"Is my mother to know?" asked Walter, as he parted from his father, who went home to dine.

"Not at present, I think," replied Sir Paul; "but we will tell her at some future time, when we can speak more lightly of the danger as of a thing of the past. And I am sure that dreadful woman with her diabolical vendetta ought to be put under restraint; we can't allow Corsicans to go about with their daggers and their vengeance unrestrained in this country! Thank God, we are Englishmen and Protestants!"

"I think the mother ought to know some day; I am by no means certain that we have acted wisely in concealing from her everything that might cause her agitation; several times-referring to Giuditta's first appearance— she has observed that she would much prefer to be told whatever might occur, and to know what evil is apprehended. It makes her nervous and suspicious to find herself excluded from any sort of confidence, even though it be from the best and most tender motives."

"After the marriage, and when Giuditta is fairly disposed of, we will tell her. I quite agree with you as to the impolicy of practising concealments among ourselves, but this is certainly a peculiar case. If she knew immediately what happened this morning, she would live in the momentary expectation of a fresh and fatal demonstration of the Signora's vengeance; in fact, the dread and the suspense would kill her. Your mother will never be what she was, Walter, before that terrible morning, when she found poor Paul dead upon his bed."

Almost at midnight, news was received from Fitzroy Square-the child was much better and seemed quite inclined to rally, the wound was going on favourably. In spite of the horrors of the morning, Giacinta was evidently in good spirits; her boy's smile was better to her than any kind of consolation, than the most invigorating cordial. Nothing was said about the miserable Signora.

In the morning, William Rivers, at Mrs. Dorothy's request, paid Giacinta a visit; he found Agnes Braden sharing her solicitous watch. He brought back the news that little Paolo was not quite so well; he was restless and feverish, and refused both food and medicine.

Dr.

Dymond had appeared almost with the dawn, and in answer to the mother's anxious inquiries, said that the child was no worse than he expected to find him, but Madame Braden ought to know that he was in great danger, from a fresh access of his disease, as well as from the hemorrhage and shock of yesterday. And then Giacinta, looking into the good man's face, knew that she must lose her darling. "Cannot you-oh, cannot you save him?" she gasped. "The padrona speaks of some great physician, who all but restores from death!-you would not mind?

"I would not mind whom you consulted. Nay, I would go myself and fetch any man who could possibly help the poor little fellow. But-I ought not to deceive you, Madame Braden-all the doctors in the world, from the Queen's physician to the most youthful village apothecary, could not save this dear child from the grave. You must be content to trust him to One who loves the little ones, and gathers the lambs in His bosom. Think, too, that he will suffer no more, that he has escaped all the snares and troubles of the world, that he is for ever with Him who said, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me.'"

"Ah! Holy Virgin!" was all poor Giacinta's cry. Her Christ was the mother Mary; little knew she of the Divine Father, of the Saviour of the world. But she grew very still, and though her face was white with anguish, the doctor knew that she would be calm and strong till all was over. The mother's love was greater than the woman's grief.

As Agnes was with Mrs. Braden, Hilda did not hasten to Fitzroy Square; she was not very well, for the events of the preceding day had shaken her nerves and inflicted upon her a severe headache. But late in the afternoon Walter came for her.

"Giacinta has asked for you," he said; "the child is evidently dying. Will you not come ?"

Of course she would, and it was understood that they were not to be expected home till they actually appeared, for if the end was really so near, they would remain till the last. They made a hasty, impromptu dinner-for Mrs. Dorothy insisted upon their dining before they left

the house-and, just as the evening shadows were falling, drove off to Fitzroy Square. When they reached their destination they found the child sinking rapidly, though quietly; Giacinta, immovable, at her boy's side; and Agnes, worn out, longing to go home, but unwilling to leave her sister-in-law. The Signora was nowhere to be seen, the truth being that Giacinta, seconded by the padrona, had insisted upon her return to Leicester Square, where she would find several friends and many compatriots. The sound of her voice had seemed to disturb the dying child; and the mistress of the house, frightened and scandalised at what had taken place under her roof, almost drove out her obnoxious inmate. The coast, therefore, was clear, to Hilda's infinite relief and to Walter's sincere satisfaction; he was no coward, but it was a comfort to feel that he was not within reach of that vindictive woman's causeless hatred.

