The guests at Trevelyan Hall had departed, Maude Bereford alone remaining. Captain Trevelyan applied himself to the duties devolving upon him with a will. His hospitality was the comment of many. He had begun life aright. His honest heart and upright principles were a sure passport to prosperity and popularity. "The Hall" was a scene of much gaiety and resort. Large gatherings were of frequent occurrence, to which the families of the surrounding neighbourhood were cordially invited. Fanny Trevelyan was idolized among her youthful companions and associates. Her sweet face was welcomed as a delightful acquisition on every occasion. Many sought to show their fond appreciation of her retiring manners and graceful elegance. Flattery had no power over her. She possessed a character of too much depth and penetration to harbor the least feeling akin to vanity. Lady Trevelyan had guarded her daughter's education and trained her with a view to set a proper estimate upon those qualities which ennoble and elevate the soul. Maude Bereford was a proper companion for Fanny Trevelyan. Their minds were in harmony, while the latter acted as a propelling power to force the aspirations of the other above their common flight. Lady Trevelyan was pleased with this companionship. Though she could not discern the brilliant genius and powers which characterized the beautiful Mary Douglas, there was much to admire in Maude Bereford. Captain Trevelyan was kind, amiable and attentive. He paid every mark of respect towards his gentle and loveable guest. Frequently they walked, chatted and rode together. Maude was pleased with the gentlemanly attentions of the engaging officer, and showed her appreciation in many ways. He enjoyed the society of those two girls much as those of playful children. Fanny was truly happy in her brother's company.

"Dear Guy, you must never love any one more than me," was a frequent rejoinder as she received his many tender caresses.

One day, when seated upon the lower end of the balcony, Fanny laid her hand lovingly upon her brother's shoulder and looking into his face, exclaimed:

"Guy, I have often wondered about you."

"About me, pet," returned the latter, "what can it be about me that is really worthy of so much attention from a young lady fair? Already I feel as of some importance."

Guy Trevelyan was now a handsome man of twenty-seven. The effeminate blush of youth had given place to an open and engaging animation that made him doubly attractive. Turning his gaze upon his sister, he added:

"Come, little one, tell me this great wonder. I must not be kept in suspense. Cannot Maude assist you? If so, I rely upon her in the present dilemma," said Guy, turning in playful appeal to Maude Bereford.

"Your surmise is groundless, mon frere," returned Fanny, in childish glee, "Maude is entirely in the dark, (pardon the vulgarism.)"

"I will pardon you in everything, provided you gratify my curiosity," said the other.

"Fanny, it is unjust to treat Guy in this way," said Maude, by way of intercession.

"Two against one," cried Fanny, with a demure smile upon her face. "The majority has it. I am placed in a difficult position," said she, turning to her friend, adding, "Maude only for your suggestion I might have been able to extricate myself. Well, I shall try my best to maintain peace by compliance to your united wishes."

"By telling us one of the seven wonders," interrupted Maude.

"Yes," said Fanny, "I have often wondered why it was that Guy could remain so long in the companionship of Mary Douglas or Lady Rosamond and come back heart whole to Trevelyan Hall."

Captain Trevelyan had received a home thrust, yet he betrayed no feeling and showed no reason for suspicion, at least in the eyes of his sister and her companion. A quiet laugh greeted the remark. Guy Trevelyan had not the keen glances of the secretary levelled at him now, else the puzzling expression that rested awhile upon his face would instantly have been detected.

"That is the great wonder," said the brother, drawing his sister nearer to his side, adding: "Well, my little sister, until you have become weary of your brother's keeping he is anxious to claim the gracious liberty of possessing the love of one devoted heart. What says la belle Fanny?"

"Oh, Guy," cried Maude, "she was afraid that you may possibly have charitable intentions towards some fair one and wishes to make the test."

"Why, Maude," exclaimed Fanny, "you are really in earnest; I shall begin to think, from the stand you have taken in the matter, that Guy had better beware, else ere long he will not be able to make such avowals to his sister."

"Come, come, little mischief-maker, no jealousy," cried Captain Trevelyan, hastily drawing an arm of each within his own, and then they joined her ladyship in the shrubbery.

