ON each page of a life's history there is sure to be a "but," clearly printed. Yet very often heedless readers pass by the little word of three letters without noting all its import. It looks so small and insignificant amongst its many-syllabled neighbours; yet it generally means so much to the hero of the story. Indeed, it often spoils or contradicts all the rest of it. The most indifferent of travellers passing through the village of Newthorpe could not fail to stay his steps in order to notice at least the outside of Monks Lea, the stately picturesque mansion which overlooked the place, and was the glory of its inhabitants. Whoever had an eye for beauty must observe how perfect was its situation, sheltered by sloping hills and noble woods, yet commanding on two sides, views that would fill an artist's soul with rapture. Everything about the place told of abounding wealth, for only those who possessed it could maintain such a home and its wide surroundings in the state of perfection which was the every-day condition of Monks Lea. An inquiry about house and owner would set any tongue in Newthorpe running. "That great house, did you say, sir? It belongs to a lady. Came to her from her father, and a deal of money with it. He was a banker, and she was his only child. Married? Yes, but a widow now; her husband was Colonel Gerard Austin, a good man and a brave soldier in his day. He would have been Sir Gerard, only he died about a month before his father, so of course his widow is Mrs. Austin, and not 'Lady,' as she well deserves to be, bless her." The speaker on this occasion was only the ostler and general factotum at the one inn which Newthorpe could boast. But rough and unkempt-looking as was Jack Sparkes, he carried a warm heart under a worn waistcoat, and did not forget the many kindnesses he had received from the gentle lady of Monks Lea and her soldier husband. It would not have mattered much who told the story. Man or woman, young or old, in Newthorpe, would have been pretty sure to finish by invoking a blessing on the head of Mrs. Austin, and deep feeling would have rendered a pause inevitable. "Children, did you say?" replied Jack, in answer to another inquiry. "There is no son—never has been, and out of six girls born there is just one left, a pretty creature nine years old. The last of the five that are gone was seven. Dorothy they called her, and she was buried a month ago last Wednesday. More's the pity." "Look at that grand place, sir; wouldn't anybody say that whoever owns it must have all that heart can wish for? Yet poor Mrs. Austin's heart is bleeding, and there is not a soul who knows her but grieves for her and with her at this minute. Look at those beautiful grounds! How often have I seen her, with her arm linked in her husband's, walking on the terraces, or in the woods."