Transcriber's Notes: This edition of Jessie Trim was published by
Tinsley Brothers (London) in two installments exerpted from the following issues
of Tinsleys' Magazine:

Vol. XIV. From January to June 1874. Chapters I.-XXV.
https://books.google.com/books?id=Dj8xAQAAMAAJ
(Mercantile Library, New York; New York Public Library)

Vol. XV. From July to December 1874. Chapters XXVI.-LI.
https://books.google.com/books?id=1-kRAAAAYAAJ
(Mercantile Library, New York; New York Public Library)

TINSLEYS' MAGAZINE

LONDON:
ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.

TINSLEYS' MAGAZINE.

VOL. XIV.
From January to June 1874.

LONDON:

TINSLEY BROTHERS,

8 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND, W.C.

[All rights of translation and reproduction reserved.]

CONTENTS.

Jessie Trim. By B. L. Farjeon, Author of Blade-o'-Grass,'
'Golden Grain,' Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses,' 'Grif,' 'London's
Heart,' and 'Joshua Marvel:'

CONTENTS.

Chap.

TINSLEYS' MAGAZINE.

January 1874.

JESSIE TRIM.

BY B. L. FARJEON,

AUTHOR OF 'BLADE-O'-GRASS,' 'GOLDEN GRAIN,' 'BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND
KISSES.' 'GRIF,' 'LONDON'S HEART,' AND 'JOSHUA MARVEL.'

CHAPTER I.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S WEDDING.

As my earliest remembrances are associated with my grandmother's wedding, it takes natural precedence here of all other matter. I was not there, of course, but I seem to see it through a mist, and I have a distinct impression of certain actors in the scene. These are: a smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, my grandmother, my grandfather (whom I never saw in the flesh), and a man with a knob on the top of his head, making a meal off his finger-nails.

Naturally, this man's head is bald. Naturally, this man's nails are eaten down to the quick. I am unable to state how I come to the knowledge of these details, but I know them, and am prepared to stand by them. Sitting, as I see myself, in a very low armchair--in which I am such an exact fit that when I rise it rises with me, much to my discomfort--I hear my grandmother say:

'He had a knob on the top of his head, and he was always eating his nails.'

Then a solemn pause ensues, broken by my grandmother adding, in a dismal tone:

'And the last time I set eyes on him was on my wedding-day.'

The words are addressed not so much to me as to the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, which had occupied the place of honour on the mantelpiece in my grandmother's house, and which she had brought with her as a precious relic--(Jane Painter, I remember, always called it a relict)--when she came to live with us. The head of this stone figure is loose, and wags upon the slightest provocation. When something falls in the room, when the door is slammed, when a person walks sharply towards it, when it is merely looked at I sometimes fancy. I am not prepossessed in its favour, and I regard it with uneasy feelings, as probably possessing a power for evil, like a malevolently-inclined idol. But my grandmother, for some mysterious reason, values it as a very precious possession, and sits staring dumbly at it for hours. I watch her and it until, in my imagination, its monkey-face begins to twitch and its monkey-lips to move. At a certain point of my watch, I fancy that its eyes roll and glare at me, and I cover mine with my hands to shut out the disturbing sight. But I have not sufficient courage to remain blind for more than a very few moments, and I am soon fascinated into peeping at the figure through the lattice of my fingers. My grandmother observes me, and says:

'I see you, child! Take your fingers away.'

I obey her timidly, and with many a doubtful glance at the monkey-man, I ask:

'Does it see me, grandmother?'

My grandmother regards it with a gloomy air; evidently she has doubts. She does not commit herself, however, but says:

'It will belong to you, child, when I am gone. It must be kept always in the family.'

The tone in which she utters these words denotes that evil will fall upon the family when this heirloom is lost sight of. I am not grateful for the prospective gift. It has already become a frightful incubus; it weighs me down, and is a future as well as a present torment. I think it has lived long enough--too long--and that when my grandmother goes, she ought to take it with her. Happening to catch the eye of the figure while this thought is in my mind, I am convinced that it shows in its ugly face a consciousness of my bad feeling towards it; its eyes and lips threaten me. It would have terrified, but it would not have surprised me to find it suddenly gifted with the power of speech, and to hear it utter dreadful words. But happily for my peace of mind no such miracle happens. I look at my grandmother, and I begin to fancy that she, from long staring at it, bears in her face a resemblance to the face of the monkey-man. For how much longer will my grandmother sit and stare at it? For how many more days and weeks and years? She has frequently told me that naughty boys were invariably 'fetched away' to a dismal place by Some One wearing horns and a tail. She made no mention of naughty girls; and sometimes when she has been delighting me with these wholesome lessons, a sort of rebellion has possessed me that I was not born a girl. Now, if Some One were to come and 'fetch' my grandmother away, it would not grieve me; I should rejoice. But I dare not for my life give utterance to my thought. Says my grandmother, with a nod at the stone figure, which, suddenly animated by a mysterious influence, returns the nod:

'I had it in my pocket on my wedding-day.'

The circumstance of its being a guest at my grandmother's wedding invests it with an additional claim to my protection when she is gone. How happy I should be if it would fall into the fireplace, and break into a thousand pieces!

'Grandmother!'

'Well, child.'

Was the man with the knob on the top of his head----'

My grandmother interrupts me.

'You mean the gentleman, child.'

'Yes, I mean the gentleman--and who was always eating his nails,--was he like that?' Pointing to the stone monkey-figure.

'Like that, child! How can such an idea have entered your head? No; he was a very handsome man.'

A pure fiction, I am convinced, if nothing worse. How could a man with a knob on his head, and who was always eating his nails, be handsome?

'Your grandfather used to be very jealous of him; he was one of my sweethearts. I had several, and nine proposals of marriage before I was twenty years of age. Some girls that I knew were ready to scratch their eyes out with vexation. He proposed, and wished to run away with me, but my family stepped in between us, and prevented him. You can never be sufficiently grateful to me, child; for what would have become of you if I had run away and married him, goodness only knows!'

The reflection which is thus forced upon me involves such wild entanglements of possibilities that I am lost in the contemplation of them. What would have become of me? Supposing it had occurred--should I ever have been?

'He told me,' continues my grandmother, revelling in these honey-sweet reminiscences, 'after I had accepted your grandfather, that life was valueless without me, and that as he had lost me, he would be sure to go to the Devil. I don't know the end of him, for I only saw him once after that; but he was a man of his word. He told me so in Lovers' Walk, where I happened to be strolling one evening--quite by accident, child, I assure you, for I burnt the letter I received from him in the morning, for fear your grandfather should see it. Your grandfather had a frightfully jealous disposition--as if I could help the men looking at me! When we were first married he used to smash a deal of crockery, with his quick temper. I hope he is forgiven for it in the place he has gone to. He was an auctioneer and valuer; he had an immense reputation as a valuer. It was not undeserved; he fell in love with me. Oh, he was clever, child, in his way!'

Although I am positive that I never saw my grandfather, I have, in some strange way, a perfect remembrance of him as a little man, very dapper, and very precisely dressed in a snuff-coloured coat and black breeches and stockings. Now, my grandmother was a very large woman; side by side they are, to my mind, a ridiculous match. I have grown quite curious concerning my grandmother's lover, and I venture to recall her from a moody contemplation of the monkey-figure into which she is falling.

'But about the man with the knob, grandmother?' I commence.

'Child, you are disrespectful! The man with the knob, indeed!'

'The gentleman, I mean, who wanted to marry you. What was his name?'

'Bullpit. He was connected with the law, and might have become Lord Chancellor if I hadn't blighted him.'

'Did he behave himself at your wedding, grandmother?'

'Save the child!' she exclaims. 'You don't suppose that Mr. Bullpit was at my wedding, do you? Why, there would have been murder done! Your grandfather and he would have torn each other to pieces!' These latter words are spoken in a tone of positive satisfaction, as adding immensely to my grandmother's reputation.

'But I thought you said that the last time you saw him was on your wedding-day?'

'So I did, child; but I didn't say he was at the wedding. We were coming out of church---- Deary, deary me! I can see it as if it was only yesterday that it took place! The church was scarcely three minutes' walk from mother's house, and the expense would not have been great, but your grandfather, who was a very mean man, did not provide carriages, and we had to go on foot. It was the talk of the whole neighbourhood for months afterwards. I never forgave him for it, and I can't forget it, although he is in his grave now, where all things ought to be forgotten and forgiven. Remember that, child, and if you have anything to forget and forgive, forget and forgive it. Animosity is a bad thing.'

My grandmother gives me time to remember if I have anything to forget and forgive. I feel somewhat remorseful because of the hard thoughts I have borne towards her, and I mentally resolve that when she is in her grave I will endeavour to forget and forgive.

'We walked,' she continues, from mother's house to the church, and from the church back again. It was like a procession. There were five bridesmaids, and mother and father, and your grandfather's mother and father,'--(I am a little confused here with so many mothers and fathers, and, notwithstanding my efforts to prevent it, they all get jumbled up with one another)--'whom we could very well have done without, and the Best Man, who did not know how to behave himself, making the bridesmaids giggle as he did, as if my wedding was a thing to be laughed at! and a great number of guests with white favours in their coats--all but one, who ought to have known better, and who was properly punished afterwards by being jilted by Mary Morgan. Everybody in the town came to see us walk to church, and when the fatal knot was tied, the crowd round the church door was so large that we could scarcely make our way through it. The Best Man misbehaved himself shamefully. He pretended to be overcome by grief, and he sobbed in such a violent manner as to make the mob laugh at him, and the bridesmaids giggle more than ever. I knew what they did it for, the hussies! They thought he was a catch; a nice husband he turned out to be afterwards! When we were half way between the church and mother's house, our procession met another procession, and for a minute or two there was a stoppage and great confusion, and several vulgar boys hurrayed. What do you think that other procession was, child?'

I ponder deeply, but am unable to guess.

That other procession, child, was made up of policemen and riff-raff. And in the middle of it, with handcuffs on, was Anthony Bullpit. He had been arrested on a warrant for forgery. What with the confusion and the struggling, the processions got mixed up together, and as I raised my eyes I saw the eyes of Anthony Bullpit fixed upon me. Such a shock as that look of his gave me I shall never forget--never! I knew the meaning of it too well. It meant that all this had occurred through me; that life without me was a mockery; that he had arranged everything so that we should meet immediately the fatal knot was tied; and that he was on his road to ---- where he said he would go.'

'He must have been a very wicked man, grandmother.'

'A wicked man, child! How dare you! He was as innocent as I was, and he did it all to punish me. I fainted dead away in the middle of the street, and had to be carried home, and have hartshorn given to me, and brown paper burnt under my nose. When I came to, I looked more like a blackamoor than a bride, and my wedding dress was completely spoilt. And nothing of all this would have occurred, child, if it had not been for the meanness of your grandfather. If he had provided carriages we should never have met. When poor Mr. Bullpit was put upon his trial he would not make any defence. Your grandfather said the case was so clear that it would only have aggravated it to defend it. But I knew better. When he pleaded guilty, I knew that he did it to spite me, and to prove that he was a man of his word. I wanted to go to the trial, but your grandfather objected; and when I said I would go, he locked all the doors in the house, and took the keys away with him. Your grandfather has much to answer for. Mr. Bullpit was transported for twenty-one years. Some wicked people said it was a mercy he wasn't hanged. If he had been, I should never have survived it. Poor Anthony!'

I was too young to exercise a proper judgment upon this incident in my grandmother's life, but it is imprinted indelibly upon my memory. I knew very well that I did not like my grandmother, and that I did not feel happy in her society. Often when I wished to go out into the sunshine to play, she would say,

'Bring the boy in here, and let him keep me company. It will do him more good than running about in the dirt.'

And her word being law in the house, I used to be taken into the room where she sat in her armchair, staring at the monkey-man on the mantelshelf, and used to be squeezed into my own little armchair, and placed in the corner to keep her company. For a certain sufficient reason I deemed it advisable to be companionable; for once I had sulked, and was sullen and ill-tempered. Then my grandmother had said:

'The child is unwell! He must have some physic.'

She herself prescribed the medicine--jalap, which was my disgust and abhorrence--and the dose, which was not a small one. Out of that companionship sprang my knowledge of the man with the knob on the top of his head, and who was always eating his nails. By some process of ratiocination I associate him with the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, and I hate them both honestly. As for Anthony Bullpit being innocent of the crime for which he was transported, I smile scornfully at the idea. He is my model for all that is disagreeable and bad, and I never see a man whose nails are bitten down to the quick without associating him--often unjustly, I am sure--with meanness and trickery.

There was a reason for my being doomed to the companionship of my grandmother, and for my being made her victim as it were. Our family circle comprised five individuals: my grandmother, my father and mother, myself, and a baby-brother. My parents had, through no fault of their own, drifted into that struggling-genteel class of persons whose means never quite come up to their efforts to make an appearance. We had been a little better off once upon a time, but unfortunately my father's health had failed him, and at the period of which I am writing he was confined to his bed, unable to work. My mother, what with her anxiety and her ignorance of the world, was to a certain extent helpless. Therefore, when my grandmother proposed to come and live with us, and bring her servant, and pay so much a week for board and lodging, her offer was gladly accepted. It was a current belief that my grandmother had a 'long stocking' somewhere, with plenty of money in it, and to this long stocking may be attributed much of my unhappiness at that time. For it had come to be recognised that I was to be my grandmother's heir, and that her long stocking would descend to me. It was, perhaps, regarded as a fair arrangement that, as my grandmother's property was to be mine when she was dead, I was to be my grandmother's property while she was alive; and I have no doubt that care was taken that her whims with respect to me should be carefully attended to, so that my inheritance might not be jeopardised. My mother did not know that I was unhappy; I was as a child somewhat secretive by nature, and I kept my thoughts and feelings much to myself. Besides, I had an intuitive perception of the state of affairs at home, and I felt that if I offended my grandmother my parents might suffer.

CHAPTER II.

I AM FRIGHTENED OF MY SHADOW.

I have already mentioned the name of the servant whom my grandmother brought with her to our house; it was Jane Painter. She had been with my grandmother for many years, from girlhood I believe, and she was now about thirty years of age. In appearance she was a thin, sharp-featured, pale-faced woman; in manners she was a viciously-minded creature, fond of pinching children on the sly in tender places, assuming the while, to deceive observers, an expression of amiability, which intensified the malignity of her conduct. From the moment she entered our house she became the enemy of every person in it, and waged open and secret war upon all of us. Her service with my grandmother had been a very easy one, but things were different when her mistress changed her residence. She had to do double the work she had been accustomed to, and as we were the direct cause of this, she was not slow in showing resentment. My mother, patient as she always was, made light of the woman's infirmities of temper, believing that she was necessary to my grandmother; Jane Painter, however, declined to accept the olive-branch which my mother held out to her, and would certainly not have remained in the house but for one inducement. This was made clear to us a very few days after the change. My mother had occasion to remonstrate with her for some piece of impertinence, and Jane Painter ran into my grandmother's room in a fury, and demanded to know if she was to be treated like a galley-slave. My mother stood quietly by, listening to the servant's complainings. Said my grandmother,

'You must do what my daughter desires you to do, Jane. I told her you would help her in the house.'

'I won't be ordered about as if I was a bit of dirt!' exclaimed Jane Painter, gasping.

'O Jane!' remonstrated my mother.

'Don't O Jane me!' and then followed the unreasoning argument. 'I'm flesh and blood the same as you are!'

'Jane,' said my grandmother, 'I mustn't be worried; my nerves won't stand it. I sha'n't be here long, and you know what I have promised you.'

'Whose servant am I--yours or hers?'

'Mine, Jane, and a very good servant you've been. I hope for your own sake you are not going to be different now.'

'Haven't I served you faithfully?' asked Jane Painter, sobbing herself into a quieter emotional stage.

'Yes, Jane, yes; and you shall be remembered for it.'

'Haven't I waited on you hand and foot?'

'Yes, Jane, yes; and you shall be remembered.'

'When you was took bad with the spasms,' blubbered Jane, didn't I stop up with you all night till I was fit to drop?'

'Yes, Jane; and I haven't forgotten you for it. You shall be remembered, I tell you.'

By being remembered, my grandmother meant that Jane Painter was set down in her will for a certain portion of the contents of her long stocking; and but for this inducement it was pretty clear that Jane Painter would have taken her departure. The war she waged against us from this time was passive, but bitter. I, as the recognised heir to the long stocking, and as being likely, therefore, to diminish her portion, came in for the largest share of her ill-temper and animosity, and she showed much ingenuity in devising means to torment me. Parting my hair on the wrong side, brushing it into my eyes, rubbing the soap in my mouth and only half-wiping my face after I was washed, buttoning my clothes awry, running pins into me, holding me suspended by one arm as we went down stairs; these were the smallest of my sufferings. An incident, laughable in itself, but exceedingly painful in its effect upon me, comes vividly to my remembrance here; and it afforded Jane Painter an opportunity of inventing a new torture, and of inflicting upon me the sharpest and most terrible distress I ever experienced. It occurred in this way:

Whether it was that the dull companionship of a peevish old woman was having its due effect upon me, or whether it sprang from my natural constitution, I was growing to be very nervous. I was frightened of being alone in the dark; a sudden noise startled me painfully; any unusual exhibition of tenderness brought tears to my eyes. One bright summer afternoon I was sitting with my grandmother. Everything about me was very quiet; my grandmother had not spoken for a long time, and I listened to the regular sound of her breathing which told me she was asleep. I tried all kinds of devices to while away the time. I looked at the wall and traced the pattern of the paper; I tried to stare the monkey-man on the mantelshelf out of countenance; I closed my eyes and placed the tips of my forefingers on them, and then opened them to assure myself that the world had not come to an end; I counted the rise and fall of my grandmother's capacious bosom till I grew so confused that the billows before me seemed to swell and fill the room. There was no pleasure to be gained from any of these tasks, and I felt weary and dispirited. The sunshine streaming in at the parlour-window seemed to say, 'Why are you stopping in that dull room? Come out and play.' I gazed wistfully at the light, and thought how nice it would be outside. I felt that I should like to go. But I knew from rueful experience how cross my grandmother would be if I made a noise and awoke her; and I was so tightly fixed in my little armchair that I could not extricate myself without a struggle. I dared not attempt to wrench myself free from its embrace in the room; it might fall to the ground. There was nothing for it but to try and escape from the room with the chair fixed to me. The sunshine grew brighter and brighter, and more and more tempting. My grandmother really seemed to be fast asleep. I stretched out my hand and touched her dress: she always dressed in silk, and sat in state. Her steady breathing continued. I coughed, and whispered, 'Grandmother!' but she did not hear. I spoke more loudly. 'Grandmother!' There was no response, and then I thought I would venture. I rose, with my chair attached to me--the firmest and closest of friends--and crept slowly and softly out of the room into the passage. There I released myself, and then ran out into the sunshine. In aglow of delight I flitted about like a butterfly escaped from prison. I was in the full height of my enjoyment, when turning my head over my shoulder, I saw my long ungainly shadow following me, and in sudden unreasoning fright I ran away from it. I screamed in terror as I saw it racing fast at my heels, as if trying to leap upon me and seize me, and my mother happening at that moment to come to the street-door, I flew towards her in a paroxysm of terror, and, clutching tight hold of her, hid my face in her gown. In that position my mother, with soothing words, drew me into the house, and I was only pacified by being assured that the 'black man' who had frightened me had disappeared; and certainly, when I was persuaded to look around I saw no trace of him. My grandmother, awakened by my screams, did not fail to give me a solemn lecture for my bad behaviour in stealing from the room, and she improved the occasion by making me tremble with new fears by her dreadful prophecies as to what the 'black man' would do to me if I dared to be naughty again. The incident had a serious effect upon me, and I was ill for a week afterwards. The doctor who was attending my father said that I was of a peculiarly sensitive temperament, and that great care must be taken of me.

'The nervousness,' he said, which has been the cause of his fright may, if not counteracted, produce bad results by-and-by. The lad's nature is essentially womanly and delicate. None the worse for that--none the worse for that!'

He laid his hand upon my head in a very kind manner, and tears rushed to my eyes. Seeing these, he immediately removed his hand, and gave my cheek a merry pinch.

'He will grow out of it?' questioned my mother, anxiously.

'Oh, yes,' was the reply, cheerfully uttered, 'he will grow out of it; but you must be careful with him. Don't let him mope; give him plenty of exercise and fresh air.'

'I should like a pony,' I said. My mother's troubled eyes sought the floor. If she could only have seen a magic pumpkin there!

'Then,' continued the doctor, until he is older and stronger I would fill his mind with cheerful fancies. Tell him as many stories as you please of fairies, and princesses, and flowers, and such-like; but none about ghosts. You would like to hear about beautiful fairies rising out of flower-bells, and sailing in the clouds, and floating on the water in lilies, would you not, my lad?'

I nodded gaily; his bright manner was better than all the medicine.

'Do they really do all these things, sir?'

'Surely; for such as you, my boy.' I clapped my hands. 'You see!' he said to my mother.

Many a time after this did my mother ransack her mental store, and bring forth bright-coloured fancies to make me glad. She told Jane Painter what the doctor said, and asked her to tell me the prettiest stories she knew. Jane Painter replied with one of her sweetest smiles. It was part of her duties to put me to bed every night, and one night, soon after I was well, she came into my room in the dark, as I was lying half awake and half asleep. She crept up the stairs and into the room so stealthily that I had no consciousness of her presence until a sepulchral voice stole upon my ears saying,

'Ho! Mister Friar, Don't be so bold, For fear you should make My 'eart's blood run cold!'

My heart's blood did run cold at these dreadful words, and I uttered a cry of fright. Then Jane Painter spoke in her natural tone.

'I knew a boy once, and his name was Namby-Pamby. He was the greatest coward that ever breathed, and he was always telling tales. I know what happened to him at last. You're like him. Perhaps it'll happen to you. A fine boy you are! You ought to have been born a rabbit. I suppose you'll tell your mother. All cowards do.' Here she must have put her head up the chimney, for her voice sounded very hollow as she repeated, 'Ho! Mister Friar, Don't be so bold, For fear you should make My 'eart's blood run cold!'

I cannot describe my terror. I wrapped the counterpane tightly round my head, and lay all of a tremble until Jane Painter thought fit to take her departure. From that night she inflicted the most dreadful tortures upon me. The first thing she did after putting me to bed was to blow out the candle; then she would calmly sit down and tell me frightful stories of murders and ghosts. Blood was her favourite theme; she absolutely revelled in it, and to this day I cannot look upon it without a shudder. She would prowl about the room, muttering:

'I smell blood! I smell blood!'

And then:

'Let him be alive, Or let him be dead, I'll have his blood to make my wine, I'll grind his bones to make my bread.'

After that she would grind her teeth, and make sounds as though she were drinking.

'Serve him right, too, the little coward! Grind his bones on two large stones. His blood and brine I'll drink for wine.'

I suffered this martyrdom in silence. I would not tell my mother, as all cowards did. What the effect on me would have been if circumstances had allowed Jane Painter to continue her persecution I am afraid to think; but fortunately for me the event occurred which she was waiting for. My grandmother died very suddenly. The last words she was heard to utter were, Poor Anthony!' I was not sorry when she died. I tried to look sad, as everybody else looked, but I knew that I was a dreadful hypocrite.

CHAPTER III.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S LONG STOCKING.

There was a friend of the family of whose name I have no remembrance, and whom, from a certain personal peculiarity, I must denominate Snaggletooth. He was a large man--very tall, and round in proportion--with a glistening bald head, a smooth full-fleshed face, and clear gray eyes. In repose, and when he was not speaking, he was by no means an unpleasant-looking man; his face was benignant, and his clear gray eyes beamed kindly upon you. But directly he smiled he became transformed, and his features were made to assume an almost fiendish expression by reason of a hideous snaggle-tooth which thrust itself forward immediately he opened his mouth. It stuck out like a horn, and the change it effected in his appearance was something marvellous.

As the friend of the family, Snaggletooth came forward and offered his assistance. My father being confined to his bed by sickness, there was no man in the house to look after the funeral of my grandmother, and Snaggletooth's services were gladly accepted. I fancy that he was fond of funerals, from the zealous manner in which he attended to the details of this and a sadder one which followed not long afterwards. Setting this fancy aside, he proved himself a genuine and disinterested friend. We had no near relatives; my mother was an only daughter, and my father had but one brother, older than he, whom I had never seen, and who had disappeared from the place many years ago. He was supposed to be dead; and from certain chance words which I must have heard, I had gained a vague impression that he was not a credit to the family.

It was a strange experience for me to sit in my grandmother's room after her death, gazing at her empty armchair. I could not keep away from the room; I crept into it at all hours of the day, and sat there trembling. I mentally asked the stone monkey-figure what it thought of my grandmother's death, and I put my fingers in my ears lest I should hear an answer. Jane Painter found me there in the evening when she came to put me to bed, and stated that my grandmother's spirit was present, and that she was in communication with it. She held imaginary conversations with my grandmother's ghost in the dusk, speaking very softly and waiting for the answers. The effect was ghastly and terrifying. These conversations related to nothing but poor me, and the exquisite pain Jane Painter inflicted upon me by these means may be easily imagined.

The first thing Snaggletooth did after my grandmother's funeral was to search for her long stocking and the treasures it was supposed to contain. Taking the words in their literal sense, I really thought that the long stocking would be found hidden somewhere--under the bed perhaps, or among the feathers, or up the chimney--stuffed with money, in shape resembling my grandmother's leg, which I knew from actual observation to be a substantial one.

'Perhaps she made a will,' observed Snaggletooth to my mother. Jane Painter was present, hovering about us with hungry jealous eyes, lest she should be cheated.

'She did make a will,' said Jane Painter, 'and I'm down in it.'

'Then we will find it,' said Snaggletooth cheerfully.

My grandmother's desk was opened, and every piece of paper in it was examined. No will was there, nor a word relating to it. Her trunk was searched with a like result.

'Never mind,' said Snaggletooth, with a genial smile, 'we shall be sure to find the old lady's long stocking.'

And he set to work. But although a rigid search was made, no long stocking could be found. Snaggletooth became immensely excited. Very hot, very dusty and dirty, and with his shirt-sleeves tucked up to his shoulders, he gazed at vacancy, and paused to take breath. Disappointed as he was up to this point, his faith in my grandmother's long stocking was not shaken; he had it not, and yet he saw it in form as palpable as the lisle-thread stockings of my grandmother, which were scattered about the room. A closer and more systematic search was commenced. The hunt became more and more exciting, and still not a glimpse of the fox's tail could be seen. Under Snaggletooth's instructions the bedstead was taken down, the pillows and mattresses were ripped open (Snaggletooth being determined not to leave a feather unturned), the posts were sounded to discover if they were hollow, and the strictest examination was made of every vestige of my grandmother's clothing without a satisfactory result. Dirtier and hotter than ever, and covered with fluff and feathers, Snaggletooth looked about him with an air of 'What next?' His eye fell upon my grandmother's armchair. Out came the stuffing that it contained, and nothing more. My grandmother's footstool: a like result. Her portly pincushion: nothing but bran. Up came the carpet, and almost blinded us with dust. And then Snaggletooth sat down in the midst of the wreck and said disconsolately:

'I am afraid we must give it up.'

So it was given up, and the mystery of my grandmother's long stocking took honourable place in the family records as an important legend for ever afterwards.

Jane Painter passed through many stages of emotion, and ended by being furious. She vowed--no, she swore; it is more appropriate--that she had been robbed, and openly declared that my mother had secreted my grandmother's long stocking, and had destroyed the will. Nay, more; she screamed that she had seen the treasure, which consisted of new Bank of England notes and a heap of gold, and that in the will my grandmother had left her three hundred pounds.

'Woman!' exclaimed Snaggletooth, rising from the ruins, 'be quiet!'

'Woman yourself!' screamed Jane Painter. 'You're in the plot to rob a poor girl, and I'll have the law of you; I'll have the law, I'll have the law!'

'Take it and welcome,' replied Snaggletooth. 'I hate it.'

But he was no match for Jane Painter, and he retired from the contest discomfited; did not even stop to wash his face.

My mother was sad and puzzled. I did not entirely realise at the time the cause of her sadness, because I did not know how poor she really was, but I learnt it afterwards. She gathered sufficient courage to tell Jane Painter that of course she could not stop in the house after what she had said.

'If every hair in your head was a diamond,' gasped Jane Painter, 'I wouldn't stop. No, not if you went down on your bended knees! I'll go to-morrow.'

Then she pounced upon two silk dresses and some other articles of clothing, and said that my grandmother had given them to her. My mother submitted without a word, and Jane Painter marched to her room and locked them in her box. She did as much mischief as she could on her last evening in our house; broke things purposely and revenged herself grandly on poor little me. After undressing and putting me to bed as usual, and after smelling about the room, and under the bed, and up the chimney for blood, she imparted to me the cheerful intelligence that my grandmother's ghost would come and take me away exactly at twelve o'clock that night. Near to our house was a church, and many a night had I lain awake waiting for the tolling of the hour; but I never listened with such intensity of purpose as I listened on this night. As midnight drew near, I clenched my fists, I bit my lips, I drew my knees almost up to my nose. I trembled and shook in the darkness. I would not look, I thought; and when the hour tolled, every note seemed charged with terrible meaning, and I shut my eyes tighter and held my breath under the clothes. But when the bell had done tolling, my state of horrible curiosity and fear compelled me to peep out, and there in the middle of the room stood a tall figure in white. So loud and shrill were my hysterical cries that my mother ran into the room, there to find Jane Painter in her nightdress. I think the woman herself; fearful lest she had gone too far, was glad to quit the house the following day without being called to account for her misdeeds. She did not leave without a few parting words. She called us all a parcel of thieves, and said that a judgment would fall upon us one day for robbing a poor servant of the money her dead mistress had left her.

CHAPTER IV.

I MURDER MY BABY-BROTHER.

Misfortunes never come singly, and they did not come singly to us. It was not for us to give the lie to a proverb. Often in a family, death is in a hurry when it commences, and takes one after another quickly; then pauses for a long breath.

In very truth, sorrow in its deepest phase had entered our house, and my mother's form seemed to shrink and grow less from the day she put on mourning for my grandmother. But if my mother had her troubles, I am sure I had mine; and one was of such a strange and terrible nature that, even at this distance of time, and with a better comprehension of things, a curiously-reluctant feeling comes upon me as I prepare to narrate it. It is summarised in a very few words. I murdered my baby-brother.

At least, such was my impression at the time. For a long while I was afflicted by secret remorse and by fear of discovery, and never till now have I made confession. There was only one witness of my crime: our cat. I remember well that my father was said to be sinking at the time, and my mother, having her hands full, and her heart, too, poor dear! placed me and my baby-brother in the room in which I used to sit with my grandmother. My task was to take care of the little fellow, and to amuse him. He was so young that he could scarcely toddle, and we had great fun with two oranges which my mother had given us to play with. It required great strength of mind not to eat them instead of playing with them; but the purpose for which they were given to us had been plainly set down by my mother. All that I could hope for, therefore, was that they might burst their skins after being knocked about a little, when of course they would become lawful food. We played ball with them; my baby-brother rolling them towards me, not being strong enough to throw them, and I (secretly animated by the wish that they would burst their skins) throwing them up to him, with a little more force than was actually necessary, and trying to make him catch them. I cannot tell for how long we played, for at this precise moment of my history a mist steals upon such of my early reminiscences as are related in this and the preceding chapters--a mist which divides, as by a curtain, one part of my life from another. My actual life will soon commence, the life that is tangible to me, as it were, that stands out in stronger colour and is distinct from the brief prologue which was acted in dreamland, and which lies nestled deep among the days of my childhood. Cloud-memories these; most of us have such. Some are wholly bright and sweet, some wholly sad and bitter, some parti-coloured. When the dreamland in which these cloud-memories have birth has faded, and we are in the summer or the winter of our days, fighting the Battle, or, having fought it, are waiting for the trumpet-sound which proclaims the Grand Retreat, we can all remember where we received such and such a wound, where such and such a refreshing draught was given to us, at what part of the fight such and such a scar was gained, and at what part a spiritual vision dawned upon our souls, captivating and entrancing us with hopes too bright and beautiful ever to be realised; and though our blood be thin and poor, and the glory of life seems to have waned with the waning of our strength, our pulses thrill and our hearts beat with something of the old glow as the remembrance of these pains and pleasures comes upon us!

To return to my baby-brother. The dusk steals upon us, and we are still playing with the oranges. The cat is watching us, and when an orange rolls in her direction she, half timidly, half sportively, stretches out her paw towards it, and on one occasion lies full-length on her stomach, with an orange between the tips of her paws, and her nose in a straight line with it. I hear my baby-brother laugh gleefully as I scramble on all-fours after the orange. The dusk has deepened, and my baby-brother's face grows indistinct. I throw the orange towards him. It hits him in the face, and his gleeful laughter changes to a scream. I absolutely never see my baby-brother again, and never again hear his voice. All that afterwards refers to him seems to be imparted to me when it is dark, and so strong is my impression of this detail that in my memory I never see his face with a light upon it. My baby-brother is taken suddenly ill, I am told. I go about the house, always in the dark, stepping very gently, and wondering whether my secret will become known, and if it does, what will be done to me. Still in the dark I hear that my baby-brother is worse; that he is dangerously ill. Then, without an interval as it seems, comes the news that my baby-brother is dead, and I learn in some undiscoverable way that he has died of the croup. I know better. I know that I gave him his death-blow with the orange, and I tremble for the consequences. But no human being appears to suspect me, and for my own sake I must preserve silence. Even to assume an air of grief at my baby-brother's death might be dangerous; it might look as if I were too deeply interested in the event; so I put on my most indifferent air. There are, however, two things in the house that I am frightened of. One is our old Dutch clock, the significant ticking and the very ropes and iron weights of which appear to me to be pregnant with knowledge of my crime. Five minutes before every hour the clock gives vent to a whirring sound, and at that sound, hitherto without significance, I tremble. There is a warning in it, and with nervous apprehension I count the seconds that intervene between it and the striking of the hour, believing that then the bell will proclaim my guilt. It does proclaim it; but no person understands it, no one heeds it. I lean against the passage wall, listening to the denunciation. Snaggletooth comes in and stands by my side while the clock is striking. I look up into his face with imploring eyes and a sinking heart. He taps my cheek kindly, and passes on. I breathe more freely; he does not know the language of the bells. The other thing of which I am frightened is our cat. I know that she knows, and I am fearful lest, by some mysterious means, she will denounce me. If I meet her in the dark, her green eyes glare at me. I try to win her over to my side in a covert manner by stroking her coat; but as I smooth her fur skilfully and cunningly, I am convinced that she arches her back in a manner more significant than usual, and that by that action she declines to be a passive accessory to the fact. Her very tail, as it curls beneath my fingers, accuses me. But time goes on, and I am not arrested and led away to be hanged. When my baby-brother is in his coffin I am taken to see him. The cat follows at my heels; I strive to push her away stealthily with my foot, but she rubs her ear against my leg, and will not leave me. I do not see my baby-brother, because I shut my eyes, and I sob and tremble so that they are compelled to take me out of the room; but I have a vague remembrance of flowers about his coffin. I am a little relieved when I hear that he is buried, but the night that follows is a night of torture to me. The Dutch clock ticks, 'I know! I know!' and the cat purrs, 'I know! I know!' and when I am in bed the shade of Jane Painter steals into the room, and after smelling about for blood, whispers in a ghastly undertone that she knows, and is going to tell. Of the doctor, also, I begin to be frightened, for after his visit to my father's sick-room, my mother brings him to see me--being anxious about me, I hear her say. He stops and speaks to me, and when his fingers are on my wrist, I fancy that the beating of my pulse is revealing my crime to him.

But more weighty cares even than mine are stirring in our house, and making themselves felt. My father's last moments are approaching, and I hear that he cannot last the day out. He lasts the day out, but he does not last the night out. As the friend of the family, Snaggletooth remains in the house to see the end of his old comrade. He and my father were schoolboys together, he tells me. 'He was the cleverest boy in the school,' Snaggletooth says; 'the cleverest boy in the school! He used to do my sums for me. We went out birds'-nesting together; and many and many's the time we've stood up against the whole school, snowballing. A snowball, with a stone in it, hit him in the face once, and knocked him flat down; but he was up in a minute, all bloody, and rushed into the middle of our enemies, like a young lion--like a young lion! He was the first and the cleverest of all of us--I was a long way behind him. And now, think of him lying there almost at his last breath, and look at me!' Snaggletooth straightens himself as he walks upstairs, murmuring, 'The cleverest boy in the school! And now think of him, and look at me!'

Snaggletooth's wife is in the house, and helps my mother in her trouble. In the night this good creature and I sit together in the kitchen--waiting. My mother comes in softly two or three times; once she draws me out of the kitchen on to the dark landing, and kneels down, and with her arms around my neck, sobs quietly upon my shoulder. She kisses me many times, and whispers a prayer to me, which I repeat after her.

'Be a good child always, Chris,' she says.

'I will, mother.' And the promise, given at such a time, sinks into my heart with the force of a sacred obligation.

Then my mother takes me into the kitchen, and gives me into the charge of Snaggletooth's wife, and steals away. Snaggletooth's wife begins to prattle to amuse me, and in a few minutes I ascertain that she in some way resembles Jane Painter; for--probably influenced by the appropriateness of the occasion for such narrations--she tells me stories in a low tone about the Ghost of the Red Barn, and the Cock-lane Ghost, and Old Mother Shipton. The old witch is a favourite theme with Snaggletooth's wife, and I hear many strange things. She says:

'One night Mother Shipton was in a terrible rage, and she told the grasshopper on the top of the Royal Exchange to jump over to the ball on St. Paul's Church steeple. And so it did. Soon after that, London was burnt to the ground.'

I muse upon this, and presently inquire: 'Was it an accident?'

'The fire? No; it was done on purpose.'

'Was it because the grasshopper jumped on to the steeple that London was set on fire?'

'Of course,' is the reply. 'That was Mother Shipton's spite.'

Snaggletooth's wife tells so many stories of ghosts and witches that the air smells of fire and brimstone, and I see the cat's tail stiffen and its eyes glow fearfully. Then I hear a cry from upstairs, and Snaggletooth's wife rises hurriedly, and looks about her with restless hands, and the whole house is in a strange confusion. Snaggletooth himself comes into the room, and as he whispers some consoling words to me--only the import of which I understand--his great tooth sticks out like a horn. He looks like a fiend.

CHAPTER V.

I PLAY THE PART OF CHIEF MOURNER.

Notwithstanding her limited means, my mother had always managed to keep up a respectable appearance. Popular report had settled it that my grandmother was a woman of property and that my father had money; and the fact that my grandmother's long stocking had proved to be a myth was most completely discredited. We are supposed, therefore, to be well to do, and the scandal would have been great if my father had not received a respectable funeral. Public opinion called for it. My mother makes a great effort, and quite out of love, I am sure, and not at all in deference to public opinion, buries my father in a manner so respectable as to receive the entire approval of our neighbours. Public opinion called for mutes, and two mutes--one with a very long face and one with a very square face--are at our door, the objects of deep and attentive contemplation on the part of the sundry and several. Public opinion called for four black horses, and there they stand, champing their bits, with their mouths well soaped. Public opinion called for plumes, and there they wave, and bow, and bend, proud and graceful attendants at the shrine of death. Public opinion called for mock mourners, and they are ready to parody grief, with very large feet, ill-fitting black gloves, and red-rimmed eyes, which suggest the idea that their eyelids have been wept away by a long course of salaried affliction. Never all his life had my father been so surrounded by pomps and vanities; but public opinion has decided that on such solemn occasions grief is not grief unless it is lacquered, and that common decency would be outraged by following the dead to the grave with simple humility.

The interior of our house has an appearance generally suggestive of graves and coffins. The company is assembled in the little parlour facing the street--my grandmother's room--and in her expiring attempt at respectability my mother has provided sherry and biscuits. The blinds are down although it is broad day; a parody of a sunbeam flows through a chink, but the motes within it are anything but lively, and float up and down the slanting pillar in a sluggish and funereal manner, in perfect sympathy with the occasion. The cat peeps into the room, debating whether she shall enter; after a cautious scrutiny she decides in the negative, and retires stealthily, to muse over the uncertainty of life in a more retired spot. The company is not numerous. Snaggletooth is present, and the doctor, and two neighbours who approve of the sherry. These latter invite Snaggletooth's attention to the wine, and he pours out a glass and disposes of it with a sadly resigned air; saying before he drinks it, with a tender reference to my father as he holds it up to the light, Ah! If he could!' Conversation is carried on in a deadly-lively style. I think of my baby-brother, and a wild temptation urges me to fall upon my knees and make confession of the murder; but I resist it, and am guiltily dumb. Snaggletooth, observing signs of agitation in my face, pats me on the shoulder, and says, 'Poor little fellow!' The two neighbours follow suit, and poor-little-fellow me in sympathising tones. After this, they approach the decanter of sherry with one intention. There is but half a glass left, which the first to reach the decanter pours out and drinks, while the second regards him reproachfully, with a look which asks, On such an occasion should not self be sacrificed? Before the lid of the coffin is fastened down, I am taken into the room by Snaggletooth to look for the last time upon my father's face. I see nothing but a figure in white which inspires me with fear. I cling close to Snaggletooth. He is immensely affected, and mutters, 'Good-bye, old schoolfellow! Ah, time! time!' As I look up at him, his bald head glistens as would a ball of wax, and something glistens in his eyes.

When the coffin is taken out of the house, there is great excitement among the throng of persons in the street. They peep over each other's shoulders to catch a glimpse of the coffin and of me. I cannot help feeling that I am in an exalted position. A thrill of pride stirs my heart. Am I not chief mourner?

I stand by the side of a narrow grave, dug in a corner of the churchyard, and shaded from the sun's glare by a triangular wall, the top of which is covered with pieces of broken bottles, arranged with cruel nicety and precision, so that their sharp and jagged ends are uppermost. Standing also within the shadow of the triangular wall are a number of tombstones, some fair and white, others yellow and crumbling from age, which I regard with the air of one who has acquired a vested interest in the property. I do not understand the words the clergyman utters, for he has an impediment in his speech. But as the coffin is lowered, I am impelled gently towards the grave, from which I shrink, however, apprehensive lest I shall be thrust into it, and buried beneath the earth which is scattered on the coffin with a leaden miserable sound. When the service is ended, I hear Snaggletooth mutter, 'Think of him lying there, and look at me! And we were schoolfellows, and played snowball together!' Snaggletooth shows me my grandmother's grave, and the grave of my baby-brother. I dare not look upon the latter, knowing what I know. Then Snaggletooth, still with head uncovered, stands before a little gave over which is a small marble tombstone, with the inscription, 'Here Lieth our Beloved Daughter.' Seeing that his tears are falling on the grave, I creep closer to him, and he presses me gently to his side. I read the inscription slowly, spelling the words, 'Here Lieth our Beloved Daughter,' and I look at him inquiringly.

'My daughter,' he says; 'the sweetest angel that ever breathed. She was three years and one day old when she died, nearly five years ago. Poor darling! Five years ago! Ah, time! time!'

As we pass out of the churchyard I notice again the broken glass on the top of the wall, and I say,

'Isn't that cruel?'

'Why cruel?' asks Snaggletooth. 'No one can get in without hurting himself.'

Snaggletooth regards me with an eye of curiosity.

'And who do you think wants to get into such a place, my little fellow?'

I do not answer, and Snaggletooth adds,

'The angels, perhaps. Good--good. But they come in another way.'

'No one can get out without hurting himself,' I suggest.

'That is a better thought; but if they lived good lives----'

'Yes, sir.'

'Walls covered with broken glass won't hurt them.'

Snaggletooth looks upwards contemplatively. I look up also, and a sudden dizziness comes upon me and overpowers me. Snaggletooth catches me as I am falling.

'You are not well, my little fellow.'

'No, sir; I feel very weak, but the doctor says I shall get over it.'

Snaggletooth lifts me in his arms, and I fall asleep on his shoulder as he carries me tenderly home.

Here we are, my mother and I, sitting in the little parlour. My mother has been crying over me, and perhaps over the sad future that lies before us. Not a sound now is to be heard. My condition is a strange one. Everything about me is very unreal, and I wonderingly consider if I shall ever wake up. All my young experiences come to me again. I see my grandmother and myself sitting together. There upon the mantelshelf is the figure of the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, wagging his head at me; there is the man with the knob on the top of his head--what is his name? Anthony--yes, Anthony Bullpit--making a meal off his finger nails. In marches my grandmother's long stocking, bulged out with money to the shape of a very substantial leg, just as I had fancied it--that makes me laugh; but my flesh creeps as I hear Jane Painter's voice in the dark, telling of blood and murder. The last word, as she dwells upon it, brings up my baby-brother, and I hear the Dutch clock tick: 'I know! I know!' But it ticks all these fancies into oblivion, and ticks in the picture of the churchyard. I see the graves and the tombstones, and I read the inscription: 'Here Lieth our Beloved Daughter.' How it must grieve her parents to know that their beloved daughter is lying shut up in the cold earth! I raise a portrait of the child, with fair hair and laughing eyes, and I wonder how she would look now if she were dug up, and whether her parents would know her again. Night surprises me confined within the triangular wall of the churchyard. The gates are closed, and I cannot pass out. The moon shines down icily. The cold air makes my fevered blood hotter. I must get out! I cannot stop confined here for ever! I dig my fingers into the wall; desperately I cling to it, and strive to climb. Inch by inch I mount. With an exquisite sense of relief I reach the top, but as I place my hands upon it they are cut to the bone by the broken glass, and with a wild shudder I sink into darkness and oblivion!

CHAPTER VI.

IN WHICH A GREAT CHANGE IN MY CIRCUMSTANCES TAKES PLACE.

When I recovered from the fever of which the experiences just recorded were the prelude, I found that we had removed from the house in which I was born, and that we were occupying apartments. We had removed also from the neighbourhood; the streets were strange, the people were strange; I saw no familiar faces. Hitherto we had been living in Hertford, and many a time had I watched the barges going lazily to and fro on the River Lea. The place we were in now was nothing but a village; my mother told me it was called Chipping Barnet. I cannot tell exactly what it was that restrained me from asking why the change had been made; it must have been from an intuitive consciousness that the subject was painful to my mother. But when, after the lapse of a year or so, we moved away from Chipping Barnet, and began to live in very humble fashion in two small rooms, I asked the reason.

'My dear,' said my mother, 'we cannot afford better.'

I looked into her face; it was pale and cheerful. But I saw, although no signs of repining were there, that care had made its mark. She smiled at me.

'We are very poor, dear child,' she said; and added quickly, with a light in her eyes, 'but that is no reason why we should not be happy.'

She did her best to make me so, and poor as our home was, it contained many sweet pleasures. By this time I had completely lost sight of Snaggletooth and all our former friends and acquaintances. I did not miss them; I had my mother with me, and I wished for no one else. Already, my former life and my former friends were becoming to me things of long ago. My mother often spoke of London, and of her wish to go there.

'I think it would be better for us, Chris,' she said.

'Is London a very large place?' I asked. 'As large as this?' stretching out my arms to gain an idea of its extent.

My mother told me what she knew of London, which was not much, for she had only been there once, for a couple of days, and I said I was sure I should not like it; there were too many people in it. My idea of perfect happiness was to live with my mother in some pretty country place, where there were fields and shady walks and turnstiles and narrow lanes, and perhaps a river. I described the very place, and artistically dotted it with lazy cattle listening for mysterious signs in earth or air, or looking with steady solemn gaze far into the horizon, as if they were observing signs hidden from human gaze. I also put some lazy barges on the river, 'Creeping, creeping, creeping,' I said, 'as if they were so tired!'

'And we would go and live in that very place, my dear,' said my mother, 'if we had money enough.'

'When you get money enough, mother, we will go.'

'Yes, my dear.'

Other changes were made, but not in the direction I desired. Like a whirlpool, London was drawing us nearer and nearer to its depths, and by the time I was twelve years of age we were nearly at the bottom of the hill down which we had been steadily going. My clothes were very much patched and mended now; all our furniture was sold, and we were living in one room, which was rented to us ready furnished. The knowledge of the struggle in which my mother was engaged loomed gradually upon me, and distressed me in a vague manner. We were really now in London, although not in the heart of the City; and my mother, whose needle brought us bread and very little butter, often walked four miles to the workshop, and four miles back, on a fruitless errand. Things were getting worse and worse with us. My mother grew thinner and paler, but she never looked at me without a smile on her lips--a smile that was often sad, but always tender. At night, while she worked, she taught me to read and write; there was no free school near us, and she could not afford to pay for my learning. But no schoolmaster could have taught me as well as she did. She had a thin, sweet voice, and often when I was in bed I fell asleep with her singing by my side. I used to love to lie thus peacefully with closed eyes, and float into dreamland upon the wings of her sweet melodies. I woke up sometimes late in the night, and saw her dear face bending over her work. It was always meek and cheerful; I never saw anger or bad passion in it.

'Mother,' I said one night, after I had lain and watched her for a long time.

She gave a start. 'Dear child; I thought you were asleep.'

'So I have been; but I woke up, and I've been watching you for a long, long time. Mother, when I am a man I shall work for you.'

'That's right, dear. You give me pleasure and delight. I know my good boy will try to be a good man.'

'I will try to; as good as you are. I want to be like you. Could I not work now, mother?'

'No, dear child; you are not strong enough yet.'

'I wish I could grow into a strong man in a night,' I thought.

My mother came to the bedside and rested her fingers upon my neck. What tenderness dwells in a loving mother's touch! I imprisoned her fingers in mine. She leant towards me caressingly and kissed me. Sleep stole upon me in that kiss of love.

