"I want to speak a few words to you, Miriam," he said, after three or four minutes.

"Will you come to the garden, where no one will be likely to disturb us?"

She raised her head, and looked at him steadily, with a sad, half reproachful gaze.

"It is nothing very important," he continued, almost apologetically. "You will think me foolish, no doubt, perhaps I shall lower myself in your estimation. Still, I should like to hear from your own lips, although I know"

"Not now," she interrupted. "It is late. There is no time. Hush, is not that Mrs. Gerard calling me?"

"Miriam, Miriam, where are you ?"

"I must go." She pulled her hands from his slight detaining pressure, and was hastening away.

"Wait one instant, Miriam," he called. "Let me give you these snowdrops that I pulled for you." He turned to the table where they still lay. "No, they are withered," he said; "of no use."

"Ah, withered!" she exclaimed, in a tone of pain.

For a moment she stood still, then sprang back to him, and, throwing her arms once more about his neck, kissed him with wild energy.

Another instant and she was gone; but that pressure, so full of tenderness, passion, and despair, that it might have been a last embrace, yet lingered on his lips.

The peasantry gathered to see the wedding; but no congratulations or blessings met the ears of the bride and bridegroom. The people looked on in silence, and the ominous expression of their countenances bore no reflection of the brightness of the morning.

When the service was over, those who had entered the church gathered

But an hour hence, in the servants' hall, where a banquet was prepared for the tenantry, when good cheer was passing round, and wine was flowing, such bodings were not remembered by many, and the old walls rang with joyous shouts, as long life and happiness were drunk to the wedded pair, in brimming goblets.

It had been settled that they should go to France to pass a few months, for this was Miriam's wish. They were to start on the journey immediately after the weddingbreakfast. Miriam-who, pale and silent, sat beside her husband-rose, as soon as etiquette would allow, and left the room to prepare for departure. Mrs. Gerard followed, but Miriam pleaded a wish to be left alone for an hour, that she was tired, and wanted to recover herself. She would come down refreshed and ready to set out, then, she said. "You won't be angry with me;" and she smiled as she closed the door.

"She is over-excited," Mrs. Gerard thought; "that is why she looks so pale; it is better she should be alone for a while."

The travelling carriage was at the door, had been there for more than half-an-hour, but the bride had not yet appeared, though

nearly twice the time stipulated for had gone by.

Mrs. Gerard went and knocked at the door of her room, which she perceived was locked. Getting no reply she concluded Miriam must be sleeping, and she knocked louder to rouse her. Still no answer. Again and again she repeated the summons, and called Miriam's name. Others came, and loud through the house vibrated the sharp, alarmed summons. Still nothing but silence.

Looking up from without they saw that the window of the room was thrown wide open, and observed with a sudden suspicion and fear different from beforethat a ladder, which had been placed against the side of the house. for some repairs, was moved, and leant directly under the window. It was resolved to delay no longer, but break open the door of the

minutes the door was forced. They rushed in with beating hearts and pallid faces, then paused, and looked apprehensively round. Nothing terrible appeared, nothing but vacancy. No Miriam was visible. The room remained as they had seen it last. Miriam's travelling dress lay on the bed, ready to put on. She had gone, then, in her bridal attire; and whither? Would she return? Had she been taken away against her will, or gone of her own accord? If so, why? They looked at each other in bewilderment, and knew not what words to speak.

Downstairs, when the word came that the bride was gone, the wedding guests stood in groups and talked in low grave tones, but could make no suggestion.

In the servants' hall a whisper

arose, first breathed by one voice, then taken up by others, and swelling more distinct, and louder and louder till all joined, "Try the witch-thorn in the Black Glen, 'tis there the bride will be found.” And at length, when house, grounds, every place in the vicinity had been tried in vain, the advice was actually followed, and a party led by Owenof whose feelings it would be superflous to speak-set out for the Black Glen.

The short wintry day was rapidly drawing to a close. The sunshine had long ago ceased, and twilight was gathering. A drizzling rain had begun to fall, and a mournful wind wailed down the mountain defiles.

As they proceeded, scarcely a word was uttered. They could not interpret, even to themselves, the vague thoughts and fears that were in their minds, much less to each other. The only thing they could do was to press on, thinking as little as might be, and find a speedy answer if possible. So in silence the glen was reached, the witch-thorn gained at length. The bare branches of the blighted tree swayed slowly about in the wind, with a creaking noise.

