It was not, however, for some time that Minnie allowed Mary to write even this; for she still hoped at times, in her heart, that Miles would return. But when months passed, and she ascertained, beyond a doubt, from a visit Mary made to his artist friend, that he had quitted for Florence, then she hoped no more, and nothing remained but to act.

Dorcas was most uneasy at her silence, and then Mary wrote, and afterwards she summoned courage to do so herself, though every word written was penned in the bitterness of worse than death; for we may die happy in hope, and the love of those dear ones around us, smoothing the pillow as we depart in peace and faith to happy shores, beyond life's troubled sea. Minnie's grief had nothing of this. She was on a wreck in a dark stormy night—a wild sea foaming over her head—a dark sky, and impenetrable darkness above and around; but nevertheless she spoke of contentment, and a wish to be left in quiet. "We deemed it better to part than live in estrangement of heart," she wrote, "and I am resigned. If you love me, let the subject drop; nothing can change our fate. Leave me in quiet awhile, I shall remain some time longer abroad."

But this letter did not tranquillize Dorcas, to whom it was written. She carefully abstained from speaking of its contents to any one but Mr. Skaife, and he, like herself, was too deeply interested in Minnie, not to be the confidant of all. Dorcas wrote most anxiously to her, and Skaife promised, as soon as his duties would admit of it, to go to Paris, and endeavour to reconcile them. He guessed a portion of the truth; but, alas, nor he, nor Dorcas knew a tithe of it!

Minnie, we have said, resolutely refused to touch her husband's allowance. He had gone to Florence (as far he might be, in his spirit-broken state,) contented in the thought that she was provided for, and in following his art, now a toil undertaken to banish care—he strove to obliterate her memory. Minnie's pride forbade her accepting existence at the expense of Mary; when all her means had become exhausted—the slender ones her purse and jewels afforded, her pride arose in proportion to her poverty. It was not false pride, but the honest, upright determination, to burthen no one. "I will leave Paris," she said to herself, "and go where no one may hear of me."

This could not be accomplished without some difficulty; nevertheless, at last she succeeded, and one day, when Mary sought her in the humble room she had been residing in, she was gone. A letter reached her faithful friend, telling her that cares such as hers were better borne alone; even her sympathy pained her. She would go where only her own heart should know her sorrow, and breathe it to her. She bade her not fear for her; she was safe, and would shortly give her proof of it by letter; but she implored her to breathe to no one that she had fled. Mary, however, in kindness of heart, wrote immediately to Mr. Skaife; the secret was too a heavy a one for her own conscience to support in peace. This intelligence caused the most bitter sorrow to him and Dorcas, to whom alone it was told; and he hastened to seek some one to take charge of his parish duties awhile, at her earnest prayer, and his own heart's promptings, to follow Minnie whithersoever she might be gone.

It sometimes, but rarely happens in life, that where we only expected to find a merely common acquaintance, we meet a warm and sincere friend—one who, through years of sorrow, never forsakes us—one who forgets self, to help us onward on life's weary track with our burthens—who, when all have forsaken save himself, clings to us still, and whose best, and only reward sought, is, when a gleam of sunshine flits across our dreary way. To such a one, honour and blessing—gifts, which his own good conscience will bring him, when, at the end of life's journey, he makes up his account, and reckons with his Creator. Such a copy of an original, was Skaife. But there was a machine working which he could not stay or controul; it would spin its wool, and weave its woof, before man might overcome it.

Tremenhere was in Florence; but yet he heard of Minnie whilst she was in Paris. So blinded was he by his passions, that even her poverty—her refusal tacitly to touch his allowance, were snares in his eyes, to lure him back to deception. Again, if at times his heart softened, 'twas but for a moment—he grew cold again, and pitiless. Living too, as he lived, steeled his heart to gentler scenes or thoughts; he avoided all society, and, shut up in his studio, labouring to banish the bosom's emotions, became sullen, morose, and vindictive.