I saw a picture in a shop window of a girl whose bright fresh face brought my mother's face before me. But the girl's face was full of gladness, and her cheeks were glowing; my mother's cheeks were sunken and wan. Still the likeness was unmistakably there, and I thought how much I should love to see my mother as bright as this bright girl. I spoke to her about it, and she went to see the picture, which was in the next street to ours. She came back smiling.

'It is like me, Chris,' she said; 'as I was once.'

'Then you must have been very, very pretty,' I said, stroking her cheek.

My mother laughed melodiously.

'When I was young, my dear,' she said with innocent vanity, blushing like a girl, 'I was thought not to be ugly.'

'Ugly, indeed!' I exclaimed, looking around defiantly. 'My mother couldn't be ugly!'

'What do you call me now, Chris?'

'You are beautiful--beautiful!' with another defiant look. My mother shook her hand in mild remonstrance. 'You are--you are! But you're pale and thin, and you've got lines here--and here.' I smoothed them with my hand. 'And, mother, you're not old!'

'I'm forty, Chris.'

'That is not old. Tell me--why did you alter so?'

'Time and trouble alter us, dear. We can't be always bright.'

I thought that I might be the trouble she referred to, and I asked the question anxiously.

'You, my darling!' she said, drawing me to her side and petting me. 'You are my joy, my comfort! I live only for you, Chris--only for you!'

I noticed something here, and, with a touch of that logical argumentativeness for which I was afterwards not undistinguished, I said:

'If I am your joy and comfort, you ought to be glad.'

'And am I not glad? What does my little boy mean by his roundabouts?'

'You cried when you said I was your joy and comfort.'

'They were tears of pleasure, my dear--tears that sprang from my love for my boy. Then perhaps they sprang from the thought--for we will be truthful always, Chris--that I should like to buy my boy a new pair of boots and some new clothes, and that I couldn't because I hadn't money enough.'

'You would buy them for me if you had money?'

'Ah! what would I not buy for my darling if I had money!'

How delicious it was to nestle in her arms as she poured out the love of her heart for me! How I worshipped her, and kissed her, and patted her cheek, and smoothed her hair.

'You are like a lover, my dear,' she said.

'I am your lover,' I replied, and murmured softly to myself, 'Wait till I am a man! wait till I am a man!'

That night I coaxed my mother to talk to me of the time when she was young, and she did, with many a smile and many a blush; and in our one little room there was much delight. She picked out the daisies of her life, and laid them before me to gladden my heart. Simple and beautiful were they as Nature's own sweet flower. She showed me a picture of herself as a girl, and I saw its likeness to the picture I had admired in the shop window. She sang me to sleep with her dear old songs, full of sweetness and simplicity. How different are our modern songs from those sweet old airs! The charm of simplicity is wanting--but, indeed, it is wanting in other modern things as well. The spirit of simplicity dwells not in crowded places.

Then commenced my first conscious worship of woman. I held her in my heart as a devotee holds a saint. How good was this world which contained such goodness! How sweet this life which contained such sweetness! She was the flower of both. Modesty, simplicity, and truth, were with her invariably. To me she became the incarnation of purity.

Time went on, and low as we were we were still going down hill steadily and surely. It is a long hill, and there are many depths in it. Work grew slack, and in the struggle to make both ends meet, my mother was frequently worsted; there was often a great gap between. I do not wonder that hearts sometimes crack in that endeavour. Yet my mother ('by hook and by crook,' as I have heard her say merrily) generally managed in the course of the week to scrape together some few coins which, jealously watched and jealously spent, sufficed in a poor way to keep body and soul together. How it was managed is a mystery to me. The winter came on: a hard winter. Bread went up in price; every additional halfpenny on a four-pound loaf was a dagger in my mother's breast. We rubbed through this hard time somehow, and Christmas glided by and the new year came upon us. A cold spring set in, and work, which had been getting slacker and slacker, could not now be obtained. Still my mother did not lie down and yield. She tried other shops, and received a little work--very little--at odd times. There came a very hard week, and my mother was much distressed. On the Friday night I heard her murmuring to herself in her sleep as I thought, and I fancied I heard her sob. I called to her, but she did not answer me. Her breath rose and fell in regular rhythm. Yes, she was asleep, and the sob I thought I heard was born of my fancy. I was thankful for that!

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH A FAIRY IN A COTTON-PRINT DRESS IS INTRODUCED.

The next day was Saturday, and my mother went out early in the morning, and returned at two o'clock with the saddest of faces.

'No work, mother?' I asked.

'No, my dear,' she replied; 'but come, my child, you must be hungry.'

There was little enough to eat, but my boy's appetite, and the cunning way my mother had of placing our humble fare before me, made the plain food as sweet as the best.

I noticed that she ate nothing, and I tried to persuade her to eat.

'I have no appetite, my dear,' she said, and added in reply to my sorrowful look, 'My little boy doesn't know what I've had while I was out this morning.'

Deeper thought than usual seemed to occupy her mind during the afternoon, and she suddenly started up, and hurriedly threw on her bonnet and shawl.

'Are you going to try again, mother?'

'Yes, my darling; I must try again.'

She did not return until late, but she returned radiant, and said, as she took my face between her two hands, and kissed me:

'Child, dear child! God bless those who help the poor!'

She did not bid me repeat the words; but some deep meaning in her voice impelled me to do so, and I said in a solemn tone, what the words seemed to demand,

'God bless those who help the poor!'

She nodded pensively as she knelt before me, and as I looked at her somewhat earnestly, her face flushed, and she rose, and bustled about the room, putting things in order. I think she tried to hide her face from me, and that her bustling about was a pretence.

'And now, Chris,' she said presently, drawing her breath quickly, as though she had been running, 'let us go out and get something nice for supper, and for dinner to-morrow. Put on your cap, dear; you must be hungry.'

I was; and I was glad, indeed, to hear the good news, and to accompany her on such an errand. She consulted me as to what she should buy, and made me very proud and happy with her 'What do you say to this, dear?' and 'Would you like this, my darling?' We returned home loaded with meat, potatoes, and one or two little delicacies. I was in a state of great satisfaction, and we made quite merry over the trifling incident of a few potatoes rolling out of my mother's apron down the stairs in the dark. Bump, bump, bumping,' I said, as I scrambled down after them, 'as if they knew their way in the dark, and could see without a candle.'

'Potatoes have eyes, my dear,' said my mother; and we laughed blithely over it.

My mother's mood changed after supper. We always said a very simple grace after meals. It was, 'Thank God for a good breakfast!' 'Thank God for a good dinner!' or whatever meal it was of which we had partaken. Our 'Thank God for a good supper!' being said, most earnestly by my mother, she cleared away the things, and said,

'Now we will see how rich we are.'

We sat down at the table, side by side, and my mother took out of her pocket what money it contained. I thought that our all had been expended in our frugal purchases, but I was agreeably mistaken. There were still left two sixpences and a few coppers. My mother selected a battered halfpenny, and regarded it tenderly--so tenderly, and with so much feeling, that her tears fell on it. I wondered. A battered halfpenny, dented, dirty, bruised! I wondered more as she kissed it, and held it to me to kiss.

'Why, mother?' I asked, as I kissed.

In reply, she told me a story.

'My dear, there lived in a great forest a poor woman who had no friend in the world but one--a bird that she loved with all her heart and soul, and who, not being big enough or strong enough to get food for himself, depended, because he couldn't help it, upon what this poor woman could provide for him. There were other birds that in some way resembled the bird that belonged to this poor woman, and that she loved so dearly, and many of these were also compelled to wander about the great forest in search of food; but they found it so difficult to obtain sufficient to eat, and they met with so many sad adventures in their search, that their wings lost their strength, and their hearts the brightness that was their proper heritage--for they were young birds, whose time for battling with the world had not arrived. The poor woman did not wish her dear bird to meet with such sad experiences until he was strong and able to cope with them. I can't tell you, my dear, how much she loved her bird, and how thoroughly her whole heart was wrapped up in her treasure. Once she had friends who were good to her; but it was the will of God that she should lose them, and she and her bird were left alone in the world. She had many difficulties to contend with, being a weak and foolish woman----'

I shook my head, and said, 'I am sure she wasn't; I am sure she wasn't!' My mother pressed me closer to her side, and continued, her fingers caressing my neck:

----'And the days were sometimes very dark for her, or would have been but for the joy she found in her only treasure. A time came when her heart almost fainted within her--for her bird was at home hungry, and there was no food in the nest, and she did not know which way to turn to get it. She wandered about the forest with rebellious thoughts in her mind--yes, my dear, she did!--and out of her blindness and wickedness--hush, my dearest!--out of her blindness and wickedness, she began almost to doubt the goodness of God. She thought, foolish woman that she was! that there was no love in the forest but the love which filled her breast; that pity, compassion, charity, had died out of the world, and that she and her bird were to be left to perish. But she received such a lesson, my dear, as she will never forget till her dying day. While these despairing thoughts were in her mind, and while her rebellious heart was crying against the sweetest attributes with which God has endowed His children, a fairy in a cotton-print dress came to her side----'

Mother!'

'It is true, my dear. A fairy in a cotton-print dress came to her side, and with a sweet word and a sweeter look put into her hand a talisman--call it a stone, my dear, if you will--a common, almost valueless piece of stone; and the touch of the pretty little fairy fingers to the poor woman's hand was like the touch of Moses's rod to the rock, when the waters came forth for the famished people. And she prayed God to forgive her for doubting His goodness, and the goodness of those whom He made in the image of Himself. Then, as she looked at the common piece of stone which the fairy had given to her, she saw in it the face of an angel, and she kissed it again and again, as I do this.'

After a little while my mother wrapped the halfpenny in a piece of paper, and put it by, saying she hoped she would never be compelled to spend it.

During the whole of the following week my mother was unsuccessful in obtaining work. It was not from want of perseverance that she did not succeed, for she came home every day weary and footsore.

'The sewing-machines are keeping many poor women out of work,' she said.

'Then they are bad things,' I exclaimed; 'I wish they were all burnt!'

'No, my dear; they are good things; they are blessings to many poor creatures. Why, Chris, if I had one, we should be quite rich!'

But she did not have one, and her needles were at a discount, so far as earning bread for us was concerned. On the Saturday she went out again early, and did not come home until late at night. Good fortune had again attended her, and she brought home a little money.

'Have you seen the fairy in the cotton-print dress?' I asked gaily. My mother nodded sorrowfully. Saturday's a lucky day, mother,' I said, rubbing my hands.

'Yes, my child,' she answered, with a heavy sigh.

She added another halfpenny to the one she had kissed and put by last week, and we went out again to make our purchases. Another week followed, and another, with similar results and similar incidents. Then my mother fell sick, and could not, although she tried, keep the knowledge of her weakness from me; a sorrow of which I was not a sharer was preying on her heart. I did not know of it; but I saw that my mother was growing even paler and thinner, and often, when she did not think I was observing her, I saw the tears roll down her cheek, and her lips quiver piteously. Friday night found us with a cupboard nearly empty, and with but one halfpenny in our treasury--the first battered and bruised halfpenny, which my mother hoped she would never be compelled to spend. Those she had added to it had gone during the week. She looked at it wistfully:

'Must we spend it, Chris?'

'Is the angel's face there?' I asked.

'Yes, I see it.' And she kissed the battered coin again.

'Then we must keep it,' I said stoutly.

When I awoke the next morning, my mother was kneeling by my bedside, and when she saw my eyes resting on her face, she clasped me in her arms, and so we lay for fully half an hour, without a word being spoken. There was a little milk left for breakfast, and this my mother made into very weak milk-and-water. The bread she cut into four slices. One she ate, two she gave to me, and one she put into the cupboard. She laid the battered halfpenny on the mantelshelf.

'Now, Chris,' she said, as she put on her poor worn bonnet, 'when you are hungry you can eat the slice of bread that's in the cupboard; and if I am not at home before you are hungry again, you can buy some bread with that halfpenny. Kiss me, dear child.'

'But, mother,' I remonstrated, you are too ill to go out. You ought to stay at home to-day.'

I dare not, child. I must go out. Why, doesn't my Chris want his supper to-night, and his dinner to-morrow? And don't I want my supper and dinner, too?'

'Are you going to the workshop, mother?'

'I am going that way, child.'

But I begged her to promise that she would try and be home early, and she was compelled to promise, to satisfy me. With faltering steps she left the room, and walked slowly downstairs. I felt that there was something wrong, but I did not understand it, and certainly would have been powerless to remedy it. I was soon hungry enough to eat the slice of bread; and then I went out, and strolled restlessly about the streets. It was a cold day, and I was glad to get indoors again, although there was no fire. In the afternoon I was hungry again, and mother had not returned. Should I spend the halfpenny? I took it from the mantelshelf. The gift of a fairy in a cotton-print dress! I turned it this way and that, in the endeavour to find some special charm in it. It was as common a halfpenny as I had ever looked upon. I saw no angel's face in it. But my mother said there was, and that was enough. No; I could not spend it. Then I thought that it was unkind of me to let my mother, ill and weak as she was, go out by herself. I reproached myself; I might have helped her on. She promised to return soon; perhaps she was not strong enough to return. These reproachful thoughts and my hunger grew upon me, and my uneasiness increased, until I became very wretched indeed. As dusk was falling, I made up my mind that a certain duty was before me. I must walk into the City to the shop for which my mother used to work, and seek for her. I had been to the place two or three times to take work home, and I knew my way pretty well. Perhaps I should meet my mother on the road. Off I started on my self-imposed task. My increasing hunger made the distance appear twice as long as it really was, and I could not help lingering and longing for a little while at a fine cook-shop, the perfume which pervaded it being more fragrant to me at the time than all the perfumes of Arabia would have been. When I arrived at the workshop, it was closed. There was nothing for it but to turn my face homeward. Weary, hungry, and dispirited, I commenced my journey back; I was anxious to get home quickly now, to lessen the chance of my mother returning while I was absent. In my eagerness and confusion I missed my way, and it was quite ten o'clock at night when I found myself in a street which was familiar to me, and which I knew to be about two miles from the street in which we lived. The neighbourhood in which I was now was a busy one; a kind of market was held there every Saturday night, in which poor people could purchase what they required a trifle cheaper than they could be supplied at the regular shops. There were a great glare of lights and a great hurly-burly of noise which in my weak condition confused and frightened me. I staggered feebly on, and stumbled against a man who was passing me in a great hurry. He caught hold of my arm with such force as to swing me round; and without any effort on my part to escape, for I was almost unconscious, I slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. I think I heard the words, Unmanly brute uttered in a female voice; but my next distinct remembrance is that I was standing on my feet, swaying slightly, and held up by the man I had run against. He spoke to me in sharp tones, and demanded to know where I was running to. I begged his pardon humbly, but in tones too faint to reach his ear, for he inquired roughly if I had a tongue in my head. There were a few persons standing about us, and one or two women told the man he ought to be ashamed of himself, and asked him what he meant by it, and why he didn't leave the boy alone. In sneering reply he called them a parcel of wise women.

'Did you ever see a thief of his size?' he asked.

'I am not a thief,' I said, in a faint tone. 'Let me go. I want to get home.'

I raised my eyes to his face as I spoke. I could not distinguish his features, for everything was dim before me, but he seemed to see something in my face that occupied his attention, for he looked at me long and earnestly.

'Have you been ill?'

'I am tired and hungry. Let me go, please,' I implored.

He released his hold of me. Glad to be free, and intent only on getting home as soon as I could, I walked from him with uncertain steps. But I did not know how weak I really was; and I was compelled to cling to the shop-fronts for support. I must have stumbled on in this way for fifty or sixty yards, when stopped to rest myself. Then,' without raising my eyes, I knew that the man against whom I had stumbled was standing by me again; he must have followed me out of his course, for when we first met his road was different from mine.

'Did you see me following you?' he asked.

I was frightened of him; his voice seemed to hurt me. I had scarcely a comprehension of the meaning of his words; and I was fearful that, if I disputed anything he said, I might arouse his anger, and that he would detain me again. He repeated his question; and I answered, almost without knowing what I said,

'Yes, sir.'

My reply appeared to dissatisfy him.

'Then you have been shamming weakness?'

'Yes, sir.'

I looked about me timidly and nervously for a means of escape. Standing in the road, close to the kerbstone, and facing a portion of the pavement which was partly in shade, was a beggar-woman, with her face hidden on her breast. One hand held her thin shawl tightly in front of her; the other hand was held out supplicatingly. What it was that caused me to fix my eyes on her I cannot tell; perhaps it was because I recognised in her drooping form and humble attitude something kindred to my own pitiable condition. As I gazed at her, a little girl, very poorly dressed, and with a basket on her arm, stopped before the woman, and put a coin into her outstretched hand. The woman curtseyed, and stooped and kissed the little girl. As the child, her act of charity performed, walked away, I saw her face; and it was so sweet and good, that my mother's words with reference to the battered halfpenny came to my mind: 'I see an angel's face in it.' I watched her until she was lost in the throng; and then I turned to the beggar-woman again, and saw, as in a flash of light, my mother! Was it shame, was it joy, that convulsed me, as crying, 'Mother! mother!' I ran and fell senseless at her feet?

CHAPTER VIII.

A POSTMAN'S KNOCK.

It seemed to me as if I had closed my eyes and opened them with scarcely a moment's interval; and yet I was at home in our own little room, and my mother was bending over me tenderly. I could not immediately realise the change. The busy streets, and the glare in them, and my fear of the man who had accused me of being a thief, were still present to my mind. I clung closer to my mother.

'What is my darling frightened of?' she said soothingly. 'He is at home, and safe in his mother's arms.'

'At home!' I looked around apprehensively. 'Where's the man?'

'What man, dear child? The man who carried you home?'

I had no remembrance of being carried home.

'The man who carried me home!' I exclaimed; and repeated wonderingly, 'Carried me home! No, I don't know him.'

'There is no one here, dear child, but you and I. Taste this.'

She held a cup of tea to my lips, and I drank gratefully; and ate a slice of bread-and-butter she gave me.

'There, my dear! My darling feels better, does he not?'

'Yes.' As I looked at her, the scene I had witnessed, of which she had been the principal figure, dawned upon me. I could not check my sobs; I felt as if my heart would burst. 'O mother! mother!' I cried. 'I remember now; I remember now!'

She held me in her arms, and caressed me, and pressed me to her heart. My tears flowed upon her faithful breast.

'How did you find me, dear child? Unkind mother that I am to leave my darling hungry and alone all the day!'

'Don't say that, mother. You mustn't; you mustn't! If anybody else said it, I would kill him!'

'Hush, dear child! You must not excite yourself. Come, you shall go to bed; and you shall tell me all in the morning, please God.'

'No, I want to tell you now; I want to talk to you now. I want to lie here, and talk quietly, quietly! Oh, but I am so sorry! so sorry!'

'For what, dear child?'

Through my sobs I murmured, 'That you should have to stand in the cold, and beg for me!' My arms were round her, and I felt her shrink and tremble within them. 'Now I know what the poor woman in the forest did when she went to look for food for her bird. If any one saw you that knew you, would you not be ashamed? Would you not run away?'

Sadly and tearfully she replied, 'No, my own darling, I do not think I should. Who would be so cruel as to say I ought to be ashamed of doing what I do?'

'But, mother, you stand with your head down, as if you wanted to hide your face!'

The blood rose to her face and forehead pitifully.

'I cannot help it, dearest,' she said with trembling lips; it comes natural to me to stand so. I do not think of it at the time. And O, Chris! don't despise your poor mother now that you have found out her secret!'

She would have fallen at my feet if I had not kept my arms tightly around her. In the brief pause that ensued before she spoke again, I closed my eyes, and leant my head upon her shoulder, the better to think of her goodness to me. I saw all the details of the picture which now occupied my mind. I saw my mother approach the spot where she had decided to stand, to solicit charity for me; I saw her hesitate, and tremble, and look around warily and timidly, as though she were about to commit a crime; and then I saw her glide swiftly into the road and take her station there, with her dear head drooping on her breast from shame. Yes, from shame. And it was for me she did this!

'If I could get work to do,' she presently said, in low meek tones, such as one who was crushed and who despaired might use if wrongfully accused, 'I would not beg. Heaven knows I have tried hard enough; I have implored, have almost gone on my knees for it, in vain. What was I to do? We could not starve, and I would not go to the parish; I would not bring that shame upon my darling's life, until everything else in the world had failed. I did not intend my child to know. I tried to keep the knowledge from him--I tried, I tried! O, my dear boy! my heart is fit to break!'

I listened in awe, and could say no word to comfort her.

'It is no shame to me to do as I have done,' she said half appealingly, half defiantly. 'It is for bread for my dear child's life. I should stand with my face open to the people, if I had the courage. But I am a coward--a coward! and I shrink and tremble, as if I were a thief, with terror in my heart!'

She a coward! Dear heart! Brave soul! Her voice grew softer.

'And O, Chris, my child! since I have stood there I have learnt so much that I did not know before. It has made me better--humbler. Never again, never again can I doubt the goodness of God! What good there is in the world of which we are ignorant, until sorrow brings us to the knowledge of it! When I first stood there, the world seemed to pass away from me, so dreadful a feeling took possession of me. In my fancy, harsh voices clamoured at me, cruel faces mocked me from all sides; I did not dare raise my head. But in the midst of my soul's agony, soft fingers touched mine, and the sweet voice of a child brought comfort to my heart. And then poor women gave, and I was ashamed to take. I held it out to them again, begging them with my eyes to take it back again; and they ran away, some of them.'

The floodgates of my mother's heart were open, and she was talking now as much to herself as to me, recalling what had touched her most deeply.

'Two weeks ago a young woman came and stood before me. God knows what she was thinking of as she stood there in a way it made my heart ache to see. She was very, very pretty; very, very young. She stood looking at me so long in silence that I began almost to be afraid. I dared not speak to her first. I have never yet spoken unbidden in that place; I seem to myself to have no right to speak. But, seeking to soften any hard thought she may have had in her mind for me or for herself, I returned her look, kindly I hope, and pityingly too. "I thought I'd make you look at me," she said in a hard voice that I felt was not natural to her; "beggars like you haven't much to be proud of, I should say. Thank the Lord I haven't come to that yet!" I tried to shape an answer, but the words wouldn't leave my lips, and I could only look at her appealingly. Poor girl! she seemed to resent this, and tossed her head, and went away singing. But there was no singing in her heart. I followed her with my eyes, and saw her stop at a public-house; but she hesitated at the door, and did not enter. No; she came back, and stood before me again. "What do you come here for?" she asked, after a little pause. "For food," I answered. She sneered at my answer, and I waited in sorrow for her next words. "Have you got a husband?" "No," I said, wondering why she asked. "No more have I," she said. My thoughts wandered to a happier time, and pictures of brighter days which seem to have passed away for ever came to my mind; but the girl soon brought me back to reality. "Are you a mother?" she asked. "Oh, yes!" I answered, with a sob of thankfulness, for the dear Lord has made my boy a blessing to me. "So am I," she said, with a little laugh that struck me like a knife. "Here--take this; I was going to spend it in drink." And she put sixpence in coppers into my hand, and ran away. But I ran after her, and entreated her to take the money back; but she would not, and grew sullen. I still entreated, and she said, "Very well; give it to me; I'll spend it in gin." What I said to her after this I do not know, I was so grieved and sorry for her; but I told her I would keep the money, and she thanked me for the promise, oh! so humbly and gratefully, and began to cry so piteously and passionately, that my own sorrows seemed light compared with hers. I drew her away to a quiet street, and kissed her and soothed her, and although we had never met before, she clung to me, and blessed me with broken words and sobs. Then, when she was quieter, I asked her where her little one was, and might I go with her and see it? She took me to her room, and I saw her baby--such a pretty little thing!--and I nursed it till it fell asleep, and then tidied up the room, and put the bed straight. Ah, my darling! I could not repeat all that the poor girl said. I went out and spent fourpence of the sixpence she gave me in food for the baby, and she was not angry with me for it. I have been to see her and her baby twice since that night, and my heart has ached often when I have thought of them. If I were not as poor as I am, I would try to be a friend to them. But, alas! what can I do? Yet there is not a night I have stood in that place that I have not lifted my heart to God for the goodness that has been shown to me. How good a thing it is for the poor to help the poor as they do! God sweeten their lives for them!'

We were silent for a long time after this. I broke the silence by whispering,

'Mother, I didn't spend the halfpenny; it is on the mantelshelf now.'

'Dear child! I am sorry and glad. It is the first halfpenny I ever received in charity, and it was given to me by a little child.'

'Let me look at it, mother.'

She took it from the mantelshelf, and placed it in my hands.

'I can see the angel's face now,' I said. 'It is the fairy in a cotton-print dress.'

My mother nodded with a sweet smile.

'And the fairy is a little girl?'

'Yes, dear.'

'And she came every Saturday night afterwards, with a basket on her arm, and gave you a halfpenny?'

'Yes, dear. How do you know?'

'I saw her to-night, and I guessed the rest. I am so glad you kissed her! Mother, we will never, never spend this halfpenny!'

'Very well, my darling; but you haven't told me yet how it was you found me out.'

I had barely finished my recital when a knock came at our door. On opening it, our landlady was discovered, puffing and blowing. A great basket was hanging from her hand. Benignant confidence in her lodger reigned in her face; curiosity dwelt in her eye. As she entered, the air became spirituously perfumed.

'O, them stairs!' she panted. They ketch me in the side! If you'll excuse me, my dear!' And she sat down, still retaining her hold of the basket. She went through many stages before she quite recovered herself, gazing at us the while with that imploring look peculiar to women who are liable to be 'ketched in the side.' Then she brightened up, and spoke again. 'I thought I'd bring it up myself,' she said; the stairs ain't been long cleaned, and the boy's boots are that muddy that I told him to wait in the passage for the basket. If you'll empty it, I'll take it down to him. Oh,' she continued, seeing that my mother was in doubt, I don't mind the trouble the least bit in the world! If all lodgers was as regular with their rent as you, my dear, I shouldn't be put upon as I am!'

Still my mother hesitated; she did not understand it. I saw that the basket was well filled, for the lid bulged up. The landlady, declaring that it was very heavy, placed it on the table, and was about to lift the lid, when my mother's hand restrained her.

'There is some mistake; these things are not for me.'

'Why, my dear creature!' exclaimed the landlady, growing exceedingly confidential, 'didn't you order 'em?'

'No, I haven't marketed yet. My poor boy has been ill, and I haven't been able to go out.'

'Well, but there can't be any mistake, my dear;' and the landlady, scenting a mystery, became very inquisitive indeed; here's your name on a bit of paper.'

The writing was plain enough, certainly: 'For Mrs. Carey. Paid for. Basket to be returned.'

'Do you know the boy who brought them?' asked my mother.

'To be sure I do, my dear creature! He belongs to Mrs. Strangeways, the greengrocer round the corner.'

'I should like to speak to him. May he come up?'

'Certainly, my dear soul!'

And the landlady, in her eagerness to get at the heart of the mystery, disregarded the effect of muddy boots on clean stairs, and called the boy up. But he could throw no light upon the matter. All that he knew was that his mistress directed him to bring the things round to Mrs. Carey's, and to make haste back with the basket. 'And please, will you look sharp about it?' he adjured in a tone of injured innocence, digging his knuckles into his eyes, and working them round so forcibly that it almost seemed as though he were trying to gouge out his eyeballs; if you keep me here much longer, missis'll swear when I get back that I've been stopping on the road playing pitch and toss.'

The landlady, whose curiosity had now reached the highest point, protested that it would be flying in the face of Providence to hesitate another moment, and whipped open the basket.

'Half a pound of salt butter,' she said, calling out the things as she placed them on the table; half a pound of tea; sixpennorth of eggs--they're Mrs. Chizlett's eggs, my dear, sixteen a shilling--I know 'em by the bag; a pound of brown sugar; a cabbage; taters--seven pound for tuppence, my dear; and a lovely shoulder of mutton--none of your scrag! There!'

My eyes glistened as I saw the good things, and my mother was gratefully puzzled. The garrulous landlady stopped in the room for a quarter of an hour, placing all kinds of possible constructions upon the mystery, and inviting, in the most insinuating manner, the confidence of my mother, whom she evidently regarded as a very artful creature. It was sufficient for me that the food was lawfully ours, and I blessed the generous donor in my heart. On the following day my mother took me for a walk in the Park, and we arrived home in time to get the baked dish from the baker's, which my mother had prepared. We had a grand dinner, and we fared tolerably well during the week. On the Saturday, however, our cupboard and treasury were bare, and my mother was once more racked by those pin-and-needle anxieties which, insignificant as they seem by the side of matters of public interest, form the sum of the lives of hundreds of thousands of our fellow creatures. My mother watched me very nervously. I knew what was in her mind. She was striving to gather courage to bid me stop at home while she went out to beg. My heart was very full as, watching her furtively, I saw her put on her bonnet and shawl. Then she stood irresolutely by the mantelshelf. I crept to her side.

'Mother?'

'My child!'

'Let me go with you,' I implored.

'No, no, dear child! No, no!' she cried, and she knelt before me, and twined her arms around my neck. She was entreating me in the tenderest manner to stop at home, when the simplest thing in the world changed the current of our lives. A postman's knock was heard at the street-door, and a minute afterwards the landlady came running upstairs, almost breathless. My mother started to her feet. In one hand the landlady held a letter by the corner of her apron; the other hand was pressed to her side; and she panted as if her last moments had arrived.

'O them stairs!' she exclaimed. 'They'll be the death of me! For you, my dear.' And she held the letter towards my mother.

the receipt of a letter threw us all into a state of excitement. It was certainly an event in my life. My mother was very agitated as she looked at the address, and the landlady took a seat, and waited in the expectation of hearing the news. But the letter was not opened until that worthy woman had retired, which she did in a very dignified, not to say offended, manner, as a proof that she had not the slightest wish--not she! to pry into our private concerns.

'There's no mistake, mother,' I said.

'No, my dear; it is addressed to me.'

Then, with great care, she opened the letter, and read aloud:

'14 Paradise-row, Windmill-street.

'Emma Carey,--Personally you will have not the slightest knowledge of me, for I do not think you ever set eyes on me; but you will know my name. I was not aware until a few days ago that your husband was dead. I am poor, but not as poor as you are. I offer you and your boy a home. You can both come and live with me if you like. If you decide to come, you must not expect much. I am not a pleasant character, and my disposition is not amiable. But the probability is, if you accept my offer, that you and your boy will have regular meals, such as they are. I keep a shop; you can help me in it. You can come at once if you like--this very day. I don't suppose it will take you long to pack up.

'Bryan Carey.'

I started when I heard the name, for it was our own.

'It is from your uncle Bryan,' said my mother; 'your dear father's elder brother, who disappeared many years ago.'

'I thought he was dead, mother.'

'We all supposed so, never having heard from him.'

'Was he nice, mother?'

'I have no idea, child; I never saw him. But he says that he is neither amiable nor pleasant.'

Two words in the letter had especially attracted my attention.

'Regular meals,' I murmured, somewhat timidly.

My mother rose instantly. Unless she accepted the offer, there was but one alternative before her; and no one knew better than I how her sensitive nature shrank from it. It was the bitterest necessity only that had driven her to beg.

'I will go at once and see your uncle, my dear. I don't know where Paradise-row is, but I shall be able to find it out. I will be back as soon as possible. Keep indoors, there's a dear child!'

She was absent for nearly three hours.

'Well, mother?' I said, running to the door as I heard her step on the stairs.

She drew me into the room, and sat down, with her arms round my neck.

'We will go, dear,' she said, and my heart beat joyfully at the words. 'it will be a home for us. Situated as we are, what would become of my dear child if I were to fall really ill? And I have been afraid of it many times. Yes, we will go. Your uncle Bryan keeps a grocer's shop. I told him I should have to give a week's warning here, and he gave me the money to pay the rent, so that we might go to him at once.'

My mother looked about her regretfully. It belonged to her nature to become attached to everything with which she was associated, and she could not help having a tender feeling even for our one little room in which we had seen so much trouble.

'Now, Chris, We will pack up.'

As uncle Bryan predicted in his letter, it did not take us long. Everything we possessed went into one small trunk, and there was room for more when everything was in. The smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone--the precious relic I had inherited from my grandmother--had been carefully taken care of, and now lay at the bottom of the trunk. It had not brought us much luck, and I regarded it with something like aversion.

From the inscrutable eye of a landlady living in the house nothing can be concealed, and our landlady hovered in the passage, divining (with that peculiar inspiration with which all of her class are gifted) that something important was taking place. My mother called her in, and paid her the week's rent in lieu of a week's notice. She was deeply moved, after the fashion of landladies (living in the house), when lodgers who have paid regularly take their departure. The fear of another lodger not so punctual in paying as the last harrows their souls. As my mother did not enter into particulars, not even mentioning to the landlady where we were moving to, the inquisitive creature invited confidence by producing from a mysterious recess in her flannel petticoat a bottle of gin and a glass. My mother, however, declined to be bribed, much to the landlady's chagrin; after this she evidently regarded us with less favour.

'Uncle Bryan sent a boy with a wheelbarrow, Chris,' said my mother, 'to wheel your trunk home. He's waiting at the door now.'

'With the wheelbarrow?' I asked gaily. I was in high spirits at the better prospect which lay before us.

'Yes, dear. With the wheelbarrow.'

I could not help laughing, it seemed to me such a comical idea. My mother cast an affectionate look at the humble room we were leaving for ever, and then we carried the trunk down to the street door, the landlady not assisting. There stood the boy with the wheelbarrow. The trunk was lifted in, and we marched away, the boy trundling the barrow, we holding on in front, for fear the trunk should fall into the road. All the neighbours rushed into the street to look at the procession.

CHAPTER IX.

UNCLE BRYAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF.

The boy took no notice of the neighbours, but wheeled straight through them, regardless of their legs. Neither did he take any notice of us, except by whistling in our faces. But he trundled the wheelbarrow cheerfully, and with an airy independence most delightful to witness. It was a long journey to Paradise-row, and it occupied a long time; but the boy never flagged, never stopped to rest, although in the course of the journey he performed some eccentric antics. He was not as old as I, but he was much more strongly built. I envied him his strong limbs and broad shoulders. It was a cold day, and he was insufficiently clad; his toes peeped out of his boots, and his hair straggled through a hole in his cap, and a glimpse of his bare chest could now and then be seen through a rent in his waistcoat, which was made to serve the purpose of a jacket by being pinned at the throat; but the boy was not in the slightest degree affected by these disadvantages. The wind, which made me shiver, seemed to warm him, and he took it to his bosom literally with great contentment. His eyes were dark and bright, his nose was a most ostensible pug, and the curves of his large well-shaped mouth and lips spoke of saucy enjoyment. Indeed, he was full of life, noting with eager curiosity everything about him, and his dirty face sparkled with intelligence. As he drove the barrow before him, he whistled and sang without the slightest regard to nerves, and if any street lad accosted him jocosely or derisively, he returned the salutation with spirited interest. He appeared to be disposed to pause near the first organ-grinder we approached; but he resisted the inclination, and after a short but severe mental struggle, he compromised matters by trundling the barrow three times round the unfortunate Italian, making a wider sweep each time. My mother remonstrated with him; but the boy, with the reins of command in his hand, paid no other attention to her remonstrance than was expressed in a knowing cock of his eye, implying that it was all right, and that he knew what he was about. For the safety of our trunk we were compelled to accompany him in his circular wanderings, and I felt particularly foolish as we swept round and round. But the third circle completed, the boy drove straight along again contentedly, whistling the last air the organ-grinder had played with such force and expression as to cause some of the passers-by to put their fingers to their ears. This man[oe]uvre the boy conscientiously repeated with every organ-grinder we met on the road; repeated it also, very slowly and lingeringly, at a Punch-and-Judy show, afterwards conveying to the British public discordant reminiscences through his nose of the interview between Punch and the Devil; and with supreme audacity repeated it when we came to a band of negro minstrels, proving himself quite a match for them when they threatened him with dreadful consequences if he did not immediately put a stop to his circular performance. Indeed, when one of the band advanced towards him with menacing gestures, he ran the wheelbarrow against the opposing force with such an unmistakable intention, that to save his legs the nigger had to fly. In this manner we came at length to the end of our journey.

I found Windmill-street to be a mere slit in a busy and bustling neighbourhood, and Paradise-row, where uncle Bryan lived, a distinct libel upon heaven, being, I fervently hope, as little like a thoroughfare in Paradise as can well be imagined. Uncle Bryan's shop was at the corner of Windmill-street and Paradise-row, and uncle Bryan himself stood at his street-door, seemingly awaiting our arrival.

'Been loitering, eh?' was uncle Bryan's first salutation; sharply spoken, not to us, but to the boy.

'Never stopped wheelin', so 'elp me!' returned the boy, in a tone as sharp as my uncle's, yet with a doubtful look at my mother. 'Never stopped to take a breathful of air from the blessed minute we started. Arks 'er!'

My mother, being appealed to by uncle Bryan, confirmed the boy's statement, which was strictly correct, and, to his manifest astonishment, made no reproachful reference to his circular flights. His astonishment, however, almost immediately assumed the form of a satisfied leer.

'How much was it to be?' asked uncle Bryan, not at all satisfied with my mother's assurance.

'Thrums,' replied the boy, readily. By which he meant threepence.

Uncle Bryan regarded him sourly.

'Say that again, and I'll take off a penny.'

'Well, tuppence, then. I got to pay a ha'penny for the barrer. What's a brown, more or less?'

The question was not addressed to any of us in particular, so none of us answered it. Uncle Bryan paid him twopence; and the boy, with never a 'thank you,' spun the coins in the air, and caught them deftly; then, with a wink at my mother as a trustworthy conspirator, he walked away with his empty barrow, whistling with all his wind at mankind in general.

Now, when uncle Bryan first spoke, I started. I thought it was not the first time I had heard his voice. It sounded to me like the voice of the man with whom I had had the adventure on the previous Saturday night. The boy being out of sight, uncle Bryan turned to me.

'Why did you start just now?'

'I thought I knew your voice, sir,' I said.

'Call me uncle Bryan. Knew my voice! It isn't possible, as you've never set eyes on me, nor I on you, till this moment.'

This was intended to settle the doubt, and I never again referred to it, although it remained with me for a long while afterwards. The trunk had been left on the doorstep, and uncle Bryan assisted us to carry it upstairs to the bedroom allotted to us. A little bed for me--uncle Bryan made it over to me in three words--was placed behind a screen.

'I thought,' he said to my mother, 'you would like your boy to sleep in the same room as yourself. The house is a small one, but we can find another place for him if you wish.'

'Thank you, Bryan,' replied my mother simply, 'I would like to have him with me.'

Uncle Bryan was evidently no waster of words, and my mother entered readily into his humour.

'You must be tired,' he said, as he was about to leave the room; 'rest yourself a bit. But the sooner you come downstairs, the better I shall be pleased.'

My mother laid her hand on his arm, and detained him.

'Let me say a word to you, Bryan.'

'You will never repeat it!' he exclaimed, with a quick apprehension of what she wished to say.

'Never, without a strong necessity, Bryan.'

He laughed; but it was more like a dry husky cough than a laugh.

'When a man locks the street-door,' he said, 'trust a woman to see that the yard-door's on the latch.'

'I want to thank you, Bryan, for the home you have offered me and my boy.'

'Perhaps it won't suit you.'

'It will suit us, Bryan, if it will suit you to allow us to remain.'

He seemed to chew the words, 'allow us to remain,' silently, as if their flavour were unpleasant to him; but he said aloud:

'Wait and see, then.' And although my mother wished to continue the conversation, he turned his back to us, and abruptly left the room.

My mother sank into a chair; she must have been very tired, for she had walked not less than twelve miles that day.

'You must be tired too, my dear,' she said, drawing me to her side.

'Not so tired as you, mother.'

'I don't feel very, very tired, my dear!'

I knew why she said so; hope dwelt in her heart.

'I think your uncle Bryan is a good man,' she said.

I did not express dissent; but I must have looked it.

'My dear,' she said, answering my look, 'you will find in your course through life that many sweet things have their home in the roughest shells. Uncle Bryan has a strange rough manner, but I think--nay, I am sure--he is a good man. Do you know, Chris, I believe those things that came home for us last Saturday night were sent by him. No, my dear, we will not ask him, or even speak of it. He will be better pleased if it is not referred to. And yet I wonder how he found us out!'

The room which was assigned to us was a back-room, small, and commonly but cleanly furnished. Immediately beneath the window was the water-butt, and beyond it were numbers of small back-yards--so many, indeed, that I wondered where the houses could be that belonged to them. The general prospect from this window, as I very soon learned, was composed of sheets, shirts, stockings, and the usual articles of male and female attire in the process of drying: of some other things also--of washing-tubs, and women and little girls wringing and washing and up to their arm-pits in soap-suds. Occasionally I saw men also thus engaged. A variation in the prospect was sometimes afforded by small children being brought into the yards to be slapped and then set upon the stones to cool, and by other small children blowing soap-bubbles out of father's pipes. The peculiarity of the scene was that the clothes never appeared to be dried. They were eternally hanging on the lines, which intersected each other like a Chinese puzzle, or were being skewered to them in a damp condition. I can safely assert that existence, as seen from our bedroom window, was one interminable washing-day.

When we went downstairs uncle Bryan was in the shop, weighing up his wares and attending to occasional customers. Attached to the shop were a parlour, in which the meals were taken and which served as a general sitting-room, and a smaller apartment in the rear. My mother called me into the smaller room. Do you see, Chris?' she said, pointing to some flowers on the window-sill. There were two or three pots also, in which seeds had evidently been newly planted. In my mother's eyes, these were a strong proof of my uncle's goodness. A rickety flight of steps led to the basement of the house, in which there was a gloomy kitchen (very blackbeetle-y), which could not have been used for a considerable time. The cobwebs were thick in the corners, and a prosperous spider, a very alderman in its proportions, peeped out of its stronghold, with an air of 'What is all this about?' The appearance of a woman in that deserted retreat did not please my gentleman; it was a sign of progress. In the basement were also two or three other gloomy recesses.

Our brief inspection ended, we ascended to the parlour. The fire was burning brightly, and the kettle was on the hob. My mother went to the door which led to the shop.

'At what time do you generally have tea, Bryan?' she inquired.

'At half-past five,' he replied.

It was a quarter-past five by an American clock which stood in the centre of the mantelshelf. The clock was a common wooden one, with a glass door in front, on which was engraved a figure of Father Time with a crack down his back. One of his eyes was damaged, and his scythe also was mutilated; taking him altogether, as he was there represented, damaged and with cracks in him, old Father Time seemed by his disconsolate appearance to be of the opinion that it was high time an end was made of him. Without more ado, my mother opened the cupboard, and finding everything there she wanted, laid the table, and prepared the meal. Exactly at half-past five uncle Bryan came in, and we had tea. He did not express the slightest approval of my mother's quickness, nor did she ask for it; and when tea was over, he went into the shop again, and my mother cleared up the things. She asked him about to-morrow's dinner, and took me with her to market with the money he gave her. While we were looking about us we came across the boy who had fetched our trunk in the wheelbarrow. He was standing with others listening to a hymn which was being sung by two men and a woman. One of the men was blind, and he played on a harmonium, while his companions sang. He joined in also, having a powerful voice, and I thought the performance a very fine one.

The boy saw us; approached my mother, and said in a tone of strong approval:

'You're a brick. I say, we sold old Bryan, didn't us?'

My mother could not help smiling, which heightened the favourable opinion he had of her.

'What are you going to do?' he asked.

My mother explained that she was going to market.

'I'll show you the shops,' he said; and his offer was accepted.

He proved useful, and took us to the best and cheapest shops, and gave his candid opinion (generally unfavourable) of the articles my mother purchased. When the marketing was finished, he volunteered to carry the basket, and did not leave us until we were within a yard or two of uncle Bryan's shop. He enlivened the walk with many quaint and original observations, and when he had nothing to say he whistled. He took his departure with good-humoured winks and nods. Upon my mother counting out her purchases to uncle Bryan, and returning him the few coppers that were left, he said,

'We'll settle things on Monday, Emma. You'll have to take the entire charge of the house, and to keep the expenses down, and we'll arrange a certain sum, which must not be exceeded. If anything is saved out of it, you can put it by in this box,' pointing to a stone money-box shaped like an urn, which was on a shelf. You can do anything you like to the place, but don't disturb my flower-pots.'

'What have you planted in the new pots, Bryan?'

'Some of the new Japan lilies; they'll not flower till summer. Don't touch them; you don't understand them.'

My mother was very busy that night, dusting and cleaning, and I think I never saw her in a happier mood. Now and then she went into the shop, and stood quietly behind the counter, noting how uncle Bryan attended to his business. He took not the slightest notice of her; did not address a single word to her. Once she came bustling back, with an air of importance. 'I've served a customer, Chris,' she said gleefully.

Uncle Bryan's shop was stocked with small supplies of everything in the grocery line, and in addition to these, he sold a few simple medicines for clearing the blood--some of them, I afterwards learned, of his own concoction and mixing. Friday was the day fixed for the preparation and making-up of these medicines, for Saturday was the great night for the sale of the mixtures to working people, who purchased them in halfpenny and penny doses. I discovered that uncle Bryan's pills were famous in the neighbourhood. I calculated that on this Saturday night he must have served at least fifty customers with his medicines. The little parlour presented quite a different appearance when my mother had finished cleaning and dusting. I looked for some expression of approval in uncle Bryan's face when he came in to partake of a bread-and-cheese supper; but I saw none. During the night my thoughts wandered to the little girl who had given the first halfpenny to my mother. I spoke about her.

'Do you think she will be sorry or glad, mother, because she will not see you to-night?'

'Sorry, I think, Chris; she will fancy I am ill.'

'But this is a great deal better, mother.'

'Infinitely better, dear child: and remember, we owe it all to uncle Bryan.'

Neither my mother nor I felt at all strange in our new home, and I slept as soundly as if I had lived in the house for years. Before we went to bed, my mother and I had a delicious ten minutes' chat; the storm in our lives which had lasted so long, and which had threatened to wreck us, had cleared away, and a delightful sense of rest stole into our hearts.

On the Sunday no business was done. After breakfast, uncle Bryan brought his account-book into the parlour, and busied himself with his accounts, adding up the week's takings, and calculating what profit was made. My mother asked him if he was going to church.

'I never go to church,' was his reply.

My mother looked grieved, but she entered into no argument with him.

'You have no objection to our going?' she said timidly.

'What have I to do with it? I dictate to no one. If you think it right to go to church, go.'

'Is there one near, Bryan?'

'Zion Chapel isn't two minutes' walk.'

Uncle Bryan asked no questions when we returned, and the day passed quietly. He devoted the evening to smoking and reading. My mother did not like the smoke at first, but it was not long before she schooled herself to fill uncle Bryan's pipe for him. So, with a pair of horn spectacles on his nose, and his pipe in his mouth, uncle Bryan read and enjoyed his leisure. Occasionally he took his pipe from his mouth, and read a few words aloud. At one time he became deeply engrossed in a book which he took from a shelf in the shop, and he read the following passage aloud:

'That the consciousness of existence is not dependent on the same form or the same matter is demonstrated to our senses in the works of the Creator, as far as our senses are capable of receiving that demonstration. A very numerous part of the animal creation preaches to us, far better than Paul, the belief in a life hereafter. Their little life resembles an earth and a heaven, a present and a future state; and comprises, if it may be so expressed, immortality in miniature.'

'Immortality in miniature!' repeated my mother, in a puzzled tone. 'What is that from, Bryan?'

'The Age of Reason,' he answered.

There was a long pause, broken again by uncle Bryan's voice:

'If we consider the nature of our condition here, we must see there is no occasion for such thing as revealed religion. What is it we want to know? Does not the creation, the universe we behold, preach to us the existence of an Almighty Power, that governs and regulates the whole? And is not the evidence that this creation, holds out to our senses infinitely stronger than anything we can read in a book that any impostor might make and call the word of God? As for morality, the knowledge of it exists in every man's conscience.'

Presently he laid the book aside, and my mother took it up. Uncle Bryan stretched forth his hand with the intention of keeping it from her; but he was too late. He gazed at her furtively from beneath his horn spectacles, as she turned over the pages. After a few minutes' inspection of the book she returned his gaze sadly, and, with a protecting motion, drew me to her side. I had not liked uncle Bryan's laugh, and I liked it less now.

'Chris, my dear child,' said my mother, in a tone of infinite tenderness, 'go upstairs and bring down my Bible.'

I did as she desired, and my mother caressed me close, with her arm round my waist. Uncle Bryan sat on one side of the fireplace, reading the Age of Reason; my mother sat on the other side, reading the Bible.

CHAPTER X.

OUR NEW HOME.

A day or two afterwards I surprised my mother and uncle Bryan in the midst of a conversation which I supposed had reference to myself. My mother was in a very earnest mood, but uncle Bryan, except that he listened attentively to what she was saying, seemed in no way stirred. In all my life's experiences I never met or heard of a man who was more thoroughly attentive to every little detail that passed around him than was uncle Bryan; but although he gave his whole mind to the smallest matter for the time being, he evinced no indication of it, and persons who did not understand his character might reasonably have supposed him to be utterly indifferent to what was going on.

'You will promise me, Bryan,' my mother said.

'I will promise nothing, Emma,' he replied; 'I made a promise once in my life, and I received a promise in return. I know what came of it.' He smiled bitterly, and added, his words seeming to me to be prompted more by inner consciousness than by the signs of distress in my mother's face, 'But you can make your mind easy. It is not in my nature to force my views upon any one. Force! as if it were any matter of mine! What comes to him must come as it has come to me--through the light of experience.'

'Do you not believe, Bryan----'

He interrupted her, almost vehemently. 'I believe in nothing! If that does not content you, I cannot help it.'

