and with what intention I came, and ask if my services are needed." The foreigner departed. Only a few moments elapsed, during which Edgar waited breathlessly, before Gwendoline appeared, coming down the dirty stone staircase, her veil drawn over her face, and, having joined him, she hurried straight out of the house into the streets, quite silently; but Edgar could see through the veil that she was agitated, that she looked very pale, and that her eyes, though dry now, had evidently been weeping. on her part, absorbed in her own emotions, did not seem to observe any thing particular in her companion's demeanor, or to mark the cold, stern voice in which, as it was nearly dark, and the streets unquiet, he offered her his arm, which she accepted. She had never taken his arm before. They were a wellmatched pair to walk thus together

She,

she so tall, but he still taller; and there was light enough still for many to remark upon the appearance of the fine young English lady and young Englishman. But still she spoke not, excepting once to thank him, with some surprise, for his having come for her, and though Edgar barely responded, his ominous silence did not seem to strike her. He felt her arm tremble on his own nevertheless, and her step was different from its usual firm and

steady movements. He could not, despite his own strong, inward agitation, remain utterly indifferent to those conspicuous demonstrations, and said at length, his changed tone then startling her a little

"You found your friend very ill, I fear."

She answered in a tone choked with strong and passionate emotion

"Ill! yes, dying."

And she leaned more heavily on her support, as if to crush down

her grief and indignation. And yet he fancied he could discern that it was not grief alone that her feelings had been recently moved by some different and additional excitement, and this sent back the tide of sympathy and compassion with which her agitation would otherwise have inspired his heart, and he waited coldly and sternly for further revelations.

But none distinctly came; she only said when they were coming near the hotel

"I can neither see nor speak to any one else to-night, but shall go straight to my room. I have gone through much this evening, have been greatly shocked and startled, and have much to consider. Mr. Campbell, I could not have believed there was in the world such dark, strange wickedness and misery. You can tell the Fieldens that Madame Paoli's case is hopeless, and beyond every thing wretched; but that I cannot speak more of it to-night."

Her tone was strange and hurried, but still, as if in the peculiar position in which she stood to Edgar, all his great concern and interest in what might have occurred, was forgotten. Had he then after all been deceived throughout? Had she come to Malta, not to see her friend, as she represented, Paoli's wife, but this mysterious personage, whom the lawyer's confident declaration had given him sure reason to suppose existed, and whom the foreigner could hardly so plainly have denominated her husband without foundation.

They parted on the staircase of the hotel, she desiring to be shown straight to her bedroom, and Edgar, in a maze of confused and bewildered feeling, having to face alone the curiosity of the party, anxious to hear the result of Miss Lawson's expedition.

feared, from what she had observed for some days past, that Gwendoline was making Edgar unhappy, but something more desperate must have occurred that evening. Ah! and it might have been so different!

As for Mrs. Fielden, in spite of Gwendoline's prohibition, she could not rest content without going to her friend's room, to see at least that she had taken proper refreshment after all the fatigue and agitation she had undergone. She came forth again weeping, having heard Gwendoline's heartrending account of Bona.

And you-Mr. Fielden! how could you sleep so soundly, after listening to the tale of utter misery, and knowing, too, that your own heartless, reckless conduct was instrumental in bringing to pass this cruel tragedy?

GWENDOLINE'S walk to Paoli's house, escorted by her guide, had been a much more direct and short one than Edgar's. Her handsome English appearance attracted a good deal of notice, both from her own countrymen and foreigners, as she hurried the streets along, too intent and anxious herself to note the fact, or bestow much answering attention on the objects, animate or inanimate, surrounding her. Her only care or thought was to reach her destination, dreadful as she could only anticipate it would be to her feelings, to face what there awaited her. When she entered the street and her conductor stopped before the house, the number of which she had

designated, an abode so different from the almost palace-like residence poor Bona had been led to image, she clenched her hands almost fiercely, in her pity and indignation at the memory of Bona's miserable infatuation, and all the fruitless efforts she had made, to save her from recklessly yielding herself to the wretched imposture.

