she lay back in an easy-chair, in the little room that was once mr. north's parlour. the window was thrown open to the sweet flowers, the balmy air; and ellen adair drank in their beauty and perfume.

she took to this room as her own sitting-room the day she came back to the hall. she had always liked it. sir william had caused the shabby old carpet and chairs and tables to be replaced by fresh bright furniture. how willingly, had it been possible, would he have kept her in life!

just for a few days had hope lasted--no more. the change had come suddenly, and was unmistakable. she wore a white gown, tied round the waist with a pink girdle, and a little bow of pink ribbon--her favourite colour--at the neck. she wished to look well yet; her toilet was attended to, her bright hair was arranged carefully as ever. but the maid did all that. the wan face was very sweet still, the soft brown eyes had all their old lustre. very listless was the worn white hand lying on her lap; loosely sat the plain gold ring on it--the ring that, through all the toil and trouble, had never been taken off. ellen was alone. sir william had gone by appointment to see over richard north's works.

a sound as of steps on the gravel. her father could not have come back yet! a moment's listening, and then the hectic flushed to her face; for she knew the step too well. captain bohun had returned!

captain bohun had gone to london to see sir nash off on his projected continental journey to the springs that were to make him young again. sir nash had expected arthur to accompany him, but he now acknowledged that ellen's claims were paramount to his. ellen had thought he might have been back again yesterday.

he came in at the glass-doors, knowing he should probably find her in the room. but his joyous smile died away when he saw her face. his step halted: his hand dropped at his side.

"ellen!"

in timid, wailing tones was the word spoken. only three days' absence, and she had faded like this! was it a relapse?--or what had she been doing to cause the change?

for a few minutes, perhaps neither of them was sufficiently collected to know what passed. in his abandonment, he knelt by the chair, holding her hands, his eyes dropping tears. the remorse ever gnawing at his heart was very cruel just then. ellen bent towards him, and whispered that he must be calm--must bear like a man: things were only drawing a little nearer.

"i should have been down yesterday, but i waited in town to make sundry purchases and preparations," he said. "ellen, i thought that--perhaps--next month--your father would have given you over to me."

"did you?" she faintly answered.

"you must be mine," he continued, in too deep emotion to weigh his words. "if you were to die first, i--i think it would kill me."

"look at me," was all she answered. "see whether it is possible."

"there's no knowing. it might restore you. fresh scenes, the warm pure climate that i would take you to--we would find one somewhere--might do wonders. i pointed this out to sir william in the winter."

"but i have not been well enough for it, arthur."

"ellen, it must be! why, you know that you were almost my wife. half-an-hour later, and you would have been."

she released one of her hands, and put it up to her face.

captain bohun grew more earnest in his pleading; he was really thinking this thing might be.

"i shall declare the truth to sir william--and i know that i ought to have done so before, ellen. when he knows how very near we were to being man and wife, he will make no further objection to giving you to me now. my care and love will restore you, if anything can."

she had put down her hand again, and was looking at him, a little startled and her cheeks hectic.

"arthur, hush. papa must never know this while i live. do as you will afterwards."

"i shall tell him before the day's out," persisted captain bohun. and she began to tremble with agitation.

"no, no. i say no. i should die with the shame."

"what shame?" he rejoined.

"the shame that--that--fell upon me. the shame of--after having consented to a secret marriage, you should have left me as you did, and not fulfilled it, and never told me why. it lies upon me still, and i cannot help it. i think it is that that has helped to kill me more than all the rest. oh, arthur, forgive me for saying this! but do not renew the shame now."

never had his past conduct been brought so forcibly home to him. never had his heart so ached with its repentance and pain.

"the fear, lest the secret should be discovered, lay upon me always," she whispered. "whilst i was staying here that time it seemed to me one long mental torment. had the humiliation come, i could never have borne it. spare me still, arthur."

every word she spoke was like a dagger thrusting its sharp point into his heart. she was going--going rapidly--where neither pain nor humiliation could reach her. but he had, in all probability, a long life before him, and must live out his bitter repentance.

"oh, my love, my love! i wish i could die for you!"

"don't grieve, arthur; i shall be better off. you and papa must comfort one another."

he was unconsciously turning round the plain gold ring on her wasted hand, a sob now and again breaking from him. how real the past was seeming to him; even the hour when he had put that ring on, and the words he spoke with it, were very present. what remained of it all? nothing, except that she was dying.

"i should like to give you this key now, whilst i am well enough to remember," she suddenly said, detaching a small key from her watch-chain. "it belongs to my treasure-box, as i used to call it at school. they will give it you when i am dead."

"oh, ellen!"

"the other ring is in it, and the licence--for i did not burn it, as you bade me that day in the churchyard; and the two or three letters you ever wrote to me; and my journal, and some withered flowers, and other foolish trifles. you can do what you like with them, arthur; they will be yours then. and oh, arthur! if you grieve any more now, like this, you will hurt me, for i cannot bear that you should suffer pain. god bless you, my darling, my almost husband! we should have been very happy with one another."

lower and lower bent he his aching brow, striving to suppress the anguish that well-nigh unmanned him. her own tears were falling.

"be comforted," she whispered; "arthur, be comforted! it will not be for so many years, even at the most; and then we shall be together again, in heaven!"

* * * * *

and so she died. a week or two more of pain and suffering, and she was at rest. and that was the ending of ellen adair--one of the sweetest girls this world has ever known.