'If I could assist you, Bryan--if I could in any way relieve you----'

'You cannot. I am fixed. Life for me is tasteless.'

Something of desolation was in his tone as he said this, but its plaintiveness was not designed by the speaker. Rather did he intend to express defiance, and a renunciation of sympathy.

'But, Bryan,' said my mother, with a tender movement towards him----

'I must stop you,' he said, 'for fear you should say something which would compel an explanation from me. Let matters rest I am but one among hundreds of millions of crawlers. Once I saw other than visible signs--or fancied that I saw them, fool that I was! The time has gone, never to return; the power of comprehension has gone, never to return. You must take me as you find me. There is very little in the world that I like or dislike; but I can heartily despise one thing: insincerity. Have you anything more to say?'

'No, Bryan;' and I could see that my mother was both pained and relieved.

'I have; two or three words. A question first. You can be satisfied to remain here?'

'Yes, Bryan, if it satisfies you. I can do no better.'

A gleam came into his eyes. 'That is sincere,' he said, with a pleasanter smile than the last. 'Very well, then; it does satisfy me. What I want to say now is, that there must be no break. You must not remain, and let me get accustomed to you, and then leave me for a woman's reason.'

'I will not, Bryan.'

With that, the conversation ended. In the night, when my mother and I were alone in our bedroom, I said,

'Do you think uncle Bryan is a good man now, mother?'

'Is it not good of him, Chris, to give us a home?'

'Yes,' I said; but I was not quite satisfied with her answer. 'His shell is very rough, though.'

My mother laughed. I loved to hear her laugh; it was so different from uncle Bryan's. His laughter had no gladness in it.

'We shall find a sweet place here and there, Chris,' she said.

She tried to, I am sure, and she brightened the house with her pleasant ways. One night we were sitting together as usual; I was doing a sum on a slate which uncle Bryan had set for me; he was reading; my mother was mending clothes. We had been sitting quiet for a long time, when my mother commenced to sing one of her simple songs, very softly, as though she were singing to herself. In the midst of her singing she became aware that uncle Bryan was present, and with a rapid apprehensive glance at him she paused. He looked up from his book at once.

'Why do you stop, Emma?' he asked.

'I thought I might disturb you.'

'You do not; I like to hear you.'

The charm, however, was broken for that night, and my mother knew it, and sang but little. Two or three nights afterwards, when uncle Bryan was engrossed in his book, my mother began to sing again over her work. I knew every trick of her features, and I think she was designing enough to watch her opportunity, for there was never a more perfect master than she of the delicate cunning which kindness to rough and cross natures often requires. It was with much curiosity that I quietly observed uncle Bryan's behaviour while my mother sang. He held his book steadily before him, but he did not turn a page; and to my, perhaps, too curious eyes there appeared to be, in the very curve of his shoulders, a grateful recognition of my mother's wish to please him. I could not see his face, but I liked him better at that time than I had ever yet done. Truly, my mother was right; here at least was one sweet place found in the rough shell. She continued her singing in the same soft strains; and often afterwards sang when we three were sitting together of an evening.

Exactly three weeks after we had taken up our quarters with uncle Bryan, my mother and I paid a visit to the neighbourhood in which she had made the acquaintance of the fairy in the cotton-print dress; but although it was Saturday night we saw no trace of the little girl. My mother was much disappointed; and then she went to the house in which the young woman lived who had given her sixpence, and learned that she had moved, the landlady did not know whither. I was glad to get away from the neighbourhood, although I was almost as much disappointed as my mother was at not finding our little fairy.

Our new life, having thus fairly commenced, went on for a long time with but little variation. Uncle Bryan allowed my mother to do exactly as she pleased, and she, without in the slightest way disturbing his regular habits, made the house very different from what it was when she first entered it. Every room in it, down to the basement, where she did the cooking, was always sweet and clean. We also had flowers on the sill of our bedroom window, and their graceful forms and bright colours were a refreshing relief to the dark back wall. It delights me to see the taste for growing flowers cultivated by the poor. Flowers are purifiers; they breed good thoughts. Quite a rivalry was established between uncle Bryan and my mother in the care and attention which they bestowed on their respective window-sills. It went on silently and pleasantly, and my mother was not displeased because uncle Bryan was the victor. He trained some creepers from the window of his little back room to the window of our bedroom, and my mother watched them with intense interest creeping up, and up, until they reached the sill. 'They are like a message of love from your uncle, my dear,' she said. It is by such small precious links as these that heart is bound to heart. Yet the feelings with which uncle Bryan inspired me were by no means of a tender nature. He made no effort to win my affection; as a general rule, his bearing towards me was sufficiently cold to check tender impulse, and the words, 'I believe in nothing!' which I had heard him address sternly to my mother, had impressed me very seriously. I regarded him sometimes with fear and aversion.

I was sent to a cheap school, a very few pence a week being paid for my education. My career in the school is scarcely worthy of record. All that was taught there were reading, writing, and arithmetic; and when these were learned our education was completed. The master never allowed himself to be tripped up by his pupils. Arithmetic was his strong point, and the rule-of-three was his boundary.

In that happy hunting-ground we bought and sold the usual illimitable quantities of eggs, and yards of calico, and firkins of butter; and there we should have wallowed until we were old men, had we remained long enough, without ever reaching another heaven. My principal reminiscences of those days are connected with the bully of the school; who, whenever we met in the streets out of school-hours, compelled me to make three very low and humble bows to him before he would allow me to pass. I have not the satisfaction of being able to record that he met with the usual fate (in fiction) of school bullies--that of being soundly licked, and of being compelled to eat humble pie for ever afterwards. He was a successful tyrant. His position occasionally compelled him to fight two boys at a time--one down, the other come up--but he was never beaten. A tyrant he was, and a tyrant he remained until I lost sight of him. In his career, virtue was never triumphant.

CHAPTER XI.

IN WHICH I TAKE PART IN SOME LAWLESS EXPEDITIONS.

In his letter which offered us a home, uncle Bryan had stated, truly enough, that he was a poor man. Although he purchased his stock in very small quantities, he often had as much as he could do to pay his monthly bills. I remember well a certain occasion when he was seriously perplexed in this way. My mother, who had been attentively observant of him during the day, said in the evening:

'You are troubled, Bryan.'

'I am short of money, Emma,' he replied; and he went on to say that he had to pay Messrs. So-and-so and So-and-so to-morrow; and that his last week's takings were two pounds less than he had reckoned upon.

How much short are you, Bryan?'

He adjusted his horn spectacles, and brought forward his account-book, and his file of bills, and every farthing the till contained. In a few minutes he had his trouble staring him in the face in black and white, in the shape of a deficit of two pounds eighteen shillings--a serious sum. My mother, with a grateful look in her eyes, produced the stone money-box, in which he had said she might put by anything she was able to save out of the money he gave her to keep house with. She shook it; what was in it rattled merrily. It was a hard job to get the money out, the slit in the box was so narrow; but it was managed at last by means of the blade of a knife, and a little pile of copper and silver lay on the table. I think the three of us seated round the table would not make a bad picture; but then you could not put in my mother's delicious laugh. She had saved more than three pounds. I could scarcely tell whether uncle Bryan was sorry or pleased. He bit his lips very hard, but said never a word; and, taking the exact sum he required, put the balance back into the box.

The chief difficulty uncle Bryan had to contend with in keeping his stock properly assorted was brown sugar. Indeed, brown sugar may be said to have been the bane of his life; to me, it was a most hateful commodity, and I often wished there was not such an article in the world. Uncle Bryan had to pay ready money for sugar, and he could not purchase at the warehouse less than a bag at the time--about two hundredpounds weight, I believe. Sometimes he had not the money to go to the sugar market with, and the stock on the shelves had dwindled down almost to the last quarter of a pound. Then commenced a series of dreadful expeditions which I remember with comical terror. One of the first instructions given by uncle Bryan to my mother had been, never, under any pretext, to serve even the smallest quantity of sugar to a strange customer unless he or she purchased something else at the same time. The reason for this was that there was no profit on sugar; it was what was called a leading article in the trade, and by some mysterious trade machinations, arising probably out of the fever of competition, had come to be sold by the large grocers at exactly cost price. The small grocers, of course, were compelled to follow in the wake of the large ones; if they had not, their customers would have deserted them. Not only, indeed, did the small grocers make no profit on the sugar they sold, but, taking into consideration the draft necessary to turn the scale ever so little when weighing out quarter and half pounds, there was an absolute loss; even the paper in the scale would not make up for it, for it cost as much per pound as the sugar. Hence the necessity for not serving strangers with sugar by itself, and hence it was that I not unnaturally came to look upon it as a desperate crime for any stranger to attempt to purchase sugar over uncle Bryan's counter without asking at the same time for a proper quantity of tea or coffee, or some other article upon which there was a profit. My feelings, then, can be imagined when uncle Bryan (being short of sugar, and not having sufficient funds to purchase a bag at the warehouse), bidding me carry a fair-sized market basket, took me with him one dark night--and often afterwards on many other dark nights--to purchase brown sugar, and nothing else, in pounds, half pounds, and quarters. The plan of operation was as follows: uncle Bryan, selecting a likely-looking grocer's shop (an innocent-looking fly, he being the spider), would station me at some distance from it, bidding me wait until he returned. Then he would enter the shop boldly, and come out, with the air of one who resided in the neighbourhood, holding in his hand a quarter or half pound of feloniously-acquired moist. This he would deposit in the basket (which had a cover to it, to hide our villainy), and we would wander to another street, in which he pounced upon another grocer's shop, where the operation would be repeated. Thus we would wander, often for two or three miles, until the basket was filled with packages of sugar, with which we would return stealthily, like burglars after the successful accomplishment of daring and unlawful deeds. When the basket was too heavy for me to carry, uncle Bryan carried it, and would place me in a convenient spot--always at the corner of two streets, so that in case of pursuit we could make a rapid disappearance--with the basket on the ground. While thus stationed, I have trembled at the very shadow of a policeman, and have often wondered that we were not marched off to prison. Uncle Bryan was not always successful. On occasions he would pause suddenly in the middle of a street, and wheel sharply round. 'Can't go into that shop,' he would say; 'was turned out of it the week before last;' or, 'They know me there; swore at me when they served me the last time; mustn't show my face there for another month;' or, with a laugh, 'Come away, Chris, quick! That woman wanted to know what I meant by imposing on a poor widow who was trying to get an honest living.' These remarks, of themselves, would have been sufficient to convince me that we were committing an offence against law and morality. At first I was a passive accomplice in these unlawful operations, but in time I became an active agent.

'Chris, my boy,' said uncle Bryan to me one night, in an insinuating tone; he was out of spirits, having met with a number of continuous failures; 'do you think you could buy a quarter of a pound in that shop?'

'I'll try to, uncle,' I said, with a sinking heart, for I had long anticipated the dreaded moment.

'Go into the shop in an offhand way, as if you were a regular customer. I'll wait at the corner for you.'

Go into the shop in an offhand way! Why, if I had been the greatest criminal in the world, I could not have been more impressed with a sense of guilt. I showed it in my face when I stepped tremblingly to the counter, and I was instantly detected by the shopkeeper.

'Do you want anything else besides sugar?' he demanded sternly.

'N-no, sir,' I managed to answer.

'Do you know, you young ruffian, that there's a loss on sugar!' I knew it well enough--too well to convict myself by answering. 'What do you say to two ounces of our best mixed at two-and-eight,' he then inquired, with satirical inquisitiveness, 'or half a pound of our genuine mocha at one-and-four?'

As I did not know what to say except, 'Guilty, if you please, sir!' and as I suspected him of an intention to leap over the counter and seize me by the throat, I fled precipitately, with my heart in my mouth, and the next minute was running away, with uncle Bryan at my heels, as fast as my legs would carry me. When we were well out of danger's reach, uncle Bryan indulged in the only genuine laugh I had heard from him; but he soon became serious, and we resumed our unlawful journey. This first attempt was not the last; I tried again and again; but practice, which makes most things perfect, never made me an adept in the art. Dark nights were always chosen for our expeditions, and sometimes so many streets and thoroughfares were closed to uncle Bryan, that he was at his wits' end which way to turn to fill the basket.

Things went on with us in the same way until I was fourteen years of age. Long before this, I had learned all my schoolmaster had to teach me, and I was beginning to be distressed by the thought that I was doing a wrong thing by remaining idle. It was time that I set to work, and tried to help those who had been so good to me. I spoke about it, and uncle Bryan approved in a few curt words.

'I'm afraid he's not strong enough,' said my mother.

'Nonsense!' exclaimed uncle Bryan; and I supported him.

'I want to work,' I said; 'I should like to.'

'A good trade would be the best thing,' said my mother.

Weeks passed, and I was still idle. My mother had been busy enough in the mean while, but her efforts were unsuccessful. She learnt that a good trade for me meant a good premium from my friends; and that of course was out of the question. It would have been a hard matter to scrape together even so small a sum as five pounds, and the lowest premium asked was far above that amount. I thought it behoved me to look for myself; and I began to stroll about the streets, and search in the shop windows for some such announcement as, 'Wanted an apprentice to a good trade: no premium required; liberal wages;' followed by a description which fitted me exactly as the sort of lad which would be preferred. But no such announcement greeted my wistful gaze. I saw bills, 'Wanted this,' Wanted that,' and now and then I mustered sufficient courage to go in and offer myself; but at the end of a month's experience I could come to no other conclusion than that I was fit for neither this nor that. My manner was against me; I was shy and timid, and sometimes could scarcely find words suitable for my application; but I had that kind of courage which lies in perseverance, and my aspirations were not of an exalted nature; I was willing to accept anything in the shape of work. I know now that I applied for many situations for which I was totally unfitted, but I was not conscious of it at the time; and I know also that for a few days I was absurdly and supremely reckless in my estimate of my fitness for the employers who made their wants public. It was during this time that I found myself standing before one of those exceedingly small offices which squeeze themselves by the force of impudence and ingenuity into the very midst of really pretentious buildings which frown them down, but cannot take the impudence out of them. In the front of this office was a large black board, on which were wafered, in the neatest of round-hand, the most amazing temptations to persons in search of situations. The first temptation which assailed me was, 'Wanted a Gardener for a Gentleman's Family. Must have an Unexceptionable Moral Character. Apply within.' The doubt I had with reference to this announcement was not whether I would do for a gardener (this was during my reckless days, remember), but whether my moral character was unexceptionable. I had never before been called to answer a declaration of this description, and now that it was put to me in bold round-hand, I was stung by the share I took in the lawless sugar expeditions. Not being able to resolve the doubt as to my moral character (although sorely tempted by the exigences of my position to give myself the benefit of it), I laid aside the gardener for future consideration. The next temptation was, 'Wanted a Cook. High Church.' I discarded the cook. Reckless as I was, it exceeded the limits of my boldness to declare myself a High-Church Cook. I was not even aware that I had ever tasted food cooked in that way; the very flavour was a mystery to me. The next was, 'Wanted a Groom, Smart and Active. Seven Stone. Apply within.' I debated for some time over seven stone before I decided that it must apply to the weight of the groom. A stone was fourteen pounds. Seven fourteens was ninety-eight (I did the sum on a dead wall with a bit of brick I picked up in the road.) That I was perfectly ignorant of the duties of a groom did not affect me in the slightest degree; my only trouble was, did I weigh ninety-eight pounds? I immediately resolved to ascertain. I strolled into a by-street, and discovering a mysterious-looking recess wherein was exhibited a small pile of coals and a large pair of scales to weigh them in, I considered it a likely place to solve the problem. I had two halfpennies in my pocket, and I thought I might bargain to be weighed for one of them. So I walked into the recess, and tapping upon the scales with a halfpenny, as a proof that I meant business, waited for the result. The result came in the shape of a waddling woman with a coaly face and an immense bonnet, who said, 'Now then?' Timidly I replied, 'I want to be weighed, ma'am; I'll give you a halfpenny.' I was not prepared for the suddenness of what immediately followed. Without the slightest warning the woman lifted me in her arms with great ease, and laid me across the scales, which were shaped like a scuttle, with great difficulty, although I tried honestly to suit myself to the peculiarity of the case. Presently she threw me off as if I were a sack of coals, and tossing the weights aside, one after another, as if they were feathers, said, 'There you are!' Her words did not enlighten me. 'Am I seven stone, ma'am?' I asked, as I handed her the coin. 'About,' was her reply. I retired, dubious, in a very grimy and gritty condition, and walking to the little office where the black board was, I boldly entered, and asked the young man behind the counter (there was only room for him and me) if he wanted a groom. His reply was, 'Half a crown.' This was perplexing, and I asked again, and received a similar answer. I soon understood that I should have to pay the sum down before I could be accommodated with particulars, and as a halfpenny was the whole of my wealth, I was compelled to retire, much disheartened.

However, I was successful at length. I obtained a situation as errand-boy, sweeper, and whatnot, at a wood-engraver's, the wages being three shillings a week to commence with. How delighted I was when I told my mother, and with what pride I brought home my first week's wages, and placed them in her hand! In the duties of my new position, and in endeavouring, not unsuccessfully, to pick up a knowledge of the business, time passed rapidly. My steady attention to everything that was set me to do gradually attracted the notice of my employer, and he encouraged me in my efforts to raise myself. I was fond of cleanliness for its own sake, and my mother's chief pleasure was to keep my clothes neat and properly mended. I can see now the value of the difference between my appearance and that of other boys of my own age in the same position of life as myself, and I can more fully appreciate the beauty of a mother's love when it is deep and abiding--as my mother's love was for me.

And here I must say a word, lest I should be misunderstood. Some kindly-hearted readers may suppose that my life and its surrounding circumstances call for pity and commiseration. I declare that they are mistaken, and that I was perfectly happy, contented in the present, hopeful in the future. What more could I desire? Poor as our home was, it was decent and comfortable; the anxieties which invaded it were not, I apprehend, of a more bitter nature than the anxieties which reign in the houses of really well-to-do and wealthy people. Well, I had a home which contented and satisfied me; and dearer, holier, purer, than anything else in life there was shed upon me a love which brightened my days and sweetened my labour. Life was opening out to me its most delightful pages. Already had I learned to love books for the good that was in them; I was also learning to draw, and every hour's leisure was an hour of profitable enjoyment. I began to see things, not with the eyes of a soured and discontented mind, but with the eyes of a mind which had been, almost unconsciously, trained to learn that sorrow and adversity may bring forth much for which we should be truly and sincerely grateful, and which, but for these trials, might be hidden from us. And all this was due to the influence of Home, and of the love which life's hard trials had strengthened. Sweet indeed are the uses of adversity. But for it, the milk of human kindness would taste like brackish water.

CHAPTER XII.

A SINGULAR EPISODE IN OUR QUIET LIFE.

At this point I am reminded that I have not described uncle Bryan. A few words will suffice. A tall spare man, strongly built, with no superfluity of flesh about him; iron-gray hair, thick and abundant; eyebrows overlapping most conspicuously, guarding his eyes, as it were, which lurked in their caverns, as animals might in their lairs, on the watch. He wore no hair on his face, his cheeks were furrowed, and his features were large and well formed. He possessed the power of keeping himself perfectly under control; but on rare occasions, a nervous twitching of his lips in one corner of his mouth mastered him. This always occurred when he was in any way stirred to emotion, and I knew perfectly well, although he tried to disguise it from me, that it was one of his greatest annoyances that he could not conquer this physical symptom of mental disturbance. He was not only scrupulously just in his dealings as a tradesman; he exercised this moral sentiment with almost painful preciseness in his intercourse with my mother and me. He had no intimates, and he determinedly rejected all overtures of friendship. His habits were regular, his desires few, his tastes simple. He appeared to be contented with everything, and grateful for nothing. If love resided in his nature, it showed itself in a fondness for flowers; in no other form.

I was nearly eighteen years of age, and the days--garlanded with the sweet pleasures which spring naturally from a mother's love--followed one another calmly and tranquilly. Nothing had occurred to disturb the peaceful current of our lives. Uneventful as the small circumstances of my past life were in the light of surrounding things, each scene in the simple drama which had thus far progressed was distinctly defined, and seemed to have no connection with what preceded it or followed it. The first, which had occurred in the house where I was born, and which ended with my father's death; the second, in which my mother had taken so mournful a part, and which contained so strange a mingling of joy and sorrow; the third, which was now being played, and which up to this period had been the least eventful of all. A certain routine of duties was got through with unvarying regularity. Uncle Bryan's trade yielded, with careful watching, sufficient profit for our wants; but I, also, was earning money now, and it was with an honest feeling of pride that I paid my mother so many shillings a week--I am almost ashamed to say how few--towards the expenses of my living. And so the days rolled on.

But in the web of our lives a thread was woven of which no sign had yet been seen, and chance or destiny was drawing it towards us with firm hand--a thread which, when it was linked to our hearts, was to throw strong light and colour on the tranquil days.

A very pleasant summer had set in, and uncle Bryan's flowers were at their brightest. It had grown into a custom with my mother to come for me two or three times a week during the fine weather, in the evening, when my day's work was done. She would wait at the corner of the street which led to my place of business, and we generally had a pleasant walk, arriving home at about half-past nine o'clock, in time for supper, a favourite meal with uncle Bryan. Now, my mother and I had been for some time casting about for an opportunity to present uncle Bryan with a token of our affection in the shape of a pipe and a tobacco-jar; he was so strange a character that it was absolutely necessary we should have a tangible excuse for the presentation. My mother found the opportunity. With great glee she informed me that she had found out uncle Bryan's birthday, and that the presentation should take the form of a birthday gift. 'It will be an unexpected surprise to him, my dear,' she said, 'and we will say nothing about it beforehand.' On a fine morning in August I rose as usual at half-past five, and made my breakfast in the kitchen; I slept now in the little back-room on a line with the shop and parlour. Eight o'clock was the hour for commencing work, and I generally had a couple of hours' delightful reading in the kitchen before I started. Sometimes, however, when we were busy, I was directed to be at the office an hour or so earlier, and on this morning I was due at seven o'clock. I always wished my mother good-bye before I went to work. Treading very softly, so as not to disturb uncle Bryan, and with my dinner and tea under my arm--invariably prepared the last thing at night, and packed in a handkerchief by my mother's careful hands--I crept upstairs to her room. She called me in, and I sat by her bedside, chatting for a few minutes. This was the anniversary of uncle Bryan's birthday, and our purchases were to be made in the evening.

'I must be off, mother,' I said, starting up; 'I shall have to run for it.'

'Good-morning, dear child,' she said; 'I shall come for you exactly at eight o'clock.'

I kissed her, and ran off to work. My mother was punctual in the evening, and we set off at once on a pilgrimage to tobacconists' windows. Any person observing us as we stood at the windows, debating on the shape of this pipe and the pattern of that tobacco-jar, would at once have recognised the importance of our proceedings. At length, after much anxious deliberation, our purchases were made, and we walked home to Paradise-row. My mother had suggested that I should present uncle Bryan with the birthday gifts, and in a vainful moment I had consented, and had mentally rehearsed a fine little speech, which I prided myself was perfect in its way. But, as is usual with the amateur, and sometimes with the over-confident, on such occasions, my fine little speech flew clean out of my head when the critical moment arrived, and resolved itself into about a dozen stammering and perfectly incomprehensible words. Covered with confusion, I pushed the pipe and tobacco-pouch towards uncle Bryan in a most ungraceful manner. My mother saw my difficulty.

'We have brought you a little birthday present, Bryan,' she said, 'with our love.'

He made a grimace at the last three words, and I thought at first that he was about to sweep the things from him; but if he had any such intention, he relinquished it.

'How did you know it was my birthday?'

'I found it out.'

'How?'

'Oh,' replied my mother, with a coquettish movement of her head, which delighted me, but did not find favour with uncle Bryan, 'little birds come down the chimney to tell me things.'

'Psha!' he muttered impatiently.

'Or perhaps I put this and that together, and found it out that way. You can't hide anything from a woman, you know.'

Her gay manner met with no sympathetic response from uncle Bryan. On the contrary, he gazed at her for a moment almost suspiciously, but the look softened in the clear light of my mother's eyes. Then, in a careless, ungracious manner, he thanked us for the present. I was hurt and indignant, and I told my mother a few minutes afterwards, when we were together in the kitchen, that I was sorry we had taken any notice of uncle Bryan's birthday.

'He would have been much better pleased if we hadn't mentioned it,' I said.

'No, my dear,' said my mother, 'you are not quite right. Your uncle will grow very fond of that pipe by and by.'

My mother always won me over to her way of thinking, and I thought the failure might be due to the bungling manner in which I had presented the birthday offerings. I walked about the kitchen, and spoke to myself the speech I had intended to make, with the most beautiful effect. It was a masterpiece of elegant phrasing, and every sentence was beautifully rounded, and came trippingly off the tongue. Of course I was much annoyed that the opportunity of impressing uncle Bryan with my eloquence was lost. When we reëntered the room, uncle Bryan's head was resting on his hand, and there was an expression of weariness in his face, which had grown pale and sad during our brief absence. My mother's keen eyes instantly detected the change.

'You are not well, Bryan,' she said, in a concerned tone, stepping to his side.

'There are two things that disagree with me, Emma,' he replied, with a grim and unsuccessful attempt at humour; 'my own medicine is one, memory is another. I've been taking a dose of each. There, don't bother me. I have a slight headache, that's all.'

But although he tried to turn it off thus lightly, he was certainly far from well; for he asked my mother to attend to the shop, and leaning back in his chair, threw a handkerchief over his face, and fell asleep. My mother and I talked in whispers, so as not to disturb him. Uncle Bryan was not a supporter of the early-closing movement, for he kept his shop open until eleven o'clock every night. Very dismal it must have looked from the outside in the long winter nights, lighted up by only one tallow candle; but it had always a home appearance for me, from the first day I entered it. The shop-door which led into the street was closed, and so was the door of the parlour in which we were sitting. The upper half of this door was glass, to enable us to see into the shop. My mother's hearing was generally very acute, and the slightest tap on the counter was sufficient to arouse her attention; but the tapping was seldom needed, for the shop-door, having a complaining creak in its hinges, never failed to announce the entrance of a customer. On this night, customers were like angels' visits, few and far between. It was nearly ten o'clock; uncle Bryan was still sleeping; my mother, whose hands were never idle, was working as usual; I was reading a volume of Chambers's Traits for the People, from which many a young mind has received healthy nourishment. I was deep in the touching story of 'Picciola, or the Prison Flower,' when an amazing incident occurred--heralded by a tap at the parlour-door.

Whoever it was that knocked must not only have opened the street-door, but must have silenced its watch-dog creak (by bribery, perhaps); or else my mother's hearing must have played her very false. Again, it was necessary to lift the ledge of the counter and creep under it, before the parlour-door could be reached.

My mother started to her feet; and opened the door. A young girl, with bonnet and cloak on, stood before us. I thought immediately of the fairy in the cotton-print dress; but no, it was not she who had thus mysteriously appeared. The girl looked at us in silence.

'You should have tapped on the counter, my dear,' said my mother.

'What for?' was the answer, in the most musical voice I had ever heard. 'I don't want to buy anything.'

This was a puzzling rejoinder. If she did not want to buy anything, why was she here?

'This is Mr. Carey's? asked the girl.

'Yes, my dear.'

'Who are you?'

Now this was so manifestly a question which should have come from us, and not from her, that I gazed at her in some wonder, and at the same time in admiration, for her manner was very winning. She returned my gaze frankly, and seemed to be pleased with my look of admiration. Certainly a perfectly self-possessed little creature in every respect. Uncle Bryan still slept.

'Who are you?' repeated our visitor, to my mother.

'My name is Carey,' said my mother.

'Oh, indeed!' exclaimed the girl. 'That is nice. And who is he?' indicating uncle Bryan.

'That is my brother-in-law, Bryan.'

'Mr. Bryan Carey. I've come to see him.' And she made a movement towards him. My mother's hand restrained her.

'Hush, my dear! You must not disturb him.'

'Oh, I am not in a hurry. But I think you ought to help me in with my box.' This to me. 'If I was a man, I wouldn't ask you.'

Her box! Deeper and deeper the mystery grew. When the girl thus directly addressed me, my heart beat with a feeling of intense pleasure. Hitherto I had been mortified that she had evinced no interest in me.

'Come along!' she exclaimed imperiously.

I followed her to the door, like a slave, and there was her box, almost similar in appearance to the box we had brought with us. It was altogether such an astounding experience, and so entirely an innovation upon the regular routine of our days, that I rubbed my eyes to be sure that I was awake. My mother had closed the door of the room in which uncle Bryan was sleeping, and now stood by my side. I stooped to lift the box, and found it heavy.

'What is in it?' I asked.

'Books and things,' our visitor replied. 'I'll help you. Oh, I'm strong, though I am a girl! I wish I was you.'

'Why?'

'Then I should be a boy. There! You see I am almost as strong as you are.'

The box was in the shop by this time. My mother was perfectly bewildered, as I myself was; but mine was a delightful bewilderment The adventure was so new, so novel, so like an adventure, that I was filled with excitement.

'How did the box come here?' I asked.

'Walked here, of course,' she said somewhat scornfully.

'Nonsense!' I exclaimed; although if she had persisted in her statement, I was quite ready to believe it, as I would have believed anything from her lips.

'Oh, you don't believe in things!'

'Yes, I do; but I don't believe that thing. How did it come?'

'A boy carried it. A strong boy--not like you. Isn't that candied lemon-peel in the glass bottle?'

'Yes.'

'I should like some. I'm very fond of sweet things.'

Quite as though the little girl were mistress of the establishment, my mother went behind the counter, and cut a slice of the lemon-peel.

'What a small piece!' exclaimed the girl, sitting on the box, and biting it. 'I could put it all in my mouth at once; but I like to linger over nice things.'

And she did linger over it, while we looked on. When she had finished, she said:

'I suppose I am to sit here till he wakes.'

'No, my dear,' said my mother, who had been regarding her childlike ways with tenderness; 'you had better come inside. It will be more comfortable. But, indeed, indeed, you have bewildered me!'

The girl laughed, soft and low, and my mother's heart went out to her. The next minute we were in the parlour again. My mother motioned that she would have to be very quiet, and pointed to a seat. Before our visitor sat down, she took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them aside. The presence of this slight graceful creature was like a new revelation to me; the common room became idealised by a subtle charm. But how was it all to end? An hour ago she was not here; and I wondered how we could have been happy and contented without her. She was exceedingly pretty, and her face was full of expression. That, indeed, was one of her strongest charms. When she spoke, it was not only her tongue that spoke. Her eyes, her hands, the movements of her head, put life and soul into her words, and made them sparkle. Her hair was cut short, and just touched her shoulders; its colour was a light auburn. Her hands were small and white; I noticed them particularly as she took from the table the book I had been reading.

Are you fond of reading?' she asked, in a low tone.

'Yes,' I answered. It really seemed to me as if I had known her for years. 'Are you?'

'I love it. I like to read in bed. Then I don't care for anything.'

Soon she was skimming through 'Picciola;' but looking up she noticed that my mother's eyes were fixed admiringly upon her. She laid the book aside and approached my mother, so that her words might not be lost.

'It makes it strong to cut it, does it not?' was the first question.

'Makes what strong?' My mother did not know to what it was our visitor referred. I made a shrewd guess, mentally, and discovered that I was right.

'The hair. To cut it when one is young, as mine is cut, makes it strong?'

'Yes, my dear. It will be all the better for being cut.'

'Why do you call me your dear?'

My mother replied gently, with a slight hesitancy: 'I won't, if you don't like me to.'

'Oh, but I like it! And it sounds nice from you. It will be all the better for being cut! That's what I think. It was nearly down to my waist. Do you like it?'

'It is very pretty.'

'And soft, is it not? Feel it. When I was a little child, it was much lighter--almost like gold. I used to be glad to hear people say, "What beautiful hair that child has got!"'

'It will get darker as you grow older.'

'I don't want it to. I'll sit in the sun as much as ever I can, so that it sha'n't grow darker.'

'Why, my----'

'Dear. Say it, please!'

'My dear, have you been told that that is the way to keep hair light?'

'No, but I think it is. It must be the best way.' This with a positive air, as if contradiction were out of the question.

'If you are so fond of your hair, what made you say just now that you wished you were a boy?'

'Because I do wish it. I think it is a shame. Persons ought to have their choice before they're born, whether they would be boys or girls.'

'My dear!'

'Yes, they ought to have, and you can't help agreeing with me. Then I should have been a boy, and things would have been different. All that I should have wanted would have been to grow tall and strong. Men have no business to be little. But as I am a girl, I must grow as pretty as I can.'

And she smoothed her hair from her forehead with her small white hands, and looked at us and smiled with her eyes and her lips. All this was done with such an utter absence of conscious vanity that it deepened my admiration of her, and I was ready to take sides with her against the world in any proposition she might choose to lay down. That she saw this expressed in my face, and that she, in an easy graceful way, received the homage I paid her, as being naturally her due, and did her best--again without conscious artifice--to strengthen it, were as plainly conveyed by her demeanour towards me as though she had expressed it in so many words. It struck me as strange that my mother did not ask her any questions concerning herself, not even her name, nor where she lived, nor what was her errand; and although all of these questions, and especially the first, were on the tip of my tongue a dozen times, I did not have the courage to shape them in words. My mother not saying anything more to her, she turned towards me.

'Are you generally rude to girls--I mean to young ladies?'

'No,' I protested warmly, ransacking my mind for the clue.

'You were to me just now. You said that I spoke nonsense.'

'I am very sorry,' I stammered; I beg your pardon; but when you said your box walked here----'

'You shouldn't have asked foolish questions. Never mind; we are friends again.' She gave me her hand, quite as though we had had a serious quarrel, which was now made up. Then she nestled a little closer to me, and proceeded with 'Picciola.'

Nothing further was said until the scene assumed another aspect. I was looking over the pages of the story with her, when, raising my eyes, I saw that uncle Bryan was awake. His eyes were fixed on the girl, with a sort of bewilderment on his face as to whether he was asleep or awake. He looked neither at my mother nor me, but only at the girl. Her head was bent over the book, and he could not see her face. I plucked her dress furtively under the table, and she looked up, and met my uncle's gaze. Then I noticed his usual sign of agitation, the twitching of his lips.

'What is this, Emma? he demanded, presently, of my mother.

My mother had been waiting for him to speak. 'This young----'

'Lady,' added the girl quickly, as my mother slightly hesitated, and rising with great composure. 'Say it. I like to hear it. This young lady----'

Completely dominated by the girl's gentle imperiousness, my mother said, 'This young lady has come to see you.'

He glanced at her uncovered head; then at her bonnet and mantle. A flush came into her cheeks, and she exclaimed,

'Oh, I don't want to stop, if you're not agreeable. I only like agreeable people. But if you turn me out to-night I don't exactly know where to go to; and there's my box----'

'Your box!'

'Yes, with all my things in. It's in the shop. You can go and see if you don't believe me. But if you do go, I sha'n't like you. You have no right to doubt my word.'

Her eyes filled with tears, and these and the words of helplessness she had spoken were sufficient for my mother. She drew the girl to her side with a protecting motion.

'Are you a stranger about here, my dear?'

'I don't know anything of the place,' replied the girl, in a more childlike tone than she had yet used. 'I have no idea where I am--except that this is Paradise-row. I shouldn't like to wander about the streets at this time of night.'

'There is no need, my dear, there is no need. There, there! don't cry.'

'But of course,' continued the girl, striving to restrain the quivering of her lips, 'I would sooner do that than stop where I am not wanted.' She would have said more, but I saw that she was fearful of breaking down, and thus showing signs of weakness. I looked somewhat angrily towards uncle Bryan; my mother's arm was still around the girl's waist. With a quick comprehension he seized all the points of sentiment in the picture.

'Ah,' he growled, this is more like a leaf out of a story-book than anything else. You'--to the girl--'are injured innocence; you'--to my mother--'are the good genius of the oppressed; and I am the dragon whom St. George here'--meaning me--'would like to spit on his lance.'

'I am sure, Bryan--' commenced my mother, in a tone of mild remonstrance; but uncle Bryan interrupted her.

'Don't be sure of anything, Emma. Let me understand matters first. How long have I been asleep--days, weeks, or years?'

'Nearly two hours, Bryan.'

'So long! There was a man once who, at the bidding of a magician, but dipped his head into a bucket of water----' he paused moodily.

'Yes, yes!' exclaimed the girl eagerly, advancing a step towards him, with a desire to propitiate him. 'Go on. Tell me about him. I'm fond of stories about magicians.'

He stared at her. 'Injured innocence,' he said, 'speak when you're spoken to.' She tossed her head, and retreated, and uncle Bryan again questioned my mother. 'How long has this little----'

'Young lady,' interposed the girl, with rather a comical assertion of independence.

--'This little girl--how long has she been here?'

'About an hour, Bryan.'

'Long enough, I see, to make herself quite at home.' He seemed to be at a loss for words, and sat drumming his fingers on the table, moving his lips as if he were holding converse with them, and with his eyes turned from us.

In the silence that ensued, the girl stole towards him. My mother's footstool was near his chair, and she sat upon it, and resting her hand timidly on his knee, said, in a sweet pleading voice,

'I wish you would be kind to me.'

Her face was upturned to his. He looked down upon it, and placing his hands on her shoulders, said in a tone which was both low and bitter, which was harsh from passion and tender from a softer emotion which he could not control,

'For God's sake, child, tell me who you are! What is your name?'

'My name is Jessie Trim.'

CHAPTER XIII.

A SUDDEN SHOCK.

'Emma,' said my uncle, 'can you find something to do for a few minutes? Chris can shut up the shop.'

We went out of the parlour together, and I put up the shutters, and bolted them. Then my mother and I went downstairs to the kitchen, and my mother set light to the fire, and warmed up what remained of the day's dinner. Our usual supper was bread-and-cheese.

'She must be hungry,' said my mother, and I think it will please your uncle.'

'I am glad she is going to stay, mother. Do you think she will stop altogether with us?'

'I have no idea, child.'

'Jessie Trim! It's a pretty name, isn't it? Jessie, Jessie! Mother, why didn't you ask her her name when she came in?'

'She came to see your uncle, Chris. We must never forget one thing, my dear. This is his house, and he has been very kind to us.'

'He would be angry if he heard you say so.'

'That is his nature, and I should not say it to him. The least we can do in return for all his goodness is to study him in every possible way in our power. To have asked her all about herself might have been like stealing into his confidence. He may have secrets which he would not wish us to know.'

'Secrets! Do you think she is one of them?'

'How can she be? But let you and me make up our minds, my dear--I made up mine a long time ago, Chris--not to be too curious concerning anything your uncle does. If he wished us to know anything, he would tell us of his own free will.'

'I don't suppose he has anything to tell,' I said, with not the slightest belief in my own words.

'Perhaps not. Anyhow, we'll not say anything--eh, Chris?'

'Very well, mother. She is very pretty, isn't she?'

'Very, very pretty.'

'Such beautiful hair--and such white hands!'

I was proceeding with my raptures, when my mother tapped my cheek merrily, which brought the blood into my face strangely enough. 'At all events,' I said, I hope she will stay with us always.'

'You stupid Chris! What has got into your head? I really don't suppose she will stay very long.'

'But she has brought her box--and--and--'

My mother suddenly assumed a look of perplexity. 'Really, really now,' she said, sitting down, and holding me in front of her, 'I know every mark upon you. You have got a brown mole on your left side, and a little red spot like a currant on the back of your neck, and another one just here----' and then she paused.

'Well, mother?'

'Well, Chris, I really cannot remember that I have ever seen a note of interrogation anywhere about you. Have you got one, my dear? And where is it?'

'But, mother,' I said, laughing, and kissing her, 'I must be inquisitive and I must ask questions.'

'Only of me, dear child.'

'Well, then, only of you. Now wouldn't you grow quite fond of her?'

'I am sure I should, dear.'

'Well, wouldn't it be too bad, directly you got fond of her, for her to go away? Now wouldn't it?'

'But life is full of changes, my dear!'

'That's not an answer, mother. You're fond of me;'--an endearing caress answered me--'very, very fond, I know, and I am of you. Now, supposing I was to go away!'

'Child, child!' cried my mother, kneeling suddenly before me and clasping me in her arms. If I were to lose you, my heart would break!'

I was frightened at the vehement passion of her words, and at the white face upon which my eyes rested; but she grew more composed presently. Then the voice of uncle Bryan was heard at the top of the stairs, calling to us to come up.

'What can we do with our visitor to-night, Emma?' he said, thus indicating that matters had been arranged during our absence.

'She can sleep with me. You won't mind, my dear?'

'I shall like to,' replied Jessie. He's ever so much nicer than he was, although I can't say that he's at all polite.' This referred to uncle Bryan, who made a grimace. 'I couldn't help coming.'

'The least said,' observed uncle Bryan, with all his usual manner upon him, 'the soonest mended, young lady.'

She pursed up her lips: Young lady! That was all very well when we were distant. You may call me something else now, if you like.'

'Indeed! Well, then, Miss Trim.'

She laughed saucily. How funny it sounds as you say it! Miss Trim! I think we are quite intimate enough for you to call me Jessie.'

'You think!' retorted uncle Bryan, with some sense of enjoyment.

'You are given to thinking, I have no doubt.'

'Oh, yes; I think a good deal.'

'Upon my word What about?'

'All sorts of things that wouldn't interest you.'

I quite believe you, young lady.'

'Oh, if you like to call me that,' she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, you can. 'But I think it's a pity when people try to make themselves more disagreeable than they naturally are.'

For the life of him, uncle Bryan could not help laughing. This little play of words was to him what the world is always looking out for nowadays--a new sensation.

'Then I am naturally disagreeable, you think?'

She did not reply.

'What else do you think about me?'

'I think it must be uncomfortable for the others for you to go to sleep every night, with a handkerchief over your face.'

'If I had known you were coming----' he said, with mock politeness; but she interrupted him with wonderful quickness.

'Don't say unkind things. I feel when they are coming; my flesh begins to creep.'

'Do you think anything else about me?'

'Yes; I think you might give me some supper. You can't know how hungry I am; and I have always a good appetite.'

My mother was so intent upon this unusual dialogue, and was probably so lost in wonder (as I myself was) at the appearance of uncle Bryan in a new character, that she had entirely forgotten the supper; but at Jessie Trim's mention of it she ran downstairs, and it was soon on the table.

'Ah,' exclaimed Jessie, with approving nods; 'that smells nice.'

Uncle Bryan stared at the unexpected fare.

'You see what it is to be a young lady,' he said; hitherto we have always been contented with bread-and-cheese.'

'This is much nicer,' said Jessie, beginning to eat; 'are you not going to have some?'

'No. Give me some bread-and-cheese, Emma.'

The girl was too much occupied with her supper to bandy words with him; she ate heartily, and when she had finished, asked uncle Bryan if he did not feel in a better humour.

'I always do,' she remarked, 'after meals. There is only one thing I want now to make me feel quite amiable.'

'Then,' said uncle Bryan sententiously, 'all the trouble in the world would come to an end.'

She nodded acquiescently.

'And that one thing is----' he questioned.

'Something I sha'n't get. I see it in your face; it is really too much to ask for.'

'To put an end to all the trouble in the world, I would make a sacrifice.'

'No,' she said, shaking her head, I really haven't courage to ask.'

'What is it?' demanded uncle Bryan impatiently.

Then ensued a perfect piece of comedy-acting on the part of Jessie Trim; who, when she had worked uncle Bryan almost into a passion, made the prettiest of curtseys, and said that the only thing she wanted to make her feel quite amiable was a piece of candied lemon-peel.

'I always,' she added, with the oddest little twinkle in her eyes, 'like something sweet to finish my meals with.'

The expression on uncle Bryan's face was so singular that I did not know if he was going to laugh or storm. But Jessie got her piece of candied lemon-peel, and chewed it with great contentment, and with many sly looks at uncle Bryan.

'Now, then,' he cried, 'it is time to go to bed.'

'It isn't healthy,' observed Jessie, who seemed determined to upset all the rules of the house, 'to go to bed the moment after one has eaten a heavy supper.' She spoke with perfect gravity, and with the serious authority of a grown-up woman.

'Then we are to sit up after our time because you have over-eaten yourself.'

'I have not over-eaten myself: I have had just enough. I wish you wouldn't say disagreeable things; you would find it much nicer not to. If you think I am not right in what I say about going to bed immediately after supper, of course I will go. You are much older than I, and ought to be much wiser.'

'But I think you are right,' he growled.

'Why do you make yourself disagreeable then?' she asked, sitting down on the stool at his feet.

Not a word was spoken for half an hour; at the end of which time our visitor rose, just as if she were the mistress of the house, and remarked that now she did think it time we were all in bed.

'Good-night,' she said, giving him her hand; 'I hope I haven't vexed you.' She held up her face to him to be kissed, but he did not avail himself of the invitation, and retired to his room.

'He is a very strange man,' she said to us, and I don't quite know whether I like him or whether I don't. Good-night, Chris.'

'Good-night, Jessie.'

My mind was full of her and her quaint ways as I undressed myself, and I found myself unconsciously repeating, 'Good-night, Jessie! Jessie! Jessie!' Her name was to me the sweetest of morsels. 'I am glad she has come,' I thought; 'I hope she will stop.' I had not been in my room two minutes before I heard her knocking at the door of the room in which uncle Bryan slept. I crept to the wall to listen.

'Do you hear me?' she said. 'You can't be asleep already.'

But no response came from uncle Bryan.

'Do answer me!' she continued. 'If you think I have been rude to you, I am very sorry. I shall catch my death of cold if I stand here long. Say, good-night, Jessie!'

'Good-night.'

'Jessie!' she called out archly.

'Good-night, Jessie. Now go to bed, like a good--little girl.'

And then the house was quiet, and I fell asleep, and dreamt the strangest and sweetest dreams about our new friend.

The following morning when I rose I moved about very quietly, and I debated with myself whether I ought to bid my mother good-morning as usual. I stole softly upstairs, and put my ear to the door.

'Good-morning, mother.'

I almost whispered the words, but the reply came instantly, in clear sweet tones,

'Good-morning, dear child.'

She must have been listening for my step.

Is that you, Chris?' inquired a voice which, if I had not known the speaker, I should have imagined had proceeded from a little child.

'Yes, Jessie,' I answered, with a thrill of delight.

'Where are you going?'

'I am going to work.'

'Good-morning.'

'Good-morning.'

I had never been so happy in my work as I was during this day, and yet I wanted the hours to fly so that I might be home again. When eight o'clock struck, I whipped off my apron eagerly, and ran out of the office. My mother was at the gate.

'I didn't expect you, mother.'

'No, dear child. I wished to leave your uncle and Jessie together for a little while. She wanted to come with me, but I thought it best to leave her at home. Shall we take a walk, my dear?'

'Yes, but not a long one. Mother, who is she?'

'I do not know, my dear; and your uncle hasn't said a word--neither has she.'

'Not a word! Why, mother, she couldn't keep quiet!'

'I don't think she could, dear,' said my mother, with a smile. 'I mean not a word as to who she is. I think she gave your uncle a letter, for he has been writing to-day with one before him; but I am not sure.'

'I have been thinking about her all day, and I can't make her out. Anyhow, I hope she will stop with us. The house is quite different with her in it. Don't you think so? She is as light-hearted and as sparkling as a--a sunbeam.' I thought it a very happy simile. 'She couldn't be anything else.'

'My dear,' said my mother gravely, she was sobbing in her sleep last night as if her heart would break.' I looked so grieved at this that my mother quickly added, But she has been talking to your uncle to-day just as she did last night. She is like an April day; but then she is quite a child.'

'A child! Why, mother, she must be--how old should you think?'

'About fifteen, I should say, Chris.'

'So how can she be quite a child? And she doesn't talk like a child.'

'She does and she doesn't, my dear. I shouldn't wonder,' she said, with her sweet laugh, that because you are nearly eighteen, you think yourself quite a man.'

'I am growing, mother, am I not?' And I straightened myself stiffly up. Why, I am taller than you!'

'You will be as tall as your father was, my dear.'

'I am glad of that. She said men had no business to be little.'

'She said!' repeated my mother, laughing; and she tapped my cheek merrily, as she had done on the previous night, and again I blushed. Jessie ran into the shop to welcome us when we arrived home.

The evening passed very happily with me, Jessie entertaining us with her light talk. Her marvellous ingenuity, in twisting a few simple words so as to make them bear sparkling meanings, afforded me endless enjoyment. Uncle Bryan said very little, and notwithstanding the many challenges she slyly threw out to him, declined to be drawn into battle; but now and then she provoked him to answer her. He needed all his skill to hold his own against her, and he spoke rather roughly to her once or twice. On those occasions she became grave, and edged closer to my mother, having already learned that nothing but what was gentle could emanate from her tender nature. When Jessie went to bed with my mother, she did not hold up her face to be kissed, as she had done on the previous night. I do not think she debated the point with herself, whether she should do so; she gave him a rapid look when she wished him good-night, and decided on the instant--as she would have decided the other way had she seen anything in his face to encourage her. A week passed, and no word of explanation fell from uncle Bryan's lips as to the connection that existed between these two opposite beings; but I could not help observing that he grew more and more reserved, more and more thoughtful. In after days I recognised how strange a household ours really was during this period, but it did not strike me at the time, so entirely was I wrapped up in the new sense of happiness which Jessie Trim had brought into my life. Of the four persons who composed the household only Jessie and I were really happy. My mother was distressed because of uncle Bryan's growing moroseness; with unobtrusive gentleness she strove, in a hundred little ways, to break through the wall of silence and reserve which he built around himself, as it were, but she could scarcely win a word from his lips. It did not trouble me; my mind, was occupied only with Jessie. What Jessie did, what Jessie said, how Jessie looked and felt and thought--that was the world in which I moved now. A second week passed, and there was still no change. One night my mother said that she would come for me on the following evening.