Months passed since their separation, and in the delicate, frail woman, living in almost privation in Marseilles, toiling at her needle for her daily bread, who might have known Minnie Dalzell? With the little money remaining to her, she crossed to England, to prevent discovery and pursuit; here remaining hidden a short time, she then returned on her footsteps, and hastened to Marseilles. She knew Miles was in Italy, and her yearning heart led her to the port, whence she might some day, perhaps, be called upon to follow his path. Bowed and saddened she was by sorrow, still her heart's conscious uprightness, and honest pride, upheld her; if she suffered, no one knew it; if sometimes she ate her bread in tears, and only that, for a day's nourishment, who saw her? No mere person, but One who sees and reckons to us our patience and confidence in him however he may try us, and Him, Minnie never forgot. Even as the trembling fingers, pale and attenuated, broke the hardened crust, the eyes, once violet in their depth and richness, now paler, clearer, more serene in their sadness, looked up and blessed the Giver of it in their tearful gratitude. In all this patient sorrow came an almost overwhelming, unhoped-for joy; she held a living child on her bosom, small, frail little creature; its tones were as a bird's, so soft and sad, and through the little thin fingers the light shone, as you held them up, and only then did a ruddy colour, like pale ruby, show in them, proving they were not merely wax, an imitation of life. "I shall not have you long to comfort me, my boy," she whispered, when the sobered first joy gave place to reason; "but you will go to a better place, and plead for your mother, darling, and oh! do not forget him—your father. I would you might have seen him here, my child, to know him in heaven; but I trust in spirit meetings, spirit sight will show him to you, and we may all three rejoice, reconciled in peace and everlasting joy, which nothing human can attain to!"

He was christened Miles, and though the pale, fair mother grew paler each day, and toiled more, as the embroidery, in which she excelled, became more sought after, still the boy thrived, and as she laid him upon her lap, like a model of rare beauty, her lip smiled in placid thankfulness and joy, as she counted the dimples which day by day seemed to deepen in the now rosy cheeks and fingers. Hers was not a heart to keep its joy to itself; she wrote to Mary. True she did not give her address, but she wrote to bid her rejoice with her; her child was born and lived. A deep hope sustained her for some time. If Miles ever had truly loved her, he must think of the expected tie which bound them closer than ever. He would remember how he had spoken with almost boyish delight of the hoped-for period, and he would seek her, and come. Alas! he did remember it; but in bitterness of spirit, and laughed in scorn over those boyish hopes, of which he had been the dupe.

Mary replied, in haste and deep anxiety, to the Post-Office, as directed; she spoke of Dorcas's trouble, Skaife's arrival and anxious search for her, but not one word of Miles! and then her heart sunk in utter despondency. "Not even now!" she uttered, as the big tears fell on her boy's sleeping face; "oh, he must hate me much!" Then succeeded a fear lest Mary should seek her, or Skaife, or Dorcas; she would fly again.

Among her employers was one lady who had taken a deep interest in her; she had a daughter about Minnie's age, and married to a Maltese merchant; she was about to become a mother herself, and, being called upon to join her husband in Malta, her mother implored Minnie, who was thought a young widow, to accompany her as nurse to the expected child. The offer was a tempting one; thus she could fly, fly all, and in change of scene, more than place, still, busy thought. A large offer was proposed to her to wean her own child when another should claim her care, but this she resolutely refused. "You will be too delicate to nurse both!" exclaimed the lady.

"I shall gain strength for all, Madame," she replied, with confidence. "I am stronger than I seem," and she thought of all she had mentally borne and wrestled successfully with, and mere physical labour could not daunt her strong heart.

She waited upon the lady, and, disdaining all deceit, at the risk of losing possibly the situation which she much desired to obtain, told all her story. She had truly said, when asked, that she had no husband, and others concluded he was dead. At all events, as we have said, assuredly on the Continent people more charitably judge a sister woman by present good conduct, than they seek, by diving from curiosity into the past, to discover, perhaps, some deep sorrow, or more deeply repented error. We deny that our Continental neighbours are less virtuous than Englishwomen, in general; but they are less severe, more charitable, less censorious. Minnie's candour raised her high in the opinion of those, now doubly bound to her, from pity. All her energies were called into play, to meet the emergency of outfit—money was required. The lady advanced her some, still she required more.

