Purple Flask in the place where she had left it since the fourth Pouring. "Ah!" she thought, quietly, "I had forgotten my best friend-I had forgotten that there is more to pour in yet."

With a steady hand, with a calm, attentive face, she fed the funnel for the fifth time. "Five minutes more," she said, when she had put the Flask back, after a look at the clock.

She fell into thought-thought that only deepened the grave and gentle composure of her face. "Shall I write him a farewell word?" she asked herself. "Shall I tell him the truth before I leave him forever?"

"Oh,

The waning moon shone in faintly at the window. With her hand on the door of the room she turned and looked at the light that was slowly fading out of the murky sky. "Oh, God, forgive me!" she said. Christ, bear witness that I have suffered!" One moment more she lingered on the threshold; lingered for her last look in this world— and turned that look on him.

"Good-by!" she said, softly.

The door of the room opened—and closed on her-there was an interval of silence. Then a sound came dull and sudden, like the

Then there was silence again.

Her little gold pencil-case hung with the oth-sound of a fall. er toys at her watch-chain. After looking about her for a moment, she knelt over her husband, and put her hand into the breast-pocket of his coat.

His pocket-book was there. Some papers fell from it as she unfastened the clasp. One of them was the letter which had come to him from Mr. Brock's death-bed. She turned over the two sheets of note-paper on which the rector had written the words that had now come true-and found the last page of the last sheet a blank. On that page she wrote her farewell words, kneeling at her husband's side.

“I am worse than the worst you can think of me. You have saved Armadale by changing rooms with him to-night-and you have saved him from Me. You can guess now whose widow I should have claimed to be if you had not preserved his life; and you will know what a wretch you married when you married the woman who writes these lines. Still, I had some innocent moments-and then I loved you dearly. Forget me, my darling, in the love of a better woman. than I am. I might, perhaps, have been that better woman myself if I had not

*

*

The hands of the clock, following their steady course, reckoned the minutes of the morning as one by one they lapsed away. It was the tenth minute since the door of the room had opened and closed before Midwinter stirred on his pillow, and, struggling to raise himself, felt the letter in his hand.

At the same moment a key was turned in the staircase-door. And the doctor, looking expectantly toward the fatal room, saw the Purple Flask on the window-sill, and the prostrate man trying to raise himself from the floor.

THE END OF THE LAST BOOK.

EPILOGUE.

CHAPTER I.

NEWS FROM NORFOLK.

lived a miserable life before you met with me. From Mr. Pedgift, Senior (Thorpe-Ambrose), to

It matters little now. The one atonement I can make for all the wrong I have done you is the atonement of my death. It is not hard for me to die now I know you will live. Even my wickedness has one merit-it has not prospered. I have never been a happy woman."

She folded the letter again and put it into his hand, to attract his attention in that way when he came to himself again. As she gently closed his fingers on the paper and looked up, the last minute of the last interval faced her, recorded on the clock.

Mr. Pedgift, Junior (Paris).

"HIGH STREET, December 20. "MY DEAR AUGUSTUS,-Your letter reached me yesterday. You seem to be making the most of your youth (as you call it) with a vengeance. Well! enjoy your holiday. I made the most of my youth when I was your age; and, wonderful to relate, I haven't forgotten it yet!

"You ask me for a good budget of news, and especially for more information about that mysterious business at the Sanatorium.

"Curiosity, my dear boy, is a quality which She bent over him and gave him her fare- (in our profession especially) sometimes leads to well kiss.

"Live, my angel, live!" she murmured tenderly, with her lips just touching his. "All your life is before you-a happy life, and an honored life, if you are freed from me!"

With a last, lingering tenderness she parted the hair back from his forehead. "It is no merit to have loved you," she said. "You are one of the men whom women all like." She sighed and left him. It was her last weakness. She bent her head affirmatively to the clock, as if it had been a living creature speaking to herand fed the funnel for the last time, to the last drop left in the Flask.

