The Mysteries of Montreal Part 8

Home the poor broken-hearted girl went, and the baby was left in my keeping till the morrow, when, according to agreement, I was to hand it over to the good sisters. It was destined to be otherwise, however. That evening a gentleman called at my house; he was a bachelor, well to do in the world, and hearing the story, which it was necessary to tell him, in order to explain the child's presence, he asked me with pardonable curiosity to let him see the baby. When he took her in his arms she smiled so sweetly upon him, and crowed so joyously, that his heart was touched, and he could not bear to think that the poor helpless babe should be made to suffer for the sins of its parents; he asked me to let _him_ have the child, promising that he would adopt her, and do for her as if she were his own.

I suggested to him the scandal such a measure would give rise to, and urged him not to place himself in such an unenviable position, but he insisted that he was willing to let society have its fling, and that if I would consent to the child's adoption, he would take the responsibility attached to it.

What was I to do? The man was well off, and had conceived a fancy for the child. As for the world's sneers, if he could afford to laugh at them why should I refuse him the gratification of performing a n.o.ble action? I handed the child over to his care, having first procured from him written papers of adoption, and little Beatrice was installed in her new home. A nurse was procured for her, and everything that money could procure was provided for her comfort. The gossips sneered and wagged their heads as they spoke of the "adopted" child, insinuating that there were stronger ties than those of mere philanthropy to bind Mr. Richards and the child together, but he, quite unconcerned, paid no attention to their hints and innuendoes, and tried so far as lay in his power to make the child comfortable and happy. When she attained the age of five years he procured a governess for her, and had her instructed thoroughly in all that go to make up a modern education as she grew older.

But a cloud soon appeared on the horizon of the child's career. Mr.

Richards became ill, and was ordered by his medical adviser to a Southerly climate. He was obliged to sell his estate and place little Beatrice in Mrs. Thompson's boarding school, where she continued for a few years till the return of her adopted father. He came, it is true, but the seeds of a fatal disease had been implanted in his system, and had taken a deadly hold; in a few months he was no more, and as nearly all his money had been eaten up in paying travelling and medical expenses, poor Beatrice was left once more not only without a friend but without a penny in the world. Mr. Richards had paid her school fees annually in advance, and as at the time of his demise several months of the term paid for were unexpired, Beatrice had a comfortable home secured for her at least during that period; for the future she would either have to perform menial services at the school, or go out in the cold world without a friend or protector. The former was considered by the poor girl preferable to going she knew not where, and so she accepted the offer of a situation as housemaid, kindly proffered to her by Mrs. Thompson _out of pure charity_ at two dollars per month less than the previous occupant of the situation.

Poor Beatrice had a hard time of it as housemaid. Her former companions took a fiendish delight in ordering her about till her life became perfectly unbearable. She had but one friend to whom she could unreservedly pour forth her troubles, her Sunday-School teacher, Miss Flint. To this lady she gave an account of her history, so far as she was able, and asked her for advice and a.s.sistance. Miss Flint, being both sensible and charitably disposed, advised her to leave her present position, having first procured a suitable one elsewhere, and she promised to exert herself to this end.

Among the numerous acquaintances of Miss Flint was Mrs. De Beaumont, a Southern lady of means, whose husband held a high official position in New Orleans. Mrs. De Beaumont had, in order to avoid the yellow fever epidemic, taken up her residence temporarily in Montreal, and was now with her two daughters about to return to her Southern home. The education of the latter young ladies had been somewhat neglected, and Mrs. De Beaumont was anxious to procure as governess and travelling companion a young lady of moderate means and unlimited ability.

Here, then, was an opening for Beatrice. On the recommendation of Miss Flint, coupled with certificates from the various professors at Mrs.

Thompson's school, the poor girl was duly installed in an easy and, to her, lucrative position. She was not long settled in her new home when Mr. Hartley, brother of Mrs. De Beaumont, fell violently in love with her, and, contrary to the wishes of his relations, insisted on paying her open attention. The poor girl had been so long accustomed to being buffeted and slighted in every way that her heart fairly gave way before his pa.s.sionate wooing, and, although Mrs. De Beaumont frowned on her angrily, and the rest of the family snubbed her grievously, yet Beatrice felt so happy in having some one in whom she could confide that she bore all their petty annoyances with the utmost forbearance, and refused steadily to take the slightest notice of them.