Owen sprang forward, half expecting to see Miriam sitting beneath it, as he had seen her in his dream; but no Miriam appeared. They entered the old abbey. They had brought lanterns, for the gloom of the place was intense, and as the lights held aloft flashed on the crumbling, mildewed walls, and illumined the pale, anxious faces of the seekers, the effect produced-had there been any watcher calm enough to observe it—was startling in the extreme. And now, down the long aisle the name of Miriam rang, clear and sharp. It resounded through the glen, whose deep silence human voice, save in awe-struck whisper, had dared not to break for ages.

But the only answer was from the mountain echoes, which repeated the name, as if the spirits of the place mocked at the vain searchers. Suddenly a cry arose of such anguish and despair, that all grew silent, and shuddered, as they heard it.

"Miriam, my bride, my wife!" It was not like the expectant cry of one who seeks, and waits, hoping for an answer; rather the exclamation of him who discovers that what he sought for has passed beyond his reach for ever.

As

a

They rushed to the spot whence the cry came. Owen bent above the shallow stream which flowed beside the witch-thorn, and supported something white in his arms. they held the lights forward, they quickly perceived that it was human form, all in white, except for a dark cloak or shawl which clung about the shoulders. The head was thrown back, and drooped over Owen's arm, the long dense hair, dripping with water, streamed down, and a white face-though scarce whiter than when they had seen it last - looked up to the sky, Miriam's.

"Dead! is she dead ?" they cried, pressing forward-" Drowned."

"I don't know," Owen answered, hoarsely, waving them aside, and laid the motionless form on the grass, still supporting it as he knelt on the ground. One round, pale arm hung over his shoulder, and they perceived that the finger wore no wedding-ring, but a purple circle marked the spot, as if it had been torn off by force.

"Look," cried Mr. Gerard, "there are livid marks on the temple, too; see, there on the right temple. Violence has been used. How did you find her?" to Owen.

distinctly. She is only stunned by some blow, and benumbed from lying in the water. Let aid be got at once, or bring her from here. No time must be lost."

Mr. Gerard, half doubting Owen's words, in presence of that deathlike aspect, pressed his hand on the girl's cold wrist. After a few moments he thought he felt a very slight, flickering motion, so feeble, indeed, as to be hardly perceptible; still, he could not be mistaken; it was enough, life was there, though at any instant the lingering spark might die out. But while that feeble fluttering lasted, hope might flutter too, although as feebly.

They laid her in the chamber which she had quitted in the morning in health, her white robes fresh and unsullied as a bride's should be. Now they were torn and wet, and all drooping like herself, beyond possibility of restoration, as perhaps she was too.

The country people looked on coldly as she was carried into the house, and shook their heads. The demon that she had leagued herself with to bewitch Owen Gerard had forsaken her now, they said, and destroyed her.

The doctor held out but little hope of her recovery. Still, he did not declare it impossible; but she might die in a few hours, he said, or live and never regain her reason.

CHAPTER VI.

THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. WHILE Miriam lay unconscious, inquiries were set on foot in hope of unravelling the mystery that hung over her condition. There were some who inclined to the belief that all inquiries would meet with no result, that the act was Miriam's own. But Owen was decided in rejecting this idea, and

it appeared, from information received the following morning, that he was right in doing so.

The night of the fatal weddingday a strange man had entered the next village, which was at a considerable distance, and stopping at one of the cabins, requested a night's lodging. He looked much fatigued, as if he had come a great way, and the kind-hearted peasants were about to bid him welcome warmly, when they observed stains, like blood, on his clothes and hands. They began to think, too, there was something very singular in his manner, and they refused to give him shelter. Not aware, apparently, of the cause, the stranger sought elsewhere for admittance, but with the same result in every instance; none would allow him to enter.

They thought no more of him till next morning, when a cry was raised that a man had just been found, burnt to death, in a lime-kiln in the vicinity. Then, recollecting their visitor of last night, those at whose dwellings he had called, ran to the spot, with the idea that it might be the same. By means of the dress, portions of which were nuburned, and other testimony, they were quickly able to decide that it was indeed so. It was evident that on being refused lodgings by all, and as the night had become intensely cold, he had sought refuge in the lime-kiln, for sake of the warmth, and while sleeping, had met his fate.

