permission to make known to my kind relatives—to your sisters, uncle that their lost brother is at last found."

It is not necessary to repeat the further particulars of this interview. The reader is already acquainted with the principal events in Vincent Fleming's life which were then first brought to the knowledge of his nephew, and with the hypochondriacal dread which, without show of reason, had in later years led the recluse to suppose himself tracked and pursued by enemies who sought his ruin. All this he now spoke of regretfully, but without reserve, and explained how his suspicions were first aroused, and then how the full knowledge first broke in upon his disturbed mind, that the guest who was thrown upon his hospitality was his own nephew; and how his fears persuaded him that in his nephew he saw the Nemesis of his own unhappy fate, the avenger who was, in some mysterious way, to bring to his own heart and home the punishment of his ancient guilt.

The conversation lasted long, and was in every respect gratifying to Rivers, who, while he sympathised with the sorrows and struggles of mind his relative had endured, learned insensibly to look with more leniency on one who had not only outlived, but who deeply repented, the errors and sins of a misspent youth. Both uncle and nephew, therefore, parted that night well pleased with each other, and with a tacit understanding that, while the former yet lived, Harry would remain at the settlement.

Notwithstanding this good feeling, however, and the entire frankness of those intercommunications, as far as they went, it may be noted that there were certain topics on which neither Vincent Fleming (we restore to the Captain his family name now) nor Harry Rivers thought it necessary at that time to enter. For instance, Vincent did not refer to his estate in England, nor to any disposition of his property after his death. On the other hand, Harry, in speaking of his short experiences in life, and his friendships in England, made no mention of Fairbourne Court

and its owner, nor of his heart-rending disappointment in the matter of Clara Gilbert. And, though it may readily be conjectured that Rose Vincent was not very far from the thoughts of either her father or her cousin, it is to be recorded that her name did not escape their lips.

CHAPTER XLVII.

NURSE CATHERINE IN THE RIGHT.

THE weeks of summer passed away quickly, yet in some respects heavily. There can be but little light-hearted enjoyment, even of the fairest season and of the most favoured outward circumstances, when those we love are known to be "sick unto death," and their earthly tabernacle is seen to be weakening and decaying day by day.

It was evident that Vincent Fleming's days were not only numbered as we sometimes say of others, as though the days of us all were not numbered too-but that the number was almost completed. He suffered no racking, excruciating agony; but his very intense weakness was painful.

It is not pleasant to be old and feeble and failing, not joyous for the strong to have to bow themselves, for the daughters of music to be brought low-to be afraid of that which is high, and to feel that even the grasshopper is a burden. It is not in nature to see unmoved "the last enemy" drawing near, and to know that, in the mortal strife and struggle which must ensue, he will be the victor. Death is not naturally welcome; and it is dishonourable as well as painful, for it is the penalty of sin; and even the believer may be pardoned, and not accounted pusillanimous, if for a while, and under a sense of his many, many

unworthinesses, he "stands shivering on the brink" of the cold river by which death is sometimes typified, and exclaims, with the apostle, "Not that I would be unclothed! not that I would be unclothed!"

Oh, to be able in that dread hour to say, "I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day!" to be able to appropriate to ourselves, as our own, our very own, the encouraging promise, "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour."

Vincent Fleming had no triumphant feelings in the prospect of death, but he manifested what, in his circumstances, and with his antecedents, was, we think, somewhat better-very fervent and penitential humility, and a very touching, childlike faith. "I can only say, with the poor crucified malefactor," he one day whispered to Rose and her cousin, as they sat together by his side, "Lord, remember me!' and with Simon Peter, 'Lord, save me!' and I think He will hear me. I think He has heard me, and has remembered me and saved me. I can trust in Him.”

In the summer months of which we are now speaking one event took place in the settlement which shed a few gleams of sympathetic pleasure over the anxious and saddened community. We say anxious and saddened, because the Captain settler was greatly respected and beloved by all who had shared with him the toils and dangers of his wilderness life. The event we refer to was the marriage of Louis and Annette. Vincent willed that this should take place, and neither the bride nor the bridegroom said No. It was only stipulated by Annette that she should not leave her young mistress's service, and take up her abode in the

house Louis had built for her, until she could be more readily dispensed with; and to this Louis willingly acceded.

They were married, then, after a very simple fashion, and with very little pomp or show; and, as we shall have no further occasion to bring the youthful couple prominently before our readers, we may as well say here, that they lived and flourished, became rich in substantial landed wealth, founded a family, and, as the wilderness and solitary place around them gradually became glad with inhabitants, and the desert put forth blossoms and fruits, Louis and his matronly wife, and their sons and their sons' wives after them, took rank, if not among the chief magnates of the community, yet with the foremost of its bold and brave and self-denying pioneers.

On the day following the wedding, Rose, at her father's earnest request, left him to the care and attendance of nurse Catherine, and walked out into that part of the open clearing which has already been described, and was presently joined by her cousin.

"You did not command my attendance, Rose. May I hope, however, that you will not reject it?" he said, as he approached

her.

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him.

Reject it! Oh no;" and she turned confidingly towards

They walked on some time in silence. Then Rivers spoke. "You remember, Rose, when we last stood together on this spot ?"

"It was here that you received those letters which took you away from us. I remember it very well, cousin Harry; all the more because I afterwards fancied that I had offended you that evening."

tell

"Dear Rose, you are truth and candour itself: will you me what first put such a strange and untrue fancy into your thoughts ?"

I

"I have no objection to telling you, Henry, because you have told me that I was mistaken, and that I did you wrong. thought you must have been offended with me: there seemed such a cold constraint in your parting."

"We were not cousins then, Rose: or, being cousins, we did not know it," said Harry, smiling.

"What had that to do with it, Harry?

Rose looked puzzled. We were friends, were we not?" she asked. "Friends, and not cousins. shall we put it in that way?"

Cousins now, and not friends

Rose shook her head: the antithesis was neat, perhaps, but it was not true.

"And yet I have not dealt with you as a true friend. Do you think I have?-in all things, I mean."

"It is you who say this, cousin, not I. I neither say so, nor can I believe you to be untrue. You must not bear false witness, Harry, against even yourself.'

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"A true friend will give his confidence. I have not given you mine."

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Ah, then, you do not believe in me!" said Rose, sorrowfully. "I believe in you, Rose: it is in myself that I have not believed."

"I do not understand," Rose said.

"No: I am talking enigmas. Listen, dear Rose, cousin Rose," continued Rivers, earnestly, yet deliberately. "You accused me just now-no, not accused, but you said that I was cold and constrained when I bade you farewell that long time ago. I plead guilty to the charge. I did not believe in myself then, and could not trust myself."

Rose did not reply, except by an upward inquiring glance, which seemed to say, as plainly as looks can speak, "I do not yet understand."

"I have withheld my confidence from you, Rose, dear cousin