recollections, and endeavoured, in thought, to keep herself separate from any association with so exalted a personage, she had never known how inextricably he was entwined with every fibre of her heart until that day, when Miss Grantham's confession imperatively demanded her utter renunciation of such sweet vague dreams! He now belonged to her friend, and it was more than probable that the reason assigned by Miss Grantham (Trafford's possible poverty), was the only one which held him back from being her avowed lover. Maggie had never imagined that any of the mighty Traffords could be even comparatively poor; this partially accounted for his seeming indifference to his beautiful kinswoman; and yet-yet, across all her reasoning and resolution came the strong instinctive conviction, that he did not love the heiress of Grantham. "Thank God," she thought, "he is going away; I shall be more at rest when he is not here to puzzle me. What could have been his object in wishing me to avoid that Lord Alfred? From the way Lord Torchester spoke, it could not have mattered much whether I met him or not. At all events, Mr. Trafford must have meant well. If I doubted that, chaos indeed would be come again!"

Sunday broke through a misty rain, and the three ladies drove solemnly to church, escorted by the correct Grantham Longmore, whom Miss Grantham declared had been christened with a view to his inheriting, by hook or by crook, the family domains.

Lord Torchester and Trafford disappeared at church time, and Mr. Bolton had not made his descent.

"What has become of Torchester?" asked Miss Grantham.

"Oh! he and Trafford talked of riding over to Hillsborough, to see some colts that are for sale," replied Longmore.

Lady Brockhurst and all her party, except Madame de Beaumanoir, were in the family pew, and Miss Grantham, noting the exception, glanced expressively at Maggie.

"You should have brought Madame la Marquise to see an English country church," said Miss Grantham to the Viscountess as the two parties joined issue in the porch.

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She was to have come," said Lady Brockhurst, "but had letters from Paris-I fancy from the directeur, though she is rather un esprit fort-so she staid at home to answer them. I imagine a Protestant temple was tabooed. I shall miss her terribly—she leaves on Tuesday—a most charming person."

"Exceedingly," said Miss Grantham. "I don't believe a word about her being forbidden to enter a Protestant church," she continued, as soon as they were in the carriage. "She cares little for church or confession, I suspect."

"Still, it is possible," said Maggie. dévotes in an odd inconsistent way."

Many Frenchwomen are

Trafford was rather late for luncheon, and Miss Grantham remarked, "I thought you and Tor went over to Hillsborough together ?"

"I accompanied him part of the way, but I do not interest myself in colts, as I have no stud," replied Trafford in a quiet voice, and Miss Grantham somehow did not like to question him further, so asked if any one had seen Mr. Bolton. Maggie had. He had had some severe twinges, but was rather amiable, and she was going to read to him after luncheon.

A heavy cloud settled on Miss Grantham's brow, and she scarcely spoke again during the repast. Immediately it was over she rose and retired to her study, where Maggie followed her.

"Don't stay with me," said the heiress abruptly. "I would not speak if you did. Go to Mr. Bolton; I shall be in a better temper when you come back."

Maggie obeyed; and as she went out met Trafford at the door. "Is Miss Grantham visible?" he asked.

"I think so,” replied Maggie, and passed on.

"It is quite fine now, Margaret. Tor and Longmore have gone to smoke; come out and have a walk with me."

"I do not feel inclined to accommodate myself to your whims." "Do come. It is my last day here, so don't be unfriendly. Come, I want to talk to you."

"If I take cold, on your head be it," said Miss Grantham, rising; and a few minutes later, from the window of Mr. Bolton's sittingroom, Maggie saw the pair (and exceedingly well matched they looked) walk away down one of the carriage-drives that crossed the park.

The evening passed as usual, but Maggie observed that Miss Grantham was peculiarly quiet and pensive; and when they retired made no advance to a private talk. Trafford, in saying good-night, looked into her eyes earnestly for an instant, adding, "And good-bye. I leave in the morning."

TEMPLE BAR.

JUNE 1873.

The New Magdalen.

BY WILKIE COLLINS.

WHAT

to me ?

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MAGDALEN'S APPRENTICESHIP-(continued).

HAT was it possible for a friendless girl in my position to do, when the full knowledge of the outrage had been revealed

"If I had possessed near and dear relatives to protect and advise me, the wretches into whose hands I had fallen might have felt the penalty of the law. I knew no more of the formalities which set the law in motion than a child. But I had another alternative (you will say). Charitable societies would have received me and helped me, if I had stated my case to them. I knew no more of the charitable societies than I knew of the law. At least, then, I might have gone back to the honest people among whom I had lived? When I recovered my freedom, after an interval of some days, I was ashamed to go back to the honest people. Helplessly and hopelessly, without sin or choice of mine, I drifted, as thousands of other women have drifted, into the life which set a mark on me for the rest of my days.