Mr. Hartley was a planter of considerable wealth. He had long lived a bachelor's life; so long, indeed, that his friends never thought he would marry, and each one often unconsciously counted how much of the property would eventually become his. Mrs. De Beaumont was particularly displeased when she heard his open avowal of his attachment for her governess, for, though Hartley was not an old man, he being at that time only about forty-six years old, yet she had hoped that her daughter would have inherited a portion of his vast wealth, which was now about to be transferred to a stranger, without friends, fortune or name. In spite of this secret antipathy to the match, Mrs. De Beaumont openly pretended the greatest friends.h.i.+p for Beatrice, for, being a woman of the world, she saw clearly how matters would stand in a few years, and she could not afford to break either with her brother or his intended wife.

The wedding came off with all the aristocratic splendor of an F. F.

V. ceremonial. The dusky coachmen and footmen were resplendent with gorgeous liveries and wedding favors, their white teeth glistening in the sun as they grinned from ear to ear, perfectly happy and contented.

After the ceremony the newly-married pair went for a brief tour through the Eastern States and Canada, returning to Mr. Hartley's plantation, where Mrs. Hartley was called upon by all the leading families in the vicinity, and took her place with as much grace as though she had been "to the manner born." Mrs. De Beaumont greeted her sister-in-law affectionately (at least to all outward appearances), and invited her to visit her old home frequently; in fact all those who were aware (and who was not) that Mr. Hartley had settled every penny of his fortune on his wife and her prospective offspring were lavish of their attentions to their beautiful, and now immensely wealthy, neighbor.

When her first baby, a little girl, was born, Mrs. Hartley wept bitterly and refused (like Rachel) to be comforted. Her husband could not understand it at all, and was greatly grieved that she should be so down-hearted when they had both every reason, to be happy. Beatrice besought him to forgive her weakness, and explained that it was only now that she was a mother that she fully realized the anguish her own mother must have suffered at parting with her, and she implored him as he loved her to exert himself to find her mother and make her happy. Had his wife told him to lie down whilst she drove a carriage-wheel across his neck, Mr. Hartley would have unhesitatingly obeyed her; how readily, then, he set about finding what most men are so glad to be without, viz., a mother-in-law, can easily be imagined. He promised his wife that so soon as business permitted him he would take steps to discover her mother's whereabouts, but that night he was awakened out of a deep sleep by cries of terror from his wife; she had had a dream, she said, that her mother hung over a precipice, looking up to her for help, which, while she hastened to give, she saw her mother sink into the yawning abyss, uttering shrieks of agony. Hartley was beside himself with fright; he thought his wife would lose her reason, and so he quieted her by a.s.suring her that he would write the next day to get information, acting on which he would set out immediately on his search. In the morning he despatched a letter to Mr. F---- in Montreal, instructing him to obtain what information he could respecting a girl called Ellen MacNee who had lived in former years with Mrs. Rogers; in reply he was informed that the girl left the city, no trace being procurable. He then inserted advertis.e.m.e.nts in several Canadian newspapers, informing the public that if Ellen MacNee would correspond with X. Y. Z. she would hear of something to her advantage. But in vain did the fond husband seek the mother of his blue-eyed darling, now grown pale with deferred hope and anxious care, and when the latter proposed that they should personally go to Montreal in search of their missing relative he readily acquiesced, feeling a.s.sured that, even if they were unsuccessful, the excitement of travel and occupation would restore the bloom to his wife's cheeks and preserve that health which, was now apparently on the wane.

In a few days they had made preparations for an extended tour, and ere a week had pa.s.sed they were snugly quartered in the St. Lawrence Hall, Montreal. The day after their arrival they called on me to know if I could a.s.sist them in their search, bidding me spare no expense in order to effect the desired object. I promised them every a.s.sistance in my power, and at once placed myself in communication with all those whom I had known to have any dealings with Beatrice's unfortunate mother. It was truly painful to see the anxious face of the young woman as she came daily to me to enquire if I had heard any news, and when I showed her a letter from Mr. MacNee, her mother's eldest brother, stating that his sister had gone to New York as nurse, she immediately persuaded her husband to give chase. Their efforts were in vain, however. The girl, it was true, had taken service in New York, but had subsequently left there for her home in Glengarry, and had never been seen since either there or in New York. Detectives having again been employed to a.s.sist in tracing her movements, it was discovered that she had returned by rail to Montreal _en route_ to Glengarry, but here all traces vanished, and the supposition was either that she had committed suicide, or met with some accidental death. Beatrice would have it, however, that she was still alive, and would leave no stone unturned to find her. It was suggested that New York should again be visited, as the probability was that she returned there after her trip to Montreal; various other plans were thought of, and some of them, doubtless, would have been acted upon, had not a new light shone in upon the scene.