Agnes kissed the little white face on the pillow, and went away; and then the three who were left commenced the watch that could only end in one way. As the evening wore on, the child's breath grew quicker and fainter; and later still, when the dark night was over all, the babylife ebbed rapidly. From time to time Giacinta mechanically told her beads or invoked her saints; and more than once she sank upon her knees and prayed fervently.

It was past eleven when the end came. The boy had seemed to be sleeping quietly for a little while, the slight convulsions ceased, the drawn childish face resumed its usual expression, the soft, dark eyes opened, and a faint voice murmured sweetly, “ Mamma, mamma cara! mamma mia!"

"I am here, darling," responded Giacinta, in her native tongue, and pressing her cheek against the chilly ashen lips. "What is it, my soul, my jewel?"

"So dark-all dark!" was the piteous little cry, though the gas was burning brightly.

"It will soon be light!" whispered Walter, in his best Italian; "little Paolo will soon see the beautiful sunshine -God's own sunshine-happy little Paolo."

And the child responded feebly, "Happy little Paolo." Then there followed a short interval of pain and sore

distress, the convulsions returned, and the breath came and went with choking sobs. Nothing could be done but to wrap the rigid limbs in hot flannels, and wet the parched lips with wine and water, while Giacinta called upon the Madonna to succour her in this supreme hour of her great anguish.

Presently the spasms ceased, and all was still; only a little fluttering breath told that mortal life still remained; the baby-spirit was on the wing to worlds unseen. Once more the child opened his eyes, smiled faintly on his mother, and said clearly, "Ah, the light, the sunshine! Oh, beautiful! beautiful!" And so he went home to God. And for a moment the mother could not weep, though her child lay lifeless in her arms; for

"She knew he was with Jesus,

And she asked him not again."

CHAPTER XLVIII.

66 THERE EVERLASTING SPRING ABIDES."

"But I shall be gone, past night, past day,
Over the hills, and far away."

“WHERE shall I bury my dead?" asked Giacinta, pathetically, when at last she fully realised the awful fact that of all her duties to her child this alone remained. And Walter replied, "Do not trouble yourself about that, my sister; we will undertake all that is necessary. The little one shall be honourably interred, and your wishes, in every respect, shall be consulted."

"My wish would be to take him to Rimesso," was the mother's answer; "but I am afraid that could not be." I am afraid not. I will, however, mention it to Sir Paul. He will be anxious to carry out any arrangement

66

you may desire to make; but it is a long way to Rimesso, and, as I understand, the journey there is difficult."

"I should like to think he lay under the blue sky, where I could fancy he was asleep, and would wake presently to hear the rush of the waters, and to see all round him the great mountains. Twice since I have been in London I have seen your City churchyards; they looked all death and desolation-there was no consolation and no hope. I could not leave my child there."

"You shall not. We will find some better place. Only, you know, Giacinta, the little one will not be there, under green turf or mouldering stone; a little dust will be rendered back to earth-nothing more. Your pretty boy is already with God, in the world of light and glory, whither you will follow him when you, too, are summoned. Try to think that the child is taken from the evil to come -that all is well."

"Is it so very far to Bradenshope? "Not more than a fair day's journey. Would you like him to be buried there, among his father's own people?

"If it cannot be Rimesso, in my own little hillside churchyard, where the great chestnut-trees shade the grass, I should like it to be Bradenshope. I shall never see his grave, but I should think my Paolo was in his right place, and resting with his father's dead. Might it be, my brother?

"I will speak to my father at once, dear, and I will see you again in a few hours. Whatever you wish, if it may be, shall be done."

This was early in the morning of the day after little Paolo's death, and Walter at once hastened to consult his father. Sir Paul was surprised, but not displeased, when he heard of Giacinta's notion. "It is the child's right, I suppose," he said; "he is of the Bradens, and should therefore lie with them. His mother was my son's wife, and I think we ought not, in any way, to disown, or seem to disown, her or her little one. I will go with you to Fitzroy Square."

Sir Paul was deeply touched when he looked on the little wasted form, robed in purest white, with its tiny hands clasping a small crucifix folded on its breast. At