"YOU may well ask who Mrs. Hagan is, my dear," said my aunt the other evening, as we sat together over our tea; "she is the pride and terror of the place!"

       "Why do people fear her?" I asked.

       My aunt shook her head and sighed, "I can't tell, my dear, unless it is her eyes; — though people tell strange stories of her."

       "She reminds me of Lady Macbeth!"

       "And me of a beautiful snake, that will curl itself round you and caress you, while it sucks your life's blood."

       "Oh, aunt!"

       "I'm afraid it's true, though, dear, and she'll prove it before long; mark my words if she don't."

       We were silent after that for some time, till at length I asked —

       "Is she a widow?"

       ""Yes; her husband is dead, poor lad."

       "Did you know him, aunt?"

       "Oh, yes, my dear."

       "And were they happy together?"

       "I never saw them together, Beth; he married her in Paris, and died before she came here."

       "How very sad."

       "Yes, poor fellow, his whole life was a sad one; shut up with a harsh drunken father, it could not be otherwise." The old lady sighed, and I asked —

       "You knew him when he was young?"

       "I recollect him a little fellow no higher than this table. He used to come here then for fruit from my garden, and when he got older he used to come and tell me his troubles with his father. I took him in when he was turned out into the wide world by that father, in a drunken fit."

       "Poor fellow!" I said, sadly.

       "Ah, yes. It was to me the lad wrote the news of his wedding in Paris. Here is the letter; read it, my dear."

       My aunt handed me a folded paper from the table drawer, and I read as follows:—

    Dear Miss Earnstone, —
       To whom but you should I write the news of the first sunbeam in my dark life. Till now, as you know, I have been, with the exception of yourself, friendless and alone in the world; now, dear friend, I am alone no longer — congratulate me: I am married. Ruth, my darling wife, is all that man can desire, and my present joy fully makes up for all I have suffered in the old days. Bless my darling, and when I bring her home in the spring, love her for my sake. I leave the task of breaking this news to my father in your hands; speak well of Ruth; I know you will like her — she is so gentle, so kind, so beautiful! And now, dear friend, good-bye; my wife and I, with her maid, Edith Steel, are going to travel about for some little time, in all parts of the world, but we shall come back to Sineland in the spring. Till then, dear Miss Earnstone, good-bye.

HENRY HAGAN.       

       I handed Aunt Topsy back the letter, and she put it carefully away, saying as she did so, "Poor lad, poor laddie."

       "Then, did you tell his father of the marriage, aunt?" I asked.

       "I had not an opportunity, Beth: old Hagan died in a fit, brought on by excessive drinking, the night before I got his son's letter."

       "And Henry Hagan?"

       "Died abroad. His widow came here last summer twelve-months, with a letter of introduction from her husband to me."

       "And has lived here ever since?"

       "Oh, no, she spends the best part of her time in London. She is fond of gaiety, I fancy. Poor Henry Hagan! how blind he must have been, when he describes his bride as gentle and kindly."

       "The character does not seem to fit her now, certainly; perhaps her trouble has made her so hard and cold," I replied; but my aunt shook her head.

       "No, Beth," she said, thoughtfully, "I think it's her nature. I can't make it out — there seems some mystery about this strange woman: folks say she never speaks of her husband, and don't like anyone else to do so either."

       "Dear me, that is strange. Where was the husband buried?"

       "He was not buried, my dear, — he was cremated, somewhere abroad."

       "Cremated!"

       "Burnt, my dear, and his ashes are in a golden vase, in a room at his wife's house."

       "What an uncommon idea: I suppose she did it so that she could mourn over them whenever she pleased."

       "No; the servants say that she never goes near the room where the urn is."

       "Poor lady! perhaps she cannot bear it yet," I said, slowly; then I asked — "Is she rich, aunt?"

       "No, Beth; Henry only had a small sum his mother left him. His father left all his money to some charity in London, and Ruth Hagan lives on the interest of her husband's money now."

       "Her dress is like a queen's," I mused.

       "But she lives like a pauper to get it, my dear," aunt replied.

       "Ah, well, she does as she likes, and I suppose will get another husband, with her splendid beauty."

       "I think she is doing her best to do so, child."

