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"depend upon it the worst is past with Mary as regards Frank."

"Ah, Fanny, how different everything would have been if Frank had never

"Yes," I replied, mentally adding the words she could not utter, while my heart swelled at the thought of Mary's sad lot; "the double marriage would then have been a happy one indeed. But we are not to have all as we could wish in this passing world, dear Laura."

"You will be Mary's companion if she consents to be bridesmaid, Fanny? I don't wish to have more than two."

"I am quite at your service, love, and shall be happy to be made useful in any way you need."

And so we parted. Laura to consider her own, and to consult her brother as to his arrangements, and I to acquaint my beloved Mary with the contemplated changes.

She looked so sadly serene that afternoon when I returned from Fairfield, that I almost felt it like a sin to disturb her. Amid all her sorrows Mary enjoyed a deep peace with which the world could have nothing to do; the joy that never fails in time of need.

She saw at once that I had something of moment to tell, and I think my look must have been troubled, for laying aside her sewing, she embraced me tenderly and said,

"What is it, dearest? Some new sorrow for Laura, or the old one, perhaps, still growing worse?"

I told her all; she sitting with her arm around me and her head upon my shoulder. I would not, ifI could, have seen the workings of her speaking face. There was a slight tremor in her voice as she said, when I had finished,

"Don't suppose dear Fanny, that I shall be distressed by it. And if my best wishes can add to his happiness you know how earnestly they will be given."

His happiness! Yes; for the moment she had forgotten even her brother and Laura, as well as the gentle Ellen. But suddenly recollecting herself, she resumed

"I'm so glad about William and Laura. She'll be a very dear sister to me. And you, Fanny," she continued lovingly, "you will be more precious than ever when William has left us. We must be true sisters now. I should be desolate indeed without you."

I need not say how I responded to these loving words. I felt that we were truly all the world to each other.

The weddings were celebrated at the appointed time. From Frank's position and wealth, he had no difficulty in obtaining Mr. Mill's approval of the match: and his girlish bride, little aware of his previous excesses, and seeing him only under the restraint he sometimes still imposed on himself, took little thought for the future.

It was a quiet, rather formal party that assembled on the occasion. Ellen had three of her school

fellows as bridesmaids, with her brother Harry and two of his friends for their companions. Mary and myself were escorted by two of William's friends, whose agreeable conversation served, at least, to keep sadness at a distance. After the departure of the newly married pairs, we amused one another as best we might till the welcome time for separation. Gladly, indeed, Mary and I sought our home, now ours exclusively. She had borne the day well, but the feelings she had restrained in the presence of others, overcame her at last, and murmuring "May they all be very happy!" she gave way to a fit of passionate weeping.

But the next day found her fully engaged with her usual duties.

"There's nothing like work, Fanny," she said, as she set out for school. "Nothing like work to help us throughcare and sorrow. With no necessity upon me for exertion now, I should be very wretched, but constant employment bears me bravely along."

A

CHAPTER XVIII.

NELLY.

But there are murders which the human eye
Cannot detect,-which human laws defy;
The savage murders with a single blow;
Murders like this are secret and are slow.

CRABBE.

FEW days after the weddings, circumstances came to our knowledge in connection with others who are named in my story, which greatly tended to distract Mary's thoughts from her own griefs.

She was passing along the street, one afternoon, when she heard her own name called, in no gentle On the opposite side of the way she perceived a working-man whom she soon recognised as the husband of poor Nelly.

"Miss Lister, wad ye just step on to see my wife? Shoo's varry badly indeed, and shoo'd be fain to see ye."

This was shouted across the street, and it was too evident that the speaker was, what he perhaps would have called "fresh." Had this not have been the case, "Thomas" would as soon have thought of addressing the Queen herself in this familiar way, as Miss

Lister, whom he always took care to avoid when she visited his wife, fearing her gentle, but to the poor drunkard, terrible reproofs.

Not wishing to attract the notice of passers-by, Mary merely nodded assent, and moved quickly on, followed, however, by indistinct sounds from Thomas, meant to express thanks. She hastened at once to the miserable room that was all poor Nelly could now call her home. Nelly was indeed "badly." She was too ill to say much; but Mary gathered that she had been confined but a week, when, having neither food, nor anyone to attend to her, she had risen from bed at night, and gone in search of her husband, who was in the height of a "spree." As might be expected, she had caught a severe cold, and now lay moaning and shivering in child-bed fever. Mary had not been there for some weeks past, and as she glanced with an aching heart round the room, she was as much surprised as grieved to see that it was almost bare of furniture.

All the household treasures that Nelly had been so proud of, had disappeared; her nice tea-trays, chest of drawers, cosy arm-chair, and many other things, were gone. There was little more than the bed, a common round table, and a couple of chairs in the place. Even her china tea-things, Miss Lister's present on the wedding day, Nelly had been forced to part with.

"For bread, Miss, to keep us from starving," said

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