge him quite so hardly. he reminded her of his solitary life, his natural melancholy, and assured her that all men in his condition had moments when they envied those whose bosoms had partners. "such a cry of anguish," said he, "was once rung from a maiden queen, maugre all her pride. the queen of scots hath a son: and i am but a barren stock." he went on to say that prayer and vigilance united do much. "do not despair so soon of me. flight is not cure: let me rather stay and, with god's help and the saints', overcome this unhappy weakness. if i fail, it will indeed be time for me to go and never again see the angelic face of my daughter and my benefactress."

griffith laid down the letter. he was somewhat softened by it; and said, gently, "i cannot understand it. this is not the letter of a thorough bad man neither."

"no," said father francis, coldly, "'tis the letter of a self-deceiver: and there is no more dangerous man, to himself and others, than your self-deceiver. but now let us see whether he can throw dust in her eyes, as well as his own." and he handed him kate's reply.

the first word of it was, "you deceive yourself." the writer then insisted, quietly, that he owed it to himself, to her, and to her husband, whose happiness he was destroying, to leave the place at her request.

"either you must go, or i," said she: "and pray let it be you. also this place is unworthy of your high gifts: and i love you, in my way, the way i mean to love you when we meet again—in heaven; and i labour your advancement to a sphere more worthy of you."

i wish space permitted me to lay the whole correspondence before the reader; but i must confine myself to its general purport.

it proceeded in this way: the priest, humble, eloquent, pathetic; but gently, yet pertinaciously, clinging to the place: the lady, gentle, wise, and firm, detaching with her soft fingers, first one hand, then another, of the poor priest's, till at last he was driven to the sorry excuse that he had no money to travel with, nor place to go to.

"i can't understand it," said griffith. "are these letters all forged, or are there two kate gaunts? the one that wrote these prudent letters, and the one i caught upon this very priest's arm. perdition!"

mrs. gaunt started to her feet. "methinks 'tis time for me to leave the room," said she, scarlet.

"gently, my good friends; one thing at a time," said francis. "sit thou down, impetuous. the letters, sir, what think you of them?"

"i see no harm in them," said griffith.

"no harm! is that all? but i say these are very remarkable letters, sir: and they show us that a woman may be innocent and unsuspicious, and so seem foolish, yet may be wise for all that. in her early communication with leonard

'——at wisdom's gate suspicion slept;

and thought no ill where no ill seemed.'

but, you see, suspicion being once aroused, wisdom was not to be lulled nor blinded. but that is not all: these letters breathe a spirit of christian charity; of true, and rare, and exalted piety; tender are they, without passion; wise, yet not cold; full of conjugal love, and of filial pity for an erring father, whom she leads, for his good, with firm yet dutiful hand. trust to my great experience: doubt the chastity of snow rather than hers who could write these pure and exquisite lines. my good friend, you heard me rebuke and sneer at this poor lady, for being too innocent and unsuspicious of man's frailty: now hear me own to you that i could no more have written these angelic letters, than a barn-door fowl could soar to the mansions of the saints in heaven."

this unexpected tribute took mrs. gaunt's heart by storm; she threw her arms round father francis's neck, and wept upon his shoulder.

"ah!" she sobbed, "you are the only one left that loves me."

she could not understand justice praising her: it must be love.

"ay," said griffith, in a broken voice, "she writes like an angel: she speaks like an angel: she looks like an angel. my heart says she is an angel. but my eyes have shown me she is naught. i left her, unable to walk, by her way of it; i came back, and found her on that priest's arm, springing along, like a greyhound." he buried his head in his hands, and groaned aloud.

francis turned to mrs. gaunt, and said, a little severely, "how do you account for that?"

"i'll tell you, father," said kate, "because you love me. i do not speak to you, sir: for you never loved me."

"i could give thee the lie," said griffith, in a trembling voice; "but 'tis not worth while. know, sir, that within twenty-four hours after i caught her with that villain, i lay a dying for her sake; and lost my wits; and, when i came to, they were a making my shroud in the very room where i lay. no matter; no matter; i never loved her."

"alas! poor soul!" sighed kate: "would i had died ere i brought thee to that!" and, with this, they both began to cry at the same moment.

"ay, poor fools," said father francis, softly; "neither of ye loved t'other; that is plain. so now sit you there, and let us have your explanation; for you must own appearances are strong against you."

mrs. gaunt drew her stool to francis's knee, and addressing herself to him alone, explained as follows:—

"i saw father leonard was giving way, and only wanted one good push, after a manner. well, you know i had got him, by my friends, a good place in ireland: and i had money by me for his journey; so, when my husband talked of going to the fair, i thought, 'oh if i could but get this settled to his mind before he comes back.' so i wrote a line to leonard. you can read it if you like. tis dated the 30th of september, i suppose."

