once more the scene changes to dallory.

seated on a lawn-bench at dallory hall in the sweet spring sunshine--for the time has again gone on--was ellen adair. sir william adair and arthur bohun were pacing amidst the flower-beds that used to be mr. north's. arthur stooped and plucked a magnificent pink hyacinth.

"it is not treason, sir?" he asked, smiling.

"what is not treason?" returned the elder man.

"to pick this."

"pick as many as you like," said sir william.

"mr. north never liked us to pluck his flowers. now and then madam would make a ruthless swoop upon them for her entertainments. it grieved his heart."

"no wonder," said sir william.

the restoration to the old happiness, the disappearance of the dreadful cloud that had told so fatally upon her, seemed to infuse new vigour into ellen's shortening span of life. with the exception of her father, every one thought she was recovering: the doctors admitted, rather dubiously, that it "might be so." she passed wonderfully well through the winter, went out and about almost as of old; and when more genial weather set in, it was suggested by friends that she should be taken to a warmer climate. ellen opposed it; she knew it would not avail, perhaps only hasten the end; and after a private interview sir william had with the doctors, even he did not second it. her great wish was to go back to dallory: and arrangements for their removal were made.

dallory hall was empty, and sir william found that he could occupy it for the present if he pleased. mr. north had removed to the house that had been mrs. cumberland's, leaving his own furniture: in point of fact it was richard's: at the hall, hoping the next tenant, whoever that might prove to be, would take to it. miss dallory seemed undecided what to do with the hall, whether to let it for a term again, or not, but she was quite willing that sir william adair should have it for a month or two.

and so he came down with ellen, bringing his own servants with him. this was only the third day after their arrival, and arthur bohun had arrived. sir william had told him he might come when he would.

the change seemed to have improved ellen, and she had received a few visitors. mrs. gass had been there; mr. north had come down; and richard ran in for a few minutes every day. sir william welcomed them all; mrs. gass warmly; for she was sister-in-law to mrs. cumberland, and ellen had told him of mrs. gass's goodness of heart. she had unfastened her bonnet, and stayed luncheon with them.

mr. north was alone in his new home, and was likely to be so; for his wife had relieved him of her society. violently indignant at the prospect of removal from such a habitation as the hall to that small home of the late mrs. cumberland's, madam went off to london with matilda, and took sir nash bohun's house by storm. not an hour, however, had she been in it, when madam found all her golden dreams must be scattered to the winds. never again would sir nash receive her as a guest or tolerate her presence. the long hidden truth, as connected with his unfortunate brother's death, had been made clear to him: first of all by general strachan, next by sir william adair, with whom he became intimate.

of what use to tell of the interview between arthur and his mother? it was of a painful character. there was no outspoken reproach, no voice was raised. in a subdued manner, striving for calmness, arthur told her she had wilfully destroyed both himself and ellen adair; her life, for she was dying; his happiness for ever. he recapitulated all that had been disclosed to him relating to his father's death; and madam, brought to bay, never attempted to deny its accuracy.

"but that i dare not fly in the face of one of heaven's commandments, i would now cast you off for ever," he concluded in his bitter pain. "look upon you again as my mother, i cannot. i will help you when you need help; so far will i act the part of a son towards you; but all respect for you has been forced out of me; and i would prefer that we should not meet very often."

madam departed the same day for germany, matilda and the maid parrit in her wake. letters came from her to say she should never return to dallory; never; probably never set her foot again on british soil; and therefore she desired that a suitable income might be secured to her abroad.

and so mr. north had his new residence all to himself--saving richard. jelly had taken up her post as his housekeeper, with a boy and a maid under her; and there was one outdoor gardener. she domineered over all to her heart's content. jelly was regaining some of her lost flesh, and more than her lost spirits. set at rest in a confidential interview with mr. richard, as to the very tangible nature of the apparition she had seen, jelly was herself again. mr. north thought his garden lovely, more compact than the extensive one at the hall; he was out in it all day long, and felt at peace. mrs. gass came to see him often; mary dallory almost daily: he had his good son richard to bear him company of an evening. altogether mr. north was in much comfort. dr. rane's house remained empty: old phillis, to whom the truth had also been disclosed, taking care of it. the doctor's personal effects had been sent to him by richard.

