d
first held his daughter to his heart. Death had dropped like a sacred
seal upon its memorable incidents, which all avoided; but mother and
child seemed hourly to cling more closely to each other.

To-day sitting on a low ottoman, with her arm thrown across her
mother's knee, while the white hand wearing the black agate wandered
now and then over her drooping head, Regina read the "_Madonna Mia_."

She had not concluded the perusal, when a card was brought in, and a
glance at her mother's countenance left her no room to doubt the name
it bore.

"After five minutes, show him in."

Mrs. Orme closed her eyes, and her lips trembled.

"My daughter, do you desire to be present at this last earthly
interview?"

"No, mother. My wrongs I freely forgive, I told him so, but yours I
can never forget; and I would prefer in future not to meet him. God
pity and comfort you both."

She kissed her mother's cheek, lips, even her hands, and hastily
retreated. As she vanished, Mrs. Orme threw herself on her knees, and
her lips moved rapidly while she wrung her fingers; but the petition
was inaudible, known only to the Searcher of hearts. Was it for
strength to prosecute to the bitter end, or for grace to forgive?

She placed a strong metal box on the ormolu stand near her chair, and
had just resumed her seat when Mr. Laurance entered, and approached
her. He was in deep mourning, and his intensely pale but composed
face bore the chastening lines of a profound and hopeless sorrow; but
retained the proud unflinching regard peculiar to his family.

Of the two, he was most calm and self-possessed. Bowing in answer to
the inclination of her head, he drew a chair in front of her, and
when he sat down she saw a package of papers in his hand.

"I am glad, Mrs. Laurance, that you grant me this opportunity of
saying a few words, which after to-day I shall seek no occasion to
repeat; for with this interview ends all intercourse between us, at
least in this world. These papers I found in poor father's private
desk, and I have read them. They are your notes, and the marriage
contract, which only awaited the signature he intended to affix."

She held out her hand, and a burning blush dyed her cheek, as she
reflected on the loathsome purpose which had framed that carefully
worded instrument.

"To-day I leave Paris for America, to front, as best I may, the
changed aspect of life. I have not yet told Abbie of the cloud of
sorrow and humilia