Paoli met her at the door, his eyes encountering hers, so full of mingled anxiety and aversion, with cool, if not with quite as much insolent defiance as usual; testifying not the least surprise, natural or feigned, at her appearance, but rather as if he had been waiting and expecting, bade her welcome with

enter.

"How is she? Take me to her immediately," was all that Gwendoline in her trembling excitement was capable of uttering.

a little later" if you mean that fellow Fielden-that false, treacherous pastor-that wolf in sheep's vestments, I can tell him he had better not come here to insult me. I have had enough of his bad doings

bule, and closing the door behind them; whereupon the guide, having received no orders to remain, departed.

"I must prepare you first, a little, for the condition of la mia sposa, and inform you that I can only grant you a very short interview."

Gwendoline glared on him like an angry lioness.

"I did not come all the way from England," she replied, with trembling voice, and very passionate intonation, "for a very short interview, nor have I come alone, sir. There are those with me, who will help to enforce my rights, to attend my unfortunate friend for as long as may be found good for her."

The foreigner shrugged his shoulders and smiled, as if in contemplative compassion at her feminine impetuosity.

"As long certainly as I find it good for her," he replied, with indulgent moderation, "but, poor thing," he continued, almost disdainfully, "she is not fit for much excitement. As for your English friends, Signora, they cannot have power to enforce your rights, whatever those may be, against a husband's, to guard his wife from what is prejudicial to her. But if you mean that fellow Fielden," he exclaimed, suddenly blazing forth into one of those infuriated paroxysms with which he used to electrify his entertainers at Seacombe-stamping his foot, clenching his fist, thrusting his fingers through his hair, till it attained that still wilder and more startling appearance which had so disagreeably impressed Edgar

affections-his coming between me and her heart. I was an injured, deceived man, getting the casket without the jewel, married for any thing but love and affection. If she is dying, I do lay it at her own door and his."

'Hush, sir, I desire; I will not listen to all this; dare not to insinuate any thing against my poor, wretched friend, who is herself by you the deceived, the injured one. Nor did I allude particularly to Mr. Fielden; other gentlemen besides him have accompanied me to Malta."

She spoke with angry decision, . determined to show she was not intimidated by Paoli's violence of speech and manner, which she suspected, rather than any real genuine excitement of feeling, was assumed for that purpose; and in this idea she was more confirmed, by the immediate change to cool, mocking obsequiousness with which he responded, "Ah! indeed, excuse me for the error and for my hastiness," but without appearing at all impressed on his part, either, by the warning implied on her side. Nor did he seem in a hurry to gratify her trembling anxiety to be conducted to Bona, but still stood before her in the vestibule, leering on her significantly. Even her stout heart began to fail a little. The house, too, felt so still and deserted, that she half repented having come alone, having braved this trying ordeal, unsupported; still her prominent fear was the being denied, after all, the object of her visit.

"And now, Signor Paoli, your own desire having brought me from England, especially for that purpose, may I entreat you will take me without further loss of time, to see Bona."

The effect was instantaneous. The Count seemed immediately disarmed and mollified. What was asked as a favor and not as a right, he was evidently prepared, and willing, to gratify. He smiled that is to say, grinned-with pleasure, no doubt at having brought the haughty lioness's pride to this issue, as with an air of patronizing indulgence he signed her to follow him. Not, however, up the broad stone flight of steps, down which we saw her descend to join Edgar Campbell did he conduct her, but through a door and along a passage

for the house inside, though in a dilapidated and neglected condition, was larger than would have been supposed from the exterior-to a back staircase, still dirtier than the front one, dark, and steep, and winding the strong fumes of garlic, cabbages, and still more highsavored foreign culinary odors, ascending evidently from the contiguous yard-kitchen, sickening Gwendoline's heart still more than her physical senses. The house too, was an extremely high one of many stories, and she was evidently being taken to the very topmost; but Paoli showed as little sense of shame, or idea that apologizing was required for the elevated region in which his sick wife was located, as for the ill-flavored and incommodious route by which his English visitor was being so ignominiously conducted;-on the contrary, looking back every now and then on her dismayed and wearied countenance,

agement, only exchanged, when he looked away again, for a malicious, triumphant enjoyment.