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"Are you surprised at the ignorance which this confession reveals? You, who have your solicitors to inform you of legal remedies, and your newspapers, circulars, and active friends, to sound the praises of charitable institutions continually in your ears-you, who possess these advantages, have no idea of the outer world of ignorance in which your lost fellow-creatures live. They know nothing (unless they are rogues accustomed to prey on society) of your benevolent schemes to help them. The purpose of public charities, and the way to discover and apply to them, ought to be posted at the corner of

VOL. XXXVIII.

U

every street. What do we know of public dinners and eloquent sermons and neatly-printed circulars? Every now and then the case of some forlorn creature (generally of a woman), who has committed suicide, within five minutes' walk perhaps of an Institution which would have opened its doors to her, appears in the newspapers, shocks you dreadfully, and is then forgotten again. Take as much pains to make charities and asylums known among the people without money, as are taken to make a new play, a new journal, or a new medicine known among the people with money, and you will save many a lost creature who is perishing now.

"You will forgive and understand me if I say no more of this period of my life. Let me pass to the new incident in my career which brought me for the second time before the public notice in a court of law.

"Sad as my experience has been, it has not taught me to think ill of human nature. I had found kind hearts to feel for me in my former troubles; and I had friends-faithful, self-denying, generous friends-among my sisters in adversity now. One of these poor women (she has gone, I am glad to think, from the world that used her so hardly!) especially attracted my sympathies. She was the gentlest, the most unselfish creature I have ever met with. We lived together like sisters. More than once, in the dark hours when the thought of self-destruction comes to a desperate woman, the image of my poor devoted friend, left to suffer alone, rose in my mind and restrained me. You will hardly understand it, but even we had our happy days. When she or I had a few shillings to spare, we used to offer one another little presents, and enjoy our simple pleasure in giving and receiving as keenly as if we had been the most reputable women living.

"One day I took my friend into a shop to buy her a ribbon-only a bow for her dress. She was to choose it, and I was to pay for it, and it was to be the prettiest ribbon that money could buy.

"The shop was full; we had to wait a little before we could be served.

"Next to me, as I stood at the counter with my companion, was a gaudily-dressed woman, looking at some handkerchiefs. The handkerchiefs were finely embroidered, but the smart lady was hard to please. She tumbled them up disdainfully in a heap, and asked for other specimens from the stock in the shop. The man, in clearing the handkerchiefs out of the way, suddenly missed one. He was quite sure of it, from a peculiarity in the embroidery which made the handkerchief especially noticeable. I was poorly dressed, and I was close to the handkerchiefs. After one look at me, he shouted to the superintendent, Shut the door! There is a thief in the shop!'

"The door was closed; the lost handkerchief was vainly sought for

on the counter and on the floor. A robbery had been committed; and I was accused of being the thief.

"I will say nothing of what I felt-I will only tell you what happened.

"I was searched, and the handkerchief was discovered on me. The woman who had stood next to me, on finding herself threatened with discovery, had no doubt contrived to slip the stolen handkerchief into my pocket. Only an accomplished thief could have escaped detection in that way, without my knowledge. It was useless, in the face of the facts, to declare my innocence. I had no character to appeal to. My friend tried to speak for me; but what was she? Only a lost woman like myself. My landlady's evidence in favour of my honesty produced no effect; it was against her that she let lodgings to people in my position. I was prosecuted, and found guilty. The tale of my disgrace is now complete, Mr. Holmcroft. No matter whether I was innocent or not; the shame of it remains-I have been imprisoned for theft.

"The matron of the prison was the next person who took an interest in me. She reported favourably of my behaviour to the authorities; and when I had served my time (as the phrase was among us) she gave me a letter to the kind friend and guardian of my later years -to the lady who is coming here to take me back with her to the Refuge.

From this time the story of my life is little more than the story of a woman's vain efforts to recover her lost place in the world.

"The matron, on receiving me into the Refuge, frankly acknowledged that there were terrible obstacles in my way. But she saw that I was sincere, and she felt a good woman's sympathy and compassion for me. On my side, I did not shrink from beginning the slow and weary journey back again to a reputable life, from the humblest starting-point-from domestic service. After first earning my new character in the Refuge, I obtained a trial in a respectable house. I worked hard, and worked uncomplainingly; but my mother's fatal legacy was against me from the first. My personal appearance excited remark; my manners and habits were not the manners and habits of the women among whom my lot was cast. I tried one place after another always with the same results. Suspicion and jealousy I could endure; but I was defenceless when curiosity assailed me in its turn. Sooner or later inquiry led to discovery. Sometimes the servants threatened to give warning in a body—and I was obliged to go. Sometimes, where there was a young man in the family, scandal pointed at me and at him-and again I was obliged to go. If you care to know it, Miss Roseberry can tell you the story of those sad days. I confided it to her on the memorable night when we met in the French cottage; I have no heart to repeat it now. After a while