As briefly as possible must now be sketched the story of Emilia's life during the next eighteen years. To her resolution not to return to England she remained firm during that period. Two days after Leonard left her she quitted the town to which he had brought her, and twelve months afterward she found herself settled in Geneva. It was her good fortune to meet an elderly lady who required a companion. The name of this lady was Madame Lambert, and she was attracted by the gentleness of Emilia's manner. These two ladies happened to be staying at the same hotel for a few days, and Emilia was enabled to render Madame Lambert some slight service. Like Emilia, the elder lady was travelling alone, and one evening Madame Lambert was seized with a sudden faintness at the table d'h?te. Emilia, who was sitting next to her, assisted her to her room, and remained with her during the night, sharing her bed by invitation. In her situation Emilia was compelled to register her name as Mrs. Braham, and Madame Lambert, questioning her, was told by Emilia that she was a widow. Emilia did not attempt to justify herself to her conscience; she knew that the duplicity was necessary for the credit of her unborn child.

"Are you quite alone?" asked Madame Lambert.

"Yes," replied Emilia. "My husband died poor, and left me very little. My intention is to seek a situation as governess."

"In England?"

"No, here in Switzerland. I shall be happier here. I have no friends in England, and my knowledge of the English language will perhaps enable me to obtain a situation more easily here than there."

"You will soon," said Madame Lambert, in a tone of kindly significance, "be compelled to rest a while. For a little time at least you will not be able to fill a situation as governess."

Emilia blushed and sighed. "I have thought of that," she said, "with fear and trembling."

"Because you are poor?" questioned Madame Lambert, speaking still with the utmost kindness.

"Yes," said Emilia, softly. Frankness was best under the circumstances.

"My dear," said Madame Lambert, "I am sure you are a lady."

"My father was a gentleman," said Emilia. "He fell into misfortune, and when he died I was penniless."

"And you married a penniless gentleman. Ah, how imprudent is youth! But I have been young myself, and have loved and lost. My dear, neither am I rich, but I have a life income which is sufficient. It dies with me, I regret to say. I have a reason for telling you this. Like yourself, I am alone in the world. I was born in Geneva, and when a course of travel, which my doctor recommended for my health, is over, shall return there to live. Will you travel with me as my friend and companion? I can offer you very little in the shape of salary, but it will be enough to provide you with clothes, and perhaps a little more. Then you will have a lady with you when your baby is born. What do you say?"

"What can I say," replied Emilia, in a voice of gratitude that completed the conquest she had began, "but thank you from my inmost heart for your kind offer? I can scarcely believe it real."

"It is real, my dear. Heaven is very good, and sends us friends when we least expect them. I am sure we shall get along very well together. You accept, then?"

"I accept with gratitude." She raised the hand of the kind lady to her lips, and her tears bedewed it. "Yes, God is very good to me. I will prove worthy of your kindness. You shall never repent it."

"If thought otherwise I should not press it upon you, my dear. You will really be rendering me a greater service than it is in my power to render to you. It is miserable to travel alone, without a kindred soul to talk to and confide in. So it is settled. We shall be true friends."

From that day Madame Lambert and Emilia travelled together, not as mistress and companion, but as friends, until the time arrived when Madame Lambert saw that it was imperative that Emilia should remain for a few weeks quiet and free from the fatigues of a wandering life. Thus faith and goodness were rewarded.

In a picturesque and retired village Emilia's baby, a girl, was born, and baptized in the name of Constance, Madame Lambert's christian name. Sweet and profound was the happiness with which the young mother's heart was filled when she held her baby to her breast. A sacred joy was hers, in which she found a holy consolation for the troubles through which she had passed. Madame Lambert was delighted, and drew from the mother and child a newborn pleasure. She never tired of showing them kindness; had they been of her own blood she could scarcely have been more considerate and thoughtful. She called Constance "our child," and was as nervous over the little one's trials as Emilia herself. In such sympathetic companionship, and with such a sweet treasure as she now possessed, Emilia could only be happy. She never dwelt with sorrow upon the past. With rare wisdom she destroyed the bridge behind her, and buried the memories which had threatened to utterly wreck and ruin her life. Constance was a child of love, not of shame. Emilia's pure soul exonerated her from self-reproach, and shame could never be her portion now that there was no link, except the loving link of a baby's hands, between the past and the future. Wherever she turned she met looks of kindness; no longer was she avoided and repulsed. The world once more was sweet, and bright, and beautiful, and when she prayed to our Father in Heaven it was in the happy consciousness that He knew her to be a pure and innocent woman.

"Baby, baby, baby!" she whispered to the child in her "You have restored me to life, to joy, to happiness. Oh, my baby, my baby! Can I ever be sufficiently grateful to you? Dear Lord in Heaven, give me strength and wisdom to guide her aright, to keep her from pitfalls, to see her grow in purity and innocence to a happy womanhood! Do not take her from me. Let her remain with me as a shield and protector. Through her I see goodness and light. Oh, my angel, my angel!"

She wiped her happy tears away, and sang and crooned and worshipped as only a good mother can. Ah, the little fingers, the childish prattle, the pattering of little feet, what would the world be without them? Religion would be dead, and faith a mockery not to be indulged in without a sneering devil creeping close to lay its icy hands upon hearts in which sweet thoughts are harbored. Flowers of ............