in his superbly furnished library sat lord barrington. he had just finished reading a letter that he had taken from his desk. "strange," he murmured, "very strange, that arthur has not come yet, nor any letter from him; i can't understand it," and he replaced the letter with a heavy sigh. he then turned to the letters on the table, which he had before cast aside, finding the wished-for one was not among them. "ha, one from george; perhaps he may have seen him." he reads for a while, then starting from his seat exclaimed "good heavens! what is this?" then reads again:

judge my amazement when i came across a rude apology for a tombstone, in a little out-of-the-way grave yard: "to the memory of arthur, only son of lord barrington of barrington, who died august 8th, 1864." as i had not the remotest idea that he was dead, but was almost daily expecting to find him. i most heartily sympathize with you----

"what can he mean?" he said, putting down the letter. "but what is this?" he cried, as his eye caught one he had overlooked before. 'tis arthur's hand!" with trembling hands he broke the seal (taking no note, in his agitation, of the fact that it had not been through the post), and read the almost unintelligible scrawl:

dear father:--i have charged louisa to bring this and give it into your own hand. she will not believe that i am dying, and still clings to the hope that i will recover. but it can not be; i feel--i know--that i shall die. oh, how i wish that i could see you again once more and ask your forgiveness, but it may not be! with my dying breath i beseech you to forgive your erring boy; it was the first, it is the last deception i ever practiced toward you. to you i ever confided my hopes and plans, and you always strove to gratify every wish. i feel now how much i wronged your generous nature, when i feared to tell you of my intended marriage. the tune seems ever before me when you asked me, even with tears, why i wished to leave you again, after i returned from america, and i answered, evasively, that i wanted to see the world. and when, in the fullness of your love, you replied "then i will go with you," i answered angrily, "in that case i do not care to go," and pleaded for just one year. and you granted my request, and sent me forth with blessings. oh, why did i not tell you all? i feel sure that you would have replied, "bring your wife home, arthur, and i will love her as a daughter, only do not leave me." oh, father, forgive your boy! thoughts of your loneliness would intrude at all times and mar my happiness, until i determined to return and bring my wife, trusting to your love, and was on my way home when i was attacked with this dreadful fever. oh, how i repent that i did not mention my wife in my last letter to you! it is but a few short months since i left you, but o how long those lonely months must have been to you! then let your sad hours be cheered by louisa, since the sight of your boy may never gladden your heart in this world. bestow upon her the same love and kindness you have ever shown to me. nothing can alleviate my pain in leaving her, but the certainty i feel that you will love and cherish her for my sake. oh make not her coming alone harder by one word or action. but as you love me, so deal with my wife. farewell, dear father!--a last farewell! before you receive this, i shall be sleeping in my distant grave. and oh when my poor louisa presents it, treat her not harshly, as you hope that we shall meet again.

your affectionate and repentant son,

arthur.

as the old man ceased reading, his head fell upon the table, and bitter tears coursed down his cheeks. "oh, arthur! arthur! my boy! my only child! why, why did you leave me? how gladly would i have received your wife! but now how harshly have i treated her--how cruelly sent her forth into this heartless world, friendless and alone! but i will find her and bring her home--yes, yes, i will love her for his sake. oh if i had only taken this when she brought it! but i will lose no time now. oh, arthur! arthur!" he murmured, and he rang the bell violently. "john! john!" he said to the faithful old man who answered his summons, "stay, john, till i can speak," he cried, gasping for breath and trembling from head to foot. "my boy, my arthur is dead!" he wailed, at length, and that person--that lady--was his widow, john. it was all true that she said, and i treated her so badly, too."

"yes," old john replied, meekly, "i thought it wor true; she didn't look like an himpostor, she didn't," and he shook his head gravely.

"you must find her, john, and bring her back. go, you have your orders; you must find her. arthur is dead, and he has sent his wife to me, and i must take care of her--that is all i can do for him now."

"ah, that's the way with them secret marriages," soliloquized old john. "what in the world made mr. arthur act so, i wonder, and his governor so indulgent?"

"yes we will find her, and she shall have the green room, not arthur's--no, not arthur's. love her for his sake, he says; aye that i will," murmured his lordship, as he paced the room. "too late, old man, too late, too late."