I

great results. I doubt, however, if you will
find it leading to much on this occasion. All I
know of the mystery at the Sanatorium I know
from Mr. Armadale; and he is entirely in the
dark on more than one point of importance.
have already told you how they were entrapped
into the house, and how they passed the night
there. To this I can now add that something
did certainly happen to Mr. Midwinter, which
deprived him of consciousness; and that the
doctor, who appears to have been mixed up in
the matter, carried things with a high hand, and
insisted on taking his own course in his own San-
atorium. There is not the least doubt that the

bution overtaking him, I can only say I heartily hope Retribution may prove in the long-run to be the more cunning customer of the two. There is not much prospect of it at present. The doc

miserable woman (however she might have come by her death) was found dead-that a coroner's inquest inquired into the circumstances that the evidence showed her to have entered the house as a patient—and that the medical investor's friends and admirers are, I understand, tigation ended in discovering that she died of apoplexy. My idea is, that Mr. Midwinter had a motive of his own for not coming forward with the evidence that he might have given. I have also reason to suspect that Mr. Armadale, out of regard for him, followed his lead, and that the verdict at the inquest (attaching no blame to any body), proceeded, like many other verdicts of the same kind, from an entirely superficial investigation of the circumstances.

about to present him with a Testimonial, 'expressive of their sympathy under the sad occurrence which has thrown a cloud over the opening of his Sanatorium, and of their undiminished confidence in his integrity and ability as a medical man.' We live, Augustus, in an age eminently favorable to the growth of all roguery which is careful enough to keep up appearances. In this enlightened ninteenth century, I look upon the doctor as one of our rising men.

"To turn now to pleasanter subjects than San

good as well again, and is, in my humble opinion, prettier than ever. She is staying in London, under the care of a female relative-and Mr. Armadale satisfies her of the fact of his existence (in case she should forget it) regularly every day. They are to be married in the spring-unless Mrs. Milroy's death causes the ceremony to be postponed. The medical men are of opinion that the poor lady is sinking at last. It may be a question of weeks or a question of months-they can say no more. She is greatly altered-quiet and gentle, and anxiously affectionate with her husband and her child. But in her case this happy change is, it seems, a sign of approaching dissolution, from the medical point of view. There is a difficulty in making the poor old major understand this. He only sees that she has gone back to the likeness of her better self when he first married her; and he sits for hours by her bedside now, and tells her about his wonderful clock.

"The key to the whole mystery is to be found, I firmly believe, in that wretched woman's attempt to personate the character of Mr. Arma-atoriums, I may tell you that Miss Neelic is as dale's widow, when the news of his death appeared in the papers. But what first set her on this, and by what inconceivable process of deception, she can have induced Mr. Midwinter to marry her (as the certificate proves), under Mr. Armadale's name, is more than Mr. Armadale himself knows. The point was not touched at the inquest, for the simple reason that the inquest only concerned itself with the circumstances attending her death. Mr. Armadale, at his friend's request, saw Miss Blanchard, and induced her to silence old Darch on the subject of the claim that had been made relating to the widow's income. As the claim had never been admitted, even our stiff-necked brother practitioner consented for once to do as he was asked. The doctor's statement that his patient was the widow of a gentleman named Armadale was accordingly left unchallenged, and so the matter has been hushed up. She is buried in the great cemetery, near the place where she died. Nobody but Mr. Midwinter and Mr. Armadale (who insisted on going with him) followed her to the grave; and nothing has been inscribed on the tombstone but the initial letter of her Christian name and the date of her death. So, after all the harm she has done, she rests at last -and so the two men whom she has injured have forgiven her.

"Is there more to say on this subject before we leave it? On referring to your letter I find you have raised one other point, which may be worth a moment's notice.

