wretched woman again, speaking of her crime with the bitterest reprobation, and of the punishment which had fallen upon her with genuine contemptuous approbation. Before Lady Forestfield's eyes, which were apparently fixed on the dim and distant park, rose this scene in all its minutest details: she heard the noisy laughter of the peasants; the jingle of the horses' bells and the rattle of their rope harness; the shouts and cries of the vendors in the kermesse; she saw the little square in which the inn stood, with the quaint gabled houses opposite, the loiterers round the carriage, the two couriers drinking beer on the steps of the inn; and above all, she saw the miserable look which Fanny Erle gave when Lord Forestfield hurried her away, and heard the moan of despair with which the wretched woman fell back into the corner of the carriage. Was she to be like that, a leprous object, a pariah, from the contemplation of which people would turn in disgust? God forbid! And yet the sin of Fanny Erle was hers; why should she not incur the penalty? Wearied and heart-sore, she at last made her way to bed, and fell into a heavy slumber, from which she did not wake till noon. Her first care was to inquire after her husband's movements. Her maid learned from the valet that his lordship had gone out early in a cab which had been fetched for him; the valet could not recollect the directions given to the driver, but had an idea it was to somewhere in the City; his lordship had said nothing as to when he should be back. There was a respite, then. No man, May Forestfield thought, having sinister intentions would act in such a manner; he would either have blazed out at her in a personal interview, when murder might have been done, or he would have written her a cutting letter, stating the discovery he had made, and his consequent intention of getting rid of her. It was plain to Lady Forestfield that Gustave had been misinformed, and that her husband knew nothing. Though a constant attendant at afternoon service at All Saints', and quite familiar with as much of the liturgy as is then and there intoned, May Forestfield was not in the habit of putting much heart into her supplications; but in the belief that a great and deserved punishment had been averted from her, she knelt down and implored the Divine forgiveness for her past crime, and pledged herself to sin no more.