       "I hope Edgar wont be caught by her, Aunt Topsy," I said.

       "I hope to Heaven that he wont!" cried aunt, vehemently.

       "It's in his own hands, so we can't help it," I answered quietly, though a strange misgiving shot through me at the thought; however, I kept it to myself, and changed the subject by asking a question —

       "What became of Ruth Hagan's maid, the 'Edith Steel' that Mr. Hagan speaks of in his letter?"

       "She went mad, poor thing, and Mrs. Hagan left her at a lunatic asylum, somewhere in Germany," my aunt answered.

END OF PART I.

---

PART II.
STILL AT AUNT TOPSY'S.

IT is more than three weeks since we came to Sineland, and we are still at Aunt Topsy's house.

       The worst I feared has come to pass, and Edgar is formally engaged to Ruth Hagan.

       The strange misgiving that I felt when the possibility of this first entered my head is still there, and I can't get over it.

       It is no use; strive against it, fight against it, and pray against it as I do, dislike and distrust towards my brother's affianced wife increase daily.

       "I would not trust that woman with a dog of mine," I said, one evening to Edgar, as we stood in the moonlight, about nine days ago; and he turned round and took my hand in both his, as he smiled and said —

       "Wouldn't you, Beth? Well, I am going to trust her with my future, dear."

       "Oh, no, Edgar! For Heaven's sake, no!" I cried passionately; and he, Edgar, my brother, for the first time in our lives, answered me angrily.

       "I say yes, girl; but you can leave her if you don't like her."

       I burst into tears.

       "Oh, Edgar, Edgar!" I sobbed, "do what you like, but only love me as you used to do, and I will trust her for your sake."

       My head was on his breast, and his arm round my waist, while he softly murmured —

       "Forgive me, Beth; I did not mean it. It would take more than this woman to put us apart; so don't be jealous, darling."

       And that was all. What could I do, what could I say against this woman, without its appearing that I was jealous?

       Oh, no, God help me! Edgar shall never think that his sister stood between him and his happiness to keep a roof over her own head.

       I must therefore be silent for a time, even though I feel that Ruth Hagan means him harm; but I will watch and wait, and when I do speak I will speak with good proofs and to some purpose.

*       *       *       *       *      *

       Another change has taken place since I last wrote in my journal, two weeks ago. Aunt Topsy has been very ill, and her sister, Aunt Maria, with her husband, have had to come to her.

       Aunt Topsy's little house would not hold us all, so Edgar, much against my secret wish, accepted Mrs. Hagan's invitation, and here we are domesticated at Sineland Grange.

       We had the place to ourselves last week for two days, as Mrs. Hagan went to Brighton on business.

       I also left on the second day to see my aunt's lawyer in London, returning in the evening an hour before Mrs. Hagan arrived. When in London, I found out something which did not raise the widow in my opinion: I found that a lady, representing herself as a Mrs. Lamb, had called upon our lawyer, Mr. Parch, and giving a polite message from my brother, had asked for and obtained a copy of our late father's will.

       Now, this was strange: firstly, because I knew Edgar had already a copy of the will; and secondly, because Mr. Parch gave a description of Mrs. Lamb which exactly fitted Mrs. Hagan: he described the lady's dress as one of rich deep blue velvet, trimmed with dark fur, and that was what Mrs. Hagan wore for her journey.

       Therefore I came to the conclusion that Mrs. Lamb and Mrs. Hagan were one person; that Mrs. Hagan was not at Brighton, but in London; and that, being a woman of great foresight, she had privately made herself acquainted with Edgar's money value before she married him.

       "So," thought I to myself, as I sat in the train on the way back to Sineland, "this woman would win Edgar, not for himself, but for his money; I have found her out, and must save him from her."

       As a first step to this object, I resolved that I would question her about her late husband, and if possible see the urn containing his ashes.

*       *       *       *       *      *

       It is Sunday, and I have just come home from church, rather tired and very cold.

       I ran into the drawing-room, put my hat and Bible on the table, and knelt down before the fire, instead of going up straight to my room.

       Edgar has gone to inquire after Aunt Topsy, and has not returned.

       I heard a soft footstep, and felt a hand laid on my shoulder: it was Mrs. Hagan, who now made her first appearance for some days — not having been well.