At length the summit was altained, when Paoli, only to Gwendoline's increased horror, producing a key from his pocket with an air of mystery-probably partly assumed the more to shock and impress her unlocked a door, and with a smile and gesture invited her to enter.

The room was meanly and barely furnished. An uncurtained bed stood in its centre, not far from the window, which was open, with the blind thrown back to admit all the air that could be obtained from the street-stifling and unfragrant as it was - into the close sick chamber, as well as all the light too, probably; for the invalid that lay therein had a book by her side, from which she had apparently been trying to read, though it was covered hurriedly with the bedclothing, when Paoli was heard approaching.

Her face was whiter than the draperies, and much emaciated, the glassy eyes shining forth unnaturally large and prominent, as looked also. the mouth-that feature of the face which had always detracted from Bona's otherwise good looks, though much modified formerly, and almost atoned for, by the whiteness and regularity of the teeth, whose slight projection constituted the cause of this peculiarity.

Yes, this was Bona! Perhaps only the friend who had watched her so closely and fondly in sickness and in health-to whom every line and lineament of the face was unmistakably familiar could so

quickly have recognized her.

Gwendoline approached the bedside cautiously, fearful as to what would be the effect of her sudden apparition upon that poor, attenu

ated creature, who looked as if the least breath of emotion would be sufficient to exterminate her. But it was not quite so bad as she expected. Bona only raised herself slightly, as the female figure in the veil and mantle entered before Paoli, with an eager stare; then her features convulsed spasmodically, and she gave a little, feeble cry, opening and extending her arms towards Gwendoline.

Gwendoline was within them in a moment; or, rather, her own strong arms were encircling the fragile form, which seemed to shrink into nothing, so frightfully thin and attenuated was it in her embrace, whilst she faltered, in a voice of deep, concentrated emotion

"My poor Bona !"

Bona lay quite still, and did not move or speak. Gwendoline looked at her, fearful lest she might have fainted; but, on the contrary, there was a more life-like look upon her countenance, combined with one glance, almost ecstatic in its intensity; but Gwendoline laid her gently back at last, and turned to see if Paoli was still present.

Yes, there he stood, pitilessly regarding them.

What should she do? Did he mean to stay there the whole time -never to leave them alone? All she could do was to pray inwardly for endurance and composure. Leaning once more over Bona, whose damp, thin hand, thinner than any thing that could be imagined, had closed on hers so tightly, she murmured to her tender and soothing words.

Bona smiled faintly, making a feeble effort to direct Gwendoline's hand upwards to her head, that she might place it as it used to lay there, with such healing and comforting power, in her former severe school-days' indispositions. For the moment she seemed herself-beyond

the pain and disturbance of Paoli's presence to have no feeling or thought but one, and that was, that Gwendoline was there with her. Yet when, having allowed the friends a few moments of, comparatively speaking, private enjoyment of their re-union, Paoli came up nearer to the bedside, and, riveting his sinister gaze upon his wife, he said, though in a tone of feigned indulgence, "You see how kind I have been in bringing you your dear friend," Bona's countenance assumed a fixed look of terror-stricken fascination, and her whole frame visibly quivered like an aspen leaf.

"Signor Paoli," Gwendoline said, forcing a tone of almost humble supplication-she could, at that moment, have knelt at his feet in her agony

"will you not leave us just for one half hour alone together? You know I am an old nurse of Bona's, and will take great care she is not fatigued or agitated. It is a long way to have come, to see such an old, dear friend; and in another's presence, even though it be her husband's "

Paoli's countenance assumed a still darker expression.

"We never leave her," he said. "We cannot be certain what may happen when the fit may come on; and only my friend and I now know how to manage her. Your visit is beginning, I see, already to be too much for her. I only let you come on conditions. However, if you want to talk your little secrets unheard by me, I will be gone, and send Carlo to take my place. Ah! there he is returning now. He had just gone out to do my commissions."

And, as he spoke, a man's step was heard on the staircase.

Paoli went out into the passage to speak to him, and Bona, as if with his disappearance an incubus was removed from her heart with