"i will," said francis: and read this out:—

"dear father and friend,—you have fought the good fight, and conquered. now, therefore, i will see you once more, and thank you for my husband (he is so unhappy), and put the money for your journey into your hand myself; your journey to ireland. you are the duke of leinster's chaplain; for i have accepted that place for you. let me see you to-morrow in the grove, for a few minutes, at high noon. god bless you.

"catherine gaunt."

"well, father," said mrs. gaunt, "'tis true that i could only walk two or three times across the room. but, alack, you know what women are; excitement gives us strength. with thinking that our unhappiness was at an end; that, when he should come back from the fair, i should fling my arm round his neck, and tell him i had removed the cause of his misery, and so of mine, i seemed to have wings; and i did walk with leonard, and talked with rapture of the good he was to do in ireland, and how he was to be a mitred abbot one day (for he is a great man), and poor little me be proud of him; and how we were all to be happy together in heaven, where is no marrying nor giving in marriage. this was our discourse; and i was just putting the purse into his hands, and bidding him god-speed, when he—for whom i fought against my woman's nature, and took this trying task upon me—broke in upon us, with a face of a fiend; trampled on the poor good priest, that deserved veneration and consolation from him, of all men; and raised his hand to me; and was not man enough to kill me after all; but called me—ask him what he called me—see if he dares to say it again before you; and then ran away, like a coward as he is, from the lady he had defiled with his rude tongue, and the heart he had broken. forgive him? that i never will; never; never."

"who asked you to forgive him?" said the shrewd priest. "your own heart. come, look at him."

"not i," said she, irresolutely. then, still more feebly: "he is nought to me." and so stole a look at him.

griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand on his brow, and his eyes were fixed with horror and remorse.

"something tells me she has spoken the truth," he said, in a quavering voice. then, with concentrated horror, "but if so—oh god, what have i done?—what shall i do?"

mrs. gaunt extended her arms towards him, across the priest.

"why, fall at thy wife's knees, and ask her to forgive thee."

griffith obeyed: he fell on his knees, and mrs. gaunt leaned her head on francis's shoulder, and gave her hand across him to her remorse-stricken husband.

neither spoke, nor desired to speak; and even father francis sat silent and enjoyed that sweet glow which sometimes blesses the peacemaker, even in this world of wrangles and jars.

but the good soul had ridden hard, and the neglected meats emitted savory odors, and by-and-by he said, drily, "i wonder whether that fat pullet tastes as well as it smells: can you tell me, squire?"

"oh, inhospitable wretch that i am," said mrs. gaunt: "i thought but of my own heart."

"and forgot the stomach of your unspiritual father. but, madam, you are pale, you tremble."

"'tis nothing, sir: i shall soon be better. sit you down and sup: i will return anon."

she retired, not to make a fuss; but her heart palpitated violently, and she had to sit down on the stairs.

ryder, who was prowling about, found her there, and fetched her hartshorn.

mrs. gaunt got better; but felt so languid and also hysterical, that she retired to her own room for the night, attended by the faithful ryder, to whom she confided that a reconciliation had taken place, and, to celebrate it, gave her a dress she had only worn a year. this does not sound queenly to you ladies; but know that a week's wear tells far more on the flimsy trash you wear now-a-days, than a year did on the glorious silks of lyons mrs. gaunt put on; thick as broad-cloth, and embroidered so cunningly by the loom, that it would pass for rarest needle-work. besides, in those days, silk was silk.

as ryder left her, she asked, "where is the master to lie to-night?"

mrs. gaunt was not pleased at this question being put to her. being a singular mixture of frankness and finesse, she had retired to her own room partly to test griffith's heart. if he was as sincere as she was, he would not be content with a public reconciliation.

but the question being put to her plump, and by one of her own sex, she colored faintly, and said, "why, is there not a bed in his room?"

"oh yes, madam."

"then see it be well aired. put down all the things before the fire; and then tell me; i'll come and see. the feather bed, mind, as well as the sheets and blankets."

ryder executed all this with zeal. she did more: though griffith and francis sat up very late, she sat up too; and, on the gentlemen leaving the supper-room, she met them both, with bed-candles, in a delightful cap, and undertook, with cordial smiles, to show them both their chambers.

"tread softly on the landing, an if it please you, gentlemen. my mistress hath been unwell; but she is in a fine sleep now, by the blessing, and i would not have her disturbed."

father francis went to bed thoughtful. there was something about griffith he did not like: the man every now and then broke out into boisterous raptures; and presently relapsed into moody thoughtfulness. francis almost feared that his cure was only temporary.

in the morning, before he left, he drew mrs. gaunt aside, and told her his misgivings. she replied that she thought she knew what was amiss, and would soon set that right.

griffith tossed and turned in his bed, and spent a stormy night. his mind was in a confused whirl, and his heart distracted. the wife he had loved so tenderly, proved to be the very reverse of all he had lately thought her! she was pure as snow, and had always loved him; loved him now, and only wanted a good excuse to take him to her arms again. but mercy vint!—his wife, his benefactress! a woman as chaste as kate, as strict in life and morals—what was to become of her? how could he tell her she was not his wife? how to reveal to her her own calamity, and his treason? and, on the other hand, desert her without a word! and leave her hoping, fearing, pining, all her life! affection, humanity, gratitude, alike forbade it.

he came down in the morning, pale for him, and worn with the inward struggle.

naturally there was a restraint between him and mrs. gaunt; and only short sentences passed between them.

he saw the peacemaker off, and then wandered all over the premises, and the past came nearer, and the present seemed to retire into the background.

he wandered about like one in a dream; and was so self-absorbed, that he did not see mrs. gaunt coming towards him with observant eyes.

she met him full; he started like a guilty thing.

