I now approach a period in my life which, in comparison with what I have already related, shines like a garden in an arid desert—a fair garden blooming with the flowers of peace and happiness. It is not easy to say when I began to love Ellen, and she has confessed that she does not know when she began to love me. Chance, or fate, led us to each other, and has led us to the end, which is very near. Much of the past I would undo were it in my power, but, although a miracle would be needed to free me from the peril in which I stand, I would not undo that part of it which Ellen and I shared together despite the fact that it may be said to have created the mystery in which I am entangled. I have read somewhere how a withered rose may be restored to freshness and sweetness. So was it with my life in the hour that Ellen and I first met.

I did not go down to Swanage immediately. With the knowledge that my enemies were at work, I waited a few days alert and on the watch, and when I reached the delightful spot it was by devious ways and cunning breaks in my journey which would have puzzled the smartest human bloodhound that could have been set to track me. Meanwhile I wrote both to Ellen and her mother, saying that I intended to visit them shortly and that no further letters were to be sent to me in London. That was all the notice I gave them, and when I presented myself it was at an unexpected moment.

The day was bright and fine, the sea calm and benignant, the air already fragrant with the promise of spring. I walked towards the farmhouse as a man newly born to joy might have done. Friends true and sincere awaited my coming, and those who have read these pages will understand what that meant to me.

Ellen sprang from the house at my approach. She had seen my form in the distance, and, as I came nearer, recognized and flew to welcome me.

"My friend!" she murmured, holding out her two hands.

I dropped my bag and clasped them. "Ellen—I beg your pardon, Miss Cameron!"

"No. Ellen, if you wish it."

We gazed at each other, she with a blush on her cheeks, but with no false modesty or reserve, and I in a dream of happiness.

"I have taken you by surprise?"

"The pleasantest of surprises. Every day we have been hoping you would come; every day we have been looking out for you."

"And your mother—how is she?"

"Better, she says, and brighter—Oh, so much brighter! What do we not owe you?"

"I beg you never to say that again. You owe me nothing. One day I may perhaps tell you what I owe you. Your mother is better. That is good news. And you—but I need scarcely ask."

"I have never been so well."

"More good news. The day is propitious. You saw me coming?"

"Mother and I were sitting by the open window. We are not overrun by company; that makes it all the more delightful."

"You are fond of the country?"

"I love it. We are closer to what is best in the world. There is my mother at the window. She thinks it so strange that she has never seen you."

"Well, she will see me now—and will be disappointed."

"No, no. That is not possible. You are her hero."

"Ah, that makes it all the more certain. We raise an ideal; best never to see it in flesh and blood. Reality is a disenchanter. Far better to continue to dream."

As I said this I gazed at Ellen, and there must have been a growing earnestness in my gaze. I had raised an ideal of her—had it met with disappointment? I was self-convicted.

"I recant," I added in a tone of satisfaction.

"I am glad," she said, and my heart beat more quickly at the thought that she understood me.

We were within a dozen yards of the farmhouse.

"Does your mother recognize us?"

"Hardly. She is very short-sighted."

"Let us walk quickly."

Mrs. Cameron rose, her hand at her heart, in a state of agitation. I observed that she rose with difficulty; before we reached her she sank into her chair.

"It is Mr. Fletcher, mother."

I prevented her from rising again, perceiving that she was not strong, and I did not interrupt the little speech in which she gratefully welcomed me. There was a strong likeness between her and Ellen; though worn with suffering, I noticed the same delicately cut features, the same trustful eyes, in which the spirit of goodness shone. Sitting there, talking to her, it seemed to me as if I had rejoined a family knit to me by close ties of sympathy and kinship. Ellen had taken up her work, and was busy with her needle.

"What is it you are making?" I asked.

"A dress for one of the landlady's children," she replied.

On a chair by Mrs. Cameron's side was another dress of a similar character.

"We are not good dressmakers," said Mrs. Cameron; "but we manage these little frocks very well. Our landlady has a large family."

"Are you working for money?" I inquired, gravely.

"Yes."

"But it is against the rules. You did not come here to work."

"We cannot be idle," said Mrs. Cameron. "It is not work; it is pleasure. When night comes we lay the needle aside. It was not so in London."

"So I have heard. Still, I repeat, you should not work."

"We should be unhappy without it. We do not tire ourselves. How long do you intend to stay in Swanage, Mr. Fletcher?"

"Several weeks, I hope. I am here for a holiday, by the doctor's orders."

Ellen raised her eyes.

"Then you are not well," said Mrs. Cameron, quickly.