At the outset of the proceedings I had communicated with the princ.i.p.als of the various Houses of Refuge in this city, and, although the authorities had done their utmost to facilitate our search, so far we had failed to advance in any way. At this time, however, I received a communication from the Bishop, informing me that he thought he could help us, and when I called on him, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, he told us that he had been visited by a hardened creature, whose name did not concern us, and who, in antic.i.p.ation of a reward which she had heard was offered for the recovery of the recluse, disclosed the fact that she had, under an a.s.sumed name, become a sister of charity, and was at present an inmate in a convent in ---- street, where we would, doubtless, be able to recognize her.

Beatrice became quite excited at the news, and insisted on rus.h.i.+ng off at once, but her strength failed her, and she fell fainting on a sofa.

By great persuasion she allowed us to drive her home on the promise that she would be allowed to accompany us on the morrow. The next day we entered a carriage and drove to the Convent; we agreed that Beatrice should go alone to meet her mother while we remained downstairs. Running into the room where her mother was, the poor girl fell on her neck and covered her with kisses. But no responsive greeting met the impetuous child, the woman stared at her with a wild hazy stare as if to inquire, Who are you? What do you mean by these extravagant caresses?

But if she failed to recognize her child she did not fail to recognize me, and by some strange a.s.sociation of ideas she seemed to wander in thought back to her past life, and the hot blood mounted to her temples.

When she became calmer I explained to her how we had come there, and the object of our visit. She was touched at the proofs of her daughter's affection, and the hot tears rolled rapidly down her furrowed cheek, but she steadily refused to leave the inst.i.tution. In vain the poor girl pleaded, and Mr. Hartley and myself joined in our entreaties that she would accompany her daughter and her husband. Finding all our arguments of no avail I advised Mr. Hartley to let the poor creature have her way till the reality of the situation had come home to her, recommending him to allow his wife to call frequently at the Convent to see her mother.

This advice the indulgent husband acted upon, and day after day Beatrice would go and sit for hours conversing with her parent, sometimes obtaining permission to take her for a walk or a drive, and secretly longing, though never expressing it in words, that her mother would accompany her back to her home in the South.

So far the excitement had kept Mrs. Hartley up, but after a time a reaction set in which culminated in a wasting fever, and prostrated the poor creature on a bed of sickness. This, though apparently disastrous, ended happily for all. Beatrice's mother, so long as _she_ was the object of pity, shrank from all communication with her rich relatives, but now that her child was in need of a.s.sistance, she flew to her with a mother's impetuosity, and anxiously watched by her couch day and night, while the poor thing tossed and raved in delirious paroxysms. Mr.

Hartley summoned Dr. Hickson to his wife's bedside, but that astute pract.i.tioner wisely foretold that the magnetic influence of her mother's presence would do more for his patient than any drugs or medicines, and, accordingly, he contented himself by prescribing a sleeping-draught, leaving other agencies to do their work.

In a couple of weeks Mrs. Hartley rallied, and ere long she became convalescent, and even cheerful. She used to chat with her mother for hours together, and the fourth week after the latter's arrival she was able to go out for a drive accompanied by her and the baby, who had accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Hartley in all their travels. The little girl and her grandmother soon became great friends, and when, Beatrice being strong enough, her mother would have returned to her convent life, the baby's smiling face did what all persuasion had failed to do, and bursting into tears, the aged penitent folded the darling to her breast and declared that she would never part from it again. Beatrice's joy knew no bounds; and as for Mr. Hartley, he was perfectly satisfied to know that his wife was happy. In a few days they made preparations for a journey to the South, and ere long Mrs. Hartley had the satisfaction of seeing her mother snugly ensconced at her own fireside, living as it were over again, and enjoying in the care of her daughter's child, the maternal pleasure which had hitherto been denied her. Ere leaving Montreal Mr. Hartley, at his wife's request, erected a handsome monument in Mount Royal Cemetery to the memory of the humane man, who, regardless of the jeers and scoffing of gossiping scandal mongers, had braved public opinion, and saved to the world a good wife, an affectionate daughter and a loving and tenderhearted mother.