We are not relating a mere tale of romance, where fairy and unexpected gifts come to help the toiling and virtuous, but a story of everyday life, where the good and conscientious, by undeserved misfortunes, are thrown in much trouble, degradation, poverty, and often want; where the fingers once destined to be jewelled, must learn to toil, that the lip which had been born to command a host of servants, may eat its daily bread.

Minnie had been guilty of but one imprudent act, and this was the penalty due to it, and unmurmuringly she was prepared to pay it to the last farthing. Her hours of sleep became shortened; the earliest morning light saw her working, while her boy slept. Oh, woman—fellow-woman! when some pale mother places in your gemmed hand the work you have commanded her to do for you, pause, and think that she may be in all things superior to yourselves. Pause and reflect, grow humble and grateful, where all your gratitude is due. Turn not away in pride, do not bid her seek some insolent menial for payment, who will grudge the hardly-earned sum, and insult, while giving it. Pay her yourselves—pay well, and in conscience, and above all, pay kindly; for how know you but that, in another place, this woman may plead for, or condemn you?

Time hastened on; the day shone fair and bright; it was in October, and the quay was thronged with gallant vessels coming and going, and friends were receiving in joy those who returned, and others weeping over the departing; but none were there to press Minnie to their heart in sorrow or fear, as, clasping her child to her bosom, she stepped on board the steamer "Hirondelle," for Malta. Once she looked back, and scanned the crowd, every face—it was a last hope, but it faded in the sigh which heaved her heart, where little Miles slept in peace. She turned away, nor looking again, went below. The anchor weighed, the steam gushed upwards in a cloud, the paddles commenced sending the spray around, and the port faded insensibly from view.

"Don't cry, madame," said Minnie, whose eyes were overflowing for another's grief. A mother had just seen her daughter for the last time. "Don't cry, dear madame," and she knelt and clasped her hands in both her own (her boy was sleeping in her berth.) "We shall soon be at Malta, and then you will see your husband, who so anxiously expects you." Here she may be pardoned if a tear fell for herself; this chord jarred on her heart, but she checked the vain dream, and awoke to comfort another.

On—on they sailed with wind and tide, until night set in, and then the former suddenly changed, and a high sea arose. Minnie had lain down dressed beside her boy; her mistress slept in a berth above her. Suddenly there arose a noise more than usual over-head, footsteps, and voices calling fore and aft. She sat up and listened. Some of the ladies slept, others were partially awakened by the noise, and murmuringly called the attendant. Some sat up, the better to listen. Minnie was very pale, but spoke not. At this moment a man appeared at the cabin door; he was in a sailor's heaviest dress, for weathering rough weather. He whispered the attendant, who grew paler; then he crept almost noiselessly in, and commenced putting in and securing, what are called the dead-lights. Then he stole away as he had entered; but, as he mounted the companion ladder, he closed and fastened the door. Minnie did not shriek, but she arose, and, though scarcely able to keep her footing, held on to the side of the berth, and whispered her mistress, "Madame, madame, awake and dress!" The lady started up; just at that moment something crashed on deck, and went over the side. A simultaneous scream burst from all in that cabin; then for an instant, which seemed as an age in duration, there were breathless silence and watching for the expected signal again, of disaster; but nothing was heard save hurrying footsteps over-head, and the heavy ploughing of the steamer through the waves, which broke with a monotonous sound against the vessel, which seemed like some poor, breathing, overwhelmed animal, struggling for its life. After this moment's suspense, wherein every ear expected to be startled by some fierce cry of despair, all in that cabin looked from one to another in terror. This lasted another minute—then one, endowed with a sudden desire to fly the gloomy silence of that almost dark cabin, where only one small lamp flickered to and fro in the centre, sprang up the ladder and endeavoured to open the door; but it resisted all her efforts. With a wild cry she shook it madly; then, struggling in her fear, fell headlong downwards, and lay on the floor, terrifying the inmates of that prison-house by her shrieks of wild, hysterical agony. Some rose, some kneeled and prayed, with trembling upraised hands. Others were too lifeless to think, but leaned stupefied against the side of the cabin. One woman lay still—perfectly still, and beside her were two beautiful sleeping children; her pale lips alone breathed a prayer for mercy, as she clasped both to her bosom. Minnie had awakened her mistress, whose personal attendant was too much alarmed to think except of herself; and Tremenhere's deserted wife, with her boy clasped in one arm to her heart, yet found courage with the other to enfold the almost paralyzed lady, and breathe words of hope; and thus the vessel toiled on with its death-expecting cargo. For nearly an hour, it seemed as if for one plunge she took despairingly forward, she was driven double the distance back again; assuredly she made no way in that heavy sea. At length there was a pause, as though she had some impossible wave to cut through; every heart stood still; then her sides creaked and heaved; the timbers seemed like complaining spirits. She had had both wind and tide against her; in an instant, as if by magic, she appeared to swing round, with her head to the wind, and onward she flew, like a soul loosened from bondage, and seeking its haven of rest. She was returning to Marseilles. It was a race for life; but, like many an overwrought gallant steed, her strength failed where her spirit upheld. Onward she dashed, and one wild shriek mingled with the severing crash, as "L'Hirondelle" broke upon the rocks, her crew was powerless to keep her off, and went to pieces in that dark, dreary night.

