MR.

WHITELAW MAKES AN END OF THE MYSTERY.
Mrs.Whitelaw had been married about two months.

It was bright May weather, bright but not yet warm; and whatever prettiness Wyncomb Farm was capable of assuming had been put on with the fresh spring green of the fields and the young leaves of the poplars.

There were even a few hardy flowers in the vegetable-garden behind the house, humble perennials planted by dead and gone Whitelaws, which had bloomed year after year in spite of Stephen's utilitarian principles.

It was a market-day, the household work was finished, and Ellen was sitting with Mrs.Tadman in the parlour, where those two spent so many weary hours of their lives, the tedium whereof was relieved only by woman's homely resource, needlework.