'And bring Jessie,' I suggested, taking advantage of the opportunity which I had been waiting for all the week; 'a walk will do her good.'

Jessie's eyes sparkled at the suggestion.

'I should like to come,' she said, with a grateful look; 'I haven't had a walk since I came here. What are you thinking about?' to my mother.

'I am thinking,' replied my mother, 'whether there will be any objection to it.'

'On whose part?' I asked. 'Uncle Bryan's? Why, what objection can he have?'

'I am sure,' said Jessie, he won't care, one way or another; he doesn't care about anything, and especially about me. Why, how many words do you think he has spoken to me all this day, Chris?'

'I can't guess, Jessie.'

She counted on her fingers. One, two, three--sixteen. "I don't know anything about it! Be quiet! You're a magpie--nothing but chatter, chatter, chatter!" and he didn't speak them--he growled them. So he can't care. I shall come, Chris,'--pressing close to my mother coaxingly--'and we'll take a nice long walk.'

'Very well, my dear,' said my mother, with a smile; 'but I must ask your uncle, Chris.'

I mapped out in my mind the pleasantest walk I knew, and on the following night, when work was over, I hastened into the street; but neither my mother nor Jessie was there. I looked about for them, and waited for a quarter of an hour, and then raced home. Only my mother was in the house.

'Why didn't you come, mother?' I asked. 'I've been waiting ever so long. And where's Jessie?'

'My dear,' replied my mother, with her arm around my waist, 'Jessie has gone.'

'Gone! Oh, for a walk with uncle Bryan, I suppose?'

'No, my dear; she has gone away altogether.'

CHAPTER XIV.

THE WORLD BECOMES BRIGHT AGAIN.

'Gone away altogether!'

I echoed the words, but the news was so sudden and unexpected that for a few moments I did not quite understand their meaning. I had never, until the last fortnight, had a friend so nearly of my own age as Jessie; and the companionship had been to me so sweet and delightful, and so altogether new, that to lose it now seemed like losing the best part of my life. I released myself from my mother's embrace, and ran upstairs to her bedroom, to look for Jessie's box. It was gone, and the room was in all respects the same as it had been before Jessie's arrival. Until that time it had always worn a cheerful aspect in my eyes, but now it looked cold and desolate; the happy experiences of the last two weeks seemed to me like a dream--but a dream which, now that it had passed away, filled my heart with pain.

'Her box is gone,' I said, with quivering lips, when I rejoined my mother.

'It was taken away this morning, my dear.'

'That shows that she is not coming back; and I shall never, never see her again!'

My mother did not reply. The feeling that now stole upon me was one of resentment towards uncle Bryan. Who was to blame but he? From the first he had behaved harshly towards her. He saw that we were fond of her, and he was jealous of her. He was always cold and unsympathetic and unkind. Every unreasonable suggestion that presented itself to me with reference to him, I welcomed and accepted as an argument against him; and to this effect I spoke hotly and intemperately.

'Chris, Chris, my dear!' remonstrated my mother; 'you should not have hard thoughts towards your uncle.'

'I can't help it; he almost asks for them. He won't let us like him--he won't! I don't care if he hears me say so.'

'He can't hear you, my dear; he went away with Jessie this morning.'

'Where to?'

'I have no idea, Chris; he did not tell me.'

'And wouldn't, if you had asked,' I said bitterly.

My mother sighed, but said, with gentle firmness, 'I had no right to ask, my dear.'

'Then we are alone in the house, mother.'

'Yes, my dear, for a little while. Sit down, and I will tell you all about it.'

I sat down, and my mother sat beside me, and took my hand in hers.

'It came upon me as suddenly as it has come upon you, my dear, and I am almost as sorry as you are. But life is full of such changes, my dear child.'

'Go on, mother.' In my rebellious mood her gentle words brought no comfort to me.

'When I said last night that I would come for you this evening, I had no idea that anything would have prevented me. I intended to bring Jessie, and I looked forward with pleasure to the walk we intended to take. I did not tell your uncle that Jessie would come with me; I thought I would wait till teatime. Lately I have considered it more than ever my duty to study him, because of the change that has taken place in him--you have noticed it yourself, my dear--since Jessie came so strangely among us. For it was strange, was it not, my dear?--almost as strange as her going away so suddenly, and as unexpected too; for I am certain your uncle did not expect her, and that he was as much surprised as we were. He is not to blame, therefore, for what has occurred now. It is not for us, dear child, to find fault with him because he is silent and reserved with us; the only feeling we ought to have towards him is one of deep gratitude for his great kindness to us. You don't forget our sad condition, my darling, on the morning we received your uncle's letter.'

'No, mother, I don't forget,' I said, somewhat softened towards uncle Bryan.

'He did not deceive us; he spoke plainly and honestly, and the brightest expectations we could have entertained from his offer, and the manner in which it was made, have been more than realised. Is it not so, dear child?'

In common honesty I was compelled to admit that it was so.

'I shudder when I think what might have become of my dear boy if it had not been for this one friend--this one only friend, my darling, in all the wide, wide world!--who stepped forward so unselfishly to save us. And we have been so happy here, my darling, so very, very happy, all these years! If a cloud has come, have we not still a little sunshine left? There, there, my dear!' returning my kisses, and wiping her eyes; 'as I was saying'--(although she had said nothing of the kind; but she was flurried and nervous)--'and as I told you once before, I think Jessie gave your uncle a letter, and that I saw him, the day after she came, writing, with this letter before him. Every morning since then I have observed him watch for the arrival of the postman in the neighbourhood, and every time the postman passed without giving him the letter which I saw he expected, he grew more anxious. This morning he reminded me that I had some errands to make; I was away for nearly two hours, and when I came home he and Jessie were in the shop, dressed for walking. What passed after that was so quick and rapid that I was quite bewildered. Your uncle, beckoning me into the parlour, said that he and Jessie were going away, and that I was to take care of the shop while he was absent. "I want you not to ask any questions," he said, seeing, I suppose, that I was about to ask some. "I shall be away for two or three days, perhaps longer. Do the best you can. You had better wish Jessie good-bye now." I could not help asking, "Is she coming back with you?" And he said, "No." I was so grieved, Chris, that when I went into the shop, where Jessie was waiting, I was crying. "You are sorry I am going, then," she said. "Indeed, indeed, I am, my dear," I replied, as I kissed her. She kissed me quite affectionately, and said she was glad I was sorry, and that I was to give her love to you----'

'Did she say that, mother? Did she?'

'Yes, my dear. "Give my love to Chris," she said, "and say how sorry I am to go away without seeing him." And the next minute she was gone. I thought of her box then, and I ran upstairs, as you did just now, and found that it had been taken away while I was out. And that is all I know, my dear.'

'It is very strange,' I said, after a long pause. Mother, what do you think of it, eh?'

'My dear, I don't know what to think. The more I think, the more I am confused. And now, my dear----'

'Yes, mother.'

'We must make ourselves happy in our old way, and we must attend to the business properly until your uncle returns.'

Make ourselves happy in our old way! How was that possible? The light had gone out of the house. The very room in which we three--uncle Bryan, my mother, and I--had spent so many pleasant days before Jessie came, looked cold and comfortless now. Even the figure of my dear mother, bustling cheerfully about, and the sweet considerate manner in which she strove, in many tender ways, to soften my sorrow, were not a recompense for the loss of Jessie. I opened my book and pretended to be occupied with it, and my mother, with that rare wisdom which springs from perfect unselfish love, did not disturb my musings. The evening passed very quietly, and directly the shop was shut, I went to bed. I was in a very unhappy mood, and it was past midnight before I fell asleep. I did not think of my mother, or of the pain she was suffering through me. My grief was intensely selfish; I had not the strength which often comes from suffering, nor was I blessed with such a nature as my mother's--a nature which does not colour surrounding circumstances with the melancholy hue of its own sorrows. Unhappily, it falls to the lot of few to be brought within the sweet influence of one whose mission on earth seems to be to shed the light of peace and love upon those among whom her lot is cast, and to whom, unless we are ungratefully forgetful, as I was on this night, we look instinctively for comfort and consolation when trouble comes to us. In the middle of the night, I awoke suddenly, and found my mother sitting by my bed; she was in her nightdress, and there was a light in the room.

'Why, mother!' I exclaimed, confused for a moment.

'Don't be alarmed, dear child,' she said; 'there's nothing the matter; but I could not sleep, knowing that you were unhappy. You too, my dear, were a long time before you went to sleep.'

Then I knew that she must have watched and waited at my bedroom door until I had blown out my candle.

'What time is it, mother?'

'It must be three o'clock, my dear.'

'O, mother! And you awake at this time of the night for me!'

She smiled softly. Something of worship for that pure nature stole into my heart as I looked into her dear eyes. But there was grief in them, too, and I asked her the reason.

'Do you know, my darling,' she said, with a wistful yearning look, and with a sigh which she vainly strove to check, that you went to bed to-night without kissing me? For the first time in your life, dear child; for the first time in your life!'

In a passion of remorse I threw my arms around her neck, and kissed her again and again, and asked her forgiveness, and said, 'How could I--how could I be so unloving and unkind?' But she stopped my self-reproaches with her lips on my lips, and with broken words of joy and thankfulness. She folded me in her arms, and there was silence between us for many minutes--silence made sacred by love as pure and faithful as ever dwelt in woman's breast. Then I drew the clothes around her, and she lay by my side, saying that she would wait until I was asleep.

'This is like the old time, mother,' I whispered, 'when there was no one else but you and me. But I love you more than I did then, mother.'

'My darling child!' she whispered, in return; 'how you comfort me! But I won't have my dear boy speak another word, except good-night.'

We looked out on the following day for a letter from uncle Bryan, but none came, nor any news of him. It was the same on the second day, and the third. My mother began to grow uneasy.

'If he had only left word where he was going to!' she said. 'I am afraid he must be ill.'

The business went on very well without him, thanks to my mother's care and attention, except that on Saturday night the supply of 'uncle Bryan's pills,' as they had got to be called in the neighbourhood, ran short, which occasioned my mother much concern. Sunday and Monday passed, and still no tidings of him. On the Tuesday--I remember the day well: we were very busy where I was employed, and I did not come home until past ten o'clock--the shop was shut--a most unusual thing. I knocked at the door hurriedly, and my mother, with happiness in her face, opened it for me.

'Uncle Bryan has come home!' I cried, in a hearty tone.

She nodded gladly, and I ran in, and threw my arms about him. I think he was pleased with this spontaneous mark of affection; but he looked at me curiously too, I thought. We sat down--the three of us--and a dead silence ensued. We all looked at each other, and spoke not a word.

'What's the matter, mother?' I asked, for certainly so strange a silence needed explanation.

A sweet laugh answered me, and my heart almost leaped into my throat. I darted behind the door, and there stood Jessie Trim, bending forward, with eager face, and sparkling eyes, and hand uplifted to her ear. But when she saw that she was discovered, her manner changed instantly. She came forward, quite demurely.

'Are you glad?' she asked gravely, with her hand in mine.

My looks were a sufficient answer.

'And now,' she said, sitting down on the stool, and resting her hands on her lap, we are going to live happily together for ever afterwards.'

CHAPTER XV.

JESSIE'S ROSEWATER PHILOSOPHY.

Her voice was like music to my heart. With Jessie on one side of me, and my mother on the other, there was not a cloud on my life, nor room for one. I sat between them, now patting my mother's hand, now turning restlessly to Jessie, and looking at her in delight. But the change in the aspect of things was so sudden and unexpected, that it would not have much amazed me to see Jessie melt into thin air. This must have been expressed in my face, for Jessie, who was a skilful interpreter of expression, whispered,

'It is true; I have really come back.'

'I was doubting,' I said, in a similar low tone, 'whether I was asleep or awake.'

'Don't speak loud,' she said mockingly, 'don't look at me too hard, and don't blow on me, or you will find that you're only dreaming. Shall I pinch you?'

'No; I am awake, I know. This is the most famous thing that ever happened.'

'You were sorry when I went away, then?'

'I can't tell you how sorry; but you are not going away again?'

'I suppose not; I have no place to go to.'

There was a change in her manner; she was more thoughtful and sedate than usual, and her face was pale; but I noted these signs only in a casual way. To be certain that everything was right, I went out of the room to see if her box had been brought back. It was in its old place in my mother's bedroom. My mother had followed me.

'So you are happy again, my dear,' she said, as we stood, like lovers, with our arms around each other's waist.

'I am glad, mother,' I replied, pressing her fondly to me; 'and so are you too, I know. But tell me how it all happened.'

'There is very little to tell, dear child. I was as surprised as you were. I was having tea when your uncle and Jessie came in suddenly; it gave me quite a turn, for Jessie, as you see, is in mourning.' (I had not noticed it, and I wondered at my blindness.) 'Your uncle looked worn and anxious, and they were both very tired, as if they had come a long distance. "I have not quite deserted you, you see," your uncle said. I told him how glad I was he had returned, and how anxious we had been about him. "And Jessie, too," I said. "I was afraid I was not to see her again." "You will see a great deal of her for the future," said your uncle; "she will live with us now. She must sleep with you, as there is no other room in the house for her." And that is positively all I have to tell, Chris, except that Jessie has been very quiet all the evening, and only showed her old spirits when your knock was heard at the street-door.'

'And Jessie has told you nothing, mother?'

'Nothing, dear child; and I have not asked.'

'You don't even know whom she is in mourning for?'

'No, my dear.'

Jessie was displaying more of her old spirits when my mother and I went downstairs; as we entered the room she was saying to uncle Bryan,

'I wish you would tell me what I am to call you. I can't call you Bryan, and I don't like Mr. Carey. I could invent a name certainly, if I wanted to be spiteful.'

'What name?' he asked, in his rough manner.

'Never mind. You'd like to know, so that you could bark and fight. What shall I call you?'

'Call me what you please,' he answered.

'Well, then, I shall call you uncle Bryan, as Chris does; I daresay I shall get used to it in time.'

Soon after this point was settled I found an opportunity to touch Jessie's black dress, and to press her hand sympathisingly. She understood the meaning of the action, and her lips quivered; she did not speak another word until she went to bed. The events of the evening had for a time driven from my head news which I had to tell, and which I knew would be received with pleasure. My errand-running days were over. My employer, whose name was Eden, satisfied with the manner in which I had performed my duties, had placed me on the footing of a regular apprentice, and I was to learn the art of wood-engraving in all its branches. A fair career was therefore open to me. It is needless for me to say how these glad tidings rejoiced my dear mother.

'Mr. Eden,' I said, 'has often asked to see my little sketches, and has been pleased with them, I think. He told me that he commenced in the same way himself, and he has given me every encouragement. He says that in three years I shall be able to earn good wages. Who knows? I may have a business of my own one day.'

And you have only yourself to thank for it, my dear child; said my mother, casting looks of pride around.

'No, mother; you are wrong. I have kept the best bit to the last. Mr. Eden has spoken of you a good many times--he has often seen you, you know, when you came for me of an evening--and I have told him all about you. When he called me into his office this afternoon, he said that I had you to thank for this promotion, and that I was to tell you so, with his compliments.'

'Why, my dear!' exclaimed my mother; Mr. Eden has never spoken one word to me.'

'But he has seen you,' interrupted uncle Bryan, the tone and meaning of his words being strangely at variance, and that is enough. Mr. Eden is right, Chris. Whatever good fortune comes to you in life, you have only one person in the world to thank for it.'

'I think so too, uncle.' His words softened me towards him, and I went to his side, and said gratefully, 'You have been very good to me, sir, also.'

'Psha!' he said, with an impatient movement of his head. 'Emma, if you will fill my pipe for me, I will smoke it.'

The pipe we had presented to him on his birthday had not yet been used, and my mother took it from the mantelshelf, filled it, and handed it to him. He received it with a kind of growl, implying that he had been conquered unawares, but he smoked it with much inward contentment nevertheless.

I was so excitedly happy when I went to bed that I was as long getting to sleep as I was on the night of Jessie's sudden disappearance. Here and there life is dotted with sunny spots, the light of which is but rarely entirely darkened, and had Jessie never returned, she might have dwelt in my mind as one of these; or--so surrounded with romance was her appearance and disappearance--I might have grown to wonder whether she was a creation of my fancy, or had really belonged to my life. But now that she was among us again, and was going to live with us, I felt as if a bright clear stream were flowing within me, invigorating and gladdening my pulses--a sweet refreshing stream within the range of which sadness or melancholy could find no place. Reason became the slave of creative thought, and within my heart flowers were blooming, the beautiful forms and colours of which could never wither and fade. Jessie had struck the key-note of my certain belief when she said, 'And now we are going to live happily together for ever afterwards.'

Curious as I was to know why she had returned to us in mourning, I held my tongue, out of respect for my mother's wish that we should ask no questions. Jessie's quieter mood soon wore away; little by little she introduced colour into her dress, and in three months she was out of mourning. I fancied now and then, as these alterations in her dress were made, that her manner towards uncle Bryan indicated an expectation that he would speak to her on the subject. But he made no remark, and noticed her the least when most she invited notice.

She changed the entire aspect of our house. It belonged to her to brighten, apparently without conscious effort, everything which came in contact with her. The contrast between her and my mother was very great. My mother's tastes, like her nature, were quiet and unassuming. Her hair was always plainly done, and, within my experience, she had never worn cap or flower; her dress was always of one sober tint; and her pale face and almost noiseless step were in keeping with these. If she had had the slightest reason to suppose that by placing a flower in her hair, and wearing a bit of bright ribbon, or by any other innocently-attractive device, she could have given me or uncle Bryan pleasure, she would have done so instantly; but, out of her entire disregard of self, no such thought ever entered her mind. Now Jessie was fond of flowers and ribbons, and was gifted with the rare faculty of knowing where a bit of colour, and what colour, would prove most attractive. From the most simple means she produced the most exquisite results. Her box was a perfect Pandora's box in its inexhaustible supply of adornments, and she was continually surprising us with something new, or something which she made to look like new. And she was by no means disposed to hide her light under a bushel. Everything she did must be admired, and if admiration did not come spontaneously, she was very prompt in asking or even begging for it. It was amusing to watch the tricksy efforts by which she strove to attract attention to anything she was wearing for the first time, however trifling it might be, or to the slightest change in the arrangement of her dress. Then, when her object was attained, she would ask, 'And do you really like it? Are you sure now?' or 'Would it look better so?' or 'What do you think of its being this way--or that?' I was the person whom she consulted most frequently; but I could see nothing to find fault with, and could never suggest any improvement; whereas uncle Bryan would shrug his shoulders, and mutter disparaging remarks, which never failed to provoke warm replies from Jessie. Then he would smile caustically, and hit her hard with words still more spiteful, or retire into his shell, according to his humour.

'We will have a world made especially for you, young lady,' he said--whenever he was disposed to be bitter, he called her young lady'--'a world full of ribbons and flounces and flowers and silk dresses and satin shoes, and everything else you crave for.'

'That would be nice,' she observed complacently.

'And you shall live in it all alone, so that your title to these nice things shall not be disputed.'

'That wouldn't do,' she answered promptly; 'what is the use of having nice things unless you get people to admire them?'

'We will have people made to order for you, then; people who shall be always admiring you and praising you and flattering you.' He rung changes on this theme for five minutes or so, and when he paused, she made a grimace, as if she had been compelled to swallow a dose of medicine. But this kind of warfare did not alter her nature. She coaxed my mother to buy a pair of pretty ornaments for the mantelshelf; she coaxed uncle Bryan--how she managed it, heaven only knows! but she was cunning, and she must have entrapped him in an unguarded moment--to allow her to buy a piece of oil-cloth for the table, and she herself chose the pattern; and in many other ways she made it apparent that a new spirit was at work in our household. She made the bedroom in which she and my mother slept the prettiest room in the house; pictures were hung or pasted on the wall; her own especial looking-glass was set in a framework of white muslin, daintily edged with blue ribbon. 'Blue is my favourite colour,' she said, as she stood, the fairest object there, pointing out to me some trifling improvement; 'it suits my complexion.' It is not difficult to understand how popular she soon became in the neighbourhood; admiring eyes followed her whenever she appeared in the narrow streets round about, and I would not have changed places with an emperor when I walked out with her by my side. If any one quality in her could have made her more precious to me, it was her feeling towards my mother.

'No one can help loving her,' said Jessie to me, in one of our confidential conversations. 'Is she ever angry with any one?'

'I think not,' I replied. 'Where another person would be angry, she is sorry. There isn't another mother in the world like mine.'

'Would you like me to be like her? Would it be better for me, do you think?'

I like you as you are, Jessie; I shouldn't like you to alter. There are different kinds of good people, you know.'

'I am not good.'

'Nonsense! you not good!'

'Your mother is, Chris; she never goes to bed without kneeling down and saying her prayers.'

'I know it, Jessie. And you?'

'Oh, I often forget--always when I go to bed before her. When we go together, I kneel down, and shut my eyes; but I don't say anything. I see things.'

On one occasion Jessie met me at the street-door when I came home from work, and led me with an air of importance into the sitting-room, where my mother sat in a new dress and a cap with ribbons in it. My mother blushed as I looked at her.

'She would make me do it, Chris,' she said apologetically.

'Now doesn't she look prettier so?' asked Jessie.

There was no denying it; I had never seen my mother look so attractive, and I kissed her and told her so.

'That makes it all right,' cried Jessie, clapping her hands. 'All the time I was persuading her, she said, "What will Chris say?" and, "Will not Chris think it strange?"'

And Jessie pretended that something was wrong with the cap, and spread out a ribbon here and a ribbon there, and fluttered about my mother in the prettiest way, and then fell back to admire her handiwork.

'I want a new nightcap,' growled uncle Bryan, adding with a sarcastic laugh, 'but the ribbons in it must suit my complexion.'

The next night Jessie gravely presented him with a nightcap gaily decorated with ribbons. 'It will become you beautifully,' she said, with a demure look. When he crossed lances with her, he was generally vanquished.

Jessie explained to me the philosophy of all this.

'I like everything about me to look nice,' she said; 'what else are things for? Everybody ought to be nice to everybody. What are people sent into the world for, I should like to know--to make each other comfortable or miserable?'

I subscribed most heartily to this rosewater philosophy. Certainly, if Jessie had had her way, there would have been no heartaches in the world; no poverty, no sickness, no rags, no rainy days. The sun would have been eternally shining where she moved, and everything around her would have been eternally bright. The world would have been a garden, and she the prettiest flower in it.

In the mean time I was making rapid progress in my business. My great ambition was to become a good draughtsman; and I had learnt all that could be learnt in the school of art, which I had attended regularly for some time.

'Now sketch from nature,' the master said; 'I can do nothing more for you. You have a talent for caricature, but before that can be properly developed, you must learn figure drawing from the life.'

These words fired me, and I commenced my studies in this direction with my mother, who was always ready to stand in any uncomfortable position for any length of time, while I laboured to reproduce her. Perhaps I would come suddenly into the room while she was stooping over the fire, or standing on tiptoe to reach something from the top shelf of the cupboard. 'Stand still, mother,' I would cry; 'don't move!' And the dear mother would stand as immovable as a statue until I released her; and then, dropping her arms, or rising from her stooping posture, with a sigh of relief which she could not suppress, she would fall into ecstasies with my work, whether it were good or bad. Uncle Bryan was a capital study for me, and would smile cynically when I produced any especially ill-favoured sketch of his face or figure. It was but natural that I should make the most careful studies of Jessie; and she, not at all unwilling, posed for me half a dozen times a week, until my desk was filled with sketches of her in scores of graceful attitudes and positions. Her face was my principal study; and I sketched it with so many different expressions upon it, that before long I knew it by heart, and could see it with my eyes shut--smiling, or pouting, or looking demurely at me. Jessie inspected every scrap of my work, and very promptly tore into pieces anything that did not please her, saying she did not want any ugly likenesses of herself lying about. I made studies of her eyes, her lips, her ears, her hands; and we passed a great deal of time together in this way, to our mutual satisfaction. We were allowed full liberty; but I sometimes detected uncle Bryan observing us with a curiously pondering expression on his face. This did not trouble me however.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE STONE MONKEY FIGURE GIVES UP ITS TREASURES.

I had been for some time employed on a large drawing of Jessie, in crayons. It was my first ambitious attempt in colours; and it arose from Jessie's complaint that I could not paint her as she was.

'I am all black and white,' she said; 'I am tired of seeing myself so. Now if you could show me my eyes as they are---- What colour are they, Chris?'

Thereupon it was necessary that a close investigation should be made, which was not too rapidly concluded: these matters take a long time to determine, especially when one is an enthusiast in his art, as I was. The next day I bought crayons, and practised secretly; and secretly also commenced the sketch of Jessie above mentioned. I was never tired of contemplating my work, which promised to be a success; and one Sunday, when it was nearly completed, I went to my room to examine it. I kept it carefully concealed in my box, and, after a long examination, I was about to replace it, when I was startled by Jessie's voice, asking me what I was hiding. She had entered the room softly and slyly, on purpose to surprise me, she told me.

'I am certain,' she said, 'that you are doing something secretly. For the last three or four weeks you have shut yourself in here night after night, for hours together. Now I want to know all about it.'

I did not wish her to see the sketch until it was quite finished; but as she knelt by my side, and as my box was open, I could not prevent her from discovering it.

'O Chris!' she cried. It's beautiful!'

And she expressed such praise of it that my heart thrilled with delight.

'You think it's like you, then, Jessie?'

'Like me! It's me--me, myself! Set it on the box there; I'll show you.'

And with a rapid movement she altered the fashion of her hair to suit my picture, and assumed the exact expression I had chosen. She looked very bewitching as she stood before me, the living embodiment of my work. Then she knelt before the box again, and praised the picture still more warmly, analysing it with exclamations of pleasure.

While she was talking and admiring herself; she was tossing over the contents of my box, when she came upon the only legacy my grandmother had left me--the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, which the old lady had solemnly confided to my care. From the day I had entered uncle Bryan's house it had lain in my box, and by this time I had almost forgotten it; but as Jessie held it up and turned it about, my mind was strangely stirred by those reminiscences of my early life with which it was inseparably connected.

'What a curious image?' exclaimed Jessie. 'How long have you had it?'

'All my life, Jessie. Put it away; it's the ugliest thing that ever was seen.'

'I don't think so. It's funny; look at it, wagging its head. Why, you seem quite frightened of it! Well, then, I shall take it, and keep it in my room.'

'No, I mustn't part with it. It was given to me by my grandmother, and she said that it must be kept always in the family. Not that I think much of what she said.'

Jessie shifted her position, and seated herself very comfortably upon the floor.

'Now you've got something to tell me,' she said, pulling me down beside her. 'I've never heard of your grandmother before, and you know how fond I am of stories.'

'But mine is not a story, And there's nothing interesting to tell.'

'Oh, yes, there is; there must be. Everybody's life is full of stories.'

'Yours, Jessie?' I put the question somewhat timorously.

'Perhaps,' she answered gravely; and added, after a short pause, 'But we're not speaking of me; we're speaking of you. I want to know everything.'

But it was long before she could coax me to speak of my early life. There was much that I felt I should be ashamed for Jessie to know; and a burning blush came to my cheeks as I thought of the time when my mother used to beg for our living. To escape too searching an inquiry I began to tell her of my grandmother, which led naturally to the story of my grandmother's wedding. Of course the man with the knob on the top of his head, and who was always eating his nails, was introduced, he being the principal figure at the wedding.

'There!' cried Jessie. You said you hadn't any story to tell. Why, you've told me half a dozen already. I can see your grandmother as plain as plain can be; and that disagreeable man, too--I wonder what became of him, after all? What was his name, Chris?'

'Anthony Bullpit'

'I hate the name of Anthony. Go on; I want to hear more.'

I gave a description of Jane Painter, at which Jessie laughed heartily, and clapped her hands.

'I shall come into your bedroom one night with a sheet over me, and frighten you.'

'I shouldn't be frightened of you, Jessie; besides, I'm not a boy now, and I'm not afraid of anything. Then your voice----'

'Well!'

'Your voice is musical. How could you frighten anybody with it?'

Jessie edged a little closer to me.

'Go on, Chris. Anything more about Jane Painter? What a wretch she must have been!' Then came an account of my grandmother's death, and the legend of the long stocking, in which Jessie was immensely interested.

'And you never found any money after all, Chris?'

'No; and I'm sure we searched for it everywhere. We looked up the chimney, and ripped the bed open, and pulled the armchair all to pieces.'

'I'd have had the cellar dug up,' cried Jessie excitedly; I'd have had the paper taken off the walls, and the flooring taken away bit by bit. I am certain the money was hidden somewhere.'

I shook my head.

'Or Jane Painter stole it,' she continued. 'I sha'n't sleep to-night for thinking of it. I do so like to find out things! And I'd like to find out this thing more than any other.'

'Why, Jessie?'

'Such a lot of money, Chris! Hundreds and hundreds of pounds there must have been hidden away, or stolen. Hundreds and hundreds of pounds!'

'Would you like to be rich, Jessie?'

'Chris,' she replied, looking at me seriously, 'I think I would do anything in the world for money.'

A miserable feeling came over me, and for the first time in my life I repined at my lot. What would I not have sacrificed at that moment if I could have filled her lap with money! All this time Jessie had been playing with the stone monkey figure, and now she suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise.

'Look!' she cried. 'The head comes off. It isn't broken; here's the wire it hangs upon. Why, Chris----'

She seized my hand in uncontrollable excitement, and hid the figure in her lap.

'What's the matter, Jessie?'

'There's something inside. It's stuffed full of paper. What if it should be your grandmother's money?'

The amazing suggestion almost took away my breath.

'It's just the kind of place,' continued Jessie, panting, 'she would have hidden it in. She kept it all in large bank-notes, and stuffed them in here, where nobody could possibly suspect they were, and where she could have them under her eye all the day. O Chris! feel how my heart beats!'

My excitement was now as great as her own.

'Quick, Jessie! Let us look!'

'No,' she cried, covering the figure with both hands, 'let us wait a bit. This is the best part of things: knowing that something wonderful is coming, and waiting a little before it comes. How much is it? A hundred pounds! Five hundred pounds! It can't be less, for you say she always wore silk dresses. What will you do with it? We'll all have new clothes. I know where there's such a lovely blue barege, and I saw a hat in a window yesterday, trimmed with blue ribbon, and with lilies and forget-me-nots in it, that I'd give my life for. O Chris! I can see myself in them already.'

So she went on for full five minutes, building her castles; then with a long-drawn breath she said,

'Now, Chris!'

The inside of the figure was certainly full of paper, which I fished out very easily with one of Jessie's hairpins, and amid a little cloud of dust--emblematical of Jessie's castles, for the paper was utterly valueless. She refused to believe at first, and when she was convinced, her disappointment took the form of anger against my grandmother; she declared that the old lady had done it on purpose, and that she was a spiteful, wicked, deceitful old creature. I was quite as disappointed as Jessie was, more for her sake than my own, and I tried to talk her into a better mood. Thinking there might be writing on some of the paper, I smoothed it out, piece by piece; but there was nothing written or printed on any of it with the exception of one long slip, which was evidently a cutting from a newspaper. It was headed, 'Remarkable Discovery of a Forger by the Celebrated Detective, Mr. Vinnicombe.' And glancing down the column, the name of Anthony Bullpit attracted my attention. I became interested immediately.

'Here's something, at all events,' I said; 'something about my grandmother's nail-eating lover. Listen, Jessie.'

'I don't want to hear anything about him,' replied Jessie, in a pet, leaving the room.

So I read this 'Remarkable Discovery' quietly by myself. It ran as follows:

CHAPTER XVII.

THE TRUE STORY OF ANTHONY BULLPIT.

Among the cases tried at the late assizes was one not only of local interest, but exceedingly remarkable, because of the extraordinary circumstances attendant upon the arrest of the prisoner, who, after the commission of his crime, had absconded. We throw the particulars of this case into the form of a narrative, as being likely to prove more interesting to our readers. The three principal characters in the story are Mr. James Pardon, a Solicitor; Mr. Anthony Bullpit, his confidential clerk; and Mr. Vinnicombe, a detective. These terse definitions would be sufficient for dramatic purposes, but a more comprehensive description is necessary here for the purposes of our story. Mr. James Pardon is the head of the well-known and highly-respected firm of solicitors in High-street, and to his care is intrusted a vast amount of important business. Not only as a solicitor, but as a man and a churchwarden his name commands universal respect. He employs a large staff of clerks, conspicuous among whom was Anthony Bullpit, who had been in his service from boyhood, and whose face is familiar to most of our townsmen. Mr. Vinnicombe, we need scarcely say, is the name of the celebrated detective whose unerring instinct, in conjunction with a powerful and keen intellect, has been the means of bringing many a criminal to justice. In his profession, Mr. Vinnicombe is facile princeps. There is a fourth character, who plays a minor but important part, and whom it will be sufficiently explicit to describe as Mr. Vinnicombe's friend. Now for the story.

To all outward appearance trustworthy and attentive to his duties, Anthony Bullpit rose step by step in the office of Mr. James Pardon until he had arrived at the position of head clerk; his manners were civil and plausible, and not the slightest suspicion was entertained of his honesty. He had access to the safe and cheque-book of the firm, and was intrusted with much confidential business. On the twenty-first of last month Mr. James Pardon had occasion to go to London on a matter of great importance; he expected to be absent for at least three weeks, and Anthony Bullpit was left to superintend the affairs of the firm. It fortunately happened that Mr. Pardon's business in London was transacted more rapidly than he had anticipated, and he returned to Hertford, without warning, after an absence of fourteen days only. His confidential clerk was absent; and to his astonishment he was informed that, three days before his return, Anthony Bullpit had stated in the office that he had received a letter from Mr. Pardon, desiring his immediate attendance in London, to render assistance in the matter on which Mr. Pardon was engaged. As Mr. Pardon had sent no such letter to Anthony Bullpit, his suspicions that all was not as it should be were naturally aroused, and he at once made an examination of the affairs of the business. A very slight inquiry was sufficient to justify his suspicions: not only had all the money which had been received during his absence been abstracted, but a cheque for seven hundred pounds, taken from his cheque-book, and purporting to be signed by James Pardon, had been presented to the bank, and cashed without hesitation. The signature was a most skilful imitation, and Mr. Pardon acknowledges that any person might have been deceived by it. Thus far the story is, unhappily, but an ordinary one in the history of crime; but now come the extraordinary incidents which elevate it almost into the sphere of romance. Mr. Pardon's indignation was extreme, and being determined to bring the delinquent to justice, he went at once to the police-court, and laid his charge. While it was being taken down a person, who did not appear to be particularly interested in the narration, was sitting by the fire, apparently deeply engaged in a newspaper which he held in his hand. When Mr. Pardon had finished, he gave expression to his indignation, and to his determination to inflict upon the forger the utmost punishment of the law. The person who was reading by the fire said aloud, 'First catch your hare, then cook it.' Mr. Pardon, not being aware whether the stranger was quoting from the paper he was reading or was making an independent observation, asked, in his quick manner, whether the words were addressed to him. 'To any one,' answered the stranger. 'And you said----' prompted Mr. Pardon. 'I said,' repeated the stranger, 'first catch your hare, then cook it. You see,' added the stranger, 'the first thing you have to do is to catch your clerk; then you can cook him--not before. Now how are you going to do it?' Mr. Pardon confessed that he did not know how it was to be done, but he supposed that the police---- The stranger interrupted him. 'This clerk, Anthony Bullpit, is more than a match for the police. You acknowledge that your name was so skilfully forged that you might have been taken in by it yourself. Now, the skill which enabled Anthony Bullpit to write your name in such a way as might deceive even you, was not acquired in an hour or a day. He has been secretly practising your signature for years, and has been secretly practising, I don't doubt, many other things you're not acquainted with, which might come useful to in one day or another. What does this imply? That Anthony Bullpit is a shallow bungling sort of criminal, or an artful, scheming, designing sort of criminal?' Mr. Pardon, himself the shrewdest of lawyers, was struck by the shrewd intelligence of the stranger, and admitted that it was clear that Anthony Bullpit was a scheming, artful, designing scoundrel. 'But he had a quiet way with him,' said Mr. Pardon, 'that any person might have been taken in by.' The stranger smiled. 'One of your sneaking kind,' he said; 'I know them. They're the most difficult to deal with, and the most difficult to catch. The chances are that Anthony Bullpit had all his plans well laid beforehand. And don't forget that he's got three days' start. Why, you don't even know what road he has taken!' Mr. Pardon acknowledged the reasonableness of these observations. 'May I ask,' he said, 'with whom I have the pleasure of conversing?' 'My name is Vinnicombe,' replied the stranger, rising. 'Mr. Vinnicombe, the famous detective!' exclaimed Mr. Pardon. 'The same,' was the answer. Mr. Pardon immediately made a proposition to Mr. Vinnicombe, and the result was that, within an hour, Mr. Vinnicombe presented himself at Mr. Pardon's office, saying that he was ready to take the case in hand at once. What follows is from the eminent detective's own lips, verbatim et literatim, taken down in our own office by the editor of this paper:^[1]

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Footnote 1:

It is evident, from the manner in which he presented his report of the case to his readers, that 'the editor of this paper' was in advance of his times; he would have made an admirable descriptive reporter in these days. Mr. Vinnicombe also, as is apparent from the style of the narrative, was an advanced detective; but the qualities which are necessary for the making of a good detective, and the spirit which animates the class, do not differ, whatever the year.--Author.]

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'The first thing Mr. Pardon wanted me to do,' said Mr. Vinnicombe, was to trace the notes; but I said, No; the thief first, the property afterwards. If I could trace him by the property, all right; but there was no time to lose in ascertaining what road he had taken, and where he was bound to. In a very short time I discovered by what means and by what road Anthony Bullpit had left the town. That road did not lead to Liverpool, and immediately I learnt this, I decided that Liverpool was the port which he intended to reach. Why port? you ask. Well, it wasn't likely that a cunning card like this Bullpit was going to remain in England. I picked up a bit of gossip concerning him, and I found out that he had had a love affair with a young lady--I mention no names, and I only mention it professionally--and that her family, not liking his sneaking ways, had shut their doors on him; I found out also that this young lady was soon to be married to a gentleman who was more worthy of her. That was one reason why it wasn't likely he was going to remain in England; having filled his pockets with another man's money was another reason. But there were stronger reasons than these. He had peculiar marks about him, and if he wasn't found out to-day by these marks, he would be to-morrow; and he knew it. So what he had to do was to get out of the country as quick as he could. Now, there's only two ports in England from where a man as wants to go can go to all parts of the world, civilised and uncivilised. These ports are London and Liverpool.

'Bullpit wouldn't go to London. Why? Mr. Pardon was there. He'd go naturally to Liverpool, because Mr. Pardon was not there. Now, I'll tell you about these peculiar marks of his. First, he had--a knob on the top of his head. But the knob couldn't be seen, you'll say, because he had a bushy head of hair. That's right enough, but it don't do away with the knob; he had it, and that was enough for me. I don't know as ever I had any business in connection with a man as had a knob on his head, and that circumstance made the case interesting to me. I like to do with all sorts. Second, he had a peculiarity with his teeth. The two middle ones in the top jaw--I hope you don't think I'm going to swear or use bad language; but jaw's a word, and when a word's got to be used, I use it--the two middle teeth in his top jaw had a slit between 'em, a slit as you could see daylight through, if there was such a thing in his mouth. That slit ain't much, you'll say. All right. Third, he had a habit of biting his nails. Well, now, that ain't a crime, you say. I don't say it is, but he had it, and that was enough for me. These peculiarities and a general description of Bullpit--as to how tall he was (a man can't alter that), how stout (nor that), what kind of complexion, and other personal details--were all I had to go upon. I tracked him, without ever making a miss, in the contrary direction of Liverpool, and then back again by another road in the direction of Liverpool, and there I lost sight of him completely. But I knew he must be there, and that was enough for me. I had travelled faster than he had, and I reckoned I had gained a day and a half on him. According to my calculation, he hadn't had time to get away yet; he could only have been in Liverpool two days, and as Mr. Pardon wasn't expected home for a week after he left, there was no need for him to put on any show of hurry; it might look suspicious. Now, what should I do? Bullpit would be sure to disguise himself--clap on a pair of false whiskers and coloured spectacles perhaps, cut his hair short, wear a wig; he would certainly not walk about in the clothes he run away in. Thinking of these things I felt that Bullpit might prove more than a match for me. There was the knob on his head certainly; but I couldn't go up to every suspicious-looking stranger, pull off his hat, and feel for the knob; people might resent it as a liberty, and treat it accordingly. There was his habit of biting his nails; but he would be sure to restrain himself, though it is about the most difficult thing in the world for a man to keep from, when he's been accustomed to it all his life. I don't see what there is in nails except dirt to make people fond of 'em. They ain't sweet and they ain't tasty. Well, but Bullpit. He'd be cunning enough to restrain himself from biting his nails, knowing it was a mark to go by; still nails don't grow in a day, and they'd be short on his fingers naturally. But he'd wear gloves. Then the slit between his teeth. Well, that couldn't be altered; but he could keep his mouth shut. Now if I was to tell you everything I did in the first two days I was in Liverpool, it would fill a book, and that's what you don't want; what you do want is for me to come to the point, and that I'll do in a jiffy. I went down to the docks, and took up my lodgings near there; I didn't stop in any particular place, but shifted from one eating-house to another, and mixed with the customers, and talked to the waiters; no ship sailed out of the Mersey without my being on it at the last minute, with my eyes wide open; I communicated with the captains and the ship-agents; I watched every new arrival at the eating-houses, and drank with them, and did a hundred other things--and at the end of the fourth day I was as far off as ever; I hadn't picked up a link. Now, that nettled me; it did--it nettled me. I had set my heart on catching this Bullpit; he was worth catching, he was such a sly cunning customer; I looked upon it as a match between us, and I wanted to win, and here was I four days in Liverpool, with never a link in my hands for my pains. On the fifth day I met--quite by accident--a professional friend, who had come down to Liverpool to say good-bye to a relative of his who was going to America. The ship was to sail that afternoon; it was called The Prairie Bird. We had a bit of dinner together in the coffee-room, where other men were dining. Over dinner I told my friend what had brought me to Liverpool; I spoke in a low tone, so as not to be overheard, and I was not sorry when the man who was eating at the next table to ours went away in the middle of my story; he was a little too close to us. Well, we finished dinner; my friend insisted on paying the reckoning, and I moved a step or two towards the next table, where the man who went away in the middle of my story had been dining. The waiter was clearing the table, when I saw something that set me on fire. Now, what do you think it was? You can't guess. I should think you couldn't, if you tried for a week. What do you say to a piece of bread? You laugh! Well, but that piece of bread was enough for me. It wasn't a link. It was the chain itself. In what way? I'll tell you. You see, that piece of bread was partly eaten, and the man who had been dining had put it down after taking his last bite at it. The marks of his teeth were in it, but the only mark I saw was a little ridge in the centre of the bite--just such a ridge as would be left by a man who had a slit between two of his upper teeth, as Anthony Bullpit had. Would that little mark have been enough for you?

'Now I had seen this man a dozen times; a most respectable-looking man he was, with leg-of-mutton whiskers, and most respectably dressed, something like a clergyman; and I knew he was a passenger by The Prairie Bird. I had never for one moment suspected him. Anthony. Bullpit was a pale-faced man; this man had a high colour. There was nothing particular in Anthony Bullpit's walk; this man dragged one leg behind the other slightly. Anthony Bullpit's hair was black; this man's hair was sandy. Anthony Bullpit had good eyebrows; this man had no eyebrows at all to speak of. Ah, he's a cunning rascal is Anthony Bullpit, and was worth catching. I put things together very quickly in my mind, and I settled it--if it wanted settling after the first sight of that piece of bread--that this man, and no other, was the man I wanted. There was only one thing that puzzled me, and that was his nails; they were long. However, I wasn't going to let that stop me, so I laid a little plot with my professional friend, and we went aboard The Prairie Bird--not in company, because of the little plot I laid, but one a minute after the other. There was my respectable customer, standing by himself; I was puzzled even then as I looked at him, he was so well disguised; but his height was there, and his bulk was there, with a little added to it, which might be padding. Well, while I stood a little distance away, with my eye on him, but not in an open way, my professional friend walks up to him from behind, until he gets close, and this is what my professional friend whispers to him: "Don't start," whispers my professional friend, most confidentially; "don't turn your head, or it might attract notice. My name's Simpson, and I cashed the cheque for seven hundred pound for you in the Hertford Bank. I was in the bank for six years, and I've done a little bit of business on my own account, and have got clear away. Twelve hundred pounds I've got about me, and I'm a fellow passenger of yours; when The Prairie Bird gets to America, what's to hinder you and me going partners and making our fortunes? Two such heads as ours'll be sure to make a big one. I sha'n't speak another word to you till we're safely off, but I'm glad I've got a friend on board." With that, my professional friend slips quietly away. Now, if my respectable-looking customer hadn't been the man I wanted, he would have turned round on my professional friend, and hit him in the eye perhaps; at all events, he would have kicked up a row. But he listened to every word, with his eyes looking down on the deck, and the only movement he made was a kind of twitching with his fingers, and a rising of them to his lips, as if he wanted to set to work on his nails. He didn't get so far as his mouth with them; he had himself too well in hand; but I was sure of my man--his own cunning was the trap in which he was caught. I waited until the last minute, until those who weren't going to the other side of the Atlantic in The Prairie Bird were scrambling away lest they should be taken by mistake; and I saw my respectable friend give one triumphant look around, being sure then he was safe. At the same moment, as if he couldn't stand it any longer, up went his fingers to his lips; his longing to get at those nails of his must have been something dreadful. Then I stepped up to him suddenly, and before he knew where he was I had the handcuffs on him. "It's no use making a noise about it," I said; "I want you, Anthony Bullpit. Here's the warrant." And quick as lightning I passed my hand over his head, and felt the knob. He saw it was all over with him, and I could see that he turned deadly white, for all his false colour. "You sha'n't be done out of a voyage across the sea," I said; "but it'll be a longer voyage than the one to America. Botany Bay'll be the place as'll suit you best, I should think." He never spoke a word; I got his trunk, and found the money in it--all changed into gold it was, the cunning one. Well, everything was comfortably arranged, and I was about to guide him down the ladder to the boat, when he whispered to me, "There's another man on board as you'd like to have. He's a better prize than I am. If you'll make it easier for me, I'll tell you who it is." "What man?" I asked, with a quiet chuckle. "A man as has robbed the bank of twelve hundred pound." Just then my professional friend came to my side. "That's him," said Anthony Bullpit "And you and him's going partners when you get safe across," I said, with a wink at my professional friend; "he cashed that cheque for you, didn't he? Lord! you're not half as clever as I took you to be!" He was clever enough to understand it all without another word, for he only gave a scowl; and when me and him and my professional friend was in the boat, he fell-to on his nails without restraint, and before the day was out he had eaten them down to the quick. He only asked one question, and that was how I had discovered him. I pulled the piece of bread from my pocket, and pointed to the marks of his teeth in it, and to the ridge the slit in his teeth had left. I brought my man safely back, and you know what has become of him. If I live till I'm a hundred--which isn't likely--I shall never forget the feeling that came over me when I saw that piece of bread with the ridge in it that brought Anthony Bullpit to justice.'

We have only to add to Mr. Vinnicombe's statement that Anthony Bullpit, when placed in the dock, pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to twenty-one years' transportation. The sentence would have been for life, but for Mr. Pardon's intercession, who pleaded for mercy for the infamous scoundrel who had abused his trust. We have occupied more space than we otherwise should have done with the details of this case, for the purpose of pointing out how often the most trivial circumstance will lead to the detection and punishment of the most cunning criminals.

Apart from the circumstance of this Anthony Bullpit being one of my grandmother's lovers, the narrative was interesting to me from the really remarkable manner in which the forger was discovered. I refolded the printed paper carefully, and replaced it in the interior of the stone figure; and in the course of a couple of days I made a drawing of Anthony Bullpit, as I imagined him to be, a sneaking hang-dog figure of a man, with a hypocritical face, gnawing his finger-nails.

CHAPTER XVIII.

UNCLE BRYAN COMMENCES THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.

'Chris is growing quite a man,' observed my mother one evening to uncle Bryan.

Her words attracted uncle Bryan's attention, and he regarded me with more interest than he usually evinced. We three were alone. Jessie was spending the evening with some neighbours, and was not expected home before ten o'clock. The family she visited was named West. I did not know them personally, but I was curious about them, not only because Jessie's visits to their house had lately grown very frequent, but because they were a theatrical family. They were, in a certain sense, famous in the neighbourhood because of their vocation, which lifted them out of the humdrum ordinary course of common affairs. During the whole time we had lived in Paradise-row, I had made no friends among our neighbours. It was different with Jessie: before she had been with us six months, she knew and was known by nearly every person in the locality. She informed me that she was fond of company, and she accepted invitations to tea from one and another. But lately she had confined her intimacy to the Wests, and whenever I came home, and she was absent, I was told she was spending an hour at their house. Many weeks before the observation which commences this chapter was made, Jessie and I had had a conversation about the Wests. She introduced their name, and after informing me that she was going to have tea with them on the following evening, asked me if I would come for her at nine o'clock and bring her home. But I demurred to this, as being likely to be considered an intrusion.

'What nonsense you talk!' she exclaimed. They are the most delightful persons in the world.'

'Your friendships are quickly made, Jessie,' I said, with a jealous pang.

'Directly I see persons I know whether I like them or not. Don't you?'

'I can't say,' I replied sententiously; 'I have never considered it.'