"I have had a great deal of anxiety lately. Don't look troubled. It is over now—happily over."

"Oh, I am glad. Ellen, we must take care of Mr. Fletcher." The young girl nodded sympathetically. "There is a vacant room in the farmhouse."

"No, I will find a bedroom elsewhere; but if you will allow me, I will take my meals with you."

"It will be a great pleasure to us. There is another farmhouse half a mile away, where you can get a room. Ellen will show you the way. There is no hurry for a few minutes. We must go into accounts."

"Accounts?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Cameron, and at a sign from her, Ellen brought forward a small account book. "You have sent us more money than we need. We can't quite keep ourselves, but we can do something towards it. You will find the figures correct, I think, though we are not very clever at arithmetic."

It was useless for me to protest; they had their ideas of what was just, and seeing that I was giving them pain by objecting, I waived further objection, and looked through the book. Everything was neatly set down. I had sent them so much money; they had earned so much; their weekly account for board and lodging came to so much; and in the result there was a balance of four or five pounds, which they insisted belonged to me, and which I was forced to accept. If any proof were needed to convince me that I had been thrown into the society of ladies of scrupulous integrity and uprightness, it lay before me in this little account book; it increased my respect and esteem for them, and I thanked my good fortune for the association, and inwardly vowed never to desert them. What the mother had to impart to me was disclosed within twenty-four hours of my arrival. It was sufficiently grave, and strengthened my resolve to remain with them.

"My days are numbered, Mr. Fletcher," she said in a tone of much sweetness and resignation. "Ellen does not know the truth; I have kept it from her. Dear child, she has had enough to bear. She has nursed me for years, and does not see the signs which I feel are unmistakable and irrevocable. When the blow comes, she will suffer terribly; it would be cruel to destroy the peace we are now enjoying. It is peace, blessed, blessed peace—peace and rest; and I wait with patience, and with infinite confidence in the will of the Supreme. I think it will come soon, and as the dear friend whom God sent to us in our darkest hour, I wished you to know. Do not think it is an old woman speaking to you out of her fears. I do not fear death. There is a hereafter, and I shall see my dear child again when her time comes. I should welcome the hour when I am summoned were it not for my darling and for the grief in store for her."

"You are not old," I said in a low tone, "and there is still hope. Ellen tells me you are only forty-five."

"Yes, I know, I know, but my sands are run, and there is no appeal."

And, indeed, as I looked at her I felt there was none; death was in her face, which, in her daughter's presence, ordinarily wore a smile.

"There is no hope, Mr. Fletcher; the most skillful medical advice would not avail me now. What mortal could do for me you have done; you have prolonged my life, and I am inexpressibly grateful to you. Has Ellen told you we have no relatives?"

"No."

"We have none. Ellen will be left alone, to battle with the world."

"Not while I have life, Mrs. Cameron." She stretched forth her trembling hand, and the expression on her face was that of an angel in the act of blessing.

"Oh, dear friend, dear friend!" she murmured, and the tears ran down her cheeks. "God sent you to us—truly, truly!"

"It was for this assurance you sent for me."

"I hoped for it—prayed for it—and my prayers are answered. Sorrow is our heritage, but the world is full of goodness. God never sleeps; His watchful eye is eternally over us. You are young; never lose sight of this, never forget it, never lose your faith in Him. Ellen is brave; she knows no fear, and is prepared to fight the battle; faith and prayer are her support. There is something I ought to tell you about her, but I should like you not to mention it to her. Since we have been here she has had an offer of marriage. A gentleman—no, not exactly a gentleman in the ordinary sense—a man working for his living, came to this place in the performance of a duty. He was unknown to us, but, his duty performed, he came again—twice. He had seen Ellen, and confessed his love for her. I need not mention his name, for the affair is over, so far as we are concerned. She refused him, and he appealed to me, and frankly explained his position to me. His calling is not a high one, but he satisfied me that he could keep a wife in fair comfort. Anxious for Ellen's future, I spoke to her, and she listened patiently; she is never violent or unreasonable. Her answer to me was the same she had given to him. She would never marry a man she did not love. For one she loved she would make any sacrifice, endure any hardship, but where her heart was not engaged she could entertain no feeling but friendship—and that was not enough. I did not argue with her; I made no attempt to persuade her. The sentiments she uttered were my own, the lot she chose was the same I had chosen for myself. I married a poor man, and though he died early and my life has been a life of struggle, I never repented, never thought I had acted unwisely. So Ellen's suitor went away, but I doubt whether he will ever forget her. There was much that was good in him. Before he left he said that if it was ever in his power to serve her she had only to come to him and he would do his best for her. I am sure he loved her, and I am sure that Ellen, not loving him, did what was right. This is Ellen's secret, Mr. Fletcher."

