had been able to attract his heart from its fidelity to the memory of his sainted Rosalie. And at the end. of six years' widowhood, though still in the early prime of life, eminently handsome and graceful, and as distinguished for elegance and accomplishments in the drawing room as for talent and eloquence in the Senate chamber; though honoured by the country and courted by society; though constantly thrown among the young, the beautiful, the gay and the fascinating; though admired by women as well as distinguished by men-Mark Sutherland was still alone-still faithful to an earthly memory that had also become a heavenly hope, and his angel-wife, Rosalie, had no mortal rival.

CHAPTER XXXV.

TO WED THE EARLIEST LOVED.

"Joy circles round, and fancy plays,

And hearts are warmed, and faces bloom,

As drinking health to bride and groom,

We wish them stores of happy days.

Nor count me all to blame if I

Conjecture of a stiller guest,

Perchance, perchance, among the rest,

And, though in silence, wishing joy."-Tennyson.

AND where, during all these years, was India, the once fair, though faulty "Pearl of Pearl River ?" Alas! how many a ship-wrecked voyager there is upon the strands of life-still making what stand he

can against the overwhelming waves of despair that, in every advancing tide, threaten to sweep him to utter destruction! Oh life! oh mystery of life! when and where shall be found thy true solution?

When India had administered upon the estate of her deceased father, who had survived the discovery of his guilt but a few months,-when she had settled every just claim upon it,-she found herself, as she had predicted, very poor. When the last debt was paid, the surplus fund was so small that it would not have met even her moderate expenses for one year.

And the once haughty India, haughty now no longer, found it necessary to do something for her own support. In a legal point of view, it was not by any means obligatory upon India to impoverish herself to pay her father's or her husband's debts. A portion of the property, sufficient for her own comfortable and even elegant maintenance, she might still have withheld from the creditors; but with a late though noble sense of justice-emulative of Mark's own strict rectitude-she resolved to pay the uttermost farthing, and clear, as much as possible, from blame the memory of the dead, by cancelling, at least, their pecuniary obligations; even though by doing so she should leave herself quite penniless. In vain her friends and neighbours remonstrated. India, once so obstinate in wrong, could be equally firm in right.

The estate settled, the creditors all paid off, all other claims of justice satisfied, and India, with a small surplus, turned to consider what next she should do.

In the South, luxurious houses enough were open to her. All-even those who would fain, out of kindness, have persuaded her to reserve a portion of

her fortune from the claims of justice-were eloquent in the praise of that high sense of honour that led her to disregard alike her own self-interest and their benevolent counsel. And many among the wealthy families of her acquaintance, with true Southern hospitality, invited and pressed her to come and make their house her home for as long as she liked. And there is no doubt but that the high-born, beautiful, and accomplished young widow, would have been considered a great acquisition in the drawing-room of any country house. But at no time of her life would India have endured such a life of luxurious dependence and even now, when her heart had been disciplined and chastened by sorrow, she much preferred the honest independence of labour. Therefore she gratefully and somewhat proudly, withal, declined the invitations of her friends, bade them kindly adieu, and left the neighbourhood.

Something of the old haughty reserve remaining, perhaps, induced her to cover her retreat. And so— many of her friends-Mark among others—had quite lost trace of her.

And she, also, had lost sight of all, except of Mark Sutherland, whose rising star she watched from afar, with mingled emotions of pride, joy, and passionate regret.

She had effectually hidden herself in the great city of New York, where, as a teacher of music and drawing, she lived in strict retirement, and whence she watched the upward progress of the successful

statesman.

At the close of his first senatorial term, Mark Sutherland had been set up as the candidate of the

liberal party for one of the highest offices in the gift of the people. Political business, about this time, called Mr. Sutherland to New York. He was received with enthusiasm by the friends of his party, and when his business was dispatched, he entered freely into the fashionable society of the city.

India had seen his arrival announced with the usual flourish of the press trumpets. And every day she saw his honours and his triumphs chronicled in the morning and evening papers. She could not bear the thought of meeting him in her poverty now. But in that extensive wilderness of crowded buildings, called New York, she believed herself as completely screened from observation and discovery as though she had been away in London or in Paris, or in a desert or a forest. And she also felt assured that he had not the slightest clue to her dwelling place.

But it happened that, during his sojourn in New York, Mr. Sutherland had consented, with feelings partly of amusement and partly of annoyance, to sit for his portrait, to adorn some lyceum or lecture room. And the painting had been finished and hung up, and had attracted crowds of his friends and admirers for a few days-and then had been left "alone in its glory."

One morning, at an hour so early that it was highly improbable he should find any other visitors there, Mr. Sutherland went to the lyceum to procure a rare volume on jurisprudence. The librarian was in his stall, but otherwise the room seemed deserted.

Perhaps Mr. Sutherland's foot was light in stepping -perhaps the carpet was thick and soft, or it might be that the lady he presently saw standing before his

portrait was so abstracted that she could not hear the entrance of another visitor. At all events, she did not perceive his approach, and Mr. Sutherland went past, selected his volume, and had turned to go back, when a casual glance at the lady, and a flutter of her brown veil, disclosed to his astonished eyes the face of India.

He could scarcely suppress an exclamation of joy. His first impulse was to spring forward and greet her. Had he been some years younger, he would have done so on the spur of the moment; but age brings caution and teaches self-restraint; and it was well he refrained, for a second glance at that pale, impassioned face, with those dark, burning eyes, fixed with such a fascinated gaze upon the picture before her, warned him that by no rude shock must that colourless, motionless woman be approached.

Softly and silently he drew away towards the other extremity of the long room, where the librarian sat in his stall.

"Mr. Ferguson, do you know the lady at the other end of the room?" he inquired of that gentleman. "No, I do not," answered the librarian, after taking a look at India.

"Nor where she lives, of course?"

"Nor where she lives," said the librarian, looking up in some surprise.

"I supposed her to be a lady that I once knew, but I did not like to speak to her in uncertainty-that is all," said Mr. Sutherland, evasively.

The librarian was a grave man, as it befitted a custodian of grave books to be, and Mr. Sutherland's reputation for unvarying propriety of deportment was