to convince him that abstinence is the only course for him, or he would never, never have tasted it again. I know" she continued pityingly, "his naturally kind heart must have been well-nigh broken by little Allie's death. He loved the child dearly, and it's a terrible thing to feel that his was the hand that laid her low. Oh, if this did not cause him to dash the destroyer from his lips, and to vow solemnly that he would never, through his whole life, taste or handle it again, what hope can there be now?"

If any hope of Frank's restoration had hitherto flickered in Mary's breast, it was from that time extinguished for ever. I was silent, for I felt she spoke too truly; but, as I looked on the deep sadness, almost despair, that clouded her sweet face, I confess I could hardly sympathise with the pity she expressed for him who had caused such misery. I could at that moment much more readily have exclaimed, "Cruel, wicked man!" than have echoed her pitying words, "Poor Frank!"

Very soon, surprisingly soon, Mary's forebodings were realised. Again we heard with grief, that was fast turning, in my case, to disgust, that he had given way, had returned to his worst excesses, with the only qualifying fact, that they were mostly carried on at hcme. His patient, sorrow-stricken mother, and the sister whose love he had never really won, shared his privacy. We saw little of them elsewhere, and we

felt that our presence could not be welcome at Fairfield. Only William continued his visits; but the household sorrow, intensified daily through the rapid failure of Mrs. Hamer's health, prevented his indulging any prospect of immediate union with his beloved Laura.

CHAPTER XVII.

TIME'S CHANGES.

For though we sleep, or wake, or roam, or ride,
Aye, fleeth the time; it will no man abide.

CHAUCER.

Life is at most a meeting and a parting;
A glimpse into the world of Might-have-been.
GERALD MASSEY.

MUST pass quickly over the next five years, briefly recording the events that marked their flight in our little circle.

First then, not many months after Allie's death, Laura and Frank became motherless. Mrs. Hamer never recovered the shock of that dreadful event, and though her last days were cheered by the fondest love and most constant attention from her daughter, it was too evident that her life had been shortened by the bitter disappointment and anguish she had suffered on Frank's account. Her death aroused him once again from the state of gloomy sottishness in which he-the once noble and happy Frank Hamer-was now almost constantly plunged. For a short time, he filled, with

something like credit to himself and comfort to his sister, the office of head of the house, and Laura began to hope that what the pleadings of his mother in her lifetime had been insufficient to effect, would be brought about by her premature death. That he felt her loss keenly, and mourned over his own infatuation, that had caused her such bitter sorrow, afforded, as Laura thought, some ground at least for hope; and helped her to bear up under the bereavement, which was, after all, far greater to her than to Frank.

The communion of grief, also, had the effect of opening their hearts to one another. Hitherto they had scarcely been like brother and sister; there had seemed to be a cloud between them, that prevented all familiar and loving intercourse. But, now that his best friend was gone, Frank put his sister in her place, and in his subdued state of mind, he begged Laura to take him under her care, and to watch over and restrain him, as his mother would have done. For in truth, he had begun to lose confidence in himself, and to feel that he was only held back from infamy and ruin, by having another to warn and guide him.

This state of things lasted so long, that all but Mary began to regard him as a repentant and reformed man. Repentant, he certainly was, and Mary would joyfully have regarded the change, but for that one fatal drawback-the continuance of the use of stimulants. Moderately, even sparingly, for some months Frank

partook of the enemy, the undermining foe that had so often betrayed him. And it was by almost imperceptible degrees that its old power re-asserted itself once more. But, it did regain its power, if slowly not the less surely, and Laura's new-born joy was blighted in the bud.

All this time Harry Mills had been growing in the esteem of his best friends. Ever pleasant-tempered, and overflowing with kindness, if also with mischief and fun, he had been admired even where he was not beloved. But a marked change had come over him. His levity had given way to a more equal and continuous cheerfulness, and though actively engaged in a profession, he exerted himself for the good and happiness of those around him, and his father rejoiced over him as the comfort of his declining years. His society was now sought by many, who had formerly regarded him as wild and dangerous; and Mrs. Hamer, for some time before her death, had looked upon him as one, who so far from encouraging Frank in his wrong-doing, would be likely rather to deter him from evil, and strengthen him in good. But Frank, as I have said, regarded Harry with jealousy, and shunned his society for this fancied cause. I say fancied, because, though there was no doubt about the passion Harry felt for Mary, we all knew his love was utterly hopeless.

Twelve-months passed away after Mrs. Hamer's death, before William Lister ventured to claim the