"I will respect it," I said. "Unless she mentions it to me herself she will never know that I am in possession of it."

There was much more than this said during our interview, but I have given the gist of our conversation, and I left Mrs. Cameron with a sad feeling that her forebodings would be realized.

As, indeed, they were before the end of the month. She suffered no pain, but became so feeble that she could not take a step without support. She did not keep her bed; by the doctor's permission, and at her own wish, she sat at the window during the day in an easy chair which I obtained for her. There she could watch the advance of spring and breathe the balmy air; there she could see Ellen and me, whom she sent frequently into the open, saying it would do us harm to keep constantly in doors in such lovely weather. We never went far from her; the slightest motion of her hand, or her gentle voice calling "John" or "Ellen," brought us to her side, eager to do what she required. There was always a smile upon her face, a smile of peace, and content, and love, and I think her last days on earth were the happiest she had ever spent. She said as much: "I am quite, quite happy, dear children; do not grieve for me. In everything before me I see the goodness of God; I seem to see His face." When she raised her eyes to the bright clouds it was my firm belief that she beheld a spiritual vision of His glory, and when she lowered them to earth she saw a deeper meaning than we in the evidences of His wondrous power. She drew keen delight from the flowers and birds, from the air which floated from the sea, from the early budding of the trees. Not a murmur passed her lips, not a word of complaining. "I shall see all these things with a clearer eye presently," she said, "and bye and bye you will see them with me. Bear your trials patiently; do your work in the world, and let your mind dwell upon His love and goodness." She relied greatly upon me. It was I who carried her from room to room—Ellen not being strong enough for the task; it was I who sat by her side when she insisted upon Ellen taking a little rest during the day. Ellen needed this, for I knew, without being told, that she watched by her mother's bedside night after night without closing her eyes. Every evening I read aloud a chapter from the Bible; not in the stateliest church was truer devotion felt than in the room in which she lay dying. Once when we were alone, she said:

"Do you love Ellen?"

"With more than my heart, mother; with my soul."

It was her wish that I should call her "mother." On one occasion it escaped me inadvertently, and she asked me always to address her so.

"Ellen loves you," she said. "You are a good man. I leave her in your care."

She spoke constantly of Ellen, and related stories of her childhood, drawing from love's memory instances of Ellen's sweetness and unselfish affection.

"We have been very poor," she said, "but we had always one priceless blessing—love."

As with her towards Ellen, so was it with Ellen towards her mother. With tears in her eyes, the woman I loved related stories of the mother's continual sacrifices for her child; how she had nursed her through sickness, denied herself food for her, even begged for her. There was no shame in these privations; the recalling of them brought into play the tenderest feelings; all through, from mother to daughter, from daughter to mother, it was a song of love, which it did me good to hear. Unselfishness and self-sacrifice on either side, each striving to give the other the merit; poverty patiently borne, work which resembled slavery cheerfully undertaken, the hardest trials encountered with a brave heart; heroic qualities not properly recognized by mankind. Search behind the veil—there you will see the human pulse throbbing to the touch of attributes which it is not sacrilege to call divine.

I was lifted higher by this intercourse; the dust of self-complaining fell from me; I felt myself purified. New views of life opened themselves to me; I saw the poor in a different aspect. If saints are necessary, seek for them in courts and alleys; you will find the true ones clothed in rags.

Such were my thoughts then; such are my thoughts to-day.

I turn to the first pages of this Confession, and I recognize the littleness of spirit in which I wrote. I was forgetful of the lessons I learned from the lips of pure souls. I am reminded of them, and I will meet my fate bravely, without repining. The last day arrived. There was apparently no change in Mrs. Cameron. She sat at the window, smiling towards us. The birds were singing; the fragrance of flowers was in the air.

"Mother has fallen asleep," said Ellen.

Presently we want softly into the room, and stood by her side. We had gathered flowers which Ellen placed in a vase, within reach of the mother's hand. She liked simple flowers the best, modest stars, with tender color, which grow by the wayside. I held my breath; the light of love and pity shone in Ellen's eyes. Gazing intently at the white, still face, a sudden fear shot through me. I stooped, and placed my mouth close to hers.

"Mother!" cried Ellen, as I raised my head.

Never again on earth was that sacred word to receive an answer. Ellen and I were alone.