'Well, consider it now. Don't be disagreeable. Directly you saw me, didn't you like me?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Very well, then; that shows you do make up your mind properly about these things, as a man ought to do.'

I thrilled with pleasure at this cunning compliment.

'But you are different, Jessie, from any one else.' (What I really wanted to say was, 'You are different in my eyes from any one else;' but the most important words oozed away, from my want of courage.)

'Am I?' she cried softly and complacently, as was her way when she felt she was about to be flattered. How different? In what way? Tell me.'

'You are prettier and nicer. There's no one in the world like you.'

'That's what you think.'

'That's what everybody must think.'

'Why, Chris!' she exclaimed, making a telescope with her two hands, and peeping at me through them, I declare your moustachois are coming.'

I blushed scarlet. 'Are they?' I inquired, with an effort at unconsciousness, notwithstanding that I had already many times secretly contemplated in my looking-glass, with the most intense interest, these coming signs of manliness. 'But never mind them, Jessie; tell me about the Wests.'

'They are the most wonderful people, and the most delightful. I'm in love with all of them.'

My blushes died away; jealous pangs assailed me again.

'Are there many of them?' I asked gloomily.

'Ever so many; but you must see for yourself. You will come for me, then? You mustn't knock at the door and say, "Tell Miss Trim I am waiting for her;" you must come right into the house.'

But being angry with the Wests, and beginning to hate them because Jessie was so fond of them, I insisted that it would not be proper, because I had never been invited; and after a little quarrel, in which I deemed it necessary, as an assertion of manliness, to become more and more obstinate in my refusal, Jessie said with a pout, 'Oh, very well; if you're determined to stand upon your dignity, you'll see that other people can do so as well as you.' Thus it fell about that it became a point almost of honour with me not to go to the Wests, nor to express any desire to go; but I suffered agonies in consequence, and was tempted many times to humble myself. Jessie knew as well as possible what was going on in my mind; but she was offended with me on the subject, and would not assist me--would not even give me an opportunity of humbling myself.

But all this while I have left uncle Bryan regarding me, as I have said, with more than usual interest. From me he turned his attention to the wall, upon which hung the picture of Jessie, in crayons, which I had finished. I said nothing, but proceeded with my work.

'What are you drawing now, Chris?' asked my uncle.

Of course it was a sketch of Jessie. I murmured some words to the effect that it was nothing particular, and was about to put it in my desk, when uncle Bryan expressed a wish to see it. I could not refuse, and I handed it to him. It happened to be one of my happiest efforts; it would have been difficult to find a more winsome face than that which uncle Bryan gazed upon. He contemplated it for a long time without speaking--for so long a time that I asked him if he liked it, so as to break the awkward silence. He did not answer me. With the sketch still in his hand he said to my mother,

'Emma, I have not treated you fairly.'

My mother looked up from her work in surprise. Uncle Bryan continued:

'What I am about to tell you ought to have been told before; but probably no better time than this could be chosen. By the time I have finished, you will perhaps understand my motive for saying so; but whether you do or not, it is due to you that I should clear away some part of the mystery which hangs around Jessie.'

Although I was burning with curiosity, I rose to leave the room, thinking from his manner that what he was about to say was intended only for my mother's ears.

'Nay, Chris,' he said, you can stay. 'You are almost a man, as your mother says, and you may learn something from my words. I am about to read some pages in my life.'

He turned from us, so that we could not see his face; and full five minutes elapsed before he spoke. I was awaiting to hear with so much eagerness what he had to tell, that the five minutes seemed an hour. With his face still averted, he addressed my mother.

'Emma, you know the house in which I was born?'

'Yes, Bryan.'

'And you knew my family--my father and mother?'

'Yes.'

'They are not alive?'

I could scarcely restrain an exclamation of surprise at such a question from the lips of a son concerning his parents. My mother's tone was soft and pitiful as she replied,

'They have been dead many years, Bryan. They died within a year of my marriage with your brother.'

'During the time you and my brother courted, and afterwards indeed, my name must have been occasionally mentioned.'

'It was, Bryan.'

'In what terms?'

He paused for a reply, but my mother held her tongue.

'Be frank and candid with me, Emma; it will not hurt me. What you heard was not to my credit?'

He was determined that the subject should not be evaded; and my mother was wise enough not to thwart him.

'It was said that you had a violent temper.'

'It was doubtless true; but,' said uncle Bryan somewhat grimly, 'time must have softened it. No one now can accuse me justly--if there is such a thing as justice in the world--of showing violence, in the ordinary meaning of the word.'

'I can bear witness to that, Bryan.'

'Go on; there was more.'

'And that it was impossible to agree with you, or your opinions.'

'My opinions! That is one of the things I wanted to arrive at. Remember, Emma, that after I left home, I held no communication with my parents; that I was as one dead to them. What was said of my opinions? Nay, nay; you hurt me more by your silence than you can possibly do by anything you can say.'

'I heard that, as a boy, you associated yourself with a society of Freethinkers, who openly boasted of their infidelity.'

'I can guess the rest; I was wanting in respect to my elders, and in obedience and duty. They did not spare me, evidently. When I left home I was seventeen years of age; I ran away--no, I walked away, in fact, for they did not care to stop me--as much displeased with the narrow-minded views of those who were nearest to me in blood, as they were doubtless with my violent temper and my independent expression of opinion. A free exercise of the reasoning powers with which we are endowed was, in their eyes, a sacrilege. Still, when I was fairly gone, they might have let me rest. Of my after career they had no knowledge.'

These last words he did not put as a question, but as a satisfactory reflection. The simplest assent from my mother would have contented him; but she was too truthful to give utterance to it, and all his suspicions were aroused by her silence.

'I repeat--of my after career, they had no knowledge.'

She would have spared him, but he would not allow her to do so.

'They had!' he exclaimed, his rapid breathing showing how deeply he was moved.' What did they know?'

'The rumour was very vague, Bryan----'

'But discreditable. To what effect?'

'I really cannot explain, nor could they have done so, I believe.' My mother was much distressed. 'If Chris were not here----'

'Say no more.' I could not see his face, but his tone indicated that he had recovered his composure. 'I can fill up the blanks. Chris is older than I was when I threw myself upon the world, and it will be best for him to hear the story I shall relate.'

'Whatever impression I might have gained,' said my mother solicitously, 'from the vague rumours I heard has been entirely obliterated since I have known you. Believe me that this is so, dear Bryan.'

'Thank you for saying so much. But I doubt whether my parents would ever have believed that I was not the blackest of black sheep. They were hard and intolerant to me from the first, and I have no pleasurable recollections of even my earliest days. I do not know if it was the same when you were first introduced into it as it is in my remembrance, but the home in which I was born and reared was ruled by cold and formal laws, and by a cold and formal master. How it came about is a mystery I have never tried to solve, but it is a plain fact that I was not a favourite with my parents. My brother--your husband--was; he was much younger than I, but I saw it clearly. His nature was a more pliable one than mine; he could be easily led, not because he was weak, but because he was sympathetic and amiable. I was neither. Perhaps I imbibed some drops of gall with my mother's milk; but I don't pretend to account for my cross grain. My parents might have loved me after their fashion, but their mode of showing their love deprived it of all tenderness. It is a blessing to a man to be able to think of his mother with affection and veneration when she has passed away from him. Such a feeling, and the roads he must have trodden to acquire it, are a counterfoil to much that may be bad in his own nature; but this feeling is not mine. My mother was a weak-minded woman, entirely dominated by the strong mind of her husband. She had no will of her own; she followed the current of his likes and dislikes, of his opinions, of his commands, without question and without inquiry, as a spaniel follows its master. Many persons would see a kind of virtue in this submission; I do not. My father was dogmatic and stern; I could have forgiven him that, if he had been honest-minded. But he was a hypocrite, and I knew it, and he knew that I knew it. With great appearance of candour, he, when conversing with acquaintances in the presence of my mother and myself, would give expression to sentiments in which he did not believe; then, when we were alone, he would take off his mask of dissimulation, and go over the ground again according to his own conviction, and justify his deceit. If my mother ever thought of these things, she must have been bewildered; I did think of him, and I was indignant. Most especially was he a hypocrite in religious matters; his prayers and his practice were utterly at variance. I could not respect one who professed to believe that charity was a good thing, and who declined to practise it. He was intolerant to a degree; his was the only right way--all others were wrong. It was my evil fortune--I suppose I must call it so--to possess a mind which led me to sift things for myself; I could not accept established doctrines, and this, in my father's eyes, was not only a great presumption but a great crime. It is not necessary for me to state how, little by little, I became estranged from such parental affection as might have been bestowed upon me had I been docile and obedient--as might have been mine if I had tried to win it. I sought for congenial companionship away from the social circle in which my parents moved; it is true that I found associates among men who, doubtless with more reason than myself, were dissatisfied with things as they were, and that I identified myself--being, as a youth, proud of the connection--with a body of so-called Freethinkers, whose chief crime was that they were groping to find truth by the light of reason. My father, hearing of this connection, sternly commanded me to relinquish it, and when I refused, threatened me. He declared he would drive the evil spirit out of me, and he tried to do so by blows; but he hurt only my body--my spirit he strengthened. About this time a circumstance occurred which for ever destroyed all chance of peace between us. We had a servant at home, a poor half-witted creature--an orphan without a friend in the world. One would have supposed that my father, being so fond of his prayers, would have been kind to this servant because of her utterly dependent condition, and because she performed her work as well and as faithfully as her dull wits allowed her. Had this been so, I think I might have been inclined to waver in my estimate of him; but the contrary was the case. My father, through his unvarying harshness towards the poor girl, made her life a torture to her. I constituted myself her champion, and stepped between her and his blows many a time. Boy as I was, he chose to place misconstruction upon my championship, and each became more embittered against the other. I fed my bitterness by contemplation of the girl's misery, and the unhappy war went on until it was terminated by a tragic circumstance. One day the servant was missing; the next, the body was found in the river. The idea fixed itself firmly in my mind that my father was accountable for her death; I even hinted as much to him when my blood was boiling with a new injustice inflicted upon myself. What passed between us after that, it will be as well not to recall; the result was that I left my home, and no hand was held out to stay me. I never saw my parents from that day, nor have I ever mentioned them until this evening. Whether I have done them injustice cannot now be decided; but I have no doubt, if the world were to judge between us, the verdict would be against me.

'I retained my name because, in my opinion, I had done nothing to disgrace it, and because I abhor deceit. I was neither elated nor depressed at the step I had taken. It is said that the springtime of life is bright with sunshine. The springtime of my life was joyless and gloomy. I had no hope in anything, no belief in anything, no faith in anything. I had no special ambition and no desire to become rich; all that I desired was to earn a decent living by the labour of my hands and the exercise of my abilities. I determined to make no friendships, and to live only in myself and by myself. Although I had no thought of it at the time, I can see now that the rules I laid down for myself were just the rules, with fair opportunities, to lead to success in life.

'In my determination to sever myself entirely from my family, I wandered away from my native place until I was distant from it hundreds of miles. Then, a stranger among strangers, I applied myself to the task of obtaining a situation. I could read, I could write, and I was a fair bookkeeper; but these qualifications did not avail me, and I was driven to hard shifts. Had I been shipwrecked on a lonely land I should have fared better. I did nothing dishonest, nor would I have done it to save my life; but I shrunk from nothing to earn a few pence. I accepted employment in whatever shape it was offered; no toil was too low for me, so long as it would buy me bread. The hardships which the world dealt out to me did not dishearten me, did not humble me; I bore them with pride, and in my bitter frame of mind I found a certain pleasure even in misery. My unmerited sufferings were arguments to convince me that I was right in my estimate of things. Look where I would, I could nowhere find morality and humanity exercised in their larger sense; where charity was most due, it was least given; virtue and goodness were terms; all over the civilised world religious precepts were being preached; all over the civilised world religious precepts were being violated; what was good in the Bible was turned to bad account--its power was so used as to teach people to fear, not to love. During these days I used to creep into the churches and laugh at the moralities there laid down. It was a hard bitterly-sweet time; I did not repine; in my pride I exulted in my condition. Many a night did I walk the streets homeless and hungry, laughing at my sufferings. Life had no attractions for me, and I did not desire to live. But I was part of a scheme--I recognised that, although I could not solve the problem--and I would do nothing to myself; I would simply wait. From men and women in as miserable a position as myself I rejected all overtures of friendship; I had nothing in common with them. But on a starless night I met one to whom was drawn by humanity, if you like to call it by that name. A woman this, a girl indeed, homeless as I was, friendless as I was. Nay, you may listen, Emma. I became like a brother to her, and she like a sister to me. Neither knew how the other lived, neither asked; and when we were specially unfortunate we wandered by instinct to a certain street, and met by premeditated chance. Then we would talk together for hours, or sit in silence in the shadow of a friendly refuge. She told me her story--a pitiful story, but common: it hardened me the more. I never saw her face by daylight; a dark shadow encompassed her and her history. "I am so tired of life!" she said to me; "these stones must be happier than I, for they cannot feel. Would it be wrong to die?" I drove the thought from her mind. "Be brave, and play your part," I said aloud, and added mentally, "It will not be for long." I can hear now the faint echo of her dreary laugh at my words, and the strangely-pitiful tone in which she repeated, "Be brave, and play my part!" I knew she would not live long; a desperate cold had settled on her lungs, and her cough, as we walked the desolate streets or sat in them after midnight, was a sound to cause the stars to weep. She died in my arms during one of these wanderings. I had no special foreboding of her death, nor had she, I believe; she was seized with a violent fit of coughing, and she clung to me, as she had often done, for support, then suddenly she fell to the ground, and I saw blood coming from her mouth. "Don't leave me," she sighed, almost with her last breath; "you can do me no good. Thank God it is over!" An inquest was held, and I gave evidence. Necessarily some particulars concerning my own mode of life came out, and after the inquest a man offered me money. I rejected it; I had resolved never to accept charity. The man was surprised; questioned me; and learning that I was willing to work, offered me employment. I remained with him long enough to clothe myself decently and to save a little money, and then I turned my back upon a place which had become hateful to me. It must have been a rumour of my connection with the poor girl who died in my arms that was twisted to my discredit in my native town, and it was your mention of it that has caused me to drift into details which, when I commenced, I had no intention of relating.'

CHAPTER XIX.

STRANGE REVELATIONS IN UNCLE BRYAN'S LIFE.

So, without a friend in the world, I wandered still further away from the town in which I was born. I tarried here and tarried there, and found no rest for the sole of my foot until I reached a city where, before my means were exhausted, I obtained employment in the office of an accountant. It was by the merest chance that I obtained the situation, for there were many applicants; but I was quick at figures, and that quality served me. The position was not a distinguished one; I was not destined to occupy it long, however, for being coldly interested in my work--simply because it enabled me to live--I performed the tasks set for me to do, not only expeditiously, but with the exactitude of a machine. This was precisely what was required of me, and I rose into favour with my employer. Some of the clients who came to us for advice in their difficulties were afflicted with a kind of moral disease, which for their credits' sake it was necessary should not be exposed to the world. It was not the business of our office to be nice as to our clients' honesty and integrity, and it did not trouble me to see rogues walking about in broadcloth. It was of a piece with the rest. Many delicate matters of figures were intrusted to me; my lonely habits, my reserved manner, and the circumstance of my having no connections or friends, were high recommendations, and I heard my employer say, more than once, to his clients, 'Mr. Carey is as secret as the grave; you may confide anything to him.' No wonder, therefore, that in the course of years I became manager of the business. I began to save money, simply because I was earning more than I required for my necessities. I had no extravagances, I never went into society, and I did not see that any pleasure was to be derived from following the ordinary pursuits of men of my own age. I set down a rigid course of life for myself, and I spent my leisure in solitude; walked and read and lived entirely in myself. One fancy alone I indulged in; I loved flowers, and I made them my companions. An occupation of some kind for my leisure was forced upon me, I suppose, by natural necessity; the mind, if its balance is to be maintained, must have something to feed upon, and I tended my flowers and watched them through their various stages with much interest; I had, and have a real affection for them. Every year that passed fixed my habits more firmly, and I had no desire to change them. Apart from my mute and beautiful friends, life was tasteless for me; there was no sweetness in it that I could see. It consisted of dull plodding day after day, of growing older day after day. I reflected upon it with scornful curiosity, and made myself, as it were, a text for speculative commentary. I knew what would be the end of it: in the natural order of things I should live until I grew old, when, in the natural order of things, I should die and pass away, fading into absolute nothingness--that was all. It seemed to me a poor affair, so far as it was presented to me in the different aspects with which I had been made familiar. I often thought of the poor girl who had been the only friend I had ever had in the world, and in that remembrance was comprised all the tenderness I had ever felt towards my species.

I hope I do not distress you by my words; but it has come upon me in some odd way to give you as exact a portrait of myself, as I was at that time, as I can produce; perhaps for the reason that I wish you to understand the wonderful change that took place in me not long afterwards. Years ago I buried as in a grave all the records of my life, with the intention of never speaking of them, of never thinking of them if I could help it. But man proposes, chance disposes. Even to-night I intended to pluck out only one remembrance, but I have been overpowered.

When I was thirty years of age I was taken into partnership, and five years afterwards my partner died, and I was sole master. Before I was taken into partnership I had been a machine, paid to perform certain duties; but when I was a partner I considered myself responsible for the nature of the business we undertook, and I purified the office, sending all clients away who came with a dishonest intent. This change resulted, strangely enough, to my advantage, and the business increased. I conducted it steadily, without in any respect changing my mode of life. The money I was making was in every way valueless to me. I had no one to whom I cared to leave it, and no pet scheme which I wished to be carried out after my death. I remember thinking that it would be a fine thing to fling the money into the sea before I died.

I come now to the most eventful page in the history of my life. If I could blot out the record, and could stamp it into oblivion, I would gladly do so; but it is out of my power, and I can only look upon it with wonder, and upon myself with contempt for the part I played in it.

It was a cold day in November, and a miserable sleet was falling. I was sitting alone in my private office, looking over some papers, when my clerk announced a Mr. Richard Glaive, who had written that he wished to consult me upon his affairs. He entered--a tall sleek man, well fed, well dressed, about fifty years of age--a man, I judged, who had seen but little of the troubles of the world. But there was trouble in his face on the occasion of my first introduction to him. With the air of one who was suffering from a deep injustice, he explained to me the nature of his inheritance. I learnt that he was, as I had supposed, a man who had never worked, who had never done anything useful, and who had lived all his life upon a moderate income which he had inherited. Wishing to increase his income, for the purpose, as I understood, of being able the better to enjoy life--'surely an innocent and laudable desire,' he said--he had been tempted to take a large number of shares in a company which had been established with a great flourish of promises--had been tempted to become a director for the sake of the fees; 'nothing to do, my dear sir,' he explained to me, and so much a year for it; the very thing to suit a gentleman.' His money hitherto had yielded five per cent, invested in safe securities; the new company promised from twenty to thirty. The temptation was too great to be resisted, and, blinded by his cupidity, he had walked into the pit. As was to be expected, the company was a bubble, the crash came, and the gulls were swooped upon by the creditors. Lawyers' letters were pouring in upon him, and actions were about to be taken against him. There were other complications, also, in the shape of long-standing debts upon which he had been paying interest, but a full settlement of which was now demanded. There was a manifest sense of injury in his tone as he spoke of these debts--'youthful follies,' he called them; adding immediately, with an easy smile, 'youth must have its fling;' conveying the idea that he did not consider himself responsible for them, for the reason that they had been so long standing. Altogether the case was a common one enough, and when he had concluded the catalogue of his embarrassments, I said that the first thing to be done was to prepare a statement of his affairs from his papers, so that he might really see how he stood with the world. He thanked me effusively, as though I had suggested something which would not have occurred to an ordinary mind, and said that he had been advised to consult me, as I should most certainly be able to steer him safely through his difficulties. I replied that I would do the best I could, and on the following day he brought to the office a mass of papers, letters, and accounts. He had received other threatening letters since our first interview, and he was in a fever of perplexity. 'I depend entirely upon you, my dear sir,' he said. I suggested that I should write to his creditors to the effect that he had placed his affairs in my hands, and that in a short time he would be able to make a proposal to them, asking them to be patient in the mean while. He assented, saying, in words which sounded queerly in my ears, that all he wanted was to be relieved of his liabilities, and to be allowed to go on enjoying life in his old way; and before he left he asked me not to intrust the business to the hands of my clerks, but to undertake it personally myself. I promised that I would do so, and in a week I had the statement prepared--a statement which showed his affairs to be in the worst possible condition. He was insolvent to the extent of not being able to pay one quarter of what he owed. I was surprised at this result, for I had expected something very different from his manner and statements. On the morning of the day on which it had been arranged that Mr. Glaive should call, I received a note from him, saying that he was very unwell, and that he would regard it as a favour if I would come to his house and explain matters to him. In the ordinary course of business I should have sent a clerk with the statement; but I could not do so in this instance, as it was necessary I should tell him what course he had best pursue. At seven o'clock in the evening I was at his house, a pretty little villa in the suburbs embedded in a garden. I was shown at once into what Mr. Glaive called his study, where he sat expecting me. He glanced carelessly down the columns of figures in the statement.

'I don't understand figures,' he said; 'will you please explain them to me?'

I commenced an explanation of the statement, line by line, when he interrupted me, saying,

'Pray forgive me, but I can't keep these details in my head. Tell me the result.'

I told him in one word--ruin. Hitherto his manner had been so indifferent that one might have supposed we were speaking of business which did not concern him, but on mention of the word 'ruin,' a deathly paleness came into his face. Before he had time to speak the door opened, and a young man entered the room with the air of one who was privileged in the house.

'Uncle,' he said, 'Fanny told me--'

'Don't you see that I'm engaged, Ralph?' cried Mr. Glaive. 'I can't be disturbed. Go and wish Fanny good-night.'

The young man muttered a word or two of laughing apology, and retired. I saw him no more on that night, but, in the brief glance I cast at him, I saw that he was singularly handsome.

'Now tell me,' said Mr. Glaive, breathing quickly, 'what is your meaning?'

'My meaning is clear enough,' I answered. 'If these claims against you are pressed--and they will be--your entire property will not be sufficient to pay one-fourth of them.'

'But why should the claims be pressed?' he asked, with a helpless look.

I almost laughed in his face.

'You owe the money,' I said; 'that should be a sufficient explanation.'

'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked, 'that they would turn me out of house and home?' And he looked around his comfortably-furnished room.

'It is more than probable,' I replied. 'I know the lawyers with whom you have to deal. This house is your own freehold, and its value is included in the statement.'

He clasped his hands despairingly; I was silent, despising his weakness.

'Can't you advise me?' he cried. 'If ruin came to you, what would you do?'

'Bear it,' I replied. I was growing weary of him.

'Have you any children?' he asked.

'No,' I replied.

'Nor wife perhaps?' he continued.

'Nor wife, nor child, nor friend,' I said, rising.

'What are you going to do?' he cried. 'For God's sake, don't leave me! You have undertaken the conduct of my affairs, and you will surely not desert me when your services are most needed?'

The observation was a just one, and I resumed my seat. I should not have attempted to leave so abruptly had it not been that his manner of addressing me had irritated me. He had spoken to me as though our positions were not equal, almost as though I were a dependent, and it was because of this that I had answered him roughly. His manner was now changed; it became almost servile. He implored me to suggest a plan by which he could be released from his liabilities, and he revealed sufficient of his true nature to convince me that he would have shrunk from no meanness to accomplish his desire. Perhaps, however, I do him injustice; perhaps I should rather say that he convinced me he had no sense of moral responsibility in the matter. I resolved to come to the point at once, and I told him that I saw absolutely no way but one in which he could free himself from his liabilities, and that even that way, supposing his creditors were hard, would be difficult and harassing. It was by offering to give up the whole of his property on the condition of obtaining a clear release.

'But then I shall be beggared,' he exclaimed, pressing his hand to his heart. 'It is cruel--merciless!'

'It is just,' I said sternly. 'Your creditors have more right to complain than you. 'There is another plan, certainly, by which you might be enabled to keep possession of your house.'

He asked me eagerly what it was, and I said that if he had a friend who would come forward and advance the necessary sum, his creditors would almost certainly accept it; but he informed me that he had no such friend, and that he and his daughter were alone in the world. Upon mention of his daughter, as if he had conjured her up, she entered the room. I do not know how to describe the effect of her appearance upon me. It was like the breaking of the sun upon one who had lived in the dark all his life. Mr. Glaive, clutching my arm, drew me close to him, and whispered to me that that was the reason he could not contemplate the ruin before him with a calm mind.

(Uncle Bryan paused. Hitherto he had spoken in a cold and measured tone; when he resumed his story his voice was no longer passionless, and he did not seek to hold it in restraint.)

As Mr. Glaive introduced me to his daughter I rose to go, and bowing to her and saying that I would see him again, was about to take my departure, when Miss Glaive said she hoped she had not frightened me away. Not her words, nor the effect of her appearance upon me, but her voice, arrested my steps; it was so exactly like the voice of the poor girl of whose last agony I had been the only witness, that I turned and looked steadily at her. There was no resemblance between them--my lost friend was dark, Miss Glaive was fair.

'You look at me,' said Miss Glaive, 'as if you knew me.'

I managed to say that her voice reminded me of a dear friend.

'Dear!' Miss Glaive exclaimed archly; 'very dear?'

'Very dear,' I said gravely.

'A lady friend?' she asked, with smiles.

'She of whom I speak,' I said, 'was a woman.'

'Was!' echoed Miss Glaive.

'She is dead,' I explained.

'I am sorry,' said Miss Glaive very gently; 'I beg your pardon.'

I was strangely stirred by her sympathising words. There was a little pause, and I moved again, towards the door, not wishing to leave, but finding no cause to stay. Again her voice arrested me.

'If you go now,' she said, 'I shall be quite sure that I have frightened you away. Papa declares that no one makes tea like me; I tell him he knows nothing about it. Do you drink tea, Mr. Carey? You shall be the judge.'

'And after tea,' added Mr. Glaive with an observant look at me--he had grown calmer while his daughter and I were speaking--'Fanny will give us some music.'

Miss Glaive did not ask for my verdict upon her tea-making, and soon sat down to the piano and played. In this quiet way an hour must have passed without a word being spoken. It was a new experience to me, and it took me out of myself as it were. The peaceful room, the presence of this graceful girl, and the sweet melodies she played, softly and dreamily, seemed to me to belong to another and a better world than that in which I was accustomed to move. It was strangely unreal and strangely beautiful. The music ceased, and Miss Glaive came to my side.

'Papa is asleep,' she whispered; 'we must be very quiet now.'

There were books on the table, and I turned the leaves of one without any consciousness of what I was gazing upon. It did not occur to me that this was the proper time for me to leave; I was as a man enthralled. A movement made by the sleeping man (did he sleep? I have sometimes wondered in my jealous analysis of these small details) aroused me from my dream, and I wished Miss Glaive good-night. She accompanied me to the street-door.

'Papa is in trouble,' she said; are you going to assist him?'

'He has asked for my advice,' I replied.

'We must not talk now,' she said, 'for fear he should wake up and miss me; he is irritable, and has heart-disease. May I call and see you to-morrow? I know where your office is. I wrote the notes you received from papa.'

'I shall be glad to see you,' I said.

'At three o'clock, then,' were her last words, and we shook hands and parted.

A heavy rain had set in during my visit, but I was scarcely conscious of it as I walked into the town. Late as it was, I went to my office. For what purpose do you think? To get the notes which I had received from Mr. Glaive--the notes which now were precious to me because she had written them. I took them home with me and read them, and studied the delicate writing with senseless infatuation, and then placed them under my pillow for a charm, as a schoolgirl might have done. At the office the next morning I made another and a closer examination of Mr. Glaive's affairs, with the same result as I had previously obtained. Ruin was before him--before her. Punctually at three o'clock Miss Glaive arrived. I met her at the door, and conducted her to my private room. My impressions of the previous night were deepened by her appearance; she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and her charm of manner was perfect. It would be useless for me to attempt to describe the feelings with which she inspired me; I have often endeavoured to account for them and understand them, and have never succeeded.

'Papa is very ill to-day,' she said; 'the doctor has been to see him, and says that he is suffering from mental disorder, which may prove dangerous. I have come to you to ask you the nature of his trouble.'

'Do you not think,' I asked, 'that he would be angry if he knew I had made any disclosure of his private affairs?'

'But he need not know,' she replied; 'I shall not tell him. Let it be a confidence between us. I saw some papers which you brought last night, but I do not understand them any more than papa does.'

I could not resist her pleading, and I told her, awkwardly and hesitatingly, what I had told her father.

'And all this trouble is about money,' she said with smiles; 'I was afraid it was something worse.'

I told her that it could not well be worse, unless she knew where money was to be obtained. She answered that she did not know, but that she supposed it would be got somewhere.

'You don't understand these matters of business,' I said; 'it is perhaps better for you.'

'That can't be,' she exclaimed; 'if I knew anything of business I should know where to get the money from, and I would get it That is what business men are for, is it not?'

Charmed as I was by her simplicity--a simplicity which was utterly new to me, and which it was delightful to hear from her lips--I deemed it my duty to explain matters clearly to her. Steeling my heart, I did so in plain terms, and showed her the position in which her father would be placed within a very few days.

'You frighten me!' she cried, as my words forced conviction upon her; and overcome by the news or by my manner of telling it, she fainted. If she had been fair before, how much fairer was she now as she lay before me? Her childlike ways, her beauty, her helplessness, made a slave of me. I feared at first that I had killed her, and I reproached myself bitterly. Timidly I bathed her forehead with water, and when she opened her eyes, and looked at me in innocent wonder, a feeling that might have been heaven-born--to use a phrase--so fraught was it with thankful happiness, took possession of me. I explained to her what had occurred, and she lowered her veil to hide her tears. As I witnessed her grief, it seemed to me as if I were the cause of her father's misfortunes.

'And there is absolutely no hope for us?' she sobbed.

'There is only the hope,' I replied, 'as I explained to your father, that some friend will come forward and serve him in this strait.'

'Papa has no such friend that I know of,' she said.

I thought of the young man whom I had seen at Mr. Glaive's house on the previous night, and I mentioned him.

'Ralph,' she said, 'my cousin. No, he is very poor.' She turned to me. 'I had a fancy last night that you were our friend.'

I answered in a constrained voice: 'I never saw Mr. Glaive until a fortnight ago; he called upon me only in the way of business.'

'Forgive me,' she murmured; 'I was wrong to come, perhaps--but I did not know.'

'If I could serve you--' I said, and paused. The words came to my lips and were uttered almost without the exercise of my will; not that I repented of them. She threw up her veil, and moved towards me.

'If!' she echoed. 'You could if you pleased, could you not? You are rich?'

'I am not a poor man,' I said.

'Help us,' she pleaded, holding out her hands to me. 'Be my friend.'

I murmured something--I did not know what--and she clasped my hand; the warm pressure of her fingers upon mine thrilled my pulses. The next minute I was alone. I strove to concentrate my thoughts upon certain matters of business which claimed my attention, but I found it impossible to do so. I could not dispossess myself of the image of Frances Glaive. In an idle humour I wrote her name, Frances Glaive, over and over again; if I had been a boy, with all a boy's enthusiasm, instead of a man hardened and embittered by cruel experience, I could not have behaved more in accordance with established precedent. I saw Frances Glaive sitting in the vacant chair at my table; I heard her sweet voice; I gazed upon her face as it lay, insensible and beautiful, before me. 'Be my friend,' she had said. I could serve her; it was in my power to make her happy. I took out my bank-book and the private ledger in which I kept the record of my worldly progress; I was rich enough to pay all Mr. Glaive's liabilities, and still have a considerable sum left; but I need not pay them in full. I knew that I could easily settle with his creditors for a trifle over the value of his estate. I did not value money, and yet I decided upon nothing; I could not think calmly upon the matter; I thought only of Frances Glaive, knowing full well that she, by a word, by a look, by a smile, could make me do any wild or extravagant thing against all reason and conviction. I craved to see her again, and so strong was this craving that in the evening I found myself walking in the direction of Mr. Glaive's house. I can recall the manner of that walk; I can recall how, governed by an impulse stronger than reason, I still was conscious of a curious mental conflict which was being waged within me, independent of my own will as it seemed, and the most powerful forces of which strove to pull me back, while I was really walking along without hesitation. I did hesitate when I stood before Mr. Glaive's house, but only for a very few moments. Frances Glaive came into the passage to receive me.

'I thought you would come,' she said, her face lighting up.

'And you are glad?' I could not help asking.

'Very, very glad. Papa is in the study; he is dreadfully weak and ill, and I have been counting the minutes. May I tell him that I have brought him a friend?'

'Yes,' I answered; 'a friend of yours.'

All this while she had not relinquished my hand; and I too willingly retained hers in mine. Well, well--at that time I would have thought no price too heavy to pay for such precious moments.

I will not prolong my story more than I can help; already it has far exceeded the limits I proposed to myself; but when the floodgates are opened, the tide rushes in. You can guess what followed; you can guess that I served Mr. Glaive for the sake of his daughter. In a short time he was a free man, and I was his only creditor. I grew to love Frances Glaive most passionately, and her father saw and encouraged my passion. My character underwent a wonderful change. Love transformed all things. Through Frances Glaive's innocence and artlessness the world became purified; through her beauty the world became beautiful to me. By simple contact with her nature all the bitterness in my nature was dissolved. The scales fell from my eyes, and I saw good even in things I had most despised. The days were brighter; the nights were sweeter. Life was worth having. Say that a man who had been born blind, and who had no knowledge of the beauties of nature, is suddenly blessed with vision; a new world is open to him, and he appreciates, with the most exquisite enjoyment and sensibility, the light and colour and graceful shapes by which for the first time he sees himself surrounded. The spring buds, the bright sunshine of summer, the russet tints of autumn, the pure snow with its myriad wonders, as it lies on the hills, as it floats in the air, as it fringes the bare branches--not alone these, but the tiniest insect, the smallest flower, are revelations to him. It was thus with me, and all the fresh feelings of youth came to me when I was a middle-aged man.

CHAPTER XX.

UNCLE BRYAN CONCLUDES HIS STORY.

I became a frequent visitor at Mr. Glaive's house. Three or four times every week I spent my evenings there, and I was always welcomed with smiles and good words. Mr. Glaive and his daughter had never mingled in the gaieties of the city; neither had I. One night we were speaking of a concert that was to be given at the largest public hall in the city; a royal prince had promised his patronage, and Frances Glaive was eager to see him.

'I should like to go so much,' she said; 'I think I would give anything to go.'

'I would take you with pleasure,' said her father; 'but there are two obstacles. One is the expense--that could be got over, I daresay; but the other is insurmountable. The excitement would be too much for my heart.'

His heart was a favourite theme with him; he was not to be troubled or irritated or excited because of it; he was to be petted and humoured because of it. It enabled him to live the life he loved best--a life of perfect indolence.

The next time I visited them, I presented Frances Glaive with tickets for the concert. It required courage on my part, for it was the first step in a new direction.

'What am I to do with them?' she asked. 'You are very good, but I have no one to take me.'

'I was going to ask Mr. Glaive,' I said, 'if he would intrust you to my care.'

Mr. Glaive replied in his heartiest manner, and his daughter was wild with delight. If anything had been needed to complete the spell, Frances Glaive's appearance on that night would have supplied it. For beauty, for grace, for freshness, there was not a lady in the hall who could compare with her. I experienced a new feeling of happiness as I witnessed the admiring glances of the assembly, and Frances Glaive herself was no less happy in the admiration she excited. From that night we drifted into the gaieties of the city, and I became her constant companion--necessarily, because I supplied the means.

I must mention here that her cousin Ralph was also a constant visitor at the house; but although he was on terms of affectionate intimacy with Frances--which I set down, not without jealous feeling, to their cousinship and to their having been much together during their childhood--Mr. Glaive did not seem to care for his presence at that time. I heard Ralph say to Frances at one time, when she spoke of an entertainment to which we were going,

'I would take you if I had money.'

'Get rich, then,' she replied, 'like Mr. Carey; but you are too idle to work.'

I believed this to be pretty near the truth, although he chose to put another construction upon his indolence by saying that it was his misfortune to have been born a gentleman. He was barely twenty-two years of age at the time, but he had learnt that fine lesson perfectly. I came upon them then, and Frances Glaive said that she had just told her cousin that he was too idle to work, and that he had pleaded as an excuse that he had been born a gentleman. How I loved her for her frankness and truthfulness! Ralph turned very red, and said that he would work if he could obtain anything suitable. A little while after this conversation, at the intercession of his cousin, I obtained a situation for him, but he did not keep it many weeks. He was altogether too fine for work. As I have said, I had a jealous feeling towards him with reference to Frances Glaive; his youth, his comeliness, his gayer manners made me uneasy sometimes, and my intense love often magnified this feeling until it became torture. Was not this pearl of womanhood too precious for me to hope to win? On one side there was light; on the other, darkness. There was no medium. Without her love, it was blackest night; with her love, it was brightest day. I determined to know my fate, and soon; but before I had mustered sufficient courage to speak, Mr. Glaive anticipated me. My attentions to his daughter, he said, were becoming conspicuous; as her only protector--a poor and helpless one, he added, with his heart-complaint, which prevented his guarding her and watching over her as he should--he was naturally anxious as to her future. I took advantage of a pause to ask nervously if my attentions were displeasing to him. Not at all, he answered eagerly; but as a father he was bound to ask the precise meaning that was to be attached to them. If ever I had a child of my own, I should be able to understand his anxiety. He put his handkerchief to his eyes, and waited for me to speak. A thrill of unspeakable happiness set my pulses quivering with sweet music. A child of my own--of hers! If such a solemn charge were given into my hands, how sacredly, how tenderly would I guard it! I replied to Mr. Glaive, that my attentions could have but one meaning, and that it was my dearest hope to make Frances Glaive my wife. Then ensued a business conversation as to my means, as to how he himself was to live, and other details. My answers must have satisfied him, for he told me that the day on which I became his son-in-law would be the happiest day in his life.

'Take an early opportunity,' he said, 'of seeing Frances, and speak for yourself.'

'I would have spoken to her at once; but he told me that she was not at home, and that he had designed this interview while she was out lest we should be disturbed, or lest he had misunderstood the attention I had paid to her. I appreciated the delicacy of his design, and I waited until the following day. I was not destined to be disappointed; Frances Glaive accepted me for her husband. I scarcely dared to ask her if she loved me, but when she placed her hand in mine, was it not sufficient? I bought the house which pleased her best, and left her to furnish it according to her taste. It delighted me to humour her in all her whims; nothing that she did, nothing that she said, could be wrong. I changed my mode of life to please her; I dressed to please her. What was right in her eyes was right in mine. There was no questioning on my part. I had found my teacher, and I was supremely satisfied to be led by her who had brought sunshine into my life. She furnished the house with, exquisite taste; it cost three times the money I had anticipated, but she said,

'What does it matter? You are rich.'

What did it matter? What consideration of money could influence me when I would have given her my heart's blood had she asked for it?

Well, we were married. On the wedding-day I gave Mr. Glaive a full release of what he owed me.

'My father-in-law must not be my creditor,' I said.

For a time I was very, very happy, and Frances herself seemed to be so. If indulgence in every whim, in every desire, can produce happiness, she must have been in possession of it, for I grudged her nothing. It was very sweet to be led, and I did not count the cost. Ralph, her cousin, lived almost entirely at our house. I found it difficult to enter thoroughly into my wife's enjoyments, although I strove honestly to do so. She was fond of society, fond of dress, fond of being admired; if, now and then, a thought intruded itself that there was frivolousness in her fancies, I crushed it down. What right had I to judge? My life had been until now a life of misery, because of my belief in my own convictions, because I had judged everything by hard stern rules; and now, when happiness was in my possession, and I had discovered the folly and the error of my ways, I would not allow myself to relapse into my old beliefs. We were living at a rate that outstripped my means, but it did not trouble me much. Money would make no difference in our feelings: if we grew poor, it would be a good test for our affection. I happened to mention casually to Mr. Glaive that we were living at a high rate.

'You surely do not mean to retrench!' he exclaimed.

'I certainly have no such intention,' I replied, smiling, 'unless Frances wishes it. She knows my position, and I am entirely satisfied to be led by her.'

'Quite right,' said my father-in-law, regarding me somewhat thoughtfully I fancied; 'women know best about these matters--though Frances after all is a mere girl, twenty years your junior at least, eh?'

'That is so,' I said, angry with myself for feeling uneasy at the remark.

'Yes, yes,' he continued; 'it would break her heart to give up any of her little whims--she is like a child. The dear girl must enjoy life--now is her only time. By and by, when she becomes a mother, perhaps--'

I turned from him; it was my dearest hope, but it was fated not to be gratified.

'I tell you what it is, Bryan,' he said, 'you do not make a proper use of your opportunities; were I in your position, I would treble my income.'

'By what means?' I asked.

'By speculating, my dear Bryan; by speculating judiciously, as with your abilities you would be sure to do. Think of the additional pleasures you could offer my dear girl, and of the thousand ways in which you could add to her enjoyment of life.'

Money had never presented itself to me in this light before; Mr. Glaive was right; it was a thing to be desired for what it would purchase. I took heed of his counsels, and became a speculator. The words he had spoken to me bore other fruit besides--bitter fruit, from the distress they caused me. I was twenty-five--not twenty--years older than Frances, and gray hairs were multiplying fast on my head. The thought that in a very few years my hair might be quite white, while Frances would be still a girl, gave me unutterable pain; but I strove to banish it from my mind. We had been married nearly six months, and with the exception of my own self-torturings, no cloud had appeared to darken our lives, when a circumstance occurred. As I was going home one evening, a woman stopped me--a poor ragged creature--and addressing me by name, begged me to assist her. During those few months I never paused to inquire into the merits of an appeal for charity--my own happiness pleaded for the applicants, and I gave without question. I gave this woman a shilling, and she accepted it thankfully enough, but with the mournful remark that it would be gone to-morrow. That, and the circumstance of her addressing me by name--I having no knowledge of her--interested me, and I questioned her. She was a stranger, she said, and had but newly arrived, having walked many weary miles. Where did she come from? I asked; and she mentioned the town where I had first tarried and suffered after leaving my home. She told me that she saw my name over my place of business, and had recognised it as belonging to one who had been most kind to a young friend she knew years and years ago, and then she mentioned the name of the girl who had died in my arms.

'What were you?' I asked. 'I have no remembrance of you.'

'Don't ask me what I was or what I am,' she faltered; 'but if you can assist me to lead an honest life, do so for pity's sake.'

In memory of the poor girl whom she had known, I determined to assist this unfortunate creature--at this time a middle-aged woman--and I obtained a respectable lodging for her at once. I told her that we would never refer to the past, but that she should commence a new and better life at once. And she did; and honestly fulfilled its duties.

Everything seemed to be going on well and happily at home, and I was in the full enjoyment of my fool's paradise, when I received a shock which almost turned the current of my blood. It took place on a day when I had been occasioned much annoyance by the circumstance of my father-in-law drawing upon me, without my permission, for a sum of money which was of consequence to me. It was not the first time he had done this, and I had paid his drafts with but slight reluctance, for they were for small amounts. But the amount of the present bill was serious, and it came at an inconvenient time. I was so much annoyed that, knowing Mr. Glaive to be at my house spending the evening, I determined not to go home until late, for fear that angry words might pass between us in the presence of Frances. So I sent a note to my wife, saying that business detained me at the office; and I idled away the time until ten o'clock, when I walked slowly home. My wife was not in the usual room in which we sat of an evening, and I went to a little room of which she was very fond, and which she called her sanctuary. I heard voices there, hers and her cousin Ralph's, and the words that he was addressing to her arrested my steps. I was guilty then of the first mean action in my life--I listened. What I heard I cannot here repeat, but I heard enough to know that I had been cheated and cajoled. I did not wait for the end, but I stole away with a desolate heart. My dream was over, and I was awake again, with a desolate heart, and with all my old opinions and old convictions at work within me in stronger force than ever.

I said nothing; certain as I was of the ugly bitter truth, I resolved to be still more certain of it, not from my own impressions, but from outward evidence. I discovered to my astonishment that my wife's vanity, her fondness for display, her love of the admiration of men, her frivolity, her flirtations with her cousin Ralph, and my own ridiculous infatuation and blindness were matters of common conversation. Fool that I was to believe in goodness! I cast aside all weakness, and resolved never to be deceived again. My heart was like a withered leaf; and all the foolish tenderness of my nature died an unredeemable death. Towards one person, and one alone, did I entertain any feeling of kindness; that was the woman who had solicited my help, and who had known the poor lost girl-friend of my younger days. I was sick almost to death of my home; the sight of my wife's fair face was unutterably painful to me; I was sick of the place in which I had been worldly prosperous. I yearned to fly from it, and to find myself again among strangers. The events that brought about the accomplishment of this desire came quickly. Some of the speculations I had entered into turned out badly; I could have saved myself from loss had I exercised my usual forethought; but I was reckless and despairing, and it was almost with a feeling of joy that I found, upon a careful examination of my affairs, that I had barely enough to settle with my creditors. I called them together secretly, letting neither my wife nor Mr. Glaive know of my position. I enjoined secrecy upon those to whom I was indebted, and made over to them everything I possessed in the world. Upon that very day Mr. Glaive took me to task for my treatment of his daughter, for my neglect of her. I listened to him calmly, and told him I had good and sufficient reasons for my conduct. It was an angry interview, and I ended it abruptly upon his saying that his daughter's happiness would have been more assured if he had given her to one who was more suitable to her. That same night a meeting of another description took place between Ralph and myself. He was talking of his pretty cousin in public, and of me in offensive terms. I have always regretted that I took notice of him on that occasion, for he was in liquor; but I was not master of myself. I left him after hot words had passed between us, and went to my office. He sought me there, and continued the quarrel, and boasted to my face that my wife loved him, and would have married him but for my stepping between them.

'You fool,' he said scornfully; you bought her!'

It was a bitter truth. Had I been a poor man, Frances Glaive would never have become my wife. But when he said that it was a bargain between me and her father, I thrust him from the office, and shut the door in his face. Everything was clear to me now, and I looked with shame and mortification upon my childish folly; but I was justly punished for it. I made my arrangements for departure, for I resolved never to live with my wife again, never even to see her, for fear that her fair false face should turn my senses again. The news of my failure must soon become known, and I did not intend to remain a day after its announcement. I wrote a letter to my wife, telling her that I had discovered all, and that I could no longer live with her. I told her that I was ruined, and that I was going to London to bury myself in a locality where there was the least possibility of my becoming known, and that it was useless her seeking me or sending to me, after the shame and disgrace she had brought upon me. 'If,' I concluded, 'I could make you a free woman, so that you might marry the man you love, I would willingly lay down my life; but it cannot be done. The only and best reparation I can offer is to promise, as I do now most faithfully, to wipe you out of my heart, so that you may be free from me for ever.' I had some small store of money by me, half of which I enclosed in the letter. I knew that she was in no fear of want, and that she would find a home if she wanted it in her father's house. Before I left the town I went to see the woman I had befriended, and to bid her farewell; she was earning her living by needlework. I gave her some of the money I had left, and I might have been tempted to believe, if I could have believed in anything good, that she at least was grateful to me for the assistance I had rendered her. When I came out of the house in which she lived, I saw Mr. Glaive and Ralph, arm-in-arm, on the opposite side of the way. I avoided them, and the next morning I shook the dust from my feet, and started for London. I never saw them again. I came to this part of London, where there was the least chance of my being discovered; shortly afterwards I learnt that this business was for sale, and I found I had just sufficient money to purchase it. You know now, thus far, the leading incidents of my life, and that its crowning sorrow and bitterness arose from my senseless worship of a vain, frivolous, and beautiful woman. I have only a few words to add, and they refer to Jessie.

I had no knowledge whatever of her, but on the first night of her arrival something in her face, something in her ways, reminded me of my wife. On the following morning she gave me a letter. It was from my wife, and was dated six years ago. How she discovered my address I cannot tell. It was to the effect that I should read it when she was dead, and it asked me simply to give a home to the friendless child who presented it. You can understand the effect it had upon me; questioning Jessie privately, I learned from her that she was indeed friendless and an orphan. I ascertained the place she came from, and was relieved to know that it was not the town in which I had been married. She had been stopping at an ordinary lodging-house, and I wrote to the address she gave me, but received no answer. In the mean time I feared that the quiet routine of the life I had led, and which suited me, was likely to be interrupted by the introduction into the house of another inmate. I resolved to take Jessie back to the friends she had been stopping with before she came here, and to arrange for her residence with them, undertaking to pay the expenses of her living, although, as you are aware, I could ill afford it. On the morning I took Jessie away, I gave her to understand that she would not return; but when I reached the place I found that her friends had left; I was told they had emigrated, and I made sure of the fact. It does not come within the scope of what I intended to relate to you to state why I was absent from home longer than I anticipated, nor what consideration influenced me in bringing Jessie back with me. But it is pertinent to say that I see in her the same qualities, the same frivolities and vanities which I know existed in my wife, and which entailed upon me the most bitter sorrow it has ever fallen to the lot of man to suffer. She is here, however, for good or for ill; if it turn out for good, it will be due to but one influence.

I have nothing more to add except to exact from you the condition that not one word of what I have said shall ever be told to Jessie.

CHAPTER XXI.

I RECEIVE AN INVITATION.

Thus abruptly uncle Bryan concluded his story. Some parts of it had moved me very deeply with sympathy for him; but the latter part, where he spoke of Jessie in such a strangely unjust and inexplicable manner, filled me with indignation. I had no time, however, to think about it, for almost immediately upon the conclusion of his story, Jessie came home, flushed and radiant, from her visit to the Wests. Our grave faces checked her exuberant spirits, and, looking from one to another, she sought for an explanation.