But

"Mr. Midwinter, of whom you will next expect me to say something, is improving rapidly. After causing some anxiety at first to the medical men (who declared that he was suffering from a serious nervous shock, produced by circumstances about which their patient's obstinate silence kept them quite in the dark), he has rallied, as only men of his sensitive temperament (to quote the doctors again) can rally. He and Mr. Armadale are together in a quiet lodging. I saw him last week, when I was in London. His face showed signs of wear and "You ask if there is reason to suppose that tear, very sad to see in so young a man. the doctor comes out of the matter with hands he spoke of himself and his future with a courwhich are really as clean as they look? My age and hopefulness which men of twice his dear Augustus, I believe the doctor to have been years (if he has suffered as I suspect him to at the bottom of more of this mischief than we have suffered) might have envied. If I know shall ever find out; and to have profited by the any thing of humanity this is no common man self-imposed silence of Mr. Midwinter and Mr. and we shall hear of him yet in no common Armadale, as rogues perpetually profit by the way. misfortunes and necessities of honest men. It is an ascertained fact that he connived at the false statement about Miss Milroy, which entrapped the two gentlemen into his house-and that one circumstance (after my Old Bailey experience) is enough for me. As to evidence against him, there is not a jot-and as to Retri

"You will wonder how I came to be in London. I went up with a return ticket (from Saturday to Monday) about that matter in dispute at our agent's. We had a tough fight; but, curiously enough, a point occurred to me just as I got up to go, and I went back to my chair, and settled the question in no time. Of course

I staid at Our Hotel in Covent Garden. William, the waiter, asked after you with the affection of a father; and Matilda, the chamber-maid, said you almost persuaded her that last time to have the hollow tooth taken out of her lower jaw. I had the agent's second son (the young chap you nick-named Mustapha, when he made that dreadful mess about the Turkish Securities) to dine with me on Sunday. A little incident happened in the evening which may be worth recording, as it connected itself with a certain old lady who was not 'at home' when you and Mr. Armadale blundered on that house in Pimlico in the by-gone time.

"Mustapha was like all the rest of you young men of the present day-he got restless after dinner. 'Let's go to a public amusement, Mr. Pedgift,' says he. Public amusement? Why, it's Sunday evening!' says I. 'All right, Sir,' says Mustapha. They stop acting on the stage, I grant you, on Sunday evening-but they don't stop acting in the pulpit. Come and see the last new Sunday performer of our time.' As he wouldn't have any more wine there was nothing else for it but to go.

"Have I any thing more to tell you before I leave off? Only one thing that I can remember.

"That wretched old Bashwood has confirmed the fears I told you I had about him when he was brought back here from London. There is no kind of doubt that he has really lost all the little reason he ever had. He is perfectly harmless, and perfectly happy. And he would do very well if we could only prevent him from going out in his last new suit of clothes, smirking and smiling, and inviting every body to his approaching marriage with the handsomest woman in England. It ends, of course, in the boys pelting him, and in his coming here crying to me, covered with mud. The moment his clothes are cleaned again he falls back into his favorite delusion, and struts about before the church gates, in the character of a bridegroom, waiting for Miss Gwilt. We must get the poor wretch taken care of somewhere for the rest of the little time he has to live. Who would ever have thought of a man at his age falling in love? and who would ever have believed that the mischief that woman's beauty has done could have reached as far in the downward direction as our superannuated old clerk?

"Good-by, for the present, my dear boy. If you see a particularly handsome snuff-box in Paris, remember-though your father scorns Testimonials-he doesn't object to receive a present from his son.

