Grey walked with quiet footsteps, and he turned

So noiselessly the handle of the door
That Harling fancied some one lay asleep
Inside. The hand recovered steadiness.
The room was quite unfurnished, striking
chill.

A rent in the drawn window-blind betrayed
A sky unvaried, moonless, cloudless, black.
Only two chairs were set against the wall,
And, not yet closed, a coffin placed on
them.

Harling's raised eyes inquired why he was brought

Hither, and should he still advance and look.

"It is my wife," said Grey; "look in her face."

This in a whisper, holding Harling's arm, And tightened fingers clenched the whispering.

Harling could feel his forehead growing moist,

And sought in vain his friend's averted

The candle on the ground, and on his knees Close to her unringed shrouded hand, he prayed,

Silent. With eyes still dry, he rose unchanged.

They left the room again with heeded steps. On friendly Harling lay the awe of death And pity he took his seat without a sound.

Some of the hackneyed phrases almost passed

His lips, but shamed him, and he held his peace.

"Harling," said Grey, after a pause, “you think

No doubt that this is all-her death is all. Harling, when first I saw you in the street, I feared you meant to come and speak

to me;

So hid myself and waited till you knocked; Waited behind the door until you knocked, Longing that you, perhaps, would go. When I

Had opened it, I think I called you SirDid you not chide me? Do you know, it seemed

So strange to me that any one I knew Before this happened should be here the

same,

And know me for the same that once I was, I could not quite imagine we were friends. It is not merely death would make one feel

Like this-no, there is something more behind

Harder than death, more cruel. Let me wait

Some moments; then no help but I must tell."

He gathered up his face into his hands From chin to temples, only just to think And not be seen. He had not seated him, But leaned against the chair. Nor Harling spoke.

"Two months are gone now," Grey pursued. "We two

Lived lovingly. I had to come down here, And here I met a surgeon of the town. Hell only knows-I cannot tell you—why,

I asked him to return with me, and spend A fortnight at our house. Perhaps I wrote The whole of this to you when it occurred. His name is Luton."

Here he chose to pause. "Perhaps I am not certain," Harling said.

"I think you might be certain," answered Grey,

"If you're my friend." But then he checked himself,

Adding: "Forgive me. I am not, you see, Myself to-night-this night, nor many nights,

Nor many nights to come. Well, he agreed. Of course, he must agree; else I should

not

Have been like this, disgraced, made almost mad."

At this he found his passion would be near To drive him to talk wildly: so he kept Silence again some moments-then resumed.

"How should I recollect the days we passed Together? There must surely have been enough

To see, and yet I never saw it once.

Besides, my patients kept me out all day Sometimes. It was in August, John, was this

The end of August, reaping just begun. We've had a splendid harvest, you'll have heard."

"Indeed!" the other said, shifting the while His posture-and he knew not what to say.

"Yes, you detect me," Grey cried bitterly;
"You know I am afraid of what's to come-
A coward. Now I do hope I shall speak,
And tell you all of it without a stop.
There was a lady staying with us then,
A cousin of my wife's-but older, much;
So that you understand how I could ask
This Luton down. Before his time was up,
He seemed to grow uneasy, and he left,--
Merely explaining, business called him
home.

I said I had not noticed anything
Unusual; and yet I sometimes found
Mary in tears, and could not gather why.
One day she told me when I questioned her
It was for thinking of our girl that died
Months back-for that her cousin would
begin

Often to talk to her about her own;

"Is it not," he pursued, "hard on me I must gaze,

With floorward tell This business word by word, the whole of it, While I can see it all before me there, And it is clear one word could tell it all? Can you not guess the rest, and spare me now ?"

"I will not guess; but you," said Harling, "keep

All that remains unspoken; for it wrings My heart, dear Grey, dear friend, to sce you thus."

"No, it is better I should speak it out, For you would fancy something; and at

least

You will not need to fancy when you know. She came to me one morning-(this was like

A fortnight after he had gone away,

This Luton)-saying that she found it vain Attempting to compose her mind at home; That every place made her remember what The baby had done or looked there, and she felt

Too weak for that, and meant to see her friends

Consent on my part-mere sick wilfulness I took it for. She left the house. I might Have told you she'd a lilac dress, and hair Worn plain. And so I saw her the last time

The last time, God in heaven!" He seized his fists

Together, and he clutched them toward his throat.

"Many days passed. She had begged me, feeling sure

It would excite her, not to write a line, And said she would not write, nor let her friends.

I think I did not tell you, though, how pale Her cheeks were; and, in saying this, she sobbed,

For such a lengthened silence looked like death.

"Three weeks, or nearly that, had passed away:

A letter on black-bordered paper came.
It was from Luton. Then I did not know
The hand, but shall now, if it comes again.
He wrote that I must go immediately,
That I was 'to prepare my self'-
trash:

-some

He dared not trust his pen to tell me

more.'

years.

About the middle of September, she Was suffering much from weakness, and a weight

Seemed on her mind. The symptoms had begun

Nearly a month before, and still increased,
Until at last they gave me great alarm,
Of which we often spoke. On the eighteenth
She told me she would like to stay awhile
With two of her sisters, living on the coast,
At Barksedge House, not far from here.
She went

Next day. I cannot speak to any more.'

"The Coroner: How were you first apprised

Of this most melancholy event?'-' By

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