Fanny Trevelyan was truly in jest. She had found that no real attachment was to be formed between her brother and friend. There had arisen instead a tender familiarity, a friendship that is rare to be seen. Maude Bereford had grown to treat Guy Trevelyan with brotherly kindness. It pleased him to witness this feeling arising from disinterested friendship and motives of genuine purity. Were it otherwise he would feel an embarrassment that might affect his honest nature. When left to himself he could not dismiss from his thoughts the remark made by his sister. He knew she was ignorant of his affairs in New Brunswick, yet he felt sorely puzzled.

Not long after the following conversation took place, Maude Bereford was preparing to hasten homeward. Lady Rosamond sent cheerful accounts of her husband's rapid improvement. They were still visiting amid the ruins in hopes of speedily returning to England.

Every fortnight brought to Trevelyan Hall a lengthy epistle from Mary Douglas—lengthy from the fact of its being addressed to each member of the family—bearing remembrance to Lady Trevelyan, many choice bits of gossip to Guy, and charming effusions to Fanny, full of love and tenderness. Her last contained a glowing allusion to Lady Rosamond—an eager desire to meet her loving friend; also fervent gratitude for the hopeful restoration of Gerald's health.

"I am almost inclined to feel a pang of jealousy," exclaimed Fanny, as she read and re-read the contents of the precious missive. "Mary loves Lady Rosamond better than any other friends on earth."

"Why not, my child?" questioned Lady Trevelyan; "they are old friends—friends in childhood, girlhood, and womanhood. Lady Rosamond is worthy of the truest and purest love. She is beautiful, good, and lovable. Who could see her ladyship but to admire and love?"

"Dear Mamma," returned Fanny, "you share my sentiments towards Lady Rosamond. Guy seemed surprised when I ventured to wonder why he could remain so long in the daily society of two such gifted and lovely beings as her ladyship and Mary Douglas, without forming stronger ties than those of friendship."

"Both are lovely," exclaimed Lady Trevelyan. "It would indeed be a difficult matter for a lover to decide between two so much alike in beauty, grace, and loveliness."

"Strange that I did not think of this before, mamma," said the childlike Fanny with an air of much wisdom. "The poet must certainly have experienced the same predicament when he wrote:

A week had elapsed after Maude had arrived at the castle when a hastily written note was received by Fanny Trevelyan from the former, containing sad news from Rome. Gerald Bereford had apparently recovered, and was on the eve of returning home when he was suddenly seized with hemorrhage of the lungs, which rapidly reduced him and brought on prostration. Medical assistance had been obtained, but he now lay in a critical state, every means being used to prevent another attack, in which case there could be no hope.

Maude Bereford had penned those lines in bitter anguish. She loved her brother from the depths of her heart. His life must be spared. Heaven could not deprive her of such a blessing. Ah, no, he will live! In this hour of trial the sorrowing girl sought comfort in those rebellious and sinful thoughts. She had not the sustaining faith to say, "Thy will be done." It is needless to say that Maude's letter met much sympathy at "The Hall." Fanny cried heartily. She could not think of any thing but the sadness that had fallen upon the inmates of the Castle.

"Poor Lady Rosamond," exclaimed she, in tones of undisguised sadness, "how she will lament her sad fate if Gerald should die? Oh, mamma, I cannot think it possible that he must die."

"Tempt not Heaven, my child, for 'with God all things are possible,'" said Lady Trevelyan, who was a truly Christian woman. "Everything is ordered aright," continued her ladyship, "there are no afflictions or trials in life but what are considered for our good. It is indeed a heavy blow upon the young wife to lose the husband of her choice, but how many have borne up when deprived of father, mother, husband and child."

"Oh, mamma," exclaimed Fanny, "if I could only look upon the ways of Providence in the same manner as you. I know it is sinful, but I cannot help thinking that it is too hard for Gerald to be taken away from Lady Rosamond. How I pity her. Poor dear Maude too. How badly she must feel."

