peace;" but she had answered him with bitterness; and
then he had fallen across the feet of his dead grandson, with his gray
head stricken to the dust with late repentance. And yet he was her
father! She stooped over him now and wiped the death dews from his
brow; and at that moment another scene rose unbidden to her mind.

She was kneeling beside her husband; she was holding him in her arms,
and he was panting out his life on her bosom.

"Nea," she heard him say again in his weak, gasping voice, "do not be
hard on your father. We have done wrong, and I am dying; but, thank
God, I believe in the forgiveness of sins;" and then he had asked her
to kiss him; and as her lips touched his he died.

"Father," she whispered, as she thought of Maurice. "Father!"

The fast glazing eyes turned to her a moment and seemed to brighten
into consciousness.

"He is looking at you--he knows you, Mrs. Trafford."

Ah, he knows her at last; what is it he is saying?

"Come home with your own Nea, father--with your own Nea; your only
child, Nea;" and as she bends over him to soothe him, the old man's
head drops heavily on her shoulder. Mr. Huntingdon was dead.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

EVELYN'S REVENGE.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel
Within thy inmost soul,
That thou hast kept a portion back
While I have stalked a whole.
Let no false pity spare the blow,
But in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine can not fulfill?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake, or still?
Speak now--lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

Evelyn Selby stood at the window, one afternoon about three weeks
after Mr. Huntingdon's death, looking out on the snowy gardens of the
square, where two rosy-faced lads were pelting each other with
snow-balls.

She was watching them, seemingly absorbed in their merry play; but
every now and then her eyes glanced wistfully toward the entrance of
the square with the sober expectancy of one who has waited long, and
is patient; but weary.

Erle had once owned to Fay, in a fit of enthusiasm, that Evelyn Selby
was as good as she was beautiful; and it was true. Placed side by side
with Fern Trafford, and deprived of all extraneous ornament of dress
and fashion; most people would have owned that the young patrician
bore the palm. Fern's sweet face would have suffer