During all this time, it may be asked, what had become of Jack Rogers, one of the princ.i.p.als in my narrative?

Jack was fairly wild at the thought of his sweetheart going into an inst.i.tution. He would have married her on the spot and braved all his father's anger. But the girl showed equal self-denial, and was much more sensible; she saw that, by consenting to marry a penniless gentleman, she would certainly injure him, without in any way benefiting herself.

She knew his father sufficiently well to feel sure that, were he aware of his son's relations with her, not one but _both of them_, would be ignominiously turned out of doors. So, consoling her paramour with this questionable bit of comfort, she tore herself away, saying coolly that he would soon forget and marry some one in his own station in life. But, though she nerved herself to speak in this strain before him, when alone she broke down entirely, and sobbed till her heart nearly broke, for the poor girl loved him dearly, and, poor though he was, would have married him and worked for him, if necessary. She saw, however, that his prospects would be utterly blasted were he to disclose his position to his father; and she unselfishly took on herself _the whole_ of the punishment for a sin of which she was scarcely guilty, or, at any rate, less highly culpable than he.

Jack would fain have put a pistol ball through his head, and doubtless would have done so had the pistol been handy; but his pistols, like everything else he possessed, were out of order, and were at the moment in Mr. Costen's hands, where they lay in a disintegrated condition till the young gentleman's blood had got some degrees cooler. Still, he could not help thinking how his folly and thoughtlessness had ruined the hopes of a poor innocent girl, and he longed for some opportunity for going abroad, or partic.i.p.ating in some excitement to enable him to muse less moodily on the past.

The American civil war was at this time in full blast, and large bounties were offered for volunteers. An American agent, meeting Jack Rogers in a saloon, which the latter frequented, offered him two hundred dollars and an outfit if he would go as a subst.i.tute for a young gentleman in New York. This offer Jack readily accepted, and within a short time found himself _en route_ to Richmond to join the Federal Army. He was not long in the service when his superior intelligence and daring exploits made him conspicuous among his fellows, and he was promoted from one grade to another till he was placed in command of his company. This was a position Jack was eminently fitted for, and his reckless bravery was talked of far and wide throughout the army.

For a long time, in spite of his foolhardiness, Jack remained without a scratch, save a slight wound from a rifle ball at Gettysburg, where he made himself particularly conspicuous. Just before the close of the great struggle, however, he was sent in command of a foraging party consisting of about forty-five rank and file and the usual complement of officers. Their path lay through a deed ravine in which high wooded cliffs looked down on each side. These cliffs were in possession of a Louisiana regiment, who were stationed there in the hope of cutting off supplies from the Northerners, and, just as Captain Rogers with his handful of men, entered the ravine a murderous fire was opened on them from both sides. Rogers ordered his men to reply, but, as the ravine afforded little or no cover, they were finally obliged to make their way as quickly as possible to the end of the pa.s.s and fight their way through. They found their way completely blocked by a force of two or three hundred rebels, but, as to return would have proved equally disastrous, there was nothing for it but to surrender, or cut a path for themselves through, the enemy. Bracing themselves for a terrible struggle, Rogers and his little band advanced to within a few yards of the open, where their foes, with rifles loaded and bayonets fixed, stood demanding their surrender. Captain Jack ordered his men to fire at a given signal, and then to advance; and, firing his own pistols by way of signal, he dashed through the smoke, followed by his daring band, cutting and slas.h.i.+ng right and left.

But courage will not enable men to do impossibilities. Out of the handful who entered the ravine but three managed to cut their way through the opposing forces, and these were all more or less injured by rifle b.a.l.l.s or sabre cuts. Poor Rogers fought like a lion; but, being the centre of attraction on account of his uniform, he had his hands more than full, and though he pistoled two men and knocked an officer who would have seized him senseless with the b.u.t.t-end of his empty revolver, he was finally brought off his horse with a pistol shot, and captured, more dead than alive, by the enemy.