The physician's worst fears were realized. Spite of every care and precaution a second attack of hemorrhage made its fatal ravages upon the fast sinking body of the sufferer. Gerald Bereford must die. All hopes are at an end. Death has set its seal upon his broad, fair forehead. Soon the eyes that still fondly linger upon the form of his beautiful wife shall close to open upon the scenes of another world.

This was a bitter trial to Lady Rosamond! Her husband was to die in a foreign land. He was to be deprived of a last farewell to the dear friends at home. Such thoughts, bore heavily upon the susceptible nature of this faithful woman. Could she then have gathered those loved ones around the dying bed of her husband, she would have sacrificed every earthly desire; yes, her life. Then did she think of her friend, Mary Douglas; then did she need the consolation of a true Christian friend. Like a ministering angel, she strove to soothe the last hours of her dying husband. Never was woman more devoted, heroic and patient. Not a murmur escaped her lips as she sat for hours watching the quickening breath in death-like struggle, convulsing the almost lifeless form of one who had ever been kind, dutiful, loving, and true to his vow.

On his death-bed, Gerald Bereford felt no pangs of remorse devouring his latest thoughts. He could die in the belief of having been ever devoted to her whom he had promised to love, cherish and protect. Keenly did Lady Rosamond feel this reflection. Had her husband been less kind, generous and true, she could have borne the present with a firmness worthy of her spirit. But the thoughts that now filled her breast were maddening, merciless and torturing.

"What have I done to suffer so much through life," was the mental question ever uppermost.

Gerald Bereford had fought the battle of life bravely. He had taken part in its conflicts and struggles, never flinching from his post when duty called. Ambition had dazzlingly tempted him on—on—further on. He must be victorious in gaining the cause for which so many had fought with firm determination. Could he have lived to see the result of such political warfare—its blessings and its privileges—its freedom—he might exclaim with the brave general, "I die happy." But he did die happy. He lived a happy life—he died a happy death.

Lady Rosamond had many kind friends amidst this sad bereavement. Her pale face had power to move the most stoical—more powerful than the loudest outbursts of grief, or the paroxysms of a passionate and unsubdued sorrow.

What she suffered in those hours of silent anguish Heaven alone can ever know. Thoughts forced themselves upon her almost too hard to bear. Truly did she need the strength for which she had prayed on a former occasion. It seems a sacrilegious intrusion to unveil the heart of this truly devoted woman, who had sacrificed her entire being to the wishes and welfare of one whom she had calmly laid to rest. Fain would we stop here. But the sequel must be told.

Lady Rosamond had married Gerald Bereford with a firm resolve to be a dutiful and yielding wife, yet her heart had refused to follow. She never loved the man who lived upon her smiles. Still he knew it not. She was to him kind, loving, and pure. She was indeed kind. In every action shone kindness in characters of bold relief. Everyone who knew her found naught but true kindness. Loving? Yes, loving; though Gerald Bereford stirred not the depths of Lady Rosamond's heart, she was capable of a love as undying as the soul that gave it birth. It was her life—her being. In pity for her faithful husband she had guarded every secret passage of the heart which might lead to the betrayal of bitter and desolate feelings. Pure? Yes; purity was the guiding star which marked the daily course of this woman's existence. Her acts were pure—her mind was pure—her heart was pure—every thought was pure. There was purity in her sorrow, leading to pure and holy thoughts—speaking to the soul—giving comfort—giving hope.

In deep sincerity did Lady Rosamond mourn for her husband. She mourned his loss as that of a loved brother—a dear friend—one in whom she confided. She found much comfort in the thought of having done her best. She had fulfilled her duty—she had struggled bravely. She had cheered her husband's path through life—she had kept her secret—made one being happy. Surely such thoughts must have offered some relief. She had committed no wrong, having gone forth at the summon of duty, she had taken upon her frail, trembling form, a cross overpowering in its weight, yet she murmured not.

As she is sitting beside the lifeless remains of one who had filled such an important part in her history—a striking illustration of life in its varied forms of existence—its joys—its sorrows—its longings—its aspirations—its dreams—let us look upon her as one of the many purified through much suffering—whose faith will meet its recompense.