"Yours affectionately,

"We went to a street at the West End, and found it blocked up with carriages. If it hadn't been Sunday night I should have thought we were going to the opera. 'What did I tell you?', says Mustapha, taking me up to an open door with a gas star outside and a bill of the performance. I had just time to notice that I was going to one of a series of 'Sunday Evening Discourses on the Pomps and Vanities of the World, by A Sinner Who Has Served Them,' when Mustapha jogged my elbow, and whispered, 'Half a crown is the fashionable tip.' I found myself between two demure and silent gentlemen, with plates in their hands, uncommonly well filled already with the fashionable tip. Mustapha patronized one plate, and I the other. We passed through two doors into a long room crammed with people. And there, on a platform at the farther end holding forth to the audience, was-not a man, as I had expected, but a Woman, and that woman MOTHER OLDERSHAW! You never listened to any thing more eloquent in your life. As long as I heard her she was never once at a loss for a word any where. I shall think less of oratory as a human accomplishment for the rest of my days after that Sunday evening. As for the matter of the sermon, I may describe it as a narrative of Mrs. Oldershaw's experience among dilapi-wedding-day was already some hours old. dated women, profusely illustrated in the pious and penitential style. You will ask what sort of audience it was. Principally women, Augustus-and, as I hope to be saved, all the old harridans of the world of fashion, whom Mother Oldershaw had enameled in her time, sitting boldly in the front places, with their cheeks ruddled with paint, in a state of devout enjoyment wonderful to see! I left Mustapha to hear the end of it. And I thought to myself, as I went out, of what Shakspeare says somewhere—‘Lord, what fools we mortals be!'

"A. PEDGIFT, Senr. "Postscript.-I think it likely that the account you mention, in the French papers, of a fatal quarrel among some foreign sailors in one of the Lipari Islands, and of the death of their captain, among others, may really have been a quarrel among the scoundrels who robbed Mr. Armadale, and scuttled his yacht. Those fellows, luckily for society, can't always keep up appearances; and, in their case, Rogues and Retribution do occasionally come into collision with each other."

CHAPTER II.

MIDWINTER.

THE spring had advanced to the end of April. It was the eve of Allan's wedding-day. Midwinter and he had sat talking together at the great house till far into the night-till so far that it had struck twelve long since, and the

For the most part the conversation had turned on the bridegroom's plans and projects. It was not till the two friends rose to go to rest that Allan insisted on making Midwinter speak of himself. "We have had enough, and more than enough, of my future," he began, in his bluntly straightforward way. "Let's say something now, Midwinter, about yours. You have promised me, I know, that if you take to Literature, it sha'n't part us, and that if you go on a sea voyage you will remember when you come back that my house is your home. But this is

THE END.

GETTYSBURG:-JULY, 1863.

O PRIDE of the days in prime of the months | Before our lines it seemed a beach

THE

FRANCIS ASBURY.

children that came to gladden this peasanthome. She, though lovely and most dear to the small family circle, remained in it but a few summers, when the Good Father took her to his own home. The parents and brother cherished her memory in love, and felt that heaven was rendered more dear and attractive by her pres

HERE is a man, not even named in our Francis. He and a little sister were all the leading histories, who yet has wrought more deeply into American life in its social, moral, and religious facts than any other who lived and acted his part in our more formative period. His name was FRANCIS ASBURY. His life is overlooked, and so spiritual, pervasive, and effective a force is left unnoticed. And this is but an instance in which history is ever re-ence. The event, so sad in itself, came accompeating its own method. How much broader the place occupied by Julius Cæsar and Napoleon Bonaparte than by Plato and Martin Luther in European history! Yet a tyro in historic study knows that the latter were incomparably the greater forces in forming the real life of Europe. So the names of Ethan Allen and Anthony Wayne have been more familiar to the popular ear of America than that of Asbury; yet how trivial their influence compared with his!

In the parish of Handsworth, in Staffordshire, England, lived Joseph and Elizabeth Asbury, husband and wife, and among the best of the peasant class. In the year 1745 they welcomed to their cottage a little son, and called him

panied with rich religious blessings. And who can tell the result? Deep impressions in youth often give tone to a long life. So it was here. And when, as in this case, that life is singularly good, and sends out influences that survive it and go down the ages, only the divine mind can estimate the benign results of that early impression.

Childhood is ever much the same. The least differences are mainly in fable, Francis slept and waked, smiled and wept, was caressed and corrected much as other children. Still carly traits foretokened a good and useful life. He writes: "I remember, when I was a small boy and went to school, I had serious thoughts, and a particular sense of the being of a God; and