It is not our province, even though we portray a true scene, to speak of all in that doomed steamer; it is with Minnie we have to buffet over the waves of that dark sea, in a small boat, into which many—far too many, had crowded. Her child was clasped in a grasp like death, (for only that could have parted them,) to her shivering breast powerless to warm it, while its faint cry broke in agony on her stricken heart. Still she hoped; she knew something more than human force would be requisite to separate her from her infant, strained as it was to her bosom. So the shivering mother sat still, uncomplaining in her anguish, and thus they drifted on in that laden boat. Morning broke, and the boat was keel uppermost, riding on a calm sea; to that keel clung two living beings, the mother and child, yet the latter scarcely lived. The tone of that little voice was a faint murmur of expiring nature, which echoed in a heavy sob from the mother's heart, as she clung to the keel in almost despairing hope, and thus they drifted to and fro, a mockery of life, so nigh death they seemed on that calm sea, until her benumbed hand, for one grasped her child, could scarcely cling on, and insensibility was stealing over both, slowly and gradually, so much so that it seemed as a dream, two rough, but friendly arms, lifting her into a boat, where she was gently laid at the bottom on sails and coats, and covered up carefully from the spray, which dashed over her, as in playfulness. What means of restoration they had at hand, were supplied by those rough nurses, two fishermen on the Marseilles coast, who, quitting their toil for that day, sailed in, as quickly as possible, to their humble village-home, of a few poor cottages up the coast. A long, insensible sleep was Minnie's, when she was laid in the cotter's bed. Her long, fair hair hung in heavy, damp masses on the coverlet, and on her bosom lay the living thing she still clasped in her straining arms, loving almost unto death. It was nearly two long days before she awoke to perfect consciousness, to find herself tended with care and every kindness their poverty could afford, by the two men who had rescued her, and who, calling in a woman from a neighbouring hut, placed the mother and child under her care. Her first awakening was a loud cry of terror, as in a horrid dream she saw the past, and her first thought was her boy. Startled by her cry, the woman ceased a low monotonous song she was singing, to lull an infant to sleep with by the fire. Minnie sprang from the bed towards her, and in an instant memory gave her back all; for one doubting moment she held her child at arm's length to recall the features, then folding those arms in gentle, but strong hold around it, she sunk tremblingly on her knees, and the fair veil of hair sweeping the ground, made her seem a spirit from another world, in purity and holiness, as, raising her streaming eyes upwards, her lips murmured in deep, heartfelt gratitude—"Oh, I am not worthy of so much mercy! so great a blessing! teach me to deserve it!"

And her tears baptized anew her child, spared from death.