"are you afraid of me?" said she, sweetly.

"no, my dear, not exactly; and yet i am: afraid, or ashamed, or both."

"you need not. i said i forgive you; and you know i am not one that does things by halves."

"you are an angel!" said he, warmly; "but (suddenly relapsing into despondency) we shall never be happy together again."

she sighed. "say not so. time and sweet recollections may heal even this wound by degrees."

"god grant it," said he, despairingly.

"and, though we can't be lovers again all at once, we may be friends; to begin, tell me, what have you on your mind? come, make a friend of me."

he looked at her in alarm.

she smiled. "shall i guess?" said she.

"you will never guess," said he; "and i shall never have the heart to tell you."

"let me try. well, i think you have run in debt, and are afraid to ask me for the money."

griffith was greatly relieved by this conjecture; he drew a long breath: and, after a pause, said, cunningly, "what made you think that?"

"because you came here for money, and not for happiness. you told me so in the grove."

"that is true. what a sordid wretch you must think me?"

"no, because you were under a delusion. but i do believe you are just the man to turn reckless, when you thought me false, and go drinking and dicing." she added, eagerly, "i do not suspect you of anything worse."

he assured her that was not the way of it.

"then tell me the way of it. you must not think, because i pester you not with questions, i have no curiosity. oh, how often have i longed to be a bird, and watch you day and night unseen. how would you have liked that? i wish you had been one, to watch me. ah, you don't answer. could you have borne so close an inspection, sir?"

griffith shuddered at the idea; and his eyes fell before the full grey orbs of his wife.

"well, never mind," said she, "tell me your story."

"well, then, when i left you i was raving mad."

"that is true, i'll be sworn."

"i let my horse go; and he took me near a hundred miles from here, and stopped at—at—a farmhouse. the good people took me in."

"god bless them for it. i'll ride and thank them."

"nay, nay; 'tis too far. there i fell sick of a fever, a brain-fever: the doctor blooded me."

"alas! would he had taken mine instead."

"and i lost my wits for several days; and when i came back i was weak as water, and given up by the doctor: and the first thing i saw, was an old hag set a making of my shroud."

here the narrative was interrupted a moment by mrs. gaunt seizing him convulsively, and then holding him tenderly, as if he was even now about to be taken from her.

"the good people nursed me, and so did their daughter, and i came back from the grave. i took an inn; but i gave up that, and had to pay forfeit; and so my money all went; but they kept me on. to be sure i helped on the farm: they kept a hostelry as well. by-and-by came that murrain among the cattle. did you have it in these parts too?"

"i know not; nor care. prithee, leave cattle, and talk of thyself."

"well, in a word, they were ruined, and going to be sold up. i could not bear that: i became bondsman for the old man. it was the least i could do. kate, they had saved thy husband's life."

"not a word more, griffith. how much stand you pledged for?"

"a large sum."

"would five hundred pounds be of any avail?"

"five hundred pounds! ay, that it would, and to spare; but where can i get so much money? and the time so short."

"give me thy hand, and come with me," said mrs. gaunt, ardently.

she took his hand, and made a swift rush across the lawn. it was not exactly running, nor walking, but some grand motion she had when excited. she put him to his stride to keep up with her at all; and in two minutes she had him into her boudoir. she unlocked a bureau, all in a hurry, and took out a bag of gold. "there!" she cried, thrusting it into his hand, and blooming all over with joy and eagerness: "i thought you would want money; so i saved it up. you shall not be in debt a day longer. now mount thy horse, and carry it to those good souls: only, for my sake, take the gardener with thee—i have no groom now but he—and both well armed."

"what! go this very day?"

"ay, this very hour. i can bear thy absence for a day or two more; i have borne it so long: but i cannot bear thy plighted word to stand in doubt a day, no not an hour. i am your wife, sir, your true and loving wife; your honor is mine, and is as dear to me now as it was when you saw me with father leonard in the grove, and read me all awry. don't wait a moment, begone at once."

"nay, nay, if i go to-morrow i shall be in time."

"ay, but," said mrs. gaunt, very softly, "i am afraid if i keep you another hour i shall not have the heart to let you go at all: and the sooner gone, the sooner back for good, please god. there, give me one kiss, to live on, and begone this instant."

he covered her hands with kisses and tears. "i'm not worthy to kiss any higher than thy hand," he said: and so ran sobbing from her.