       How beautiful she looked, in her loose robe of white cachmere and lace; how fair, and yet how deceitful!

       "Cold, Elizabeth?" she asked, kindly.

       "Yes, very cold, Mrs. Hagan," I answered, thinking to myself that now was the opportunity to ask my questions, and to see the Cremation Vase.

       Mrs. Hagan saw in a moment that my thoughts were not with my words, so asked, as she sat down by the fire —

       "What are you thinking of, Elizabeth?"

       Here was my cue, and I followed it at once by answering, "I was thinking of you, Mrs. Hagan."

       "And of your brother Edgar?" she asked, with an easy laugh.

       "No," I replied quickly; "I do not connect him with you in my thoughts."

       "What on earth do you mean?" she cried, turning round suddenly, and facing me as I knelt in front of the fire.

       Oh, how I hated her as she sat there, with that pretty wondering smile upon her wicked face! Still I felt that there was something more to be found out yet about this woman's past life, so I checked my hot temper, and answered quietly with the word —

       "Nothing."

       "I thought not, Elizabeth;" and Mrs. Hagan smiled as she spoke, but I felt her eyes searching my face and trying to read it.

       I resolved to come to the point at once, so I looked straight into the fire to avoid her eyes, and said —

       "I was thinking of you and of your late husband."

       Mrs. Hagan started.

       "Of my husband!" she cried, with strong emphasis on the pronoun.

       "He died abroad, did he not?" I asked, taking no notice of her surprise.

       "Yes, abroad, suddenly, of heart disease," she answered slowly.

       "You must have felt it very much," I remarked, to lead her on.

       "So much, Elizabeth, that I cannot bear to have it mentioned; pray change the subject."

       "Forgive me, Ruth, for not doing so," I answered, with real regret, her acting of grief was so perfect; "I have a strange fancy in my mind, and I should like to ask you some questions."

       "As you please," she answered, with a sigh.

       "He was cremated after his death?" I asked first.

       She hesitated for a moment, then answered, "Yes."

       "Have you not his ashes somewhere near you?" was my next question.

       "I have; that I can visit them and mourn for him in my hours of sorrow," she answered coldly, telling what I knew to be a lie, quite unconcernedly.

       "How you must have loved him," I said.

       "Don't; please don't," she sobbed. "Oh, why have you asked these questions? It is so cruel."

       "I asked them for Edgar's sake," I answered.

       "How?"

       "It will be so uncomfortable for him to have it so near him when you are married."

       "To have what so near?"

       "The cremation vase, Mrs. Hagan."

       "Yes, it would. I will send it to the family vault soon."

       "I understand," said I, quietly. Mrs. Hagan looked up quickly: "I should like to see it; will you show it me some day?"

       "I will show it you now, and end the subject; will that do?"

       "Oh, yes!"

       She rose without another word, opened a dwarf cabinet, and took out a small silver lamp and a key; she bent down to the fire and lighted the lamp, then beckoning to me to follow, led the way upstairs to the long corridor, on each side of which were the bedrooms of the house. Down this I followed her, till we came to a large mirror, which hung from floor to ceiling at the end. Here Mrs. Hagan raised her hand and pressed against the glass, which swung back, on a hinge, out of its frame.

       We passed through, and I found myself in a small courtyard, surrounded by four walls, and open to the sky at the top; round the walls were placed beautiful statues, and vases of rare plants, and in the centre a small mausoleum was built, of black marble, surmounted by a golden cross. Mrs. Hagan unlocked and opened the door, and I saw five grey granite steps: on the face of each a text was engraved in gilt letters; and at the top, on a floor of black stone, stood two white marble figures of angels, with gilt wings, each supporting a spray of golden lilies, each flower of which held a wax candle, which Mrs. Hagan lighted from the flame of her lamp.