'Are you angry with me for going out?' she asked, divining that she was the cause of all this seriousness.

'No, my dear,' replied my mother; 'no one is, I am sure. I hope you enjoyed yourself.'

'I always do,' said Jessie, her face clouding, when I go to the Wests. Has anything disagreeable occurred?'

'No, Jessie, nothing.'

Jessie had a habit of shaking her head at herself when she was not satisfied with things; it was the slightest motion in the world, but there was much meaning in it. On the present occasion it expressed to me very plainly, 'I know that you have been talking of me, and that I have done something wrong which I am not to be told of.' My mother understood it also, for with expressive tenderness she assisted Jessie to take off her bonnet and mantle, and smoothed Jessie's hair in fond admiration. I could have embraced my mother for those marks of affection towards Jessie; they were an answer to uncle Bryan's unjust words.

'I think,' said Jessie, looking into my mother's face, that you are fond of me.'

'My dear,' responded my mother, kissing her, 'I regard you almost as my daughter.'

'I like to be loved,' murmured Jessie, almost wistfully, with tender looks at my mother, and keeping close to her as if for shelter from unkindness.

'Which would you rather have, Jessie,' I asked most suddenly, 'love or money?'

Heaven only knows how the words came to my tongue! They certainly were not the result of deliberate thought. Perhaps it was because of some unconscious connection between the words Jessie had just spoken and those which she had spoken to me a little time before: 'Chris, I think I would do anything in the world for money.' The words were often in my mind, or perhaps they were prompted by an episode in the story I had just heard. Uncle Bryan's keen eyes were turned upon Jessie immediately the question passed my lips, and his scrutiny did not escape Jessie's observation.

'Ask me again, Chris,' she said, with a sudden colour in her cheeks.

'I said, which would you rather have--love or money?'

'How much money--a great deal?'

'Yes, a great deal.'

'What a question to ask! What does uncle Bryan say to it?'

'Uncle Bryan is too old for such follies,' he replied roughly.

'That is a crooked way of getting out of an argument,' she said defiantly, as if being provoked herself, she wished to provoke him. 'Money is not a folly, and money can buy anything. So, Chris, I think I would rather have money; for then,' she continued, with a disdainful laugh, 'I could buy new dresses and new bonnets, and everything else in the world that's worth having.'

I listened ruefully, hoping she did not mean what she said, for she spoke mockingly. My mother, seeing that the conversation was taking an unfortunate direction, turned it by speaking of the West family, and Jessie entertained us with lively descriptions of her friends, throwing at the same time an air of mystery over them, which considerably enhanced my curiosity concerning them. Soon afterwards all in the house had retired to rest.

But I knew that my mother would come down for a few minutes' quiet chat, and that we should have something to say to each other about uncle Bryan's wonderful story. It was in every way wonderful to me. I had always imagined that he had led a quiet uneventful life, and suddenly he had become a hero; but I could not associate the uncle Bryan I knew with the man who had fallen in love with Frances Glaive, and so I told my mother as we sat together half an hour later in my quiet little bedroom.

'His life has been a life of great suffering,' my mother said, 'and we can never feel too kindly towards him. He has shown us his heart to-night; and yet, my dear, I think I understand him better than you do.'

'I daresay, mother; that's because you are better than I am.'

'No, no, my dear,' she replied. 'Who can be better than my darling boy? It is because I have more experience of the world. Chris, my heart melted to him to-night more than it has ever done. I had a curious fancy once when he was speaking. I wished that he had been a boy like you instead of an old man, for I yearned to take him in my arms and comfort him.'

'But what person in the world,' I thought, 'would she not wish to comfort if she knew that they needed it?' And I said aloud: 'If he had had a mother like mine, it would have been different with him.' (Such words as these were the natural outcome of my affection for this dearest of women, and I did not know then, although I believe I have learnt since, how sweet they were to her.) 'But, mother, I can't think of him as you do, when I remember what he said about Jessie. And tell me--would you like me to look on things as uncle Bryan does?'

'God forbid, child!' she exclaimed warmly. 'It would take the sweetness out of your life; but I pray that you may never be tried as he has been. All that I want to impress upon you is to be tolerant to him and kind, because of his great trials and troubles. And now, my dear, I have something to tell you that you will be glad to hear. Jessie, before she went to sleep, asked me not to believe what she had said about money. "I couldn't help saying it," she said; "but I would rather be loved than have all the money there is in the world." Jessie puzzles me sometimes, my darling; but I have seen nothing in her nature that is not good.'

And with these sweet words of comfort my mother left me to my rest.

The battle between Jessie and me with respect to the Wests still continued. Jessie, standing upon her dignity, as she had declared she would, did not ask me again to call for her when she visited them, and as her visits were growing more frequent, my sufferings were proportionately intensified. I felt that I could not hold out much longer, and I was on the point of giving way and sacrificing my manliness, when the difficulty was resolved for me by the following note, which my mother placed in my hands with a smile:

'Miss West presents her compliments to Mr. Christopher Carey, and will be happy to see him at nine o'clock to-night.'

I was greatly delighted, and I congratulated myself upon my powers of endurance, thinking, naturally enough, that I had Jessie to thank for the invitation. In obedience to the summons, and feeling really very curious about the Wests--and most anxious also, I must confess, to be where Jessie was--I presented myself at the house at the hour named to the minute. There was no need to knock at the street-door, for it was open. I tapped on the wall of the dark passage, and waited for an answer. There was a great deal of laughter below, and my soft tapping was not heard, so I advanced two or three steps, and knocked more loudly.

'Who's there?' a voice cried, and the laughter ceased.

'It's me,' I answered; and I was about to announce myself more explicitly, when my words were taken up mockingly.

'Oh, it's Me, is it? Well, come downstairs, Mr. Me. Flora child, open the door. Take care! Mind your head!'

The warning came too late. I knocked my head smartly against a beam in the ceiling, and stumbling down the stairs, entered the kitchen--the door of which was opened, by Flora I presume, just in time to receive me--in a very undignified manner. Screams of laughter greeted me as I picked myself up, very hot and red at my loss of dignity.

'Be quiet, children!' cried the voice which I had first heard. 'I hope you haven't hurt yourself, Mr. Me! Come along and shake hands. Very glad to see you. "And Jack fell down and broke his crown."'--This quotation because I was rubbing my head, which I had bumped severely.

'I am not hurt much, thank you,' I said, as I walked towards the speaker, who was either a girl or a woman, or both in one, for I could not guess her age within ten years. She was sitting on a bench before a table; and as I gave her my hand, she placed her fingers to her lips, and glanced expressively towards a curtain, made of two patchwork quilts, which partitioned off a part of the kitchen. There was something going on behind this curtain, for there was a shuffling of feet there, and I heard low voices.

'Don't speak loud,' said my hostess, as I guessed her to be. 'I'm Miss West. Jessie's behind there; you'll see her presently. Don't let her know you're here.'

'Why, doesn't she know?' I exclaimed, in a maze of bewilderment.

'Bless your heart, no! I sent you the note without her knowing anything of it. I thought you'd be glad.' As Miss West made this remark she gave me a sharp look.

'I am glad,' I said.

'I knew you would be. Rubbing your head again! Well, you have raised a bump! Shall I brown-paper-and-vinegar you?'

'No, thank you,' I said, laughing; and then I looked round in wonder upon the strange scene.

CHAPTER XXII.

I AM INTRODUCED TO A THEATRICAL FAMILY.

I think if I had been suddenly plunged into Aladdin's cave, I should not have been more amazed. There I should have expected to see the rich treasures of gold and precious stones and the magic fruit growing on magic trees with which that cave is filled, but for the strange wonders by which I was here surrounded I was totally unprepared. These loomed upon me only gradually, for the two tallow candles which threw light upon the scene were but a dim illumination. The kitchen, which comprised nearly the whole of the basement, was irregularly shaped, and so large that the distant corners were almost completely in shade. Lurking, as it were, in one of these distant corners was a man strangely accoutred, whom I expected would presently step forward and join our party, but not a motion did the figure make. I subsequently discovered that it was a dummy man, in chain armour, which had once played a famous part (the armour, not the man) in a famous drama of the middle ages. Hanging upon the walls were numberless articles of male and female attire, some mentionable, some un-ditto; but with rare exceptions the dresses were not such as I was accustomed to rub against in my daily walks. These that I saw hanging around the room, covering every inch of available space from ceiling to floor, were theatrical dresses of different fashions and degrees; many were of silk and satin, very much faded, for persons of quality, and some were of commoner stuff for commoner folks--which latter, from their appearance, seemed to have worn better. Here the dress of a noble Roman fraternised with the kilts of a canny Scotchman, and here the satin cloak and trunks of a fashionable melodramatic nobleman contemplated (doubtless with sinister designs) the modest bodice which covered the breast of female virtue. High life and low life, in every description of ancient, mediæval, and modern fashion, were here represented, and to an eye more practised and fanciful than mine, the room might have been supposed to be furnished with all the cardinal vices and virtues in allegory. Here were long boots whose character could not be mistaken--they represented villainy of the very deepest dye, and they frowned upon the heavy hobnails of a model peasantry. Here were the woollen garments and broad-buckled belt which had played their parts in a hundred smuggling adventures; and here the breeches, stockings, and natty shoes which had danced hundreds of jigs amidst uproarious applause. Here was a harlequin's dress ready to flash into life and play strange antics at the mere waving of the wand which hung above the mask; and clinging to it on either side, as if in fond memory of old triumphs, were the short skirts of dainty columbines. Here was the dress of Wah-no-tee, feathers, bald scalp, moccasins, and hatchet, all complete, side by side with the fripperies of my Lord Foppington. Among the pots and pans on the dresser were polished breastplates and gauntlets and shields of various patterns. There were other dresses, very much bespangled and be-jewelled, and pasteboard helmets and crowns of priceless value, and masks that had had a hard life of it, being dented here and bulged there and puffed up and bunged up in tender places, worse than any prizefighter's face after the severest encounter. A donkey's head and shoulders hung immediately above me, and by its side the plaster cast of a face without the slightest expression in it, and which is popularly supposed to represent an important branch of the histrionic art. Whichever way I turned, these and a hundred other strange articles most incongruously mixed together met my gaze.

'Well, what do you think of us?' asked Miss West. 'We're a queer bunch, ain't we?'

'It's a strange place,' I said, thinking it best to avoid personalities. 'I never saw anything like it.'

'We're a theatrical family, my dear,' said Miss West complacently, 'born in the profession every one of us. Are you fond of theatres?'

As a matter of fact, I had only been twice to a theatre, but it was a place of enchantment to me, and I said as much to Miss West.

'Ah!' she mused. 'It looks so from the front, I daresay; and a good job for us that it does. But it is bright, and it does carry you away.'

A familiar voice behind the curtain caused a diversion, and I turned eagerly in that direction. Miss West gave me another of her sharp looks.

'Don't you wish you had eyes in your ears?' she said. 'You're one of the bashful ones, I can see. Could you play the part of the Bashful Lover do you think?' (This question was accompanied by a significant dig in the ribs and a merry laugh.)

'I don't think,' I stammered, very red and confused, 'that I should ever be able to act.'

'Not that part!' exclaimed my good-natured tormentor. 'Well, then, you could play "The Good-for-nothing."'

Which was an allusion I did not at all understand. Miss West proceeded:

'All you've got to do, my dear, is to stick to nature. Turk gets mad with me when I tell him that. "Stick to nature!" he cries. "Why, then every fool could act." I say to him, every fool could act if he stuck to nature. Then he rolls his eyes and glares, does Turk.'

'Why does he do that?' I inquire.

'He plays the heavy villains, my dear, at the Royal Columbia Theatre; and what's a heavy villain without his glare? You should see him in The Will and the Way! It's a sight.'

'I should like to see him; but you haven't told me who Turk is.'

'Turk is my brother.'

'He is not here?' I ask, with another glance at the curtain.

'Oh, no; he is playing a new part to-night Poor Turk! the new school of acting depresses him. Say, O.'

'O,' I said, with a smile.

'Ah, you should hear Turk say it! It would fill a large page. Do you remember when you first learnt to write?'

'Yes.'

'And how, with your left arm sprawling over the table, and your left ear listening for something you never heard, and your eyes as staring wide open as ever they could be, and your tongue half out of your mouth, you dug your pen into the copy-book to produce your first O, which took about five minutes in the making, and then came out squabbled? That's the way Gus says his O's. He takes a long time over them. Now Brinsley's different.'

'Brinsley?'

'My brother. He's sensible. He plays walking gentlemen in the new style, and rattles off what he has to say quite in the elegant way--as if he didn't care a bit for it, you know. Turk sneers at him (dramatically, my dear), and says that the new school of acting is the ruin of the profession. But to come back to the Bashful Lover. You shall play it, my dear. Gus shall write the piece.'

'Gus?'

'One of my brothers. Gus can write anything--tragedies, melodramas, farces--and he shall write The Bashful Lover, after the style of The Conjugal Lesson. One scene, and only two performers--you and Jessie. That would be nice, as Jessie says. You shall quarrel, of course, and make it up, and quarrel again, and snub each other, and sulk, and say spiteful things (Gus will see to all that), but--don't look so glum!--it shall all come right in the end. You shall drop into each other's arms and kiss, and while you are folding her to your heart (that's the style nowadays, my dear), the curtain shall fall. We'll have a select audience--none of the boys, for that would spoil it, eh? but Gus--he must be present as the author. There'll be me, and Florry, and Matty, and Rosy, and Nelly, and Sophy, and we'll all applaud at the right places, you may be sure.'

Miss West counted the names on her fingers as she went over them; the young ladies who bore them were all seated round the table and about the room, engaged in various ways. One was cutting-out stars of paper tinsel, and gluing them on to a gauze dress; another was making dancing shoes; another was amusing herself with a cardboard stage and cardboard characters, which she drew on and off by means of tin slides. Miss West, who also had an article of female attire, in an unfinished state, in her lap, which she worked upon in the intervals of her conversation, called these young ladies by name, one by one, and desired each to perform a magnificent curtsy to me, which the little misses, the eldest of whom could not have been more than fourteen years of age, did in grand style, worthy of the finest ladies in the land. I was somewhat bewildered at the extent of Miss West's family, and I asked if there were any more of them.

'Heaps, my dear,' she complacently replied; 'there are nineteen of us altogether--eleven boys and eight girls, and all straight made, with the exception of me. I'm crooked. My legs are wrong. But I've been on the stage too. I played an old witch for an entire season, and got great applause. People in the house wondered how I could keep doubled up almost for such a long time together; I was on in one scene for twenty minutes; they didn't know I was doubled up naturally.'

In proof of her words Miss West rose, and hobbled to the end of the kitchen as if in search of something, and hobbled back, the most genial and good-humoured of old witches. She was barely four feet in height, and was a queer little figure indeed, but her face was bright, and her eyes were bright I could not help liking the little woman, and I told her so.

'That's right, Master Christopher. We'll be friends, you and me. Well, but to come back.' (This was evidently one of her favourite figures of speech.) got two pound five a week for playing the old witch; it lasted for twenty-two weeks, and it was almost the death of me. I had to do it though.'

'Why?'

Her voice grew quieter and she spoke in subdued tones, so that the little misses should not hear.

'Mother and father died within a month of each other, and there were the doctor's bills and the funeral expenses to be provided for. Then there's a large family of us, Master Christopher, and taking us altogether in a lump, we're no joke. The boys wouldn't hear of my going on the stage again, and I don't see myself how I could do it regularly, for there's a deal of business to look after indoors, letting alone the household affairs. Though I like it! If anybody--that is, anybody who's somebody--would write me a strong one-part piece, I could make a big hit with my figure. 'Tisn't every day you see such a figure as mine; it's worth a mint of money on the stage if it was properly worked. They're all on the stage but me; little Sophy there--she's the youngest, four years--spoke two lines in the pantomime last year to rounds of applause. The people love to see a clever child on the stage, though the papers write against it. But what are the papers? as Turk says, with a glare.'

'Of course,' I repeated, with a foolish air of wisdom, 'what are the papers?'

'Turk says, if they were what they ought to be, somebody that he knows (that's himself, my dear) would be at the top of the tree.'

'Turk is very clever, then?'

He's the best murderer to slow music that I've ever seen. But Gus is the genius of the family. In the matter of that, we're all geniuses. But blighted, my dear, blighted!'

She gave me the merriest look, as little like a blighted being as can well be imagined.

'We're all of us very conceited, my dear, and very vain. What was that thing in the fable that tried to blow itself out, and came to grief?'

'The frog.'

'We're all of us frogs, my dear. If people would only give us as much room as we think we ought to have, the world wouldn't be big enough for a quarter of us. And of all the conceited creatures in this topsy-turvy world, actors and actresses are the worst. We're good enough in our way, but we do think such a deal of ourselves.'

'Is Mr. Gus a good actor?'

'Plays leading business; he's out of an engagement just now, He's behind the curtain with Jessie.'

I was burning to ask what they were doing there, but the words hung on my tongue, and an inquiry of another description came forth. It was concerning the wonderful collection of dresses and theatrical properties with which the kitchen was filled. I wanted to know if they were used solely for the adornment of the persons of the Wests.

'Bless your heart, my dear, no,' was the reply. This is the 'stock-in-trade of our theatrical wardrobe business. We lend them out for private theatricals and bal masques. It was a good business once, but it has fallen off dreadfully. When bal masques were in fashion, mother used to lend as many as twenty and thirty dresses a night sometimes. If ever you want a dress for a bal masque--though there's scarcely one a year now, worse luck!--come to me, and make you a nobleman, or a chimney sweep, or a brigand, or the Emperor of Russia, in the twinkling of a bedpost, and all for the small charge of--nothing, to you. But to come back. You wanted to ask just now what Gus and Jessie are doing behind that curtain. They're rehearsing a scene, my dear, out of As You Like It. Not that she wants teaching; Jessie's a born actress, and if she were on the stage, she'd make a fortune with her face and voice. And as for her laugh--there, listen! I never did hear Mrs. Nesbit laugh--I'm not old enough to have seen her act, my dear--but if her laugh was as sweet and musical as Jessie's, I'll eat my stock-in-trade down to the last feather. And there's another reason, Master Christopher--Gus is in love with her. Bless my soul! how the boy changes colour! Why, they're all in love with her. Turk is mad about her, and Brinsley is pining away before our eyes. He doesn't mind it so much, because a slim figure suits his line of acting. It wouldn't do for a walking gentleman to be fat.' Miss West placed her hand upon mine, and said, with sagacious nods, 'My dear, if Jessie was on the stage, she would have ten thousand lovers. Hark! there's the bell. They're going to play the scene. Are you ready, Jessie?'

'Yes,' cried Jessie, 'but we want some one for Celia; she only speaks twice.'

'Florry will do Celia,' replied Miss West. 'Go behind, Florry; we'll commence the scene properly, and I'll read Jacques. Now, then. Act four, scene one: The Forest of Arden. Up with the curtain.'

The curtain was drawn aside, and disclosed a roughly constructed stage, and absolutely an old scene representing a wood.

'We have three scenes,' whispered Miss West: 'a chamber scene, a street scene, and a wood. You'll see how beautifully Gus will play Orlando. He'll be dressed for the part. Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jacques. Look over the book with me. Florry knows her part. I commence: "I prithee, pretty youth--"'

I looked up, and saw Jessie and Florry on the stage. Jessie, looking towards us, did not appear to recognise me; her face was flushed, and her eyes were brilliant with excitement.

Miss West (as Jacques): 'I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.'

Jessie (as Rosalind): 'They say you are a very melancholy fellow.'

Miss West: 'I am so; I do love it better than laughing.'

Jessie: 'Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.'

Miss West: 'Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.'

Jessie: 'Why, then, 'tis good to be a post!'

The raillery of the tone was perfect, and I was aglow with admiration. I had never in my life heard anything more exquisitely intoned, and this was but a foretaste of what was to follow.

Jessie (to Miss West): 'A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.'

Miss West: 'Yes, I have gained my experience.'

Jessie: 'And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it, too!'

Here Gus West entered, dressed as Orlando. Very noble and handsome he looked, and in the love scene that followed between him and Jessie, he played much too well for my peace of mind. When Jessie said, 'Ask me what you will, I will grant it;' and he answered, 'Then love me, Rosalind,' he spoke in so natural a tone, and with so much eagerness, that I could not believe he was acting, especially with Miss West's words in my mind that he really was in love with her. I was heartily glad when the scene was at an end. But I was somewhat comforted at Jessie's unfeigned delight that I had at last found my way to the Wests'.

'I thought at first that I had you to thank for being here,' I said; 'but Miss West sent me an invitation without you knowing anything of it, it seems.'

'Miss West is a meddlesome--dear delightful creature! She's as good as gold! And I'm a little bit glad that it has happened so; it was manly in you not to give in, and I had a good mind to commence coaxing you again to come.'

'And I was beginning to be so miserable,' I said, adding my confession to hers, 'at not being able to be where you were, that I was on the point of giving way myself, and asking you if I might come without an invitation.'

'So the best thing you can do,' cried Miss West, who had overheard us, 'is to kiss and make friends.'

Jessie laughed, and said, 'I didn't see you while I was acting, Chris. I was so excited that I couldn't see a face in the room.'

Not even Orlando's?' I suggested, with a furtive look at Jessie.

'Oh, yes; his of course, but then we were acting to each other.'

'Only acting, Jessie?' I inquired, with much anxiety.

'Only acting, Jessie!' mimicked Miss West, whose sharp ears lost not a word. 'Why, what else should it be? Or else she's married to Gus--Scotch fashion, my dear. "I take thee, Rosalind (meaning Jessie), for wife," says Gus. "I do take thee, Orlando (meaning Gus), for my husband," says Jessie. But she'd say that to any man who played Orlando as well as Gus does--wouldn't you, Jessie?'

'Of course I would,' replied Jessie, entering into her friend's humour.

'Why, my dear, I knew a young lady who was married a dozen times a week (in two pieces every night) for more than six months. And her sweetheart was the stage carpenter, and saw it all from the wings--imagine his sufferings, my dear! Ah, but such marriages are often a good deal happier than real ones; there's more fun in them, certainly. Jessie, there's ten o'clock striking; it's time for you to go. Now mind,' concluded Miss West, addressing me, 'no more standing on ceremony; you're welcome to come and go when you like; we shall look on you as we look on Jessie, as one of the family.'

I promised to come very often, and Miss West said I could not come too often. There was no mistaking the hearty sincerity of the invitation. Jessie and I walked very slowly home, and she listened delightedly to my praises of her acting.

'I don't want them at home to know about it, Chris,' she said; 'at least, not till I tell them.'

'Very well, Jessie;' and we entered the little parlour together in a very happy mood.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SUNDAY-NIGHT SUPPERS AT THE WESTS'.

In due time I was introduced to other members of the West family, and grew so much attached to them, and so enamoured of their ways, that I spent nearly all my leisure in their company. Uncle Bryan seemed to resent this, growling that 'new brooms swept clean,' and asking me sarcastically if I intended to adopt the fashion through life of throwing over old friends for new ones. Jessie stepped in to defend me, and said boldly that uncle Bryan was not so fond of our society as to have reasonable cause to grumble at our absence.

'How do you know that?' asked uncle Bryan sharply. 'You want people to be like peacocks or jackdaws, always showing their feathers or chattering about themselves.'

The cause of this little disturbance was that we often stayed at the Wests' until eleven or past eleven o'clock at night.

Now that I have you to take care of me, Chris,' said Jessie, we need not be so particular.'

'You had better live with your new friends altogether,' observed uncle Bryan.

'I will, if you wish me to,' replied Jessie indignantly; 'I know that I'm a burden to you.'

'No, no, my dear,' interposed my mother; 'uncle Bryan does not mean what he says.'

And indeed uncle Bryan was silent, and retired from the contest. These little quarrels were always smoothed over by my mother, and Jessie herself not unfrequently played the penitent, and atoned indirectly to uncle Bryan for the sharp words she used. It is needless to say that I took sides with Jessie in the sometimes noisy, but more often quiet warfare, which existed between her and uncle Bryan. As I grew older, I recognised the helplessness of her position in uncle Bryan's house, and I found bitter fault with him for his manner towards her. It was wanting not only in tenderness, but in chivalry, and were it not for the respect and consideration he showed for my mother, I have no doubt I should have quarrelled with him openly. As it was, I looked forward to the time when I should be able to offer my mother a home of my own, where she and Jessie and I could live together in harmony. With the Wests I became a great favourite. My talent as an artist contributed to this result, and I drew innumerable sketches of them in their various capacities. Miss West's Christian name was Josey (short for Josephine), and by that familiar title she insisted that I should address her. So it was Jessie and Josey, and Turk and Brinsley and Chris, with us in a very short time, as though we had been on the most intimate terms for years. The walls of all the rooms in the house, with the exception of the kitchen, were soon adorned with portraits and character sketches, with the artist's initials, C. C., in the corner. The portrait of Josey West, as the Witch of the Blasted Heath, as played by her &c. &c.; the portrait of little Sophy West, as Celandine, in the Fairy Dell, as played by her &c. &c.; the portrait of Augustus West, as Claude Melnotte (I would not take him as Orlando), as played by him &c. &c.; the portrait of Brinsley West, as Tom Shuffleton, as played by him &c. &c.; the portrait of Turk West, as The Thug, as played by him &c. &c.; and numberless others, were shown to admiring visitors, and contemplated by the admiring originals, to the glory of 'the eminent young artist,' as Miss West called me. It is necessary to add that in most of the superscriptions at the foot of the pictures the word 'eminent' did good service. It was the eminent tragedian, the eminent comedian, the eminent character actor; and so on. Certainly the name of the West family was legion. Three of them were married, and seemed from appearances to be emulative of the example of their parents in the matter of children. Sometimes on a Sunday evening the entire family would be assembled in the one house, and as the married folk brought their broods with them--the youngest three of which invariably were babies in arms--the total number of brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts was something alarming. The house was overrun with them.

'If we go on like this for a hundred years,' Miss West said to me, in confidence, 'we shall become an institution. Sheridan has seven already, and his wife is quite a young woman; J. H. has five, and Clarance four--and more coming, my dear!'

That was the chronic condition of the wives. There were always more coming. Sheridan, J. H., and Clarance were the eldest of Josey West's brothers, and were well known to the British theatrical public in our quarter of London. In the commencement of our intimacy the constant introduction of members of the family, of whose existence I had been previously ignorant, was very confusing to me, especially as Miss West, without preliminary explanation, spoke of all her relatives by their Christian names, and placed me on a footing of personal intimacy with them. I used to write lists of the names, with descriptions appended, and privately study them, so that I might not make mistakes in addressing them, but some of them were always in a tangle in my mind. The Sunday-night suppers were things to remember; every available article of crockery in the house was pressed into service, and as even the youngest members of the family were accustomed to late hours and late suppers, the result may be imagined. Those for whom there was no room at the table had their supper on chairs, on stools, or on their laps as they sat on the ground. It was very rough and undignified, but it was delightfully enjoyable. The chatter, the laughter, the ringing voices of one and another trying to make themselves heard, the good humour, the free-handed and free-hearted hospitality of those merry meetings are present to me, as I recall the reminiscence. There was always plenty to talk about, and plenty of words spoken that were worth listening to. A theatre in which one of the family was engaged was doing a bad business, and the actors were compelled to work on half salaries; one or two others were going on a provincial tour; another was out of an engagement; a manager had failed and the theatre was closed; and so on, and so on.

'There's always something,' said Miss West. Directly one saves a bit of money--it's precious little one has the opportunity of saving--something happens that sucks it up. But, bless your heart! what else can be expected with such swarms of children as we've got in the family!'

'If a legitimate actor,' said Turk moodily, 'could be certain of a regular engagement, it would be all right; but the public taste is vitiated--vitiated! They want novelty; they're not satisfied with legitimate business. Why, if any one of us had happened to be born covered from head to foot with red pimples, with a green sprout sticking in the middle of each of them, he could command his fifty pound a week, while a man of sterling talent is compelled to vegetate on a paltry fifty bob!'

This sally was received with screams of laughter, and cries of Bravo, Turk!'

'I've got an idea,' cried Josey West; 'why don't we start a theatre ourselves, on the sharing principle? Here we are, all ready-made: leading man, walking gentleman, low comedy, genteel comedy, new style of acting, old style of acting, old men and women, heavy villain' (a general laugh at Turk, who joined in it readily), 'chambermaids, and ballet, all complete.'

'It's all very well,' interposed Gus West, but where's the theatre?'

'It's all very well,' added Turk, but where's the capitalist?'

'Advertise for one,' said Miss West. '"Wanted, a capitalist with five thousand pounds to undertake the management" (tickle him with that, eh, Turk?)--"to undertake the management of a highly talented theatrical family, nearly forty in number (and more on the road), who can play tragedy, comedy, melodrama, farce, ballet, burlesque, and pantomime in an unrivalled manner. They are furnished with well-stocked wardrobes, including wigs, and they will be happy to give private exhibition of their abilities, in proof of their competency. Included in their number is a dramatic author, who will be willing to supply new pieces, if desired, to suit the capacity of the company. As a proof that they are not pretenders, they have all been born in the profession" (listen to that, Turk)--"they have all been born in the profession. No objection to travel. In India and Australia they would astonish the natives, and would be sure to create an immense sensation. A certain fortune. Competition invited and defied." There! would that catch a capitalist?'

'And what should I do,' asked Jessie, laughing, if the capitalist were to come and carry you all away?'

'Come out with us as leading lady, to be sure,' replied Josey West promptly; 'and Chris can come as scene-painter, and there we are, all complete. Quite a happy family, my dear!'

We made very merry over the fancy, and extracted many amusing pictures from it. I was sorry when Josey West called to us that it was late and time for us to go. It was a fine night, very quiet and very still, and Jessie and I lingered and talked of the Wests and their merry light-hearted ways.

'They have plenty of trouble, though,' said Jessie; 'all that glitters isn't gold.'

'I have never seen any one happier than they are,' I said. 'Suppose they had all the money in the world, could they have spent a merrier evening?'

'What makes you mention money, Chris?'

'I don't know exactly, except that it came into my head to-night, that if everybody had just a little more, everything would be right. But then I suppose when they had just that little more, they would want just a little more?'

'That is in uncle Bryan's style. Chris, I think you are clever!'

'I don't know, Jessie; Mr. Eden is pleased with me, and says I shall get along very well. I would like to; I would like to be rich.'

She mimicked uncle Bryan: 'You would like to be rich! You would like the moon! Open your mouth, and what you would like will drop into it.'

I laughed at the imitation, which was perfect, and said, 'Well, I suppose it is all nonsense--wishing, wishing! Uncle Bryan would be right if he said that, Jessie, and it's just what he would say, if he had the opportunity. Most of the great men I've read about had to work and wait for success. The other night, when uncle Bryan was in one of his amiable moods, he said that success was like the robbers' cavern in The Forty Thieves, and that there was one magic key which would always open it. When I asked him what that key was, he said, Earnestness.'

'That's one of the things that uncle Bryan would never give me credit for.'

'Uncle Bryan is very unjust and very unkind. Let us turn back and walk a little. The night is so beautiful and I feel so happy at this minute that I should like it to last for ever.' Jessie's hand stole into mine, and I held it close; the silence that followed was broken by Jessie.

'Why would you like to be rich, Chris?'

'For your sake, Jessie, more than for my own. If I could give you all that you desired, I shouldn't wish for anything more.'

'You are very good to me, Chris. Why?'

'Because I love you, Jessie,' I replied.

'Really and truly?' she exclaimed, half tenderly, half tantalisingly.

'With all my heart and soul,' I said, in a low passionate tone.

'When one loves like that' (she was speaking seriously now), 'what does it really mean?'

'I can only speak of myself, and I know that there is no sacrifice I would not make for you. I am sure there is nothing you could ask me to do that I would not do; if I could die to make you happy, I would do so gladly, Jessie.'

'But I don't want you to die, Chris; what should I do without you? Then when one loves really and truly, and with one's heart and soul, there is no selfishness in it? One doesn't think of oneself?'

'I think of nothing but you, Jessie. I should like to be successful, for your sake; I should like to be rich, for your sake. Now do you understand?'

She did not reply, and when presently I ventured to look into her face, I saw that there were tears in her eyes.

'You are not angry with me, Jessie?'

'I should be an ungrateful girl indeed, if I were. No, Chris. I love to hear you speak to me as you have done. I was only thinking that I wished others were like you.'

'You mean uncle Bryan,' I said, with a quick apprehension of the direction of her thoughts. 'But he takes pains to make people dislike him. Besides, he is at war with everything--he is, Jessie! He never goes to church; he never opens a Bible. I believe,' I added, my voice sinking to a whisper, 'that he is an atheist.' (And I said to myself mentally, as I gazed into Jessie's sweet face, If he does not believe in God, it is less strange that he does not believe in you.')

I had given no thought to time, and now, when the church bells struck one o'clock, I was startled at the lateness of the hour. With a guilty look at each other, Jessie and I hurried home; before I could knock at the street-door, it was opened for us by my mother. She put her finger to her lips.

'I heard your steps, my dear,' she said, with anxious tenderness; 'hush, don't make a noise. You might wake your uncle.'

'We had no idea of the time, mother,' I said; 'it isn't Jessie's fault. I kept her talking, and really thought it was no more than eleven o'clock. I am so sorry we have kept you up! See what a lovely night it is.'

We stood at the door for a little while, my mother in the centre, with her arms round our waists. When she kissed me and wished me good-night, I saw that she had been crying; but her pale face brightened as I put my arms about her neck, and held her to me for a few moments. When I released her, I found that we were alone; Jessie must have stepped upstairs very quietly, for I did not hear her leave the room.

CHAPTER XXIV.

TURK, THE FIRST VILLAIN.

Of all the male members of the West family, Turk was the one I liked best. Our intimacy soon ripened into friendship, and he made me the confidant of his woes, and as I was a good listener, we got on admirably together. It seemed that he had never had 'a chance,' as he termed it, and that he had been condemned by fate to act a line of business which he declared was distasteful to him--although I must confess that my after experience of him convinced me that it was exactly suited to him, and he to it--and in theatres where the intellectual discernment of the audiences was proverbially of a low standard.

'Perhaps you will tell me,' he said to me, in one of our private conferences, 'what there is in my appearance that I should have been selected to play the first villain almost from my birth--from my birth, sir, Chris, my boy. Do I look like a murderer? Do I look like a man who had passed through a career of the deepest-dyed ruffianism, and was eager to go on with it? Speak your mind--it won't hurt me; I'm used to criticism, and I know what value to place upon it.'

Turk was really a slight-made man, and as I had not seen him act at the time of these utterances, I could not understand his sister's praises of him as the best murderer to slow music that she had ever seen. His appearance in private life was, to say the best of it, insignificant, and as utterly opposed to that of a deeply-dyed ruffian as can well be imagined. The only likeness to the description Josey West had given of him that I could see was his 'glare,' and he certainly did roll his eyes as he spoke, with an effect which was nothing less than tremendous. I mentioned to him that I had heard the greatest praises of his acting, and that he played the villain's part to the life.

'And what does that prove?' he asked, with an oratorical flourish. 'Does it prove that I am fit for nothing better, or that I am a conscientious actor? When I have a part to play, I play it; I don't play Turk West every night. See me play the Thug, and I defy you to recognise me; see me as the First Murderer in Macbeth, and I defy you to recognise the Thug. When I first played the Thug, my own mother didn't know me; "That's something like acting," she said; and she ought to have known, rest her soul! for she played a baby in arms before she was out of long clothes, and spoke lines on the stage when she was three years old. Why, sir, my struggle with old Martin, in The Will and the Way, was said to be the most realistic thing ever seen on the stage--and do I look as if I would murder a man? It was art, sir, pure art. I am a conscientious actor--a conscientious actor, sir, Chris, my boy--and what I have to play, I play. Give me a strong leading part in a good piece, in a good theatre in the West-end--in the West-end, sir, Chris, my boy, not in this heaven-forsaken quarter--and then see what I can do! Why, sir, there are men occupying leading positions in our best theatres who can't hold a candle to Turk West--I'm not a vain man, and I say they can't hold a candle to Turk West! There are men--whose names I'll not mention, for I'm not envious and I only speak in the interests of art--men on the boards on the other side of Temple Bar--where I've never been seen--who are drawing large screws, and who have as much idea of acting as a barn-door fowl. What do they play? They play themselves, never mind what characters they represent. Dress doesn't make a character--it's the voice, and the manner, and the bearing. Why, look at----never mind; I said I wouldn't mention names. Directly he comes on the stage--whether he plays a young man or a middle-aged man or an old man, a man of this century or a man of the last century, or farther back if you please--everybody says, "Ah, there's old So-and-so!" And he uses the same action and the same leer and the same walk, as if the hundreds of characters he has played in his time were written to represent him, not as if, having taken to the stage, it was his duty to represent them. Call that acting! It's death and destruction to art, that's what it is. And the public stand it--stand it, sir, Chris, my boy--being led by the nose, as asses are, by critics who have reasons of their own for not putting their thumbs down on such incompetency. That's the word, sir, Chris, my boy, that's the word--incompetency. But wait-till I come out; wait till an author that I have in my eye-- yes, sir, I have him; I know him, and he believes in me, and I believe in him; we fight a common cause--wait till he has finished the piece he is writing for me, a piece representing two passions; one is not enough for Turk West. When that piece is performed at one of the West-end theatres, with Turk West in the leading character, you may mark a new era in the history of the stage. But mum, Chris, my boy, mum! Not a word of this to any of my relations.'

My acquiescent rejoinders were very pleasing to him, and he expressed a high opinion of my judgment.

'You shall come and see me play to-morrow night,' he said, 'at the Royal Columbia. I'm engaged there for the heavy business. Can you get away from work at half-past five o'clock? I'll come for you, if you like, and we'll walk together to the shop' (thus irreverently designating the Temple of Thespis).

I said I thought I could get away, and he promised to call for me.

'You will see, sir, Chris, my boy, the most villainous and incomprehensible blood-and-thunder melodrama that ever was presented on the stage--it is called The Knight of the Sable Plume, or The Bloodstained Banner. Isn't the very title enough to drive intelligent persons from the doors? But, sir, Chris, my boy, we play to a twopenny gallery, and the twopenny gallery will have blood for its money, and plenty of it. The Bloodstained Banner is a vile hash put together for a "star"--an arrant impostor, sir--who plays the leading part. I'll say nothing of him--you shall see and judge for yourself. I play Plantagenet the Ruthless; I don't slur my part because it's impossible, absurd, and ridiculous--you'll find no shirking in Turk West; he knows what duty is, and he does it. If I have lines given me to speak in which there isn't an atom of sense, it isn't my fault; I speak them because I'm paid to speak them, and I do my best to illuminate--that's the word, sir, Chris, my boy--to illuminate a character which is an insult to my intelligence. Necessity knows no law, and if I'm compelled to knuckle-down to fate to-day, I live in hopes that the sun will shine to-morrow.'

I said that I sincerely hoped the sun would shine to-morrow, and that it would shine brightly for him; and Turk West wrung my hand, and said that he wished the audiences he had to play to were as intellectually gifted as I was, adding that then there would be hope for the drama.

I obtained permission to leave on the following evening at the time mentioned by Turk, who was as good as his word in coming for me, and we walked together to the Royal Columbia Theatre.

'Prepare yourself, my boy,' he said, in the tone of one who was about to initiate a novice in solemn mysteries; 'I am going to take you behind the scenes.'

I was duly impressed by the great privilege in store for me, and I walked by the side of Turk West, glorified in a measure by his importance. The theatre was not yet open, and a large number of persons was waiting for admittance, some of whom, as regular frequenters, recognised Turk and pointed him out to their companions, who regarded him with looks of awe and wonder; others, unaware of the great presence, were kicking vigorously at the doors. After lingering a little and looking about him with an unconscious air (really, I now believe, to enjoy the small tribute of fame which was descending upon him; but I did not suspect this at the time), Turk preceded me down an unobtrusive narrow passage, the existence of which could have been known only to the initiated. This led to the stage-door, which to my astonishment was the meanest, shabbiest, and most battered door within my experience. We plunged at once into the dark recesses of the theatre; and after bumping my head very severely against jutting beams, and nearly breaking my neck by falling up and down unexpected steps, which were nothing more nor less than traps for the unwary, I found myself in a long barn-like room, full of draughts (which latter feature, indeed, seems to be the chronic complaint of all theatres, before and behind the curtain), and with a very low ceiling, which Turk informed me was the principal dressing-room for the gentlemen of the company. Therein were congregated seven or eight individuals, making-up for the first piece; some were rubbing themselves dry with dirty towels, some were dressing, some undressing, some painting their faces. One, whom I afterwards discovered was the low-comedy man, was sticking pieces of pluffy wool upon his nose and cheeks, and dabbing them with rouge, with which he was also painting his eyebrows, so that they might match his close-cropped, carroty-haired wig. Turk was familiarly and merrily greeted by all these brothers-in-arms, who all addressed him as 'Cully;' and as he returned the compliment and 'cullied' them, I presumed it was a family name which they all enjoyed. Turk proceeded at once to disrobe himself, and I, filled with wonder at the mysteries of which I was, for the first time, a privileged observer, turned my attention to the other members of the company. The room adjoining was also occupied, by the ladies of the company, to judge from their voices; they were in the merriest of spirits, and a smart rattle of jokes and saucy sayings passed from one room to another. Turk was evidently a favourite with the ladies, who called out 'Turk, my dear' this, and 'Turk, my dear' that, he returning their 'dears' with 'darlings,' as became a man of gallantry. When, after the lapse of a few minutes, I looked towards the place where Turk was, I discovered in his stead an imposing individual with a pair of magnificent moustaches on his lips, and such a development of calf to his legs as I certainly never should have given Turk credit for without ocular proof. I gazed at him in doubt as to whether it really was Turk I saw before me, and his voice presently convinced me that it was Turk, and no other. Over his herculean calves he drew a pair of doubtfully-white cotton tights, and over these a pair of yellow-satin breeches, rather the worse for wear; around his waist (no longer slim, but bulky, as became the 'heavy man') he drew a flaming red-silk sash, with enormous fringes, and a broad black belt, in which were ominously displayed two great knives and three great pistols. Then came a ballet shirt which had seen better days (or nights), then a blue-velvet jacket, with slashed sleeves and large brass buttons, and he completed his attire by throwing carelessly upon his head-- which was framed in a wig of black ringlets--a peaked black hat, with a stained red feather drooping over (I feel that I ought to say o'er') his brow.

'This is the regulation kind of thing, Chris,' he said to me in a low voice--'this is the stuff that draws the twopenny gallery.'

And he turned, with much affability, and accepted a pewter-pot offered to him by a brother with a 'Here, Cully!' and drank a deep draught. Then he took me into the passage, and asked some person in authority to pass me into the theatre. The people were pouring in at all the entrances, and in a short time the house was completely filled. They were fully bent upon enjoying themselves, and began to kick and applaud directly they were seated. When the lights were turned up and a bright blaze broke upon the living sea of faces, there was a roar of delight; and as the musicians straggled into the orchestra, they were greeted with applause and exclamations of familiarity, which fell upon ears supremely indifferent. I was placed in a good position, where I had a capital view of the stage, and having purchased a playbill, I began to study it. The programme was an imposing one, and the occupants of the twopenny gallery could certainly not complain that they did not have enough for their money. First, there was the romantic melodrama of The Knight of the Sable Plume, in which that distinguished actor, Mr. Horace Saint Herbert Fitzherbert (pronounced by the entire press to be superior to the elder Kean, and to surpass Garrick), would sustain the principal character. To be followed by the thrilling drama of The Lonely Murder at the Wayside Inn. After which, a comic song by Sam Jacobs, entitled the 'Jolly Drunken Cobbler,' and the clog hornpipe, by Mr. Dicksey. The whole to conclude with the stirring domestic drama of The Trials and Vicissitudes of a Servant-Girl; winding up with a grand allegorical tableau in coloured fires. The appetite that could have found fault with the quantity must surely have been unappeasable. In due time the music ceases, a bell rings, there is a moment's breathless expectation in the house, and the curtain rises on The Knight of the Sable Plume. Scene the first: A wood. In the distance, the battlemented castle of Plantagenet the Ruthless. (So says the programme, but I cannot see the battlemented castle, although I strain my eyes to discern it, being interested in it as the family residence of my friend Turk.) Enter two ruffians in leather jerkins and buff gloves. Times are very bad with them. They want gold, they want blood, and--ahr! they want revenge (with a redundancy of r's). They roll their eyes, they gnash their teeth. Yonder is the castle of Plantagenet. There sits the lordly tyrant who grinds his vassals to the dust. Shall he be allowed to go on in his ruthless course unchecked? No! Hark! a thousand echoes reiterate the declaration. (I fancy the echoes.) No no! no! They kneel, and swear revenge in dumb show. Who comes here? As they live, it is the lovely Edith, the heiress to those baronial halls. The Fates are propitious. They'll tear her from the domestic hearth, and bear her senseless form to mountains wild. Exit ruffians elaborately. Enter Edith pensively. She is pretty, and she receives a round of applause from all parts of the house. She bows, and tells the audience that she has just dismounted from her snow-white palfrey outside. This accounts for her coming in without a hat, and with her hair hanging down her back over a white-muslin frock. The sparkling foliage of the trees tempted her to stroll along the mossy sward. She sighs. Who is the stranger she met nine days ago upon this very spot? She did not speak to him, she did not see his face, but the beating of her heart, the clouds athwart the sky, the dew upon the grass, the whisper of the breeze, the beauteous birds that warble delicious notes to scented flowers, all, all whisper to her that she loves him. Ah, yes, she loves him! Could she but see once more his manly form, she'd die content. Cue to the musicians, with whose assistance Edith sings a plaintive song expressive of her wish To quit the sordid world, And with her love be whirled To other lands. On sorrow bent (she sings), I'd die content If he were by my side. Oh, take me, love, To realms above, And let me be thy bride. The ruffians enter at the back of the stage, and roam about with stealthy steps. They draw their knives, and breathe upon them. Expectation is in every eye. The ruffians advance. The high-born maiden continues her song. The ruffians retreat. The high-born concludes her song with a tra-la-la. The ruffians, having just made up their minds at that point, advance again, with a quick sliding movement. Seize her! Oh, spare me, spare me she cries. Spare you, daughter of Plantagenet the Ruthless! spare you! Never! Did thy gory sire spare my white-haired parent when, with his bloody sword, he clove him from head to foot, and laid him writhing in the dust? Spare you! Not if lightnings flashed and thunders rolled, not if all the powers of earth and air interpose their forms protecting, shall you be spared! Revenge! The music is worked up terrifically during the scene. The ruffians drag the maiden this way and that, evidently undecided as to which road they shall take to their mountains wild. They seem bent upon rending her lovely form into small pieces and running off the opposite sides of the stage with the fragments. Help, oh, help me! she cries. A sudden tumult is heard without. Make way there, make way! is heard, at least two yards from the spot. She shrieks more loudly. I hear his lovèd step without! she cries. And the next moment a figure clad in armour rushes in, and with one blow lays the two ruffians dead upon the stage. His visor is down, and towering in his helmet is a sable plume. It is he, the Knight of the Sable Plume! He supports Edith on one arm; he raises the other aloft to the skies, and the curtain drops upon the picture amidst the admiring plaudits of the audience. Vociferous cries for Fitz! Fitz! bring that hero to the front of the curtain, where he gracefully bows, and wipes his brow languidly with a cambric handkerchief The second act introduces my friend Turk West, in the character of Plantagenet. I am glad to find that he is a favourite with the audience, who clap their hands, and two or three profane ones cry out, 'Bravo, Turk! Go in and win!' I am not aware whether this is a stimulant to him, but he certainly 'goes in' with vigour. The scene in which he appears is described as the grand hall in the castle, and its appointments are two chairs and a brown wooden table of modern manufacture. Very ruthless and very fierce indeed does Turk look, and he is accompanied by the pair of dead ruffians, who now appear as retainers: I recognise them by their buff boots. It is in vain that I endeavour to unravel the plot; the threads slip from me directly I attempt to gather them together. From a lengthy soliloquy indulged in by Plantagenet, I learn that he is not the rightful owner of the battlemented castle. Seventeen years ago he killed a noble prince in cold blood (which popular phrase cannot be a correct one), and murdered his beautiful child, the last, last scion of a noble race. (Here Turk grows magnificent, and 'goes in' with a will.) Oh, agony! He beholds once more their mangled corpses, he sees the death-sweat br-reaking on their brows! The demon of remorse is tearing at his vitals. Oh, would he could recall the past, and restore the two wooden chairs and the table to their rightful owner! During the applause that follows, Turk winks at me, and I am delighted. The low-comedy man and a waiting-maid in short petticoats and wearing an embroidered apron, as was the fashion with waiting-maids in the days of chivalry, play important comic parts in the piece, and send the audience into convulsions of laughter. But the plot has quite baffled me, and I have given up all hope of unravelling it. The Knight of the Sable Plume has been thrown into prison by Plantagenet, after a desperate fight with eight retainers (in slippers), and is released by the hand of the lovely Edith, to whom he swears eternal fealty. The last scene is the same as the first--a wood, with the (invisible) battlemented castle in the distance. Plantagenet the Ruthless enters. He is mad with rage. His prisoner has escaped. He gnashes his teeth. He'll search the wide world through but he will find him. Usurper! ye search not long. Behold him here! He enters, the Knight of the Sable Plume. At length we stand front to front! Back to thy teeth thy lying words! Villain! Defend thyself! They fight to music. One, two, up; one, two, down; one, two, three, four, sideways. They turn round, and when they are face to face, they clash their swords terrifically. They lock their arms together, and fight that way. The gallant knight is getting the worst of it. He is forced first upon one knee, then upon the other. He fights round the stage in this position. By a herculean effort he gains his feet. The swords flash fire. Ah, the usurper yields! He stumbles. He lies prostrate on the ground. Over him glares the knight. Recreant, beg thy miserable life! Never! Die, then, remorseless tyrant! With a piercing shriek Edith rushes in, and cries, Spare him, oh, spare him; he is my father! The Knight of the Sable Plume is softened; his sword drops from his grasp. He kneels, and supports the head of the Ruthless. It is too late; Death has marked me for his own, says Turk. The knight raises his visor. Ah! what is that scar upon thy brow? cries Turk. Avenging heaven! it is his child. These possessions are thine. Take them. Take my daughter. Her love will compensate for her father's hate. He joins their hands, and turning up the whites of his eyes (which elicits from the gallery cries of 'Bravo, Turk!') and saying, 'I die hap-pappy!' proceeds to do so in the most approved corkscrew style. Thus ended The Knight of the Sable Plume, by far the most incomprehensible piece of romance it had been my good fortune to witness. Mr. Horace Saint Herbert Fitzherbert was called before the curtain at the end of the drama, and appeared; there were calls also for Turk, but he did not appear. He gloomily informed me, when the performance was over, that Fitzherbert was on a 'starring' engagement, and that it was in the agreement that in his own pieces nobody should be allowed to appear before the curtain but himself. On reference to the playbill, I found that in The Lonely Murder at the Wayside Inn Turk was the murderer, and I am afraid to say how many times he deserved to be hanged for the dreadful crimes he performed in The Trials and Vicissitudes of a Servant-Girl. In the last piece the allegorical tableau in coloured fires may have conveyed a good moral, but the smell was suggestive of the lower regions, where good morals are not fashionable.