A wedding-ring, slightly stained with blood, and a letter, unconsumed, though greatly scorched, were found in his pocket. When the ring was shown to Owen, he immediately recognized it as Miriam's marriage ring; and the contents of the letter proved beyond a doubt, that it was the murdereror would-be murderer-of Miriam they had found. The note was from Miriam herself, bearing the date of

the day previous to her marriage. It ran as follows:

"I will meet you at the witchthorn to-morrow, at the hour you name. I can only stay for a few minutes, and remember your promise, that it is the last meeting you will ever ask, and that you will never seek to look on my face again. When I leave this country tomorrow, you have promised not to follow me whither I go. Do not forget that, nor ever strive to learn what becomes of me. You sail for Australia next week; you have promised, and all is to be forgotten. I wish you had not insisted on this interview. Was not everything said at our last meeting? What can you want with me more? You know the difficulties that beset me in coming. Yet I have never failed you, never, but once; and I will come this time, I must, since you demand it in the manner you do.MIRIAM."

At the end of the letter was written, Stephen Kearney.

But who this Kearney was, what his connection with Miriam, and his motive for seeking her life, remained a mystery which it seemed none but Miriam herself could unfold; and to the watcher bending above that crushed, scarcely breathing form, it appeared almost hopeless to expect that those pale lips would ever unclose to give the needed information. Nevertheless, before long, testimony was found, and supplied by Miriam, though she lay motionless and unconscious as ever.

On her toilet-table a small book, fastened with a clasp, was found. There was nothing about it to attract notice, till Owen, taking it up, observed that it was manuscript, the writing Miriam's. It was a diary begun, he perceived, by the date, while she was in Italy, with her father. The first name that caught his eyes was that of Kearney.

弹

Here, then, doubtless, was an answer to the questions that perplexed them, questions which, should they remain unanswered, must for ever leave a shadow on Miriam's memory, and increase a hundred-fold the bitterness of her death. Burning with impatience to learn all that the book could reveal, Owen took it to his room, and began to read, nor did he cease till he had become possessed of its contents.

The first few pages were taken up with entries of no importance to the present purpose, but which showed the simple, secluded life the writer led, seeing scarcely any one but her father. These were varied by snatches of reflection, half sad, half bright, as of an ardent, restless spirit looking forward to the future, from a present, calm, though slightly tinged with a sombre hue.

Över these pages, though they would have had much interest for him at another time, Owen passed lightly till he came upon an entry which chained his attention from thenceforth. And now, leaving him to thread his way through the narrative, and gradually discover the information he sought, the substance of what it revealed given.

may

be

The first mention of Stephen Kearney, was as a frequent visitor the only one-at the residence of Miriam's father, not, it appeared, a favoured guest. Miriam's allusions to the coldness of her father's manner to his visitor, were frequent. He appeared, however, to possess a singular influence over her. But the fact that he was more than double her age seemed to prevent the possibility of love from entering her mind. Indeed, there appeared something almost of fear to mingle in her thoughts of him. When at length Kearney declared his attachment, and asked her to be his wife, she was altogether taken by surprise, and did not know what

to answer. He pressed his suit with vehemence, and at length, constrained by the force of his eloquence, she almost yielded. But on the subject being mentioned to her father, he resolutely refused his consent to the marriage, and told Miriam the reasons for this refusal, which were as follows.

Before meeting with Mr. Gerard, Miriam's mother had been betrothed to Stephen Kearney, who was in her own rank of life, and lived in the neighbourhood. Her faithlessness had driven him almost to the verge of insanity, and he had vowed eternal vengeance against the gentleman who had robbed him of his bride. Meeting the newly married pair, he pronounced a dreadful curse upon their heads. It seemed as if the malediction, uttered on the threshold of the church, had an ill effect. Though, for a month or two, all seemed fair, clouds soon began to gather. Bad news came from home, he was disowned and disinherited by his family, on account of the match he had made, and but for a small fortune, which he could not be deprived of, would have been left penniless. Worse than this followed. The fear began gradually to creep over him, that the marriage, for which he had sacrificed everything, was a mistake. There was little real sympathy between himself and his wife. Disappointed, he devoted himself to intellectual pursuits, and in his books, sought to forget his blighted prospects. He was aroused suddenly to find that, from whatever cause, his wife's mind had become deranged. This occurred shortly before Miriam's birth. After that her madness increased, and was pronounced incurable. Her death, in a mysterious and terrible manner, shortly followed. Poison was pronounced to be the cause, and supposed to be administered by her own hand. Her husband, however, found him