t thus left vacant, whereupon Society was
consoled, and Mrs. Rutherford's sad fate was forgotten.

Only two persons--Horace Rutherford and his mother--suspected that her
death was not an accidental one; but they guarded their secret carefully,
and Clement Rutherford will never learn that his dead wife was other than
the innocent English girl she represented herself to be. Walter Nugent
wrote a pathetic letter to Mrs. Rutherford, begging that a lock of his
lost and now forgiven darling's hair might be sent to him; and it cost
Horace a sharp pang of regret when he substituted for the black, wavy
tress furnished by Clement a golden ringlet purchased from one of the
leading hairdressers of New York.

"Heaven forgive me!" he said to himself, remorsefully, as he sealed the
little packet; "but I really think that this is one of the cases wherein
one cannot be blamed for not revealing the truth."

A few months later, Horace Rutherford stood in Greenwood Cemetery
contemplating with curiosity and interest the inscription on a
recently-erected monument of pure white marble.

"Sacred to the memory of Marion Nugent, beloved wife of Clement
Rutherford," he read. "Well, this is consistent at least. She wears the
disguise of a virtuous woman in her very tomb. Marion Nugent rests beneath
the waves of the Atlantic ocean, and here Rose Sherbrooke sleeps in an
honored grave beneath the shelter of the dead girl's stainless name. But
the deception has power to harm no longer, so let us leave her in peace.
It is well for our family that, even as a sunken wreck, we still find this
pirate bark Under False Colors,"

LUCY HAMILTON HOOPER.

The Hungry Heart.

A village on the coast of Maine; in this village a boarding-house; in this
boarding-house a parlor.

This parlor is, strictly speaking, a chamber: it is in the second story,
and until lately it contained a bed, washstand, etc.; but a visitor from
New York has taken a fancy to change it to a reception-room. In the rear,
communicating with it, is a sleeping-closet.

The room is what you might expect to find in a village boarding-house: the
floor of liliuptian extent; the ceiling low, uneven, cracked and yellow;
the originally coarse and ugly wall-paper now blotched with age; the
carpet thin, threadbare, patched and stained; the furniture of various
woods and colors, and in various stages of decrepitude.

But a tiny bracket or two, three or four handsome engravings, two fres