The officer in charge was so struck with the bravery of the poor fellow that he had endeavored to take him prisoner, and had stayed some of his men who had essayed to run the fiery captain through with their bayonets; his impetuous charge, however, led them in self defence to disable him, and the young lieutenant who shot him had no alternative except to be brained by a blow from Jack's pistol. The excitement over, however, the colonel of the victorious corps sent a detachment in search of the wounded of both sides, and ordered a litter to be prepared for Captain Rogers' removal to his own quarters. Poor Jack was severely injured. The ball had entered his left arm close to the shoulder, and was not necessarily fatal; but his horse had fallen on him and bruised him so that he could scarcely breathe. The march to the camp was about two miles, and, although the men moved as gently as possible, yet Captain Rogers suffered agony as he felt every motion. Arrived at Colonel De Beaumont's quarters (for the brave commander was the husband of Mrs. De Beaumont) a surgeon was sent for and the invalid's wounds were attended to. Although a prisoner of war Captain Rogers' received every attention from Colonel De Beaumont and the officers under his command, and when, the regiment being ordered to head-quarters, the Colonel was obliged to send Rogers to prison with the rest of his captured force, the parting was more like that of two brothers than that of a victor and his fallen foe.

After the close of the war, which, event took place shortly after these occurrences, Colonel De Beaumont, disgusted and sick at heart, returned to New Orleans. He was obliged to bow to fortune, and to swear allegiance once more to what he considered the oppressor. Almost his first thought after his return was to enquire concerning the Federal troops who had been captured by his men, especially the gallant Rogers, for whom he had formed a more than pa.s.sing attachment. He learned that of those who had been placed in confinement, some had died of their wounds, others, as soon as the proclamation of Northern supremacy gave them their liberty, had returned to their homes, but that the Captain, having contracted a dangerous fever, had been unable to accompany them.

De Beaumont lost no time in seeking out the poor soldier's quarters, and was grieved to find him barely alive, he having scarcely recovered from the fever, besides suffering from partially healed and badly-dressed wounds. The Colonel persuaded him, so soon as he could move, to accompany him to his own house, where he would receive proper attention, and, in a short time, the sufferer was installed in De Beaumont's comfortable house, the kind hostess doing all in her power to alleviate his sufferings.

It was about this time that Mrs. Hartley, accompanied by her mother, had returned to her husband's residence, and one day as she was visiting Mrs. De Beaumont she learnt the story concerning the wounded officer, who, though in the service of the North, was compa.s.sionately treated by the whole household, having made friends of them all by his cheerful uncomplaining disposition, and his grateful acknowledgment of even the slightest service. While recounting the story to her husband and mother at dinner, the latter grasped the table convulsively with both her hands, and breathlessly demanded of her daughter all the particulars; with a wild exclamation of terror, she rushed up to her room, hastily followed by her bewildered daughter. The latter found her mother in the act of dressing hurriedly, and on enquiring for an explanation the poor woman fell on her child's neck, and with bitter tears explained that it was _her own father_ who lay so near them at death's door, and that, whatever it might cost, she would rush to his side.

Poor Mrs. Hartley was sadly shaken at these tidings. She explained all the circ.u.mstances to her devoted husband, and took his advice. Hartley recommended his wife to let her mother have her own way, and promised that presently he would accompany his wife to De Beaumont's house to visit the invalid.

The rest of the story is soon told. The sad meeting of poor Rogers with the mother of his child, who stayed by his side night and day, the bitter tears of Mrs. Hartley as she beheld her father for the first and last time; the mutual expression of love and forgiveness ere the poor invalid breathed his last, beloved and forgiven by those on whom he had thoughtlessly entailed much sorrow and suffering.

CHAPTER XI.

The Mother-in-Law.

John Wilkie was the son of Scotch parents residing in Toronto, Ontario.

He was possessed of considerable literary ability, and when a lad had entered Toronto University with the intention of pursuing a professional career; but his father shrewdly reasoned that, although fame might be acquired more readily by clergymen and lawyers, money was an important consideration, and might be acquired with, comparative ease in a well managed business. He accordingly placed his son in the wholesale house of Messrs. Campbell & Castle, and in due course of time the lad secured an interest in the business.

The young man was not long a member of the firm when he became enamoured of a young lady named Collins, whom he had met at the house of a mutual friend. For a longtime he paid attention to this young lady, taking her to b.a.l.l.s, concerts and operas, and finally he proposed for her hand and was accepted.