"ellen looks much better, sir," remarked arthur bohun, as he twirled the pink hyacinth he had plucked.

"a little fresher, perhaps, from the country air," answered sir william.

"i have not lost hope: she may yet be mine," he murmured.

sir william did not answer. he would give her to arthur now with his whole heart, had her health permitted it. arthur himself looked ill; in the last few months he seemed to have aged years. a terrible remorse was ever upon him; his life, in its unavailing regret, seemed as one long agony.

they turned to where she was sitting. "would you not like to walk a little, ellen?" asked her father.

she rose at once. arthur held out his arm, and she took it. sir william was quite content that it should be so: arthur, and not himself. the three paced the lawn. ellen wore a lilac silk gown and warm white cloak. an elegant girl yet, though worn almost to a shadow, with the same sweet face as of yore.

but she was soon tired, and sat down again, arthur by her side. one of the gardeners came up for some orders, and sir william went away with him.

"i have not been so happy for many a day, ellen, as i am now," began captain bohun. "you are looking quite yourself again. i think--in a little time--that you may be mine."

a blush, beautiful as the rose-flush of old, sat for a moment on her cheeks. she knew how fallacious was the hope.

"i am nearly sure that sir william thinks so, and will soon give you to me," he added.

"arthur," she said, putting her wan and wasted hand on his, "don't take the hope to heart. the--disappointment, when it came, would be all the harder to bear."

"but, my darling, you are surely better!"

"yes, i seem so, just for a little time. but i fear that i shall never be well enough to be your wife."

"it was so very near once, you know," was all he whispered.

there was no one within view, and they sat, her hand clasped in his. the old expressive silence that used to lie between them of old, ensued now. they could not tell to each other more than they had told already. in the unexpected reconciliation that had come, in the bliss it brought, all had been disclosed. arthur had heard all about her self-humiliation and anguish; he knew of the treasured violets, and their supposed treachery: she had listened to his recital of the weeks of despair; she had seen the letter, written to him from eastsea, worn with his kisses, blotted with his tsars, and kept in his bosom still. no: of the past there was nothing more to tell each other; so far, they were at rest.

arthur bohun was still unconsciously twirling that pink hyacinth in his fingers. becoming aware of the fact, he offered it to her. a wan smile parted her lips.

"you should not have given it, to me, arthur."

"why?"

ellen took it up. the perfume was very strong.

"why should i not have given it to you?"

"don't you know what the hyacinth is an emblem of?"

"no."

"death."

one quick, pained glance at her. she was smiling yet, and looking rather fondly at the flower. captain bohun took both flower and hand into his.

"i always thought you liked hyacinths, ellen."

"i have always liked them very much indeed. and i like the perfume--although it is somewhat faint and sickly."

he quietly flung the flower on the grass, and put his boot on it to stamp out its beauty. a truer emblem of death, now, than it was before; but he did not think of that.

"i'll find you a sweeter flower presently, ellen. and you know----"

a visitor was crossing the lawn to approach them. it was miss dallory. she had not yet been to see ellen. something said by mrs. gass had sent her now. happening to call on mrs. gass that morning, mary heard for the first time of the love that had so long existed between captain bohun and miss adair, and that the course of the love had been forcibly interrupted by madam, who had put forth the plea that her son was engaged to miss dallory.

mary sat before mrs. gass in mute surprise, recalling facts and fancies. "i know that madam would have liked her son to marry me; the hints she gave me on the point were too broad to be mistaken," she observed to mrs. gass. "neither i nor captain bohun had any thought or intention of the sort; we understood each other too well."

"yet you once took me in," said mrs. gass.

mary laughed. "it was only in sport: i did not think you were serious."

"they believed it at the hall."

"oh, did they? so much the better."

"my dear, i am afraid it was not for the better," dissented mrs. gass rather solemnly. "they say that it has killed miss ellen adair."