       Past these we entered a little square chamber, the walls of which were hung with black velvet. At the far end of this, on three steps of white marble, stood an altar, covered with black velvet, embroidered with gold, and supporting a gold cross and two branches of candles; while at the foot of the cross, on a cushion of crimson satin and white lace, stood the object of our search — the Cremation Vase. Here Mrs. Hagan, pressing the lamp she had carried, into my hands, fell upon her knees before the altar, and burst into a loud and passionate flood of tears. This lasted a few moments; then she rose to her feet, calm, cold, and beautiful as ever, and taking the lamp back from me, proceeded to point out the beauties of the place, beginning with the texts on the step, and ending with the inscription on the vase, which ran as follows:—

HENRY HAGAN,
Died July 17th, 1868;
Cremated, July 18th.

       When I had finished reading this, the widow led the way back to the drawing-room. Here she replaced the lamp and key in the cabinet, then stood still with her arm resting on the top of it, and her face hidden.

       I waited some time for her to speak, but she did not; so I said gently —

       "Mrs. Hagan?"

       She turned instantly, and I recoiled in fear. Her face was deadly white, while her bloodless lips, and the blue veins in her forehead, quivered with suppressed passion.

       "Have you not heard and seen enough yet?" she asked. fiercely.

       "What do you mean?" I asked.

       "What do you mean? that's what I want to know;" demanded Ruth, advancing step by step, her hands clenched, and her white face quivering.

       "Madam!" I cried, in great surprise, —

       "Oh, what do you mean by what you said an hour ago? Why do you not connect your brother with me in your thoughts?"

       "I have told you, Mrs. Hagan," I answered.

       "You have not told me," she interrupted furiously; "you have tried to put me off with a lie, but I want to know the truth, and I will know it."

       "You have had it," I replied, trying to keep down my temper.

       "I tell you I have not," she went on; "there was another meaning to your words, Elizabeth Earnstone. Do you not think I am fit to be Edgar's wife?"

       "If you will have the truth, Mrs. Hagan, I do not think that you are," I answered firmly.

       "Why?" she asked, in a low trembling tone.

       "For many reasons: the first is your evident want of love to your first husband. If you did not love him, how can you love your second?" I replied, quietly.

       "I did love him," she answered, vacantly; "do not my actions and my tears prove it?"

       "A woman that really feels her sorrow does not make so great a parade and show of it as you do, Mrs. Hagan." She turned her white face towards me, and put up her hands, as if to ward off a blow; but I went on firmly: "A woman that feels her loss, as you would make the world believe you do, would not be in such a hurry to marry again."

       Mrs. Hagan stood cold and still, like a marble statue, without motion, without life, for some moments; at last she spoke, in the same vacant way as before —

       "You have read me rightly, Elizabeth," she said, slowly, "I did not love Henry Hagan."

       "And your grief was acted by one skilled in hypocrisy," I said.

       "No," answered Mrs. Hagan, in the same tone as before; "no, Miss Earnstone, my grief was real; I do mourn deeply; but it is not regret for him, but for a lost position." She stretched out her hands, as if she would grasp something in them, then she threw them into the air, and burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

       In after days I call back these words of hers, and as I think of them I see meaning in them which it was impossible for me to see then; and now I pity the woman whose greatest excuse for a wicked life was here told; but then I had no other feeling for her but rage, as I asked her —

       "And you think you will marry Edgar? No, no; if you deceived Mr. Hagan, you shall never deceive him, by pretending great love."

       She woke then suddenly to a fit of the wildest rage I ever saw.

       "I am not pretending, you cruel wretch," she cried passionately; "I love Edgar with my whole soul. My life now is spent in blind adoration and worship of him, my idol! my king! my god!" She stood grandly enraptured for a minute or so, her face rendered more beautiful than ever; then the light faded away, and fury took its place as she turned to me.

       "I tell you that I love this man more than my own soul: I set my life on this object, and I will be his wife — even if I have to kill you to do so."

*       *       *       *       *      *

       In my own chamber that night I sat, thinking over the events of the day. How to move I did not know; evident, as I felt it to be, that this woman had some guilty secret on her mind, prove it I could not, and yet — Edgar must be saved.

       Suddenly a bright thought flashed through my brain: "The Cremation Vase," — might it not contain some clue to the mystery. I listened at the door; — all was still.

       I crept downstairs, and stole the key; through the hinged glass I hurried, across the little courtyard, and into the mausoleum.

       I reached the altar, and my extended hand touched the vase, in another moment I should have seen its contents, but, at this instant my candle flickered up and went out.