Following out the instructions given to me by Turk, I made my way, when the curtain fell for the last time, to the dressing-room at the back of the stage, and whispered my praises of my friend's acting. Before we went home, he and a number of his professional brethren 'looked in' at a neighbouring bar, where pewter pots were freely handed about. There was no lack of animated conversation, and the subject of course was the drama. One man, who had played a small character in The Knight of the Sable Plume, and played it well, was holding forth to two or three unprofessional friends on the peculiar hardship of his case. As he had not played in the last piece, I inferred from his condition that he had been regaling himself at the bar for some time before we entered. He was an elderly man, and Turk whispered to me that he had once been leading man in the theatre, but that he had come down in the world. Those who addressed him by name called him Mac.

'Ah, Turk, my boy,' he said, giving Turk a left-handed grasp; his right hand held his glass of whisky-toddy--'ah, my sons, come in to drink? That's right. Drown dull care.'

'You've tried to do that for a pretty considerable time, Mac,' said Turk good-humouredly. 'Take a pull at the pewter, Chris.'

'I have, my boy, I have,' returned Mac; I'm an old stager now, but, dammee! there's life in the old boy yet. I'll play Claude Melnotte with the youngest of you. I'm ready to commence all over again. Show me a more juvenile man than I am on the boards, and dammee! I'll stand glasses round I will--and pay for them if I can borrow the money!'

A volley of laughter greeted this sally, in which Mac joined most heartily.

'Drown dull care!' he continued. 'I've tried to do it for a pretty considerable time, as Turk says--dammee, my sons! I've it all my life, and I'd advise you to do the same. Care killed a cat, so beware. Before you came in, my sons, I was speaking to these gentlemen'--indicating his unprofessional friends--'who kindly asked me to take a glass with them--thank you, I don't mind; my glass is empty; another whisky-toddy--The cry is still they come! eh, my sons?--I was speaking to these gentlemen, whose names I have not the pleasure of knowing, but who take an interest in the profession. I was speaking to them of myself, in connection with the noble art. I was saying that I act for my bread----'

'And sack,' interrupted a member of the company. 'And sack. Mac.'

'Hang it, no, my son!' exclaimed the old actor, with a capital mixture of humour and dignity. 'I act for my bread; I let my friends pay for the sack. I may, or I may not, be an ornament to my profession; that is a matter of public opinion and public taste; but whether I am or am not, I am not ashamed to say I act for my bread. I was speaking to these gentlemen also--your healths, gentlemen--of the decadence of the drama. In the halcyon days of youth, in the days of the great Kemble (I made him my model; I trust I do not tarnish his fair fame), the drama was worth something. But now, when a fellow like this Fitzherbert--a man who has been pitchforked, so to speak, into the profession--comes in and takes all the fat of the piece, and when he is puffed and posted and advertised into a successful engagement, and when every other worthy member of the company is pushed into a corner, and compelled, so to speak, to hold a variety of lighted candies to show off his spurious brightness, it's an infernal hard thing to each of us as individuals, and a degradation to the drama as an art.'

'Bravo, Mac!' said one and another, some in sincerity, some to humour the old actor.

'You are certainly right, sir,' said one of the strangers, speaking with the deference due to so eminent an authority. Your glass is empty; will you fill again?'

'Ay, till the crack of doom,' was the ready reply. 'Right, sir! of course I'm right.'

'But,' said another of the strangers, not quite so deferential as the former speaker, some one must play second fiddle.'

'Second fiddle, sir! Yes, I admit it, sir. Some one must play second fiddle--and third fiddle too, if you like. But let the man who plays second fiddle be a second fiddle, and not a first fiddle.'

'Who is to blame for all this?' asked the deferential stranger.

'Who's to blame, sir! The public, sir--the public. But what consolation is that to me? I must live, sir, I suppose. I must feed my family, or answer for it to the beak. Here am I, who will place my Macbeth in comparison with any man's--who can play Hamlet, Lear, Othello, Brutus, in a masterly manner--I don't say it of myself; it has been said of me--here am I compelled to knuckle-under to a man young enough to be my son, and with not a tenth part of my brains or experience. And what's the consequence? I haven't had a call for six months, while he gets called on three times a night. Why, sir, I remember the time when a discriminating audience called me on six times in one piece! I've had a dozen bouquets thrown to me in one night! And now, sir, these things are forgotten, and old Mac is shelved, sir, shelved!'

'The public ought to be ashamed of themselves,' said the deferential stranger.

But the public's not all to blame.. It's the managers, who allow themselves to be led, like tame sheep, into the trap; they haven't the moral courage to stand up against it. And what's a man, or a manager, without moral courage? I wouldn't mind it so much, but what's the consequence? A star is engaged upon shares, at an enormous screw, and to make this up, all our screws are reduced. That's where it comes hard. I pledge you my dramatic word, my screw isn't so much by seven-and-sixpence a week as it was six months ago. Who gets my seven-and-six? Why, who but the star? And my poor children must starve and perish, or go on the parish, if they hadn't a self-denying parent, who would pawn his shirt before they should come to want. I'll take another glass of whisky-toddy--my last, sir, my last to-night. Old Mac knows when he's had enough. Turk, my son, a word in your ear.'

Turk went aside with him, and I heard the jingling of coin.

'He's a rum old fellow,' said Turk to me, as we walked home; 'a good actor too, and might have got on well if he hadn't been so much engaged all his life in drowning care.'

'You gave him some money?' I said.

'Lent it to him, Chris; only fourpence halfpenny. The old fellow never borrows even money; it's always an exact sum for an exact purpose that he wants--fourteenpence, or eightpence halfpenny, or sevenpence, or some other odd amount. He was never known to borrow a shilling or a half-crown. There's a good deal of truth in what he says, Chris.'

'I am sorry for his wife and children,' I said.

'The best of it is,' replied Turk, laughing, 'that the old fellow has only two sons, and the youngest is thirty-four years of age, and in a very good way. But it pleases old Mac to talk like that, and he has talked like it so long, that I've no doubt he really believes that he has a destitute family somewhere, who would starve if he couldn't borrow his fourpence-halfpennies and his sevenpences now and then. It's one of the best things I know.'

Altogether this night's entertainment was a most enjoyable one to me, and gave me much food for reflection.

CHAPTER XXV.

HOLDING THE WORD OF PROMISE TO THE EAR.

So far as I could judge from outward appearances, the coldness between uncle Bryan and Jessie increased with time, rather than lessened. Their natures seemed to be in direct antagonism, and every effort to make things pleasant between them completely failed. My mother often made such efforts in her quiet loving way; Jessie herself wooed him, after her fashion, when the humour was on her; but he was implacable, except on one occasion to which I shall presently refer.

'He ought,' said Jessie to me, 'to be at the head of a monastery of monks; he thinks it is a crime even to laugh. What sort of a young man was he, I wonder?'

I could have told her, but the seal of secrecy was on my tongue. I need scarcely say that all my sympathies were with Jessie. I was an attentive observer of the state of things at home, and I had many confidential conversations with my mother concerning matters. Loving Jessie as I did, I could not, in my heart, be tolerant and kind to uncle Bryan, as she begged me to be; the hard and stern rules which he had set down for himself, the following out of which by us might possibly have won his favour, would have made life a burden. I applied these rules to himself, and his own life was his own condemnation. There was no question in my mind as to whether he was right or wrong. But I could not win my mother to my way of thinking; nor did I endeavour after a little while, for I saw that it gave her pain. Never did a hard word pass her lips concerning him; she had affectionate excuses for him in every fresh difference between him and Jessie. I thought she was wrong, but I did not tell her so, nor did I distress her by endeavouring to explain to her that her own conduct was a contradiction to her words. That she never missed an opportunity to be tender and gentle to Jessie was a sufficiently strong argument against uncle Bryan. In her love for my mother Jessie never wavered; it seemed to me to grow stronger every day. Sometimes when we were at home together--it was not a very frequent occurrence now, for Jessie and I were generally out of an evening at the Wests', or at a theatre for which orders had been given to us--I observed Jessie watching us; but when she saw my eyes upon her, she would turn hers away thoughtfully. One night we had come home late; uncle Bryan was abed; my mother had prepared supper for us. We sat down, and after supper fell into silence; I do not know what I was thinking of, but we remained silent for many minutes. Happening to look in the direction of my mother, I saw her wistful eyes upon me, and at the same moment Jessie rose, and, kneeling before my mother, drew her face down, and kissed it. I was by their side in an instant, and the three of us were clasped in one embrace; but Jessie quickly released herself, and left me and my mother together.

Time went on and there was no change, except that we were growing older, and that Jessie was growing more and more beautiful. I was getting along well, and as I was earning fair wages, I contributed, with pride, a fair sum towards the expenses of the house. I was enabled to make my mother and Jessie many little presents now, and I sometimes coaxed my mother to buy Jessie a new dress or a new hat, and not to let her know that they came from me. On the anniversary of my twenty-first birthday we had a party at home, the four of us, and were happier and more comfortable in each other's society than we had been for a long time. Even uncle Bryan softened--not only towards me, but towards Jessie.

'Your boyhood is over,' said uncle Bryan; 'you are now a man, with a man's responsibility, and a man's work to do in life. Do it well.'

'I will try to, uncle,' I replied.

'To perform one's duties,' continued uncle Bryan, 'taxes a man's judgment very severely, and as a man's judgment is generally the slave of his inclination, it is seldom that he can look back upon his life with satisfaction.'

'I don't quite understand that,' I observed; 'if a man's inclinations are good----'

Uncle Bryan interrupted me, for I had paused. He took up my words. 'Inclination is an idle selfish imp. Life is full of temptations, and inclination leads us to them; we follow only too readily.'

'All that we can do,' said my mother, caressing me fondly, 'is to do our best; we are often the slave of circumstances, Bryan.'

'In many cases,' he replied, 'not in all, a man can rise above them. We do not exercise our reason sufficiently. We cry and fret like children because things are not exactly as we wish.'

'Do you?' asked Jessie quickly. He answered her evasively. 'I have my sorrows.'

'I am glad of that,' said Jessie, in a low tone.

'There is more wisdom in your remark,' he said, with a thoughtful observance of her, 'than you probably imagine. I give you credit for using it in the best and kindest sense.'

'I meant it in that sense,' said Jessie gently, drawing a little nearer to him.

'Will you tell me why you are glad that I should have sorrows?'

'For one reason----'

'Well?'

'It does not remove you so far from us,' said Jessie, with less confidence than she usually exhibited.

'I try to do that?' he asked. 'I try to remove myself from you?'

'I think so,' she answered. 'You are not angry with me?'

'No, child,' he said, and the gentleness of his tone surprised me.

'But for sorrow and trouble,' mused my mother, the tenderest qualities of our nature would never be shown. God is very good to us, in our hardest trials. Dear Bryan! I am thinking of the time when Chris and I were in London without a friend. As I look upon my darling boy now, and think of the happy future there is before him----' She did not complete her sentence, but she went towards uncle Bryan, and stooped and kissed him.

'Say no more, Emma,' he said huskily; you do not know how vastly the balance is in your favour.'

'Notwithstanding your sorrows? questioned Jessie.

'Yes,' he replied, with an approving nod, notwithstanding my sorrows. You are sharp-witted, Jessie.'

'Thank you, uncle,' she said merrily.

It was almost like the commencement of a new and more harmonious era in our relations with one another.

'How old are you, Jessie?' I asked.

'I shall be eighteen in a little more than three months. A girl becomes a woman at eighteen, I am told. I shall expect to be treated with dignity then, Chris.'

The greatest wonder of the evening was reserved for its close. Uncle Bryan was the first to rise and wish us good-night. He grasped my hand warmly, and kissed my mother. He did not offer to shake hands with Jessie, but wished her good-night, and lingered at the door, waiting for her response; but it did not come. He turned to go, but before he could leave the room, she was by his side.

'Why are you so kind to others,' she asked, and so cold to me?' He stood silent, looking upon the ground. I want to love you if you will let me; I want you to love me. Say "Good-night, dear Jessie," and kiss me.'

He did exactly as she desired. 'Good-night, dear Jessie,' he said, and they kissed each other. He drew his arm round her, and I saw a tender light flash into his face, and rob it of its habitual sternness of expression. But it was gone in a moment, and he with it.

CHAPTER XXVI.

WE ENJOY A DECEITFUL CALM.

The harmonious relations between uncle Bryan and Jessie which my birthday seemed to have inaugurated continued for more than a fortnight, a result entirely due to Jessie's untiring efforts to conciliate him, and to 'keep him good,' as she expressed it. On the day following that on which I came of age, he showed symptoms of irritability at the tenderness into which he had been betrayed--for that undoubtedly was the light in which he viewed it; he had a suspicion that he had been played upon, and he was annoyed with himself for his weakness. Having, I doubt not, thought the matter well over during the night, and having quite made up his mind to vindicate himself, he came down in the morning more than usually morose and reserved, and received Jessie's affectionate advances in his coldest and most repellent manner. But Jessie would not permit him to relapse into his old cross humour; she charmed it out of him by a display of wonderful submission and tenderness, and by answering his snappish words with gentleness. In this way she disarmed him, and he, after some resistance, and with a singular mixture of pleasure and ungraciousness in his manner, allowed himself to be beguiled by her. The truth of the proverb that 'a soft answer turneth away wrath' was never better exemplified. If, when she had wooed him into a kinder mood, she had shown any signs of triumph, her influence over him would have come to an end immediately; he watched furtively for some such sign, and detecting none, resigned himself to this new and pleasant beguilement. Whether Jessie's conduct sprang from impulse or reason, she could not have behaved more wisely.

My mother was greatly rejoiced, and told me from day to day all that passed between these opposite natures. That the links of home love which bound us together were being strengthened was a source of exceeding delight to her.

'And it is all Jessie's doings, mother.'

'It is, my dear. I scarcely believed her capable of so much gentleness and submission.' (Here I thought to myself, 'I believe no one but I knows of what Jessie is capable.') 'When your uncle is most trying----'

'As he often is,' I interrupted, 'and without cause.'

'Well, my dear, if you will have it so. When he is most trying, she is most gentle, and she wins him to her side almost despite himself. And, Chris, I really think he likes it.'

'Who would not,' I exclaimed, 'when wooed by Jessie?'

'It is in her power,' said my mother, with a sweet smile of acquiescence, 'to make a great change in him. There is an undercurrent of deep tenderness in your uncle's nature, and Jessie is reaching it by the most delicate means. If she will only have patience! for it will take time, my dear.'

But these fair appearances were treacherous. Neither my mother nor I saw the clouds that were gathering, and when the storm burst I was impressed by the unhappy conviction that I, and I alone, was the cause. How little do we know of the power of light words lightly spoken! But for certain inconsiderate words which I had used, there would certainly have been sunshine in our house for a much longer time. As it was, this better aspect of things was destined soon to come to an end, and to come to an end in a way which introduced not only a more bitter discord between Jessie and uncle Bryan, but imbued us insidiously with a want of faith in one another. The storm broke suddenly, and without forewarning to uncle Bryan and my mother. But in the mean time the harmony was almost perfect. Jessie, when she went to bed, no longer parted from uncle Bryan with a careless 'Good-night,' but kissed him regularly every morning and every night, and he submitted to the caress without, however, inviting it by look or word. But even that wonder took place on a certain evening when Jessie, with a touch of her old ways upon her, wished us all good-night in a careless tone, and without kissing uncle Bryan. She opened and closed the door, but did not leave the room, and placed her fingers on her lips with a bright eager look in our direction, warning us not to betray her. Uncle Bryan's back was towards us, and he made no motion at first. Jessie stole quietly behind his chair, and stood there in silence. Presently, uncle Bryan turned his head slowly to the door, with something of a yearning look of regret in his face, and at the same instant Jessie's arms were round his neck, and her lips were pressed to his.

'Don't be angry with me,' she said.

'Angry, Jessie! I thought you had forgotten me. But you are as full of tricks as Puck was.'

'I can't help it, uncle Bryan. Good-night!'

'Good-night, my dear.'

And Jessie went to bed with a very light heart, and left light hearts behind her. It was apparent that these enchanting ways were pleasant to uncle Bryan, and I told Jessie so.

'It softens him, Jessie.'

'It takes a long time to soften a rock,' she observed, with a thoughtful smile.

'If anybody can do it, you can, Jessie.'

'You think nothing but good of me, Chris.'

'I only say what I feel. And you really want uncle Bryan to love you?'

'Yes--more than I can say--and I can scarcely tell why.'

'Except,' I said, with a foolish hesitation, 'that you like to be loved by everybody.'

'Perhaps it is because of that, Chris. I do like everybody to love me. It is much nicer so.'

If I wanted any consolation I supplied it by observing: 'To be sure, there are different kinds of love.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Jessie tantalisingly. 'Is it like uncle Bryan's sugar, of different shades and different degrees of sweetness? Some of it tastes very sandy, Chris.'

'Ah, now you are joking, Jessie!'

'I am not in a joking humour. I want to speak seriously. Chris, I have sometimes wondered that you have never asked me questions about myself.'

'In what way, Jessie?'

'About myself, before I came here. When one likes any one very much, one is naturally curious to know all about one.'

'I had my reasons, Jessie. When you first came, mother wished me not to ask you any questions. She said it would be like an attempt to steal into uncle Bryan's confidence. He might have secrets, she said, which he would not wish us to know.'

'Secrets!' she mused. 'What can I have to do with them? And yet, it is strange, now I think about it.'

'I should like you to tell me all about yourself,' I said; 'it doesn't matter now that you have spoken of it first yourself.'

'I was thinking of a secret that I have, Chris.'

I composed myself to receive her confidence.

'But I don't know what it is myself, yet. It is in a letter; perhaps----'

'Well, Jessie?'

'Perhaps nothing. It is only a letter that I am not to open until I am eighteen years of age. That will not be long, Chris. We will wait until then, and then I will tell you all I know. Let us blow it away till that time comes.' She blew a light breath. 'I wanted to make you a present on your birthday, but I did not have money enough then. Shall I give it to you now?' I held out my hand eagerly, and Jessie took from her pocket a small card-box. 'It is in this. What do you think it is?' I made a great many guesses, but she shook her head merrily at all of them. 'I went to look at it every day in the shop-window, afraid that some one might buy it before I had saved up money enough.'

I opened the box, and took from it a small silver locket, heart-shaped, with the words engraven on it, 'To Chris, with Jessie's love.' Unspeakable happiness dwelt in my heart as I gazed upon the emblem. As I held it in my hand tenderly, it seemed to me a living link between Jessie and me--an undying assurance of her love. Nothing so precious had ever been mine. My looks satisfied Jessie, and she clapped her hands in delight.

'So you like it, Chris?'

'I will never, never part with it, Jessie. But I want a piece of ribbon; may I have that piece round your neck?

'Take it off yourself, Chris.'

What a bungler I was, and how long it took me to remove the piece of simple ribbon, need not here be described. I know that while my trembling fingers were about her neck, Jessie, in reply to a look, said, 'Yes, you may, Chris;' and that I kissed her.

'And now, Chris,' she said, 'I want to speak to you about something that is troubling me very much. When you said the other night that uncle Bryan was an atheist, were you in earnest?'

'I said what I believed,' I answered with an uneasy feeling.

'And he is an atheist?'

'I am afraid he is, Jessie.'

'Has he ever told you so?'

'Oh, no; there are some things that one scarcely dares to speak of.'

'That is if one is weak and a coward. I am not that, and I don't think you are, Chris. Then I suppose you have never spoken to uncle Bryan about religion?'

'Not a word has ever passed between us upon religious matters.'

'An atheist is a person who does not believe in God, is he not, Chris?'

I was sensible that the discussion of so solemn a subject might lead to grave results, and I wished to discontinue it; but Jessie said:

'Don't be weak, Chris; I think I ought to know these things, and if we can't speak together in confidence, no two persons in the world can. Of course I can easily find out what I want to know; Gus West will tell me everything; but I came to you because we are nearer to each other.'

'Nearer and dearer, Jessie.'

'Yes, Chris; and now tell me what you know.'

I told her all that I knew concerning atheism, and all that I knew concerning uncle Bryan in connection with it. 'When I was a boy, Jessie, scarcely a week after we came to live with uncle Bryan, I heard him say that life was tasteless to him, and that he believed in nothing. I thought of it often afterwards.'

'Life was tasteless to him because he did not believe in anything; that is the proper view to take of it. If a person does not believe in anything, he cannot love anything. Can you imagine anything more dreary than the life of a person who does not love anybody, and who has nobody to love him? I can't. A person might as well be a stick or a stone--better to be that, for then he couldn't feel. But the words that uncle Bryan used may not have meant what you suppose, Chris.'

'They came in this way, Jessie. On the first Sunday we were here, mother asked uncle Bryan if he was going to church. He said that he never went to church. Mother was very sorry, I saw, but she did not say anything more. On that same night, uncle Bryan was reading a book, and he read aloud some passages from it. Mother asked him what was the name of the book, and he answered, The Age of Reason. When he laid the book aside, mother took it up, and looked at it; and then she sent me upstairs for the Bible. That was all; but I didn't quite know what was the real meaning of it until a long time afterwards, when I found out what kind of a book The Age of Reason is.'

'Tell me what it is.'

'It is a book written by an atheist for atheists; it might almost be called the Atheist's Bible, Jessie.'

'And did you never speak to your mother about uncle Bryan's religion?

'I have tried to, but mother is like me; there are some things she does not like to speak of.'

'And this is one of them,' said Jessie, following out her train of thought; 'and out of your love for her, when she said, "Let us talk of something else, my dear," you have talked of something else.'

'That is so, Jessie. It is almost as if you overheard what we said.'

'It is easy to see into your mother's heart, Chris. She did not like to speak about uncle Bryan's religion, because she loves him, and because she wants you to love him. Now, if it had been anything that would have made uncle Bryan stand out in a good light, she would have encouraged you to speak about it.'

'That is true enough, Jessie.'

'Chris, your mother is all heart.'

'She is everything that is good, if you mean that?'

'I do mean that; she is the best, the sweetest, the dearest woman in the world. Ah, if I were like her! But I am very, very different. What I say and what I think comes more often out of my head than out of my heart. Chris, it is impossible for an atheist to be a good man!'

I saw the pit we were walking into, but I had not the skill to lead Jessie away from it.

'A man who does not believe in God,' she exclaimed, 'cannot believe in anything good. No wonder that he is what he is. I am not satisfied--I am not satisfied! It is shocking--shocking to think of!' She shook her head at herself, and I listened to her words in no pleasant frame of mind. She was showing me an entirely new phase in her character. It was Jessie reasoning, and reasoning on the most solemn of subjects. 'Why,' she continued, 'God made everything that's good, and if uncle Bryan is an atheist, he is a bad man. And yet your mother loves him.'

'That she does, Jessie, with all her heart.'

'She couldn't love anything that's bad. If you were an atheist, Chris, I should hate you.'

'Thank God, I am not, Jessie; even if I were, you could make me different. But I don't like to hear you speak like this,' I said, reproaching myself bitterly for having been the cause of this conversation; for when I had told Jessie that uncle Bryan was an atheist I had spoken with a full measure of dislike towards him. 'Mother does not reason as you do. After all, I may be mistaken, Jessie, and we maybe doing him a great injustice. I know so much that is good of him--more than you possibly imagine.'

And then I told her what, from a false feeling of shame, I had hitherto withheld from her--the story of my mother's hard battle with the world when we came to London, and of uncle Bryan's noble behaviour to us when we were sunk in the bitterest poverty.

'All the time I have known him, Jessie, I have never known him to be guilty of an unjust action. He is as upright and honest a man as ever lived. Can such a man be a bad man?'

'Upright, honest, and just!' she repeated my words in a musing tone. 'It is an enigma.'

'He would die,' I continued warmly, 'rather than be guilty of a mean action. Now that we are speaking of him in this way, I am ashamed of myself for ever thinking ill of him. Mother was right, from the very first--she was right about him, as she always is about everything. If he were not so hard----But you don't know what trials he has gone through in his life.'

'Do you?'

'I know some of them, but I am pledged not to speak of them to any one--not even to you. One thing happened to him--never hint, for my sake, Jessie, that you even suspect it--one thing happened to him so terrible and so dreadful that it is no wonder he is hard and cold and morose. Many and many a time mother has entreated me to be kind and charitable in my thoughts towards him, and instead of doing so I have repaid all his kindness by the basest of ingratitude.'

'How have you done that, Chris?'

'By saying anything to you to cause you to dislike him. Ah, you may shake your head, but it is so, Jessie. If he were in my place, and I in his, he would come to me and ask me to forgive him; but I haven't the courage and fearless heart that he has, and I shouldn't know how to do it without giving him pain.'

I was really very remorseful, and sincerely so; but Jessie said nothing to comfort me.

'Have I had no reason of my own, until the last few days, to dislike him? Has he behaved quite kindly to me? Chris, is it possible that I am wrong in nearly everything that I have done? How many times have I tried to conciliate him, and how many times has he answered me with unkind words! There is some reason for it--there is some reason for it.'

'And yet remember, Jessie,' I said, without thinking, 'that he has given you a home, as he gave one to us, never asking for a return--never expecting one.'

Her face turned scarlet.

'Would he have said that?' she asked, and left me without another word.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE STORM BREAKS.

Jessie's moods were sufficiently variable and perplexing to cause me serious uneasiness, but I had no suspicion of what was in her mind when she spoke of uncle Bryan and his religious opinions, or I should have used my strongest efforts to avert the storm. Even when she made her first open move, which she did on the evening of the same day on which we had the conversation just recorded, I did not suspect her; truth to tell, my mind at that time was almost completely occupied by one theme--the locket which Jessie had given me, and its significance. As a charm, it was most potent in its power of bringing happiness to the wearer; I felt that while this locket was in my possession, it would be impossible for a cloud to shadow my life. But clouds came all too quickly.

We were sitting together in the evening, in the most amicable of moods. Suddenly Jessie addressed uncle Bryan.

'Uncle Bryan, who teaches the young?'

He looked inquiringly at her.

'Well,' she continued, understanding that an explanation was expected of her, 'one has to learn things; knowledge doesn't come of itself.'

'Assuredly not,' he said, with evident pleasure and curiosity; 'even parent birds teach their brood the use of their wings, and how to build their nests.'

'I did not know that; but it is of men and women I am speaking. They are higher than birds and beasts.'

'Yes,' he said, in a reflective tone; 'it is so.'

'If the world were filled with nothing but old people, I wonder what sort of a world it would be!'

'It would soon be no world at all,' he said; and added, with good-humoured depreciation, 'and while it lasted it would be a very disagreeable world, if the inhabitants in any way resembled me.'

'Never mind that, uncle Bryan; perhaps some people try to make themselves out a great deal worse than they are. So, then, there must be young people; that is a necessity.'

'As much a necessity as the seasons; it is the law of nature.'

'A good law?'

'Undoubtedly, young philosopher.' His manner was almost blithe.

'Well, then, to come back, as a friend of mine says. The young do not know what is right and wrong, and knowledge does not come of itself. Who teaches them?'

'The old,' he replied readily.

'Because they are more likely to know what is right and wrong.'

'For that reason, I should say. They have had more time to learn, and they have had more experience of the world.'

'Of course,' she said, 'and experience means wisdom. The old must know better than the young.'

'Naturally.'

'And young people should be guided by old people?'

'It would be better if that were more generally done.'

'That is all I wanted to know.'

Before many days were over, Jessie made her meaning apparent. She always accompanied my mother and me to church, and on the Sunday following this conversation she unmasked her battery.

'Uncle Bryan,' she said, while we were at breakfast, 'I want you to come to church with us this morning.'

A startled look flashed into my mother's eyes; uncle Bryan stared at Jessie, and bit his lips. He did not reply immediately.

'Young ladies have many wants,' he said.

'But this is a good want,' she pleaded. There was nothing saucy or defiant in her tone or manner; both were very gentle. 'But this is a good want. You will come with us?'

'I will not come with you,' he replied sternly.

'Do you never go to church?

'Never.'

'Why?'

'That is my affair.' The corners of his lips began to twitch.

'Is it not good to go to church?' she asked, still in a gentle tone, her colour beginning to rise. I noted with consternation these familiar signs of the coming battle. The shock was the more bitter because, to all outward appearance, everything had been fair between them until this moment. Only the night before we had stopped up half an hour later than usual, because the time was passing very pleasantly to all of us.

'My dear,' said my mother, with a sweet smile, taking Jessie's hand in hers; 'my dear, you forget!'

'Forget what, mother?' asked Jessie; she sometimes addressed my mother thus. 'Am I doing anything wrong?'

Even I could not help acknowledging to myself that Jessie, by a literal acceptation of my mother's words, was wilfully misinterpreting the nature and intent of her remonstrance; but I found justification for her.

'Uncle Bryan is the best judge,' said my mother.

'I know he is,' said Jessie.

'Let her go on,' cried uncle Bryan.

The old stern look was in his face, and his voice was very harsh. I was the more unhappy, because I alone held the key of the situation. Jessie repeated the question, addressing herself to uncle Bryan.

'Is it not good to go to church?'

'I do not say that,' was his reply.

'But I want you to say one way or the other. It must be either good or bad. You will come with us!'

'I will not come with you.'

The high tone in which he spoke put a stop to the discussion, and we finished the breakfast in the midst of an unhappy silence. Indeed, we all seemed too frightened to speak. At the proper time my mother and I were ready for church, and were waiting downstairs for Jessie, whom my mother had left in their room dressing. But Jessie was somewhat more dilatory than usual. My mother went to the stairs, and softly called out,

'Now, my child, be quick, or we shall be late!'

It was the first time I had ever heard my mother call Jessie her child, and I pressed her hand fondly for it. She returned the pressure, almost convulsively, and presently Jessie came slowly downstairs. She was dressed with unusual care in a pretty new soft dress, concerning the making of which there had been great excitement; but her head was uncovered.

'Get on your hat quickly, my dear,' said my mother; 'we shall have to walk fast.'

'I am not going to church,' said Jessie, in a low tone, in which I--and I alone, I believe--detected a tremor.

'Jessie!' cried my mother, in a tone of suffering; 'Jessie, my dear child!'

She stepped to Jessie's side, trembling from agitation. Jessie stood quite quietly by the table, and repeated, in a tone which she strove in vain to make steady,

'I am not going to church this morning.'

Uncle Bryan was in the room, but spoke not a word.

'Are you not well, my dear?' asked my mother.

'I am quite well.'

'Then why will you not come with us?'

'I am not sure that it is right to go to church.'

'My dear, if I tell you that it is'

'Uncle Bryan is older than you--twenty years older--and has had more experience of the world; therefore he must know better than you. If it were right to go to church, he would go, for I am sure he is an upright and just man.'

At this direct reference to him uncle Bryan raised his head, and gazed fixedly at Jessie, and at her latter words something like a sneer passed into his face. My mother looked helplessly from one to another.

'I know,' said Jessie, 'that I am the cause of this trouble, and I wish--oh, I wish!--that I had never come into the house! No, I don't wish it, for then I should never have known you!' She stood very humbly before my mother. 'I feel how ungrateful I am: to uncle Bryan for giving me a home'--(how these words stung me!)--'and to you for giving me a love of which I am so undeserving.'

The tears came into her eyes, and I went towards her, but she moved a step from me; and thus apart from each other we four stood for a few moments in perfect silence--a house pulsing with love and tenderness, but divided against itself. Then Jessie said suddenly:

'Uncle Bryan, if I go to church this morning, will you come with us some time during the year?'

'No,' he replied sternly and firmly.

'I have asked you in the wrong way, perhaps,' she said; 'but that would not alter the thing itself.'

'Whichever way you asked me, my answer would have been the same, young lady.'

'If you tell me to go now, I will go.'

'I will tell you nothing. You are your own mistress.'

'How are the young to be taught, then, if the old will not teach them?'

In the presence of my mother's distress he had no answer to make, and I felt that it was out of consideration for her, and not from any desire to spare himself, that he went into the shop and left us to ourselves.

Then Jessie to my mother:

'I hope you will forgive me, but if I knew I should have died for it I could not have helped doing what I've done. Don't be grieved for me; I am not worth it. I am going to spend the morning with Miss West.'

My mother and I went to church by ourselves; but I fear that my mood was not a very devout one. My mind was filled with what had taken place at home, and its probable consequences.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

COLOUR-BLIND.

The consequences were more serious than any one of us could possibly have imagined, with the single exception of uncle Bryan; where we hoped, he reasoned, and reasoned with bitterness against himself. There are in the world a sort of men with whom you are for ever at a disadvantage--men who from various motives are strangely, and ofttimes cruelly, reticent as regards themselves, their thoughts, and their actions. These men receive your confidences, but do not confide in you in return; they listen to your schemes, your hopes, your fears, but say not a word concerning their own. You wear your heart upon your sleeve; they lock up theirs jealously, and place upon them an impenetrable seal, which perhaps once or twice in a lifetime they remove--perhaps never. Uncle Bryan was one of these men. Scarcely by a look had he ever shown us his heart, and it required a nature not only more noble and generous, but more self-sacrificing, than mine not to misjudge him--to be even tolerant of him.

All our hopes of a more harmonious feeling between him and Jessie were utterly shattered, and my birthday, instead of being the commencement of a brighter and better era in our home relations, inaugurated an era of much unhappiness and discomfort. In the most unfortunate, and yet, as it seemed to me, in the most natural way, we were placed in a painfully-delicate position of antagonism. Who was to blame for this? I found the answer to this question without difficulty. Who but uncle Bryan was to blame? The part which Jessie had taken in the conversations between them was dictated by the best of feelings--was good and tender--and I admired her, not only for her courage, but for the affection she had displayed towards him, and for her efforts to wean him from his moroseness and infidelity. That she had failed was no fault of hers. The fault lay entirely in himself, and in his insensibility to softening influences. That, if she had succeeded, the result would have been both good and beautiful, was incontrovertible. I argued the matter very closely in my mind, for, notwithstanding my love for Jessie, I was anxious not to do uncle Bryan an injustice, and I could come but to one conclusion. What home could be happy with a master who possessed such a nature as his? He was like a dark shadow moving among us, and turning our joy into gloom.

These were partly the result of my reflections. Other considerations also arose. We were all bound to one another by ties of affection. That was a certainty, in the first blush of my reflections; but afterwards a doubt occurred to my mind. By what tie of affection was Jessie bound to uncle Bryan? He himself, when he told my mother and me the story of his life, had confessed it: by none. The charge of Jessie had almost been forced upon him, and his sense of duty had compelled him to accept it. It was not humanity that had impelled him to give Jessie a home. And if, after she came among us, she had failed to win his love, it was because his heart was hard and cold, and incapable of tenderness. I recalled a hundred little ways in which she had wooed him, and every one of them was an argument against him. Then I thought of her helpless dependent position, and my love for her and my anger against him grew stronger. That he was hard to her was an additional reason why I should show her openly, and without false weakness, that in me she had a champion and a friend who would be true to her until death. Even if I did not love her, I argued, this championship of one who was cast as a stranger amongst us would have been demanded of my manliness.

All these things were settled in my mind before my mother and I returned home from church on that memorable Sabbath, but not a word passed between us on the subject. I was silent out of consideration for my mother; she was silent out of the exquisite tenderness of her nature. Over and over again had she played the part of the Peacemaker between uncle Bryan and Jessie; but knowing uncle Bryan as she did, she felt that in this crisis she was powerless. The day passed quietly and unhappily. Jessie joined us as we passed the house of the Wests, and walked home with us; but during the whole of the day neither uncle Bryan nor she addressed each other, nor made any conciliatory movement towards each other. Once or twice she looked towards him, and the slightest look of kindness from him would, I knew, have brought her to his side. But although he was conscious of her gaze, he carefully avoided meeting it, and she, instinctively aware of his intention, looked towards him no more. It had been arranged that we should go to the Wests on this night; our visits there during the past fortnight had not been so frequent as usual; but as the time drew near, Jessie whispered to me that she intended to stop at home.

'I will run round,' she said, 'and tell Josey that I can't come; but you can go.'

'I shall do as you do, Jessie,' I said.

I thought afterwards that it was a great pity we stopped at home, for we were anything but lively company. Uncle Bryan might have been made of stone, so silent was he; Jessie rejected all my sympathising advances towards her; and even my mother was at a loss for words. I was curious about the 'good-night' between uncle Bryan and Jessie when bedtime was near; it occupied Jessie's thoughts also; but he settled it by lighting his candle and going to bed without bidding any one of us good-night. It was evident from this and from uncle Bryan's behaviour during the week that followed that all harmonious relations between him and Jessie were at an end. On the next Sunday Jessie came to church with us as usual.

I fully expected that she would take an opportunity of speaking to me on the subject of her difference with uncle Bryan; but as the time passed, and she did not speak of it, I approached the subject myself. I told her my opinion, and praised her for her courage.

'You are speaking against uncle Bryan,' she said.

'I can't help it, Jessie; 'he brings it on himself by his tyranny.'

'Tyranny!' she exclaimed. 'Do you forget what you said, and what I believe--that he is upright, honest, and just?'

'In other things he is; but not in this. He is like a man who can see, and who is colour-blind.'

'That is,' she said, with a deprecatory shake of the head, 'that he is Jessie-blind. Ah, Chris, if he is blind to what there is good in me, are you not blind to what there is bad?' I was about to expostulate, but she stopped me: 'I am not quite satisfied with myself; I don't know that it would not have been better for me to have held my tongue. And another thing, Chris: I am not sure whether I am glad that you think I was right.'

'Why, Jessie, what things you are saying!'

'I must say them, Chris, for I know what is in my mind. Answer me this question. Supposing you were not fond of me, as I know you are--I don't mind saying it now, for I am speaking very seriously--would you think then that I was right? Do you side with me out of your head or out of your heart?'

'My reason approves of what you did,' I said earnestly; 'I want you to believe that, Jessie. Say that you do believe it.'

'I do, Chris.'

'Then you must be glad to know that I am certain you are not to blame.'

She shook her head again, and said:

'Perhaps it would have been better if all of you had been against me.'

'But who is against you, Jessie?' I persisted. 'Mother is not, and I am not.'

'Never mind that now, Chris. I can see things that you can't see, because----'and she took my hand, and looked straight into my eye.'

'Because what, Jessie?'

'Because you are colour-blind, my dear,' she replied, half gravely, half sportively, in unconscious imitation of Josey West.

From this time her visits to the Wests grew even more frequent than they used to be. She was there not only in the evening--on which occasions I was always with her--but very often also in the day. My mother spoke of this to me regretfully, and said she was afraid that Jessie mistrusted her.

'Mistrust the sweetest woman in the world!' said Jessie. 'No, indeed, indeed I do not! But can't you see, Chris, that I am better away?'

'No, I can't see it, Jessie--not that I have any objection to the Wests; you know that I am very fond of them.'

'Still colour-blind, Chris? you still can't see what I can see?'

'You seem to be putting riddles to me, Jessie,' I said.

'Well, you must find the answers without my assistance; and as to my going to the Wests so often in the daytime, what comfort do you think I find at home?'

None, I was compelled reluctantly to confess.

'Have you heard uncle Bryan complain of my absence?' continued Jessie. 'Does he say that I am too often away?'

'No, Jessie, he has said nothing, to my knowledge.'

'Because he sees nothing to regret in it.'

'But mother does, Jessie.'

'Chris,' said Jessie, with tearful earnestness, 'if I had a mother like yours I should thank God for her morning, noon, and night; and if I ever wavered in my love for her, in my faith in her, if I ever did anything to give her pain, I should pray to die!'

'You speak out of my heart, Jessie, as well as out of your own.'

She gazed at me sadly and affectionately, and with something of wonder too.

'Well, well, Chris,' she said, 'I have my plans; let me go my way.'

I was content that she should, having settled in my mind that her way was my way, and that her way was right. I had my plans also, which I did not disclose to Jessie. I was improving my position rapidly, and I knew that the day was not far distant when I should be able to support a home by my own labour--nay, I was at the present time almost in a position to do so. But there were things to be seen to and provided for--furniture and that like; and I was saving money for them secretly. I looked forward with eagerness to the accomplishment of my scheme, and I worked hard to hasten its ripening. The sweet pictures of home-happiness which I conjured up were sufficient incentives--pictures from which neither Jessie nor my mother was ever absent. 'Then,' I thought, 'Jessie will not be a dependent upon one who is filled with unkind and uncharitable feelings towards her.' It was on my tongue a dozen times to tell Jessie how I was progressing in my scheme, but I restrained myself. 'No,' I said, 'I will not say anything to her about it until I am quite ready. Then I will speak openly to her. She knows that I love her, and that I am working for her.'

But I could not keep my plans entirely to myself. I unfolded them to my mother, who sat silent for a little while after I had finished. Then she said:

'Have you not forgotten something, my dear?'

'No, mother, not that I know of.'

'Or some one, I should rather say--your uncle Bryan.'

I returned a disingenuous answer. Uncle Bryan would never leave his shop. What would he find to do in a place where there were no customers to serve, and no business to look after?' (I added mentally, and where he was not master and tyrant?')

'Chris, my dear child,' said my mother humbly and imploringly, 'do not hide your heart from me!'

'Mother!' I cried, shocked at myself.

'Dear child, forgive me! It was forgetfulness on your part, I know, and unkind of me to put such a construction upon it. My boy could not be ungrateful. He knows how I love him, how proud I am of him. How well I remember his promise to me one night--in the old times, my darling, when I used to take in needlework for a living--that he would try to grow into a good man; and how grateful I am to the Lord to see him after all these years a good and clever man, the best, the dearest son that mother was ever blessed with!'

The old times came vividly before me, and a strangely-penitent feeling stirred my heart as I looked into my mother's face, with its expression of yearning love, and thought of the road I had traversed from boyhood to manhood. Bright and beautiful was this road with flowers of sweet affection; a heart whose tenderness time nor trouble could not weaken had cheered me on the way, and unselfish hands had made it smooth for me. The faithful mother who had strewn these flowers was by my side now, shedding the light of her sacred love upon me. She was unchanged and unchangeable, but I---- Ah, me! Let me not think of it. Let me kneel, as I used to kneel with my head in her lap when I was a boy, and when we were all in all to each other. Let me kneel and think of the long, long nights during which my mother used to work for bread for me; the trials, the disappointments, and the cheerful spirit bearing up through all, because a life that was dearer than her own was dependent upon her. The intervening years melted like a dream, and for a little while I was a boy again, and my heart was overflowing with tenderness for this dearest, best of women.

'I remember that night too, mother,' I said, raising my head from her lap; 'I have been looking at it again. I lay awake for a long time watching you; you were sighing softly to yourself, and did not know that I was awake.'

My mother smiled, and sang, as softly now as then, and as sweetly, the very words she had sung on that night.

'You forget nothing, mother.'

'Nothing that is so near to my heart, my dear. Nor would I have you forget Chris, to whom it is we owe our release from the dreadful difficulties that once threatened to overwhelm us; for I was getting very ill, you recollect, when your uncle's letter came to us, and I felt that my strength was failing me. We owe all to him, my dear; wherever our home is he must share it. We must never leave him--never; the mere contemplation of it, after all these years, makes me very unhappy.'

Delicate as was the manner in which my mother had set my duty before me, she had made it quite clear to my mind; but love and duty were at war with each other. All my visions of home-happiness were darkened now by the shadow of uncle Bryan. Whichever way I turned his image seemed to stand, barring my way to the realisation of my dearest hopes.

CHAPTER XXIX.

PREPARATIONS FOR AN IMPORTANT EVENT.

The coldness between uncle Bryan and Jessie did not diminish with time. As a matter of necessity they were compelled to speak to each other occasionally, but they did so with coldness and reluctance, and a distinct avoidance of the subject which had broken the bond between them. I say that they were compelled to speak to each other as a matter of necessity, but I may be mistaken; they may have spoken not out of consideration for themselves, but for my mother. Thinking over the matter since that time, I have understood how those two, if they had been alone, might have lived in the same house for years, and might have performed their separate duties conscientiously, without a word passing between them. For the sake of peace Jessie would have yielded, but uncle Bryan would have remained implacable. Results proved this. In vain did my mother strive to bring them together in a more amiable spirit; in vain did she speak separately to each of the other's good qualities, magnifying their merits, ignoring their faults. Her labour upon uncle Bryan was entirely lost; but it was different with Jessie, not because she thought she was wrong, nor for uncle Bryan's sake, but out of her love for my mother.

'You are a child, my dear,' said my mother to her, 'and he is an old man. If for that reason alone, you should yield.'

'It would be useless,' was Jessie's rejoinder; 'I have known him for a much shorter time than you, but I know his nature better than you do. I judge of it by my own.'

'You do both him and yourself injustice, my dear,' pleaded the peacemaker; 'if he were all wrong and you were all right, it would be your duty to give in.'

'Love and duty do not always go together,' said Jessie obstinately.

'But we must make sacrifices, my child; what a miserable thing this life would be if some of us did not yield!'

'If I thought,' said Jessie, softening, 'that I should not be insulted I would do as you wish willingly, most willingly--not for my sake, but for yours.'

'Try, then, for my sake.'

'I will; and you will see what will come of it.'

And Jessie tried, in her best manner and in good faith, with the result for which she was prepared.

'Can you not see now how it is?' she asked, with tears in her eyes. 'I have brought trouble into this house. How much better would it have been for you if I had never entered it! But it wasn't my fault. Ah, if I were a man I wouldn't stop in it for another hour! But I have no friends; and if it were not that I love to live, I might wish that I had never been born.'

'Then you do not regard me as a friend, my dear child?'

But Jessie, with cruel determination, refused to respond to the tender appeal, and turned rebelliously away. All this I learnt from my mother, who hid nothing from me, and it did not tend to make me happier.

'Be patient, my darling,' my mother said; 'all will come right in the end.'

'Did anything ever come right with uncle Bryan?' I fretfully asked. 'Think of the story he told us! I remember too well what you said when I asked if you would have me look on things as he does. You said it would take all the sweetness out of my life; and you were right. He has taken the sweetness out of it already.'

I did not consider that it was the very refinement of cruelty to bring her own words in judgment against herself. On such occasions she would tremble from sheer helplessness; but with unwearied patience she would strengthen her soul, and strive, and strive, for ever with the same result. So wrapt was I in my own unhappiness, that it was only by fits and starts I gave a thought to hers; even that she was growing thinner and more sad, with this inward conflict of her affections, escaped me. Others saw it, but at that time the selfishness of my own grief made me blind.

But there were bright spots in my life during these days, even in the midst of these unhappy differences, in every one of which Jessie was the central figure. All that seemed to me worth living for was centred in Jessie; and she was never absent from my mind. She passed nearly the whole of her time with the Wests now--naturally enough, finding so little comfort at home--and as I was not happy out of her society, all my leisure was spent with her. This circumstance was introduced unpremeditatedly one evening when Jessie and I were preparing to go out. My mother, to tempt us to stop at home, had promised some little delicacies for supper, and mentioned it incidentally, when Jessie said that she should not want any supper when she came home.

'I am sure to have supper with Josey West,' she said.

'You go there a great deal, Jessie,' remarked my mother, with an anxious look.

'I am happy there,' was Jessie's terse reply; 'but I don't want to take Chris away.'

'You don't want the sunflower to turn to the sun,' sneered uncle Bryan, with his usual amiability.

'I will not thank you for the compliment,' said Jessie, 'for it isn't meant for one. Chris,' she exclaimed, turning suddenly to me, 'is the sun the only bright thing in the heavens? Is not the moon as lovely, and are not the stars the loveliest of all?'

Uncle Bryan took up the theme, continuing it to her disadvantage.

'But one loses sight of these loveliest things of all when the glare of the sun is in his eyes.'

Jessie bit her lips.

'Am I to blame for going where my best friends are?' she asked.

'You go where your wishes take you. We are certainly not good enough for such a young lady as you.'

'Perhaps not,' said Jessie defiantly, as she left the room.