"what?" exclaimed mary.

"ever since that time when she first went to the hall after mrs. cumberland's death, she has been wasting and wasting away. her father, sir william, has now brought her to dallory, not to try if the change might restore her, for nothing but a miracle would do that, but because she took a whim to come. did you hear that she was very ill?"

"yes, i heard so."

"well, then, i believe it is nothing but this business that has made her ill--captain bohun's deserting her for you. she was led to believe it was so--and until then, they had been wrapt up in each other."

mary dallory felt her face grow hot and cold. she had been altogether innocent of ill intention; but the words struck a strange chill of repentance to her heart.

"i--don't understand," she said in frightened tones. "captain bohun knew there was nothing between us; not even a shadow of pretence of it: why did he not tell her so?"

"because he and she had parted on another score; they had been parted through a lie of madam's, who wanted him to marry you. i don't rightly know what the lie was; something frightfully grave; something he could not repeat again to miss adair; and ellen adair never heard it, and thought it was as madam said--that his love had gone over to you."

mary sat in silence, thinking of the past. there was a long pause.

"how did you get to know this?" she breathed.

"ah, well--partly through mr. richard. and i sat an hour talking with poor miss ellen yesterday, and caught a hint or two then."

"i will set it straight," said mary; feeling, though without much cause, bitterly repentant.

"my dear, it has been all set straight since the winter. nevertheless, miss mary, it was too late. madam had done her crafty work well."

"madam deserves to be put in the stocks," was the impulsive rejoinder of miss dallory.

she went to the hall there and then. and this explains her present approach. things had cleared very much to her as she walked along. she had never been able to account for the manner in which ellen seemed to shun her, to avoid all approach to intimacy or friendship. that mary dallory had favoured the impression abroad of arthur bohun's possible engagement to her, she was now all too conscious of; or, at any rate, had not attempted to contradict it. but it had never occurred to her that she was doing harm to any one.

just as arthur bohun had started when he first saw ellen in the winter, so did miss dallory start now. wan and wasted? ay, indeed. mary felt half faint in thinking of the share she had had in it.

she said nothing at first. room was made for her on the bench, and they talked of indifferent matters. sir william came up, and was introduced. presently he and arthur strolled to a distance.

then mary spoke. just a word or two of the misapprehension that had existed; then a burst of exculpation.

"ellen, i would have died rather than have caused you pain. oh if i had only known! arthur and i were familiar with each other as brother and sister: never a thought of anything else was in our minds. if i let people think there was, why--it was done in coquetry. i had some one else in my head, you see, all the time; and that's the truth. and i am afraid i enjoyed the disappointment that would ensue for madam."

ellen smiled faintly. "it seems to have been a complication altogether. a sort of ill-fate that i suppose there was no avoiding."

"you must get well, and be his wife."

"ay. i wish i could."

but none could be wishing that as arthur did. hope deceived him; he confidently thought that a month or two would see her his. just for a few days the deceitful improvement in her continued.

one afternoon they drove to dallory churchyard. ellen and her father; arthur sitting opposite them in the carriage. a fancy had taken her that she would once more look on mrs. cumberland's grave; and sir william said he should himself like to see it.

the marble stone was up now, with its inscription: "fanny, widow of the reverend george cumberland, government chaplain, and daughter of the late william gass, esq., of whitborough." there was no mention of her marriage to captain rane. perhaps dr. rane fancied the name was not in very good odour just now, and so omitted it. the place where the ground had been disturbed, to take up those other coffins, had been filled in again with earth.

ellen drew sir william's attention to a green spot near, overshadowed by the branches of a tree that waved in the breeze, and flickered the grass beneath with ever-changing light and shade.

"it is the prettiest spot in the churchyard," she said, touching his arm. "and yet no one has ever chosen it."

"it is very pretty, ellen; but solitary."

"will you let it be here, papa?"

he understood the soft whisper, and slightly nodded, compressing his lips. sir william was not deceived. years had elapsed, but, to him, it seemed to be his wife's case over again. there had been no hope for her; there was none for ellen.