It is six o'clock. The tea things have been taken away, and the occupants of the little drawing-room are all apparently lazily enjoying themselves.

Mabel has the baby on her knee, her husband is dozing in an armchair, Jimmy is sitting half-in half-out of the window, Paul is reading, and Philippa is lying on the sofa.

'Lippa,' says Dalrymple, 'sing us something.'

'What would you like?' she answers, rising slowly.

'Anything,' he replies.

She runs her fingers over the keys and then sings 'The Garden of Sleep.'

Paul closes his book as she begins, looking at her earnestly.

Why does she sing that song, so close as they are to the real spot; and why does it say 'the graves of dear women,' the only one he knows buried there is a little child. He rises abruptly as the song is finished, and passes through the French window into the garden. Philippa has begun something else. He pauses and listens.

Ah! thinks he, that is exactly it. What good is life to me!

The evening sun floods with a golden haze the road before him; he walks on, the distant sound of the waves coming up from the sands, and almost unconsciously he sings in a low voice,

And then, with a start he finds himself in 'The Garden of Sleep,' and just on the edge of the cliff, reaching over to pick some poppies is a child, a little girl with golden hair.

In an instant he is at her side, and without saying a word for fear of starting her, he catches her in his arms.

'Mummy, mummy, don't,' she cries, and then seeing that it is a stranger her anger is roused still more. 'Put me down, how dare lou touch me, me wants the flowers.'

'Now look here,' replies Paul. 'Do you know, you might have fallen over. It is very dangerous to go so near the edge. If I get you the flowers, promise me you will go away,'—no answer—so he puts her down, he picks the flowers, and gravely hands them to her.

'Sank lou,' she says, taking them in her little fat hand, 'sank lou, but I could have gottened them meself.'

Paul smiles, wondering who she reminds him of.

'What's lour name?' she asks suddenly.

'Paul,' he replies, promptly, 'what is yours, and who are you with?'

'I doesn't know what's my name is,' she answers, gravely, 'Mummy always calls me Baby, I'm wif Mummy. Does lou know Mummy?'

'I do not think I have that pleasure,' says he, 'but I should like to speak to her,' thinking to reprove her for her carelessness in letting the child wander about so far away.

'Vis way,' says the little girl catching hold of his hand, and turning down a path among the tombstones, 'Mummy always comes to a little tiny grave.'

Paul goes with her, wondering why he does so. When, why is it? that she is taking him to the grave of his.... And, good heavens! the person the child calls 'Mummy' is kneeling beside it, her head bent, apparently not hearing their approach.

'Oh, Mummy look,' cries the child, 'look what bootiful flowers me's gottened, him wouldn't let me get them meself. Look at him, Mummy,' she urges as the woman still kneels with lowered head, 'him's name is Paul.'

She raises her head at the name, and he starts back on seeing her face and looks at her for a moment with astonishment.

'Clotilde,' at length he says, and his voice is low, 'you here.'

Her head is once more bowed—

'You here,' he repeats, 'here at the grave of your child and'—with a slight pause 'mine. It is four years since I saw you last, and now to meet you like this.'

No sound comes from the kneeling figure. 'Where is ... he?' Paul asks in a hoarse unnatural voice.

'Dead,' she whispers.

'Ah!' and he breathes a sigh of relief, 'so you always come here,' he says, repeating the little girl's words, and then remembering her. 'Good God!' he cries, 'that child! speak, Clotilde, tell me,' he bends forward and touches her almost roughly, 'for Heaven's sake, speak, and say she is not your child, but no! I would rather not hear it,' and overcome by a strong emotion, he turns towards the sea, while a tumult of passionate strife rends his very soul.

Why had he saved the child. One minute more where she had been would be certain death, if he had only known who she was he would never have rescued her, and yet—and yet—what harm has the child done, that he should wish for her death like this.

Poor little innocent child, but who does she remind him of—not Clotilde, not that other, no it is Philippa she is like, what could it all mean.

A little tug at his leg interrupts his train of thought, and he becomes aware that the child is standing at his side, his first impulse is to push her away roughly, but the little thing is looking up at him so gravely. 'Mummy says,' she begins, 'that she doesn't know who I is, I'se Baby, and got losted years ago, but Mummy loves me.'

Paul returns quickly, 'Is this true?' he asks.

'Yes,' she replies slowly, 'quite true, I found her, and was never able to trace her parents; it is nearly three years ago now.'

'Three years, have you kept her,' he says, 'you! a woman with a past like yours, how—'

'Spare me! spare me!' she cries, 'have I not suffered enough, am I not suffering enough now, do not taunt me, I know well I deserve it; but I have always thought of you, as I saw you last, and your sad reproachful face has often stayed me from.... Last year, I thought I would go and seek you, I got as far as Brook Street, and there I saw you talking to a girl in a carriage, your back was turned to me, but I heard her say, "Poor woman, how ill she looks!" and I dared not speak to you; death was what I longed for, and I went to the river, but that girl's voice haunted me. "Poor woman," aye indeed! I was to be pitied; I had done wrong, but I would try to atone—but why am I telling you all this, you who ought to hate and despise me, I who have ruined your life. Oh! my God! my God! have mercy—' And with a paroxysm of grief, she lays her head on the little green mound.

A strange sight the old vicar sees as he passes through the long grass on his way to the church; a tall man in flannels gazing down on the figure of a woman, kneeling before him, divided only by a small grave, and a little golden-haired child looking at them wonderingly; he has spoken to the child before and now she leaves the other two and follows him into the sacred edifice.

The bell begins to toll for even-song, but neither Paul nor Clotilde move, so close they are together, only the past lies between them. A small cross marks the grave of their child, whereon his name, and age (but a few months) is inscribed.

Paul reads the inscription though he knows it only too well, and then he once more rests his gaze on the woman before him; the woman he once loved! nay, does still love, for a great desire to comfort her comes over him.

'Clotilde,' he says at length, 'let us forget the past. Come.'

He takes her by the hand and he leads her gently to the church, up the aisle they go, and side by side they kneel; and the old clergyman is not surprised to see them, and the little golden-haired child watches them from another pew.