nstant pang. Little she knew him, or guessed the
after-effect of her words.

Angus Rothesay looked at his wife, first with amazement, then with cold
displeasure. "My dear, you scarcely speak like a mother. You forget
likewise that you are speaking to a father. A father who, whatever
affection may be wanting, will never forsake his duty. Come, let us go
and see our child."

"I cannot--I cannot!" and Sybilla hung back, weeping anew.

Angus Rothesay looked at his wife--the pretty wayward idol of his
bridegroom-memory--looked at her with the eyes of a world-tried,
world-hardened man. She regarded him too, and noted the change which
years had brought in her boyish lover of yore. His eye wore a fretful
reproach--his brow, a proud sorrow.

He walked up to her and clasped her hand. "Sybilla, take care! All these
years I have been dreaming of the wife and mother I should find here at
home; let not the dream prove sweeter than the reality."

Sybilla was annoyed--she, the spoilt darling of every one, who knew
not the meaning of a harsh word. She answered, "Don't let us talk so
foolishly."

"You think it foolish? Well, then! we will not speak in this
confidential way any more. I promise, and you know I always keep my
promises."

"I am glad of it," answered Sybilla. But she lived to rue the day when
her husband made this one promise.

At present, she only felt that the bitter secret was disclosed, and
Angus' anger overpast. She gladly let him quit the room, only pausing
to ask him to kiss her, in token that all was right between them. He did
so, kindly, though with a certain pride and gravity--and departed. She
dared not ask him whether it was to see again their hapless child.

What passed between the father and mother whilst they remained shut
up together there, Elspie thought not-cared not. She spent the time in
passionate caresses of her darling, in half-muttered ejaculations, some
of pity some of wrath. All she desired was to obliterate the impression
which she saw had gone deeply to the child's heart. Olive wept not--she
rarely did; it seemed as though in her little spirit was a pensive
repose, above either infant sorrow or infant fear. She sat on her
nurse's knee, scarcely speaking, but continually falling into those
reveries which we see in quiet children even at that early age, and
never without a mysterious wonder, approaching to awe. Of what can these
infant musings be?

"Nurse," said the child, suddenly fixin