       Grasping the vase, I rolled it in my dress, and fled to my chamber again. My fire had gone out in my absence, and the gas was turned off at the main; so, I put down the urn on the floor, and crossed the room, intending to find the matches, and light another candle. I turned suddenly, with a start; for the whole room was lighted by a pale rosy light, which was rising rapidly from the vase on the floor, while, to my surprise and alarm I saw the form of a young and handsome man standing beside it.

       He turned his pale face towards me, and his soft, sad eyes looked into mine, as he said these words:—

   Miss Earnstone —
       I had feared that the world would end, and that no one would ever trouble themselves to unravel the mystery of which I am the victim: you have proved that I was wrong, and in your devotion to a brother's interest, have sought out a few links in the chain of guilt which this woman has forged. But even you, willing agent though you are, would not be able to complete that chain by yourself; therefore I have come to assist you.

       In this casket you will find the written record of her crimes and of my fate.

       The rosy light changed to a glowing red, while a thick smoke hid the lower part of the room. The ghost or spirit's face changed to an aspect of great pain and torture as flames of fire shot up round about him; he threw up his arms and moaned aloud in anguish.

       I covered up my face with my hands, to shut out this fearful sight, but I was too late, for I had seen those poor eyes roll about in agony, as the flesh burnt off his face. My blood ran cold, and I fainted.

*       *       *       *       *      *

       When I recovered my senses, the dawn was breaking, and my room was faintly lighted by it.

       I rose up from the floor, lighted a candle, and, with a shudder, opened — The Cremation Vase.

       Inside I could see nothing but the dark ashes; — yes, among them, and nearly buried by them, was a thick folded paper.

       I took it out and hid it in my bosom; then I crept out softly and replaced the vase in the mausoleum, and the key in the drawing-room, and then hurried back to bed, to obtain a few hours' sleep before I should have to appear at breakfast.

MRS. HAGAN and I were seated in the breakfast-room, a pretty little apartment next to the library, with which it is connected by an arch, over which heavy crimson curtains are drawn. "Somebody in the library; — visitors?" Before we had time to move, Aunt Topsy and Mr. Parch, her lawyer, entered the room through the curtains, which he carefully closed after him.

       With an instinct of something wrong, Mrs. Hagan rose to her feet, pale and majestic. "To what cause am I indebted for this visit?" she asked, looking at Mr. Parch.

       "To the cause of justice, madam," he replied.

       "And for the punishment of vice, which, long suspected, is now discovered," my aunt put in, as, uninvited, she took a chair.

       "I know not what you mean," Mrs. Hagan answered, with wonderful self-possession; "but I do know that if this is a gentleman, he will not see a defenceless woman insulted."

       "To see you insulted is the last object at which I aim, madam," replied Mr. Parch; "yet there are people whom you have wronged to be righted, so that —–"

       "Who has been wronged?" she interrupted, with a smile.

       The curtains were thrown aside, and a lady in deep mourning, and thickly veiled, stepped into the room.

       "I have!" said the stranger.

       Mrs. Hagan started violently, and her voice trembled as she asked — "May I inquire your name, madam?"

       "Oh, yes," the unknown lady answered, lifting her veil, "my name is Ruth Hagan!"

       For a moment Mrs. Hagan staggered, but recovered herself with an effort.

       "Then who am I?" she asked, in a firm, low voice.

       "Edith Steel — formerly my maid."

       Mrs. Hagan burst into a loud laugh.

       "You must be a set of fools, to let this tale of an imposter take such hold upon you," she cried. "I am Ruth Hagan; and I can prove it." She opened her desk, and took some papers from it, which she handed to Mr. Parch. "These certificates are my sureties; now ask this woman for hers."

       The strange lady answered directly, "I have none, Edith Steel; you took my papers when you took my name."

       "You are mad!" Mrs. Hagan answered.

       "No, I am not mad, though I have been called so. A woman that could kill a master would not spare a mistress," the lady continued, firmly.

       "Kill!" cried Mrs. Hagan. "Do you accuse me of murder?" She caught at a chair to save herself from falling, then suddenly started up, livid with rage.

