"I suppose so."

"Your sister,-haven't you seen her all this time?" "She is dead." What was that? What had he told this eager, questioning little girl?

"And the little girl's father?"

"He has gone too.

She is an orphan."

"Oh, has she other relatives where she lives?"

"No, I don't know where she lives." What? Was he losing his senses? Why did he feel like a criminal bound by oath to tell the whole truth?

"Then your little niece was not with her mother when she died?" she asked, tears starting from her large eyes. "She wasn't there to lay her hands upon her aching head; to kiss her lips, to hear her say, 'Good-night, my little Mollie;' to throw her arms about her neck and receive her dying blessing? Oh, Mr. Villars, don't it make you very sad?"

Shade of his buried sister! Oh, had he been blind? Oh, that sister who once had looked through eyes like these, as hand in hand they wandered by the river's side; as hand in hand they loitered in the silent wood and plucked the blue-bells growing at their feet; hand in hand among the withered leaves, through the orchards, over the hills, beneath the hollyhocks that grew about the cottage door. Oh, that sister whose body was buried in a pauper's grave!

"Mollie," he said, more agitated than he had ever been before, "you know it all?"

"Oh, I didn't know what I said, but oh, I have done wrong! I said I would never tell you-never tell anybody. I promised that I would always be pleasant with you; but when I am with you it is so natural to think of her, and it is hard to ask a little girl to for

get, even for a minute, a mother who loved her so; and oh, you don't know how hard it is, Mr. Villars, to forgive an uncle who has treated that mother so.

Mr. Villars winced. Still, though the perspiration stood in drops on his forehead, he was rapidly cooling down. It was unfortunate,—that was all,—and must be made the best of.

"There are many things in this world to regret, Mollie. Of course you cannot see my reasons for thinking that I did right; but I will give you the advantages denied your mother. Come to live with your uncle, Mollie, and he will give you all the blessings which wealth can bestow, and they are almost infinite, Mollie."

"No, they are not," was the hot, smarting answer. "But they are many. You will certainly come to my house to enjoy them?" he asked lifting his eyebrows, very much surprised.

"Never! I will stay by Pearl-the only relative I have on earth."

"Yet she is not a relative."

"No, not a flesh and blood relative, and oh, uncle, that means so little; but she was the last one to whom my father spoke."

"What?"

"She has his last kiss upon her brow.

She came to

Brockfield when she saw my angel mother's lifeless body at your door."

How did she know?

"From a picture given her by my darling father. Oh, precious Pearl, she has given me a mother's love and a father's love. She has given me happiness I never expected on earth; and oh, it is a happiness that

has not been bought by money." Trying desperately to stop sobbing, she added: "I don't want to pain you, to be cross to you, but oh, it is so hard! I will try to do as Pearl wants. She says that we ought not to blame people, that your own thoughts must be your punishment. Blaming will not help things."

His thoughts must be his punishment! He began to see now why Pearl had treated him as she had, and even in his usual cool and passionless manner he leaned back against the sofa and thought it over.

"No, Mollie," he answered after a pause, "and it seems that nothing I can do will help matters."

"No, but we will not tell of it, and I do feel sorry for you," she said impulsively; but added hesitatingly, "That is, if you care to have me."

"Yes, Mollie," he said, quite politely; "I hope you always will be. I-I am affected-strangely affected. It destroys my brightest dreams. Yes, I am strangely affected," casting his eyes toward the ceiling as though appealing to the chandeliers for help and closing his lips tightly with an expression which seemed to say: "But I will bear it. Spirit of my sister, help me to bear it." Then, turning to Mollie, he said serenely: "There seem to be many things that cannot be explained. All we can do is to make the best of them. The blighting storm which ruins the farmer's crops, disease which kills, defective vision which stumbles -stumbles sometimes in the path of duty-all we can do is to make the best of it." With which moral exhortation Mr. Villars arose to go.

"And-and-to feel sorry," Mollie pleaded.

"Yes," he answered grudgingly, as he started toward the door.

"I wish you would wait for Pearl," Mollie pleaded. "I know I have done wrong. She will be back soon. She and Oliver only went for a few minutes down to John White's."

Mr. Villars turned quickly at the mention of that name, and then, without replying, took his hat and left the house, with the air of a man who is not angry, but simply wounded. As he proceeded toward the Capitol this feeling grew upon him until it seemed as though he had been grossly misused. "John White's," he muttered. "But this shall not hinder me. To-morrow I shall take the course I have marked out." Then, thinking he saw Oliver and Pearl coming his way, he quickly turned the corner with a sneaking appearance which he could not conceal.

"Yes, I told her that I didn't know the body," he muttered, as he drew the broad brim of his hat farther over his eyes.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Shall we now contaminate our fingers with base bribes?"

-JULIUS CAESAR.

There was a full Assembly that afternoon, the twentieth of February. Messenger bells were ringing; messenger boys were running; members were writing, reading, whispering; the clerk had finished calling the monotonous roll, when Mr. Villars arose in his place to announce that he was about to perform the most disagreeable, most painful duty of his life.

Members dropped their newspapers and sat with open mouths. It was not so much what Mr. Villars had said as the death-like pallor of his face, and his peculiar, whining tone of voice. Even the messenger boys stopped, their duties half executed.

So painful was Mr. Villars' duty that he would gladly resign his place, he said, if that would absolve him from it; but, though he might take the wings of morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, Mr. Villars never expected to escape from duty. Then let him perform it expeditiously, manfully.

A thrust had been aimed at the glittering shield of his State. The dome was toppling. He had received a communication purporting to come from a friend— he blushed to say it-a friend of his own colleague, stating the amount of money-oh, my countrymen, has it come to this?—money which would buy John White's vote for the park bill.