Miss Collins was scarcely what one would call a beautiful girl, yet there was an attractiveness of manner peculiar to her which caused her to be much, sought after and admired in social circles, and many were the sad and heavy when it became known that she was about to marry John Wilkie.

At this juncture Wilkie the elder was carried off with an attack of pneumonia, leaving John, his only son, heir to his house and property.

This occurrence of course caused the wedding to be deferred for a time, and the bridegroom elect went into deep mourning; in a few months, however, he doffed his sable garments, and, having caused the family mansion to be refurnished and renovated, began to make preparations for his wedding.

The affair came off with great _eclat_, the bride being driven home from church behind four dapple-grey horses, several carriages following with bridesmaids, groomsmen, and invited guests, among the latter being many rejected suitors, who took a kind of melancholy pleasure in seeing the matter through. Mrs. Wilkie was in excellent spirits, as was also the dowager, her mother-in-law, and after the _dejeuner_ they wept together and kissed each other at parting as if they were blood relations. Mrs.

Collins was not so much affected; she was so much entranced at the rich prize she had secured for her daughter that grief was altogether out of the question.

What a sweet time is that when two loving hearts, throwing commercial and domestic cares to the winds, devote themselves to the agreeable pursuit of entertaining each other. Shutting their eyes and ears to the outer world they fancy that the sun, moon and stars s.h.i.+ne for them, alone; that nature's smiles are specially prepared for them; that the birds carol bridal chansonettes only for their benefit; and that the whole world is contained in the small area which immediately surrounds them.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilkie had a long, pleasant honeymoon. They spent a couple of weeks at Niagara Falls; then, having visited Boston and New York, they spent a few weeks at Saratoga, returning to Toronto about six weeks from their wedding-day. Everything had been prepared for their reception, and Mrs. Wilkie, senior, sat in state to welcome them to a cosy meal which had been prepared in the dining-room. Having eaten sparingly, Mrs. Wilkie retired to her room, for she was fatigued by travel, and John with his mother went on a tour of inspection over the house.

It must be hard for a mother to give up the care of her son to a stranger; to think that he whom she has nursed so tenderly, and whose every want was so long supplied by her gentle hand should be left to the care of another must be fraught with pain and bitter recollections. Mrs.

Wilkie sighed deeply as she showed her son the many improvements which had been made in the old house, and thought that her reign was at an end and that a new Caesar had taken the reins of government. The Lord of the Manor failed to observe the trepidation with which his mother handed him the keys, and showed him the various details connected with the management of the house, and with a cool "good night, mother," he retired to rest, at peace with his mother, himself, and the world.

For several months things went smoothly enough with the parties to my narrative. The dowager accepted her position, though, it must be confessed, with a bad grace, and the new mistress gave a life to the place to which it was unaccustomed. At length Mrs. Wilkie gave birth to a son, and great were the rejoicing and festivities. The dowager was promoted to the t.i.tle of grandmamma, John boasted the proud t.i.tle of father, and the mother's joy knew no bounds. The child was in due time christened with appropriate solemnity, and in a few months after his birth he became a very important member of the Wilkie family.

Mr. Wilkie wanted the boy called William after his late father, but Mrs. Wilkie would not have what she was pleased to term a plebeian designation, and insisted on calling him Alexander. The dowager opposed this with all her might, but "her usefulness was gone," and her feeble remonstrances were of little or no avail. This slight sank deep into her heart, and she waited, calmly and patiently, for an opportunity of retaliating on her daughter-in-law.

In due time the opportunity presented itself. Mrs. Wilkie was in the habit of going to the skating-rink accompanied by some of her fas.h.i.+onable acquaintances; her husband did not care for skating, but was proud to hear his wife's graceful performances eulogized. The dowager, however, had no heart for "the grape-vine" and other foolish devices; she thought it high time for her daughter-in-law to take on herself the serious duties of matrimonial life, and deprecated the fondness of the lady in question for rinks, b.a.l.l.s, and festivities.

One night Mrs. Wilkie was invited to a skating-party. Her husband, having some letters to write, declined to go, and she went in company with a Mr. Smithers, an old acquaintance of hers, and one of the finest fancy skaters in Toronto. During her daughter-in-law's absence at the rink, Mrs. Wilkie the elder took upon herself to lecture her son on his wife's giddy behaviour, and so worked upon his feelings that he regularly gave way, and allowed his mother to remain mistress of the position.