       "Enough of this!" she cried. "This house is mine. I command you, leave it! When you can prove your words, come back, and I will hear you: you can never prove it — you cannot; oh, no — no — no!" She burst into an hysterical laugh, and rushed out of the room.

       Tearing the ghost's paper from out of my bosom, I gave it to Mr. Parch, saying —

       "I found this. Read it; perhaps it may help you." Then I followed Mrs. Hagan. She was in the drawing-room. Edgar had returned, and was seated on the sofa: she stood beside him, evidently telling her view of what had just taken place. As I entered, she came to me and led me into an ante-room.

       "Are those foolish people gone?" she asked, with a smile.

       "No," I answered; "they are reading a paper — one that I was directed to find, in a strange manner, and found it among the ashes in The Cremation Vase." Mrs. Hagan uttered a strange cry, and fell upon her knees, burying her face in her hands.

       "The dead have spoken!" she said, speaking like a person in a terrible dream. Suddenly she rose up, and confronted me: "Elizabeth Earnstone," she said, in a low despairing tone, "I staked my life that I would win your brother — I have lost him, and God help me!"

       She turned away and entered the drawing-room, where Edgar sat reading his paper. One moment she paused — grief nearly overcame her; then, cold and deathlike, she glided to his side, and fell upon her knees before him. Not one word did she speak; her pain was past all words. One long, last pressure in those arms — one hot burning kiss, and she rose and left him, proudly, grandly enough; but I saw her clasp her hands above her head in frantic agony, and I heard her deep-drawn sob, as she passed out, striving to hide the sorrow that was killing her.

*       *       *       *       *      *

       We found her in the room, upon her knees, her beautiful face turned up imploringly to heaven; while in her hands was Edgar's portrait, close to that heart whose first and last thought was of his love. His love was the only heaven she had ever known; when she lost that — when that was gone, poor wretched woman, she lost her all — and died.

*       *       *       *       *      *

EPILOGUE.

       The paper that I received, in such a mysterious manner, was a written confession of her crime, and ran as follows:—

July 28th, 1868.       

   To Mrs. Hagan. —
       Now that I have done what cannot be undone I repent my crime, yet I dare not openly avow it to the world. While I still live I will keep what I have won; when I am dead, this paper will give you back your rights.

       To remove your difficulties in regaining these rights I confess all my guilt: Firstly, that I, Edith Steel, not being able to get poison, administered an extra dose of a sleeping draught, in a cup of wine, to the late Henry Hagan, which gave him the appearance, for a time, of being dead. In this state I persuaded you to have him burnt — cremated; and it was done the next day, I now acknowledge, while he was still living.

       The frenzied grief to which at this time you gave yourself up, I then declared to be madness, and caused you to be confined in a madhouse in Germany; while I, stealing your clothes, papers, and name, set off for England, and presented myself to your husband's friends as Henry Hagan's widow.

       This confession I make, in order that I may atone for my sin as far as possible. I desire, in my will, that I may be cremated; when they open the vase containing Mr. Hagan's ashes, to put in mine, they will find this paper.

       Oh, lady, let my former life plead for me, with you: may you never know the misery that I feel now, or the remorse that I have known. Do you think I am ever happy? Oh, no, no. The vision of my victim is always by my side. When I think of the loving home I threw away in childhood, — when I think of what I was, and of what I am now, — and when the white face of him I saw quiver as the fire touched him rises before me, — then, if you feel anger against me, be satisfied that I have suffered bitterly, and that you have been well revenged on the wretched

EDITH STEEL.       

*       *       *       *       *      *

       Of this wicked woman's former life I have heard that she was the only child of rich parents, but proud of her beauty, and dissatisfied with her life, she ran away, at the age of seventeen, with a man of great attractions, who afterwards left her to her fate. She became worse and worse, — at one time earning her living as an actress, at another as a decoy to a set of gamblers, — till at last she became so bad that even with these she lost her position.

       It was then, as Mrs. Hagan's maid (that lady took her from a Reformatory), Edith made this desperate move, and for a time recovered her lost position in the world.

       Thus, as Mrs. Hagan, Edith Steel might have married and lived as happily as such a guilty woman could have done, had it not been for the strange appearance of "The Cremated Ghost."

THE END.