This was her custom, after all her attempts at conciliation had failed. Sometimes she would be silent; at others she would answer pithily and bitterly, and without thought, perhaps; but she always retired when she was becoming the subject of conversation. The old days of light skirmishing were at an end. Short and bitter battles of words, in which there was much gall, were now the fashion.

I was aware that for some time preparations were being made for an important evening at the Wests'. I was very curious about it, but Jessie would not allay my curiosity.

'You shall know all at the proper time,' she said; 'in the mean time you can help me if you like.'

'Of course I will. What is that paper in your hand?'

'This is one of my characters, Chris. See here. Pauline--I'm to play Pauline. And here's another--Mrs. Letitia Lullaby--that's me again. I must learn every word of the parts, and you can help me in them.'

'I know what you want, Jessie; I've heard Turk go through some of his parts.'

Thus it fell to my lot to hear Jessie repeat from memory all that Pauline and Mrs. Letitia Lullaby have to say, giving her the cues, and correcting her until she was, as she said, 'letter perfect.' But as she continued to tease me, and would not let me into the secret of all this preparation, I applied to Josey West for information. The good-natured creature seldom refused me anything.

'We are going to have a grand dress performance, my dear,' she said, 'and Jessie will play the principal characters in two pieces.'

'In dress?' I asked, in some amazement.

'In dress, my dear. The pieces are Delicate Ground, and A Conjugal Lesson; three characters in the first, and two in the second. Gus will play Mr. Simon Lullaby, Jessie's husband, in one piece, and Citizen Sangfroid, Jessie's husband, in the other. Brinsley, who is out of an engagement, has condescended--that is the word, my dear--condescended to play Alphonse de Grandier in Delicate Ground for one night only, by special request of a lady.'

'Jessie?' I said.

'She is the lady referred to; the part is far beneath him, of course--these parts always are, my dear, unless they are the principal parts--but he'll play it very well; I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't try to cut Gus out, so that we are sure to have some good acting. Between the pieces there will be some dancing by Sophy, and Florry, and Matty, and Rosy, and Nelly--it's good practice for them--and as there's a change of performance at the Royal Columbia, Turk hopes to be able to get away in time to see the last piece, and to recite "The Dream of Eugene Aram." He wished very much to recite another piece, as he was sick of committing murders, he said; but he does Eugene Aram also by special request of a lady. He does it very finely too; one night at a benefit two ladies went into hysterics in the middle of it, and had to be carried out of the theatre. There was a paragraph in the Era about it, and it was put in some country papers as well. Turk is very proud of that; he often speaks of it as a triumph of art. I ought to play something as well, oughtn't I, my dear, on Jessie's night? But I shall have enough to do as acting-manager.'

'Why do you call it Jessie's night?'

'Because it's the first time she ever dressed to act. Why, Turk has got some bills printed!--he's a good-natured fellow, is Turk, the best in the whole bunch, my dear! Here's one; but you mustn't say you've seen it. Jessie doesn't know anything about it yet.' And Josey West produced a printed bill, which read as follows:

Josey West drew my particular attention to various parts of the programme, such as the price of the stalls. 'In a fashionable theatre, my dear, such as this is,' she said, with a whimsical look,' you can't make the stalls too high;' and the notice about babies in arms--'You know what a famous family we are for babies, my dear;' especially to the words, 'Free list suspended, press excepted.'

'But you don't expect the press,' I said.

'Not exactly the press; but somebody of as much importance as a critic may honour us with his company. But never mind him just now. Isn't the programme splendid? It was Turk's idea, and he drew it up, and had it printed, all out of his own pocket. No one knows anything of it but you and me and him, so you must keep it quiet--we want to surprise Jessie with it when the night comes. Turk says that when Jessie is a famous actress this playbill will be a great curiosity.'

'When Jessie becomes a famous actress!' I repeated, with a sinking heart.

'Yes, my dear; and she will be if she likes. Do you know, Chris, that if I were you--I really think if I were you'--and she paused, and looked at me kindly and shrewdly--'that I would buy two of the nicest bouquets I can see to throw to Jessie when she is called on at the end of the pieces. We'll manage between us, you and me, that no one shall see them until the proper moment; you buy them, and give them to me on the sly before the audience arrives, and I'll place them under your seat, so that no one shall know. And now, my dear, I want you to tell me something. If you don't like to, don't; and if I am asking any thing that I oughtn't to ask, all you've got to do is to tell me of it, and I'll drop it at once. Is Jessie comfortable at home? Ah, you hesitate and turn colour; if you speak, you'll stammer. Don't say a word; I'll drop the subject.'

'No, why should you?' I said. 'You are a good friend, and you have a reason for asking.'

'I am as good a friend, my dear, to you and Jessie as you'll find in all your knockings about in the world. Mind that! Don't you forget it, or you'll hurt my feelings, as the Kinchin says. You've only got one better friend, and that's that dear mother of yours, that I'd like to throw my arms round the neck of this minute, and hug.'

'Why, you've never spoken to her, Josey!'

'What of that? I've heard of her, and that's enough for Josey West. And a good mother makes a good son. I like you first for yourself, and I like you second for your mother (not out of a riddlebook, my dear, though it sounds like it)! As for my reasons, why, yes, I have my reasons for asking, or I shouldn't ask.'

'Jessie does not make a confidant of any one but you, I suppose, Josey.'

'Of no one but me, my dear, and I know what I know, and suspect a great deal more.'

'If Jessie confides in you, I may. She is not so happy at home as she might be and as she deserves to be.'

'Thank you, my dear; I only wanted to make sure. Now we'll drop the subject.' She went through some comical pantomime, as though she were sewing up her lips. 'Stop and see the girls go through their ballet. Come along, Sophy and Florry and all of you; the bell has rung for the curtain.' And she began to sing, first, however, whispering to me that we should have real music on the night. 'No expense, my dear; it's all ready to hand in the family.'

Then the children arranged their figures and positions to Josey West's singing, and rehearsed the ballet with the seriousness of grown-up people.

Neither uncle Bryan nor my mother knew anything of Jessie's passion for acting. Jessie held me to my promise of not saying anything about it at home; and on occasions when I urged her to let my mother know of it, she refused in the most decided manner, and said she had her reasons for keeping it a secret.

As for myself, I found myself in a labyrinth. So conflicting were the influences around me, that I scarcely dared to think of the plans I had cherished but a little while since, and hoped to see fulfilled. I could only hope and wait.

CHAPTER XXX.

JESSIE'S TRIUMPH.

The eventful evening arrived. It had been a difficult matter with me to keep the knowledge of the affair to myself, for I was in a state of great excitement, and my mother noticed it; but she did not seek my confidence except by kind looks of interest and curiosity. During the day, in accordance with Josey West's advice, I bought two handsome bouquets, which I conveyed to Josey secretly, and which she hid under my seat in the kitchen. Great pains had been taken with the room, which, with benches and chairs properly arranged, and the stage curtain, and a row of stagelights with green shades to them, really presented the appearance of a miniature theatre. It was rather gloomy, certainly, for all the candles were required for the stage, but that was a small matter. The room was filled chiefly by the West family, of whom every available member was present, down to the youngest baby in arms, and among the audience were a few persons with whom I was not acquainted, but whose appearance, with one exception, clearly denoted that they belonged to the dramatic profession. Two male and two female Wests, of tender age, comprised the band; the girls played the violin, and one of the boys played the flute, and the other the cornopean--which latter instrument ran short occasionally in the matter of wind. Everybody was very excited and very merry, and Josey West's queer little figure was continually darting before and behind the curtain.

'Would you like to see her?' the good-natured creature whispered to me. 'Of course you would. Come along, then. She's dressed for Pauline.'

I went with Josey behind the scenes to Jessie's dressing-room, which had been built for the occasion with shop-shutters, and blankets, and odds and ends. Jessie looked wonderfully fascinating and beautiful in her fine dress, and a painful feeling of inferiority came upon me in the presence of so much grace and loveliness.

'And how do I look, Chris?' she asked, as she stood before me, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

I sighed as I told her that I had never seen any one look more lovely.

'She'll never want a wig, my dear!' said Josey West admiringly, as she ran her fingers through Jessie's beautiful hair. 'Did you ever see such hair and such a complexion? All her own, my dear--scarcely a touch of the hare's foot. But, bless the boy! he looks as if he was sorry instead of pleased. That's not the way to make her act well. There! kiss her, and go back to your seat. The music's beginning.'

My cheeks were as red as Jessie's as Josey West pushed me towards Jessie, and turned her back; but my arm was round Jessie's waist nevertheless, and Jessie, moved by a sudden impulse, kissed me very affectionately. It was the first time our lips had ever met.

'Done?' cried Josey West. 'There! I'm sure you feel more comfortable now. Now run away, or I shall have you turned out of the house.'

In a very happy frame of mind I took my seat among the audience, whose enthusiasm was unbounded. The stage management was simply perfect; there was not a hitch in the entire performance. Directly the music ceased, amidst a general clapping of hands and stamping of feet--our satisfaction was so complete that we wanted everything done over again--a bell tinkled for the curtain, which was promptly drawn aside, and the comic drama of Delicate Ground commenced. General interest of course centred round Jessie, who at first was slightly nervous, but she grew more confident as the scene progressed. To say that she played well is to say little; her acting on that night is fixed in my mind as the most perfect and beautiful I have ever seen. It was not only my opinion, it was the opinion of all, and the applause that was bestowed upon her was astonishing in its genuineness and heartiness. 'By heavens, sir!' I heard one of the visitors with whom I was not acquainted say to another--'by heavens, sir, she's peerless--peerless! She'll make a sensation when she comes out.' There was an entire absence of envy in the praise that was given to her; and the women, as well as the men, were extravagantly enthusiastic in their demonstrations. I heard remarks also passed from one to another, to the effect that Gus and Brinsley never acted better in their lives; they certainly, after the fashion of Turk, 'went in' with a will, and it was difficult to say which of them deserved the palm of victory. I liked Brinsley best, because he did not play the part of Jessie's husband, but this view I kept to myself. Had it not been for the kiss Jessie had given me, the memory of which made me triumphantly happy during the whole of the night, I might have been rendered uneasy by the passion which Gus West threw into the last lines of his part: 'You have no rival. You have been, and are, sole mistress of this my heart. You have been, and will be, sole mistress of this my house.' But even these words, and the passion with which they were spoken, did not disturb me, and when the curtain fell upon the scene, my only feeling was one of pride in Jessie's triumph. There were loud calls for Pauline; and Turk, who came in just as the curtain fell, joined vehemently in the applause, although he had seen nothing of the piece. He was accompanied by the old actor, whom I knew as Mac, and whose acquaintance I had made on the memorable night I spent at the Royal Columbia. When Jessie, led on by Gus and Brinsley West, came before the curtain and curtsied her acknowledgments, and when I threw my bouquet at her feet, the cheers were redoubled again and again; and all acknowledged that there could not have been a greater success. Then there was a merry interval, which was occupied by gossip and refreshments; and then the ballet and terpsichorean revel by Josey West's sisters, towards whom the audience were disposed to be more critical. The young misses acquitted themselves admirably, and were followed by Turk West, whose 'Dream of Eugene Aram' was a most tremendous elocutionary effort. To me it was terribly grand, and the intense earnestness of Turk made a deep impression upon me. He was rewarded by unanimous cries of 'Bravo, Turk!' 'Well done, old fellow!' and a call before the curtain, which he acknowledged in his best manner. Jessie's appearance in The Conjugal Lesson, as Mrs. Simon Lullaby, was, if possible, more successful than her Pauline; but Turk, who found a seat next to me, was somewhat sarcastic on his brother Gus. Perhaps he was jealous too; at all events, he whispered to me that he wished he had had the opportunity of playing Mr. Simon Lullaby; 'then you would have seen a piece of acting, Chris, my boy, which you would not easily have forgotten.' It was late when the performances were over. Jessie was of course called on again, and received my second bouquet, and then the company prepared to depart. But Josey West cried out from behind the curtain that they were all to stop to supper, and in a short time these male and female Bohemians, the merriest and best-hearted crew in the world, were regaling themselves on bread-and-cheese and pickles and beer, amid such a din of joviality that you could scarcely hear your own words. I went behind to Jessie's room, and waited until she was dressed; Josey West heard me walking restlessly about, and called to me when Jessie was ready.

'And what do you think of us now?' she asked.

I did not stint my measure of admiration, and I told them what I had heard one of the visitors say, that Jessie's acting was peerless--peerless.

'And so it was,' said Josey West. 'Which one was it, my dear, who said that--a tall thin man, with a sandy moustache?'

'No; but he was sitting near, and I saw him nodding his head, and clapping, as though he was very pleased.'

'That's a good sign; he's a fine judge of acting. He'll want to be introduced to you, Jessie; so will they all. I shouldn't wonder----'

'What?' I asked.

'Nothing, my dear, unless you can make something out of the circumstance that that gentleman's name is Rackstraw, and that he prepares young ladies for the stage. That was a good thought of yours, my dear, bringing these bouquets. Such beautiful ones, too! I wish I had such a prince!'

Jessie laughingly bade Josey West hold her tongue, and I saw with delight that she had placed in her bosom a flower from one of the bouquets.

'It was very kind of you, Chris,' said Jessie, giving me her hand, which was burning with excitement.

'You must be tired, Jessie.'

'I could go all through it again,' she replied.

'That's the way with us excitable creatures,' observed Josey West complacently; 'we're like thoroughbred race-horses, we can go on till we drop. Now, Jessie, come along and be praised.'

The praises she received were sufficient to turn any one's head; she was surrounded and kissed by all the women, and the men could not find words sufficiently strong to express their gratification. Mr. Rackstraw, the gentleman who prepared young ladies for the stage, was very eulogistic and very inquisitive, asking personal questions with a freedom which did not please me. But neither Josey West nor Jessie shared my feeling in this respect--Josey especially taking great interest in what he said.

'And you think she would succeed?' said Josey West.

'I am sure of it, Josey,' he answered.

He addressed all in the room by their Christian names, and was evidently regarded as a man of importance.

'But there is a great deal to be learnt?' asked Jessie; 'is there not?'

'Yes, assuredly, my dear.' (Another sign of familiarity which displeased me. I did not mind it from the members of the West family; there was a homely and honest ring of affection in the term as they used it, but it sounded quite differently from Mr. Rackstraw's lips.) 'A great deal.'

'And it would cost money?'

'Well, yes,' he said promptly, 'it would cost money--but not much, not much. Josey, I took the liberty of bringing a friend with me--Mr. Glover.'

Mr. Glover, the best-dressed man in the room, tall and dark, and between forty and fifty years of age, was the gentleman I had noticed who, alone among the audience, did not appear to belong to the dramatic profession. I had not paid any attention to him during the evening, but upon this direct reference I turned towards him, and saw at a glance, in my closer observance of him, that his station in life was higher than ours. Being introduced to Jessie, he thanked her for a most pleasant evening.

'I am not a frequenter of theatres,' he said, 'but if you were upon the stage, I think I should be tempted to come very often to see you.' He spoke well and slowly, and with the manner of a person who was accustomed to reflect upon each word before it passed his lips. When he and his friend were gone, Josey West informed us that Mr. Rackstraw was a person of the greatest influence. Not only did he prepare young ladies for the stage, she said, but he was in connection with a theatrical agency, where important engagements were effected. Gus's name was down upon the books of this agency, and having in this way made Mr. Rackstraw's personal acquaintance, he had induced him to come down and see Jessie act. Josey was in high spirits because everything had gone off so well.

'It is a real, complete, and splendid success,' she said, 'and ought to be repeated every evening until further notice. Hark--old Mac's going to speak!'

The old actor had risen, glass in hand, and had expressed his wish to address a few words to the company--an intimation which was received with vociferous and lengthened applause.

'Brothers and sisters in the noblest of all noble professions,' he said, 'this reception is not only cheering, but, coming upon me when I am in the sere and yellow----'(Here there were cries of 'No, no, old fellow; you've a good twenty years before you yet!')--'I use the language of those base and envious detractors who say it is time the old actor was laid on the shelf. Using their words, then, which Avon's Swan never thought would be so misapplied, this reception coming upon me when I am in the sere and yellow, is not only cheering but affecting. It recalls the memory of times when the humble individual before you never stepped upon the boards without one, and when old Mac's place--his proper and legitimate place in the ranks, won by the force of genius and hard study----'(Cries of 'Bravo, Mac! Go it!')--'I mean to--when his legitimate place, won, as I have said, by the force of hard study and genius, was not occupied by pretenders. But tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis----' (The applause here lasted for full a minute) 'O yes, old Mac can show these pretenders the way to go! Tempora mutantur, et cetera, my sons, and may you never find it out in the same way as the humble individual who stands before you has! But it was not to speak of myself that I rose--the old actor never cares to thrust himself forward'--(general and good-humoured laughter)--'knowing as he does that the subject is weary, stale, and unprofitable. He knows that he is but "a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more!" But damme, my sons, the poor player is happy to know that in his old age he has honour, love, and, if not obedience, troops of friends.' ('So you have, old boy! Go on!') 'I intend to. I drink to you. Give me the cup. Nay, I have it'--(with a humorous look)--'not sparkling to the brim, but 'twill serve. "Let the kettle to the trumpet speak. The trumpet to the cannoneer without. The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth." Old Mac drinks to those he loves!' (As the speaker drained his glass, the youngster who played the cornopean performed a flourish upon the instrument, and the other members of the company did their best to produce an appropriate demonstration.) 'But to the point. We have witnessed to-night a most remarkable performance by a young lady, who I am informed has never appeared upon the boards--a young lady who is destined to occupy a distinguished position--mark me, a distinguished position--and may old Mac live to see it! She has youth, she has grace, she has beauty, she has genius. In her presence I say it, my sons. The old actor knows a pretender when he sees him, and he knows genius when he sees it; he sees it here. In proposing the toast of this young lady's health' (Mac placed his glass upon the table, and waited until it was refilled), 'and in wishing her the success that always should, but sometimes doesn't, wait on merit, old Mac knows that he is performing a task which every one of you would like to have performed in his place. But damme, my sons, while old Mac lives, the old school of gallantry will never die out.'

How the toast was received, and with what enthusiasm it was drunk; how they all surrounded Jessie and petted her and complimented her; how she blushed and trembled at the praises which were showered upon her; and how these honours seemed to remove her farther and farther from me,--I have not the power to describe. It was two o'clock in the morning before the company broke up, and Jessie and I walked home. My heart was full almost to bursting, and I could not trust myself to speak. Not a word passed between us, but with Jessie's arm closely entwined in mine, and with her hand clasped in mine, I felt that without her I would not wish to live. When we reached home, I knocked softly at the street-door, but no answer came. I knocked more loudly, but still there was no answer. Surprised that my mother was not waiting up for us, I tried the handle of the door, and found that it was unlocked. I closed the street-door, and we entered the sitting-room, where a candle was burning. My mother was there, sitting by the table, with her head on her arm. I approached her in some alarm, and saw that she was asleep; her dreams must have been distressing ones, for she was sobbing bitterly.

CHAPTER XXXI.

MY MOTHER EXPRESSES HER FEARS CONCERNING JESSIE.

One evening, as I was smartening myself up in my room, preparatory to going to the Wests', my mother entered, and said, almost humbly,

'My dear, can you spare me a few minutes?'

'Certainly,'I replied. 'Jessie is at the Wests', isn't she?'

'Yes, my dear. I'll not keep you long. I want to speak to you about her.'

'Go on, mother,' I said, in a tone of satisfaction, for that was the subject I loved best to converse upon.

'How you have grown, my darling! You are the image of your father, who was a fine handsome man. How proud I am of my son!'

I looked in the glass, without any feeling of vanity. I always took pains with my appearance when I was about to present myself to Jessie, but I had no high opinion of myself, and I was never quite satisfied with the result.

'You do your best to spoil me, mother,' I said, submitting myself to my mother, whose fond fingers were about my neck. 'Go on, about Jessie.'

'You are in her confidence, my dear?'

The words were used in the form of a question; and I was immediately conscious that they were the prelude to something of importance, for there was trouble in my mother's face. I also was troubled; a new sorrow had entered into my life, a sorrow with which of course Jessie was connected. All that there was for me of joy and pain in the world was associated with her.

I hesitated in my answer. Jessie had pledged me to secrecy with reference to the peculiar nature of her intimacy with the Wests and to her passion for acting, and I would not betray her, not even to my mother. There were confidences between Jessie and me which even she could not share. My mother and I had but few opportunities for conversation during this time, for very little of my time was spent at home. Wherever Jessie went I was bound to follow. It did not matter--except in the sorrow that it caused me--that she gave me less encouragement than formerly; it did not matter that certain undefinable signs from her, which I had hitherto treasured in my heart of hearts as proofs of her love, came rarely and more rarely; the rarer they were the more precious they were. I found excuses for her: in my own inferiority, which hourly and daily impressed itself more painfully upon me; in my being poor; in her being so beautiful and so far above me. I could not see, I dared not think, how it was to end; but I followed her blindly, clung to her blindly.

My mother observed my hesitation, and divined the cause.

'Nay, my dear,' she said, in a sad and gentle tone, 'I do not ask you to tell me anything you think you ought to keep to yourself. I have not forfeited your confidence, have I, my darling?'

Before I could reply, she placed her hand to her heart, and uttered an exclamation of pain.

'Mother!' I cried.

'It is nothing, dear child,' she said; 'it is only a pain in my side that has come once or twice lately. Put your arms round my neck, my darling; it will pass away directly.'

She rested her head upon my shoulder and closed her eyes, holding me tightly to her.

'I am better now, dear child,' she said presently, with a sweet smile.

Could I see nothing in her face but physical pain? No, nothing. The old patient look was there, the old tender love was there. What more could I have seen, had I not been blind?

'You ought to get advice, mother. Promise me.'

'I will, my dear; but it is nothing. I am not growing younger, Chris.'

'You were speaking of Jessie, mother.'

'Yes, my dear. I was about to say that Jessie has no one to look after her but me.'

'And me,' I added proudly.

'And you, my dear. I know what your feelings are towards her, but you are away at your work all the day, and then the duty devolves upon me alone.'

'Well, mother?'

'Jessie is a little different to me from what she was; I am beginning to think--sorely against my will, dear child--that she mistrusts me. I know that she is not happy, but I could comfort her if she would let me. It might be better for all of us if she would confide in me.'

'I am sure it would be, mother.'

'She does not repulse me, Chris; she avoids me. When I have it in my mind to speak to her seriously, she seems to know what I am about to say--she is very bright and clever, my dear--and she obstinately refuses to listen; runs away, or turns me from my purpose by some means. I am very anxious about her.'

'Jessie can take care of herself,' I said, assuming an easiness I did not feel; she is not happy at home, as we know; but we know, also, who is to blame for that. I suppose she refuses to listen to you because she feels that the subject you wish to speak to her upon is a painful one. I should do the same in her place.'

'I don't blame her, my dear; don't think that I blame her. But I must not forget my duty. She has no mother; do not I stand in that relation to her?'

I kissed my mother for these words.

'Then, knowing that I wish her nothing but good, why does she avoid me so steadily? O Chris, my child! greater unhappiness than all may come from her distrust of me.'

A tremor ran through my frame. Not love alone, but pity, was expressed in my mother's face and tone.

'I don't quite understand you, mother,' I said.

'Where does Jessie go to in the day, my dear?'

'Where does Jessie go to in the day!' I repeated. 'Does she go anywhere?'

'Then you do not know, my dear; she hides it from you as well. For the last fortnight she has gone out every morning at eleven 'o'clock, and has not returned until four. I have put her dinner by for her every day, but she will not eat it, and she refuses to say where she has been.'

I considered for a few moments, and soon arrived at a satisfactory conclusion.

'It is very simple. She goes to Miss West's, and she does not eat her dinner because she knows she is not welcome to it. It is uncle Bryan's dinner, and this is uncle Bryan's house. Jessie is very proud.'

My mother shook her head. 'She does not go to Miss West's. I have not watched her, because I know that she would discover me, and that it would turn her more against me. But three mornings ago I saw her get into an omnibus which goes to the West-end. What friends can she have there, Chris? And if she has friends, should we not know who they are?'

'If she has friends!' I exclaimed, putting a brave face on the disclosure, although I was inexpressibly hurt at the knowledge that Jessie was keeping a secret from me. 'Do you suspect she has?'

'She must have, Chris.'

I looked at my mother; there was more in her tone than her words implied.

'Go on, mother. You have something more to tell me.'

'It is best you should know, my darling,' said my mother in a tone of inexpressible tenderness, encircling my waist with her arm; it is best you should know, for you are in Jessie's confidence, and she will listen to you when she would not heed me. Yesterday afternoon, as I was walking home--I had been out on an errand for your uncle--a cab passed me, with two persons in it. One was a gentleman, the other was Jessie. Nay, my dear, don't shrink. There is no harm in that; the harm is in keeping it from us, her dearest friends, and in making a secret of it.'

I controlled my agitation, foolishly believing that I could deceive this fondest of mothers.

'Did the cab come to our door?' I asked.

'No, my dear; it did not come down the street. It stopped a few yards in front of me, and the gentleman assisted Jessie out----'

'Don't hide anything from me, mother; of course I shall speak to Jessie about it. Tell me exactly what you saw and heard.'

'I heard nothing; I shrank away, so that Jessie should, not see me. The gentleman said something to her, but she shook her head, and then he bade her good-bye and drove away. That is all.'

It was enough to make me most unhappy, but still I strove to conceal my feelings. I endeavoured to make light of the circumstance, and I asked my mother in a careless tone whether she was sure it was a gentleman who accompanied Jessie. She said she was sure of it.

'What was he like?'

'Tall and dark, and very well dressed.'

'Young?' I asked.

'No,' she answered, and I could not help feeling relieved at the information; nearer fifty than forty, I should say.'

I could not at the moment call to mind any person whom the description fitted, and I promised my mother that I would speak to Jessie about it.

'Ask her to confide in me, my dear,' my mother said.

'I will, mother.'

As I walked towards the Wests', my mind was filled with what my mother had told me. I held the clue which would have led me to the truth, but I juggled with myself, and rejected it because the result was displeasing to me. I had never yet mustered sufficient courage to speak to Jessie plainly concerning her passion for acting, and what it was likely to lead to. Many and many a time had I thought of Josey West's words, 'when Jessie becomes a famous actress,' and of old Mac's remark that Jessie was destined to occupy a distinguished position on the boards. These utterances, coupled with the conversation that took place between Mr. Rackstraw and Jessie on the night of the performance, were surely sufficient to convince me that Jessie's visits to the West-end had something to do with her desire to become an actress; but I would not be convinced, simply because I did not wish to believe it. Say that Jessie did appear upon the public stage, and became famous--as I was sure she would become--she would be farther than ever from me. I caught at one little straw that lay in the way of the result I dreaded. Mr. Rackstraw had said that there was a great deal to be learnt, and that it would cost money. Well, Jessie did not have any money. I magnified this straw into an insurmountable obstacle which it was impossible for Jessie to get over, and so I played the fool with my reason.

I found the Wests busy as usual. Jessie was there, learning some dancing steps from one of the young misses; she blushed as I entered, and the lesson was discontinued. I had intended to speak privately to Josey West about Jessie, but within a few minutes of my arrival, Gus West came in, and I had not the tact to make the opportunity. Josey informing Gus that Jessie had been taking a dancing lesson, he proposed that they should go through a minuet; and he and Jessie and two of the girls performed the old-fashioned dance most gracefully, Josey West humming the minuet de la cour, while I sat in the corner, the only serious person in the room. When the minuet was finished, Josey West called me to her, and addressing me quietly as Mr. Glum, said she was afraid I was of a sulky disposition. I said I did not think I was sulky, but that I was very unhappy.

'About her?' questioned Josey, with a sharp look in the direction of Jessie; but before I could answer, Jessie came towards us, and said she was ready to go home.

'I did not wish to go,' she said to me, on our way, 'but I saw that you had something to say to me.'

I answered, yes; that I did wish to speak to her.

'And about something unpleasant, I can see,' she said; 'make it as short as you can, Chris.'

She was toying with a flower which Gus West had worn in his coat when he came in. I did not see him give it to her, but that she had it, and seemed to value it, was like a dagger in my heart.

'Jessie,' I said disconsolately, 'you know how I love you!'

'If any person on the stage,' she answered lightly, 'spoke of love in that tone, the whole house would laugh at him.'

'That is the only thing that runs in your thoughts now,' I said gloomily.

'What?' she exclaimed. 'Love? I meant the stage. You think of nothing but acting.'

'Well--perhaps! What else have I to think of that brings any happiness to me?'

'I thought you loved me, Jessie.'

'So I do, Chris,' she said in careless fashion, still toying with the flower.

'And others, too,' I added.

'Well, yes--if you please. There are always more than two persons in the world.'

'Jessie!' I implored. 'It hurts me to hear you speak in that careless way. I cannot believe that it is in your nature to think and speak so lightly of what is most precious.'

'Why cannot you believe so?' she asked, somewhat more seriously. 'Am I the only one who lightly regards a precious gift--am I the only one who does not know the value of love?'

'I at least know the value of it, Jessie. Ah, you would believe me if you knew what I would do for you.'

'I think you love me, Chris.'

'With all my heart, Jessie; with all my soul!'

She trembled a little at the passion of my words.

'Tell me,' she said, averting her head, 'what would you do for me?'

I answered that there was no sacrifice that I would not willingly, cheerfully make for her sake; that I thought of none but her, that I loved none but her; that if all the world were on one side, and she alone on the other, I would fly to her, and deem myself blessed to live only for her. This, and much more that has been said a myriad times before, and will be said a myriad times again, I said passionately and fervently. She listened in silence, and then, after a pause, told me she believed I had spoken the true feelings of my heart, and that she was sure I had meant every word I had uttered. And then she pinned Gus West's flower to the bosom of her dress, and asked me if it did not look well there. Miserably, I answered Yes, and felt as though all the brightness were dying out of the world.

'But you have something else to say to me,' Jessie presently remarked; 'what you have already said is very pleasant to me. Now for the unpleasant thing.'

The conversation with my mother, which in the heat of my declaration had slipped out of my mind, now recurred to me, and I told Jessie that my mother was very anxious about her.

'In what way?' she asked.

'Where do you go to every day, Jessie? Mother tells me that you go out regularly at eleven o'clock every morning, and that you do not return until four in the afternoon, and that you don't spend that time at the Wests'.'

'Has she been watching me?'

'No, Jessie.'

'Have you?'

'No,' I replied, very hurt at the question; 'you don't think I would play the spy upon you!'

'Oh, I don't know,' she said, with a toss of her head; 'persons do strange things when they are in love.'

'You seem to know a great deal, Jessie.'

She appeared to be both pleased and discontented at this remark.

'When girls get together, Chris, they will talk; and Josey West and I don't sit in the corner, mumchance, with our mouths shut, as you sat to-night. Have you anything else to tell me?'

'Yes,' I said, 'and I wouldn't speak of it if I hadn't promised mother that I would do so. Yesterday she saw you riding in a cab with a gentleman.'

'That is quite true,' said Jessie simply, before I could proceed farther; 'but why didn't she speak to me about it?'

'Rather say, Jessie, why did you not speak to her. But mother is afraid that you mistrust her; she says that you avoid her when she has it in her mind to speak seriously to you.'

'She told you that?'

'Yes, Jessie.'

'She is not wrong, Chris,' said Jessie, with a sigh; 'but we all seem to be playing at cross purposes, and not one of us seems to understand the other.'

'I think I understand you, Jessie.'

'Do you, Chris?' she asked, in a tenderer tone.

'If others mistrust you, I don't. I know that everything you do is right.' She shook her head gently. 'No, you shall not make me think otherwise, Jessie. You and I will stand together, come what will.'

'Against all the rest of the world,' she said, quoting my words.

'Yes, against all the rest of the world, Jessie,' I replied eagerly.

'It will never be, Chris; I would not accept such a service from you if the whole happiness of my life depended upon it. Ah me! Often and often I think what an unhappy day that was for all of us when I came among you.'

'You said so on the Sunday morning that you asked uncle Bryan to come to church with us; but you repented immediately afterwards, if you remember, and said you were not sorry, for if it had happened so, you would not have known mother.'

'I have learnt something from her, Chris--something good, I hope.'

'You could learn nothing from her that was not sweet and good,' I said.

These last words were spoken on the threshold of our home.

CHAPTER XXXII.

JESSIE MAKES AN EXPLANATION.

Jessie walked straight into the parlour, where both uncle Bryan and my mother were sitting.

'You are anxious to know,' she said, addressing my mother, 'where I go to of a morning.'

'Yes, my dear,' answered my mother.

I saw that uncle Bryan was listening, and I saw also by the expression in his face that the matter was new to him; my mother had not complained to him of Jessie.

'Chris has been speaking to me about it,' said Jessie, 'and I thought it best to tell you myself. I go to Mr. Rackstraw's.'

'Who is he, my dear?' asked my mother.

'He is a gentleman who teaches young ladies--I beg your pardon'--(with the slightest possible glance at uncle Bryan)--'young women how to act; he educates them for the stage.'

'But surely, my dear,' remonstrated my mother, 'you have no intention of becoming an actress.'

'Why not? I am not wise, I know, and I am very wilful, and passionate, and unreasonable.' She resolutely moved a step from my mother, who was approaching her tenderly. 'But I have sense enough to think of my future, and I do not see what I could do better. I have been acting for a long time at Miss West's; we have often had little private performances there--Chris has seen them.' There was grief, but no reproach, in my mother's eyes as she looked at me. 'When I first commenced to act, I did it purely out of fun, and I had no serious intention of taking to the stage; but when I grew so unhappy here as to know that I was bringing discord among those who loved each other, and to whom I was in a certain sense a stranger, and when day after day the feeling grew stronger that I was not welcome in this house, I thought of what was before me in the future. It must be very sweet, I think, to be dependent upon those who love you; it is very bitter, I know, to be dependent upon those who hate you.'

'Stop!' cried uncle Bryan, in an agitated tone. 'I say nothing as to whether you are right or wrong in your construction of the feelings entertained towards you here. You are a woman in your ideas, although almost a child in years, and you have evidently settled with yourself that you will not be led----'

'Who is to lead me?' said Jessie, pale and trembling. 'I have asked to be led, and you know the result. Not quite out of hard-heartedness, but with some shadow of good feeling--though perhaps you will not give me credit for being capable of anything of the sort--I have asked to be shown what is right and what is wrong; and if I, somewhat wilfully, preferred to be shown by example and not by words, was I so very much to blame, after all?'

'You are clever enough,' he said, 'to twist things into the shape you like best----'

'No,' she exclaimed, interrupting him again; 'be just. You know what I refer to, and you know I have spoken exactly the truth. Do not say I have misrepresented it.'

'I beg your pardon,' he said, in a manly tone, and with a frankness which compelled admiration. I was wrong. You have stated exactly the truth, and in a truthful way. But if you really wished to be taught, what better teacher could you have than the one before you?'--with a motion of his hand towards my mother--'if you had doubts, where could you find a better counsellor?'

'You are master,' said Jessie, firmly and gently; 'you gave me shelter and protection. Chris reminded me of that a little while ago when we were speaking of you, and I was angry with him for it--unreasonably angry. It is not to be wondered at that I should look to you for counsel.'

'If there were two roads before you,' he said, 'one, dark and bleak and bare'--he touched his breast'--the other, fair and bright and sweetened by most unselfish tenderness'--he laid his hand upon the hand of my mother--'which would you choose?'

'I cannot answer you; you are wiser than I am, but I do not think you can see my heart.'

'I see,' he said, with a glance at my mother's white face, 'things which you do not seem to comprehend.'

'The time may come,' she retorted, 'when you will be more just towards me, and I must wait until then.'

'Well, well,' he said, with a sigh; 'you say it is bitter to be dependent upon those who hate you. Leave me out of the question. My sister loves you; Chris loves you. Can you not be content with this, and let me go my way?'

'No; for I have been dependent upon you, not upon them.'

'Have I ever said a word which led you to believe I begrudged you shelter here?'

'Never; but we do not judge always by words.'

She seemed to have caught uncle Bryan's talent for short crisp sentences, in which there was much truth.

'Go on with your explanation,' he said.

She turned to my mother.

'You saw me yesterday in a cab with a gentleman. His name is Mr. Glover, and he is a friend of Mr. Rackstraw. He offered to see me home, and wanted to come to the door with me, but I thought uncle Bryan would not approve of it.'

'I should not have approved of it,' said uncle Bryan, 'and I do not approve of any person seeing you home in a clandestine way.'

'And, my dear child,' added my mother, 'he is a stranger to us, and must be almost a stranger to you.'

'He is a gentleman,' said Jessie.

'A gentleman!' repeated uncle Bryan scornfully.

'That is nothing against him. I like gentlemen. Mr. Rackstraw tells me that Mr. Glover can help me to get an engagement on the stage, and I must consider that. He treats me with the greatest respect.'

'Who pays this Mr. Rackstraw,' asked uncle Bryan, 'for the lessons he gives you? His business is not entirely philanthropic, I presume, and he does not teach young ladies for nothing.'

'Of course I have no money to pay him; I am to pay him by and by, out of any money I may earn.'

'You are determined, then, to become an actress?'

'I am determined to get my own living, and I believe I shall do well on the stage. I cannot continue to live in a state of dependence. If I had a mother or a father, or if I were happy here, it would be different.'

'I suppose you can be made happy,' said uncle Bryan, 'by being indulged in all your whims and caprices, and by being allowed to act and think exactly as you please, without restraint.'

'No,' replied Jessie tearfully, 'I only want kindness; I cannot live without it.'

She turned to leave the room, with signs of agitation on her face, when uncle Bryan desired her to stay.

'There is something more,' he said. 'In the event of this gentleman--Mr. Glover--seeing you home again, he must not do so clandestinely. I owe a duty to you which I must perform, however distasteful it may be to you.'

'It is not distasteful to me,' she replied. 'Mr. Glover would have seen me to the door yesterday but for my refusal to allow him. I am truly anxious to do what is right.'

My uneasiness with respect to this discovery would have been unbearable but for a change in my circumstances which placed the day more at my own disposal. I had advanced steadily in my trade, and was by this time a thoroughly good engraver. I think I brought into my work more than mere mechanical exactness, and some blocks of my engraving which went out of Mr. Eden's office attracted meritorious attention. I knew of men who were earning good wages--far higher than I was receiving--by taking work from master engravers, and executing it at home. Why could I not do the same? I should not then be so tied down as not to have an hour or two in the middle of the day to myself; and in the event of my availing myself of the opportunity, I could easily make up for lost time by working an hour or two later in the night. I mentioned this to Jessie, and said that then I could come to Mr. Rackstraw's, and bring her home of an afternoon--instead of Mr. Glover, I added.

'I would sooner,' said Jessie, 'that you saw me home than Mr. Glover. I believe you are jealous of him, you foolish boy! You have no occasion to be.'

Such a crumb of comfort as this would console me for days.

'And then I shall be my own master,' I said to myself proudly.

My employer anticipated my wish; he was a generous conscientious man, and I had earned his respect. He called me into his office, and, almost in the exact words I have set down, proposed that I should do as I wished.

'You will not only be able to earn more money,' he said, but in a few years you may be able yourself to set up as a master, and take apprentices of your own. I shall be able to give you plenty of work, and you will find that your time will be as fully occupied as you can desire it to be. Let me give you one piece of advice: never promise what you cannot perform; if you say you will deliver a block at a certain time, keep your word, if you have to sit up all night to finish your work. Let it get to be known that you are a man whose word can be depended upon, and you are sure to be prosperous.'

I thanked him, and commenced almost immediately on the new system, with my hands full of work. So behold me now, with my bedroom, in which there was a good light, fitted up with table and bench, working steadily at home, to my mother's great delight.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

MR. GLOVER.

I soon made the acquaintance of Mr. Glover. In pursuance of my plans, I presented myself at Mr. Rackstraw's office every day at a certain hour, for the purpose of seeing Jessie home. I had of course previously consulted Jessie, and she had acquiesced in the arrangement. It was a serious encroachment upon my working hours, but I made up for it in the night, and between sunrise and sunrise I always performed a fair day's work. On the very first occasion of my presenting myself at Mr. Rackstraw's office, I found Mr. Glover there. Having sent in my name to Jessie, I waited in an outer room, the walls of which were lavishly decorated with paintings and photographs of actors and actresses, in the proportion of about one of the former to twenty of the latter. As I was studying these, Jessie made her appearance, followed by Mr. Glover; she was waving him off lightly, and saying as she entered,

'No, thank you; I will not trouble you to-day. Chris has come to see me home.'

'Oh,' he answered, without casting a glance in my direction. 'Chris has come to see you home! Is Chris your brother?'

'No,' she said, 'I haven't a brother or a sister in the world.'

He condescended to look at me after this, and held out his hand to me with smiling cordiality. I took it awkwardly, for I felt myself but a common person by his side.

'Chris and I must become better acquainted,' he said. 'I remember now; I saw this young gentleman at Miss West's on the night of your performance there. He threw you two bouquets.' Jessie nodded. 'And very handsome bouquets they were,' he continued; 'he eclipsed us all by his gallantry; but I had no idea I was to have the pleasure that night of making your acquaintance, Jessie, or I might have entered the field against him. Any friend of yours must be a friend of mine.'

Then he bade us both good-day, without any attempt to press his attentions upon Jessie. Jessie asked me what I thought of him, and I could not help answering that he seemed to be a gentleman, but made some demur to his addressing her by her Christian name.

'Oh, that is the fashion in the profession,' said Jessie carelessly; there is nothing in that.'

'He is not an actor, is he, Jessie?'

'No; he is something in the City.'

This vague definition of many a man's occupation, common as it is, was new to me, and I inquired what the 'something' was. Jessie could not enlighten me. I continued my inquiries by asking her how she knew that he was something in the City. He himself had told her, Mr. Rackstraw had told her, and young ladies whose acquaintance she had made at Mr. Rackstraw's had also told her.

'He is at Mr. Rackstraw's every day, Jessie?' I said.

'Nearly every day, Chris,' she answered, and closed the subject of conversation by saying that, at all events, Mr. Glover was a perfect gentleman.

I did not find him to be otherwise; he was uniformly courteous to me, and I could not make open complaint against him because his courtesy was of a kind which a superior yields to an inferior. He was a gentleman, and I was a common workman; I chafed at it inwardly, nevertheless. I would have avoided him if I could, but he would not allow me to do so. The second time I walked into Mr. Rackstraw's office I met him at the door, and he fastened on to me. I had come for Jessie? Yes. Was I coming every day for Jessie? Yes. I had plenty of spare time then? Yes. I was fond of Jessie, he supposed? I answered as briefly as was consistent with bare civility, but I made no reply to his last question. He was neither surprised nor exacting. As I did not answer the question, he answered it himself. It was natural that I should be fond other; we had been brought up together as brother and sister, he had been given to understand; yes, it was natural that I should be fond of her in that way--natural, indeed, that we should be fond of each other in that way. He had been given to understand, also, that we were not in any way related to one another; but he could see that in an instant, without being told. Jessie was a lady, evidently; I might tell her he said that, if I pleased, for he was never ashamed of what he said or did; Jessie was a lady in her manners, in her speech, in her ideas; and these things do not come to one by instinct, or even by education; they must be born in one.

This and much more he said; conveying by implication (what indeed I knew already) that Jessie was far above me, and (what I could not doubt) that he was a gentleman, and I was not. He had a trick of playing with his moustaches, which he continually curled into his mouth with his fingers as he spoke; and even at that early period of our acquaintanceship, I, in my instinctive dislike of him, thought there was something stealthy in the action. Standing before me, with his fingers to his mouth, Mr. Glover there and then commenced to expatiate upon a theme of which I heard a great deal afterwards from his lips: this theme was his good name, of which he was evidently very proud. There was not a stain upon it, nor upon that of any of his connections; he had never harboured a thought to tarnish his character, which was above reproach. He did not express these sentiments in the words I have used, but these were the pith of them, and there was a distinct assertion in his utterances that he was much better than his fellow-creatures. I, listening to him, understood exactly what he meant to convey to my comprehension: that even if we twain had been equal in station, his high character and stainless name would have placed him far above me.

In a week from this time Jessie told me that Mr. Glover had made closer inquiries about me, and hearing that I was a wood engraver, had expressed his intention of interesting himself in my career. I was not pleased at this; I did not wish to be placed under an obligation to Mr. Glover, and I muttered something to this effect to Jessie. She seemed surprised, but made no comment upon it. Mr. Glover, however, was as good as his word. I received a letter from a master engraver, desiring me to call upon him, with reference to some work he wished to give me. The hour fixed for the appointment was the hour at which I was due at Mr. Rackstraw's. I had no choice but to comply; and I made arrangements that afternoon, not only to engrave some blocks of a superior description, but to submit sketches of my own, upon wood, for a Christmas story which was to be published that year. The interview was a long one, and when I arrived home, I was not pleased to find Mr. Glover chatting to my mother in our sitting-room. He had seen Jessie home, and, in compliance with uncle Bryan's desire, had brought her to the door. An introduction to uncle Bryan and my mother naturally followed, and thus he was introduced to the house. He asked me pleasantly whether I had made satisfactory arrangements, and confessed that he had been the means of introducing this better kind of work to me. He received my mother's thanks graciously, and it made me mad to see that she thought it was a stroke of great good fortune to have won such a patron. What could I do but thank him also for the introduction? That I did so in an ungracious and even in a sullen manner did not seem to strike him; Jessie noticed it, however.

'You don't seem pleased, Chris,' she said, following me out of the room.

'I don't know what my feelings are,' I replied; from any other hands than his, the work that I have received to-day would have delighted me beyond measure. But I had better not speak; it will be best for me to hold my tongue.'

'Why?'

'Because I seem never to dare to say what I think; and I don't like to play the hypocrite.'

'You don't say what you think,' Jessie said, 'because you are conscious that your thoughts are unjust.'

'Perhaps it is so; but I can't make myself believe that they are.'

'You haven't a good opinion of Mr. Glover.'

'I am not grateful for his patronage; I don't mind saying that.'

It would have been more truthful in me to have said that the instinctive aversion with which he had at first inspired me was fast changing to a feeling of hatred. I hated him for his smooth manner, and hated him the more for it because it was impossible to find fault with it; I hated him for his civility to me, and hated him the more because he refused to notice that my manner towards him, if not the words I used, plainly showed that I did not desire his friendship or patronage. But I could have multiplied my reasons, which might have all been summed up in one cause of dislike--his attentions to Jessie.

'Don't come to the Wests' for me to-night, Chris,' Jessie said, after a little quiet pondering.

'Why not, Jessie?' I asked, with a sinking heart.

'Because I don't want to be made more unhappy than I am already. Besides, you must devote your attention more to your work, and less to me. I am not the most important thing in the world to you.'

'You are,' I said gloomily; 'how often have I told you so! You don't believe what I have said, then!' I turned from her in sorrowful passion.

'Chris, Chris,' she said, 'I am not, I must not be, your only consideration. You have other duties before you, and you must not forget them or neglect them, as you have hitherto done.'

I thought she referred to my work, and I answered that I did not neglect it, and that I could perform great things if she were kinder to me.

'Am I not kind to you?' she exclaimed. 'Is it my fault that you are so wrapt up in your own feelings that you are regardless of the feelings of others? If you are blind, I am not. If you are selfish, I am not. If you forget your duty, I shall not forget mine.'

These were the unkindest words she had ever spoken to me, and they were a terrible torture to me.

'Do I show myself to be blind and selfish,' I said, 'and do I forget my duty in loving you as you know I love you, and in wishing to be where you are?' She did not reply. 'But perhaps,' I added bitterly, 'you have another reason for not wishing me to come to the Wests' to-night.'

'What other reason?' she asked quietly.

'Perhaps Mr. Glover is to be there;' and the next moment I would have made any sacrifice to have recalled what I had said. But it was too late. How often do we plunge daggers into our hearts by inconsiderate words, rashly spoken, as these were!

Jessie looked at me swiftly, with a fire in her eyes which I had never seen there before, and with hot blood in her face; but in another moment she was as white as death.

'Jessie!' I cried repentantly, seizing her hand.

She tore it from me indignantly.

'I will ask him to come!' she said, and left me, ready to kill myself for my cruel injustice.

That night I watched outside the house of the Wests', and made false the words I had spoken to Jessie but a short time since, when I asked her if she thought I would play the spy upon her. I was careful that she should not see me, for, if she did, I felt that I should never have been forgiven. If I proved my words false, Jessie proved hers true. Mr. Glover was at the Wests', and walked home with her. I waited until she was in the house, and then I followed Mr. Glover at a distance. I had no distinct intention in my mind; I simply felt that I must follow him; he seemed to draw me after him. I have no doubt that, if a clear meaning could have been evolved from my whirling thoughts, and had been shown to me, I should have been shocked at it. He walked for a couple of miles, and then hailed a cab; after that I wandered about miserably, without thinking where I was walking, without thinking of the time. It was only when I found myself on a bridge six miles from Paradise-row, and heard the hour strike, that I awoke to consciousness as it were and walked slowly home. The faithful mother was sitting up for me.

'My darling child,' she said, with a sob of grief at the misery she saw in my face, 'where have you been? What has kept you out so late?'

I put her from me in silence, and went into my room, and locked the door. As I did so, I thought I heard the door of my mother's bedroom above open and close. But I dismissed the fancy, and went to bed with a heavy heart.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

TURK WEST'S APPEARANCE AT THE WEST-END THEATRE, AND ITS RESULTS.

Early in the morning I watched for an opportunity to endeavour to make peace with Jessie. My mother had been in great anxiety about me during the night, and had come down to my bedroom three or four times, whispering my name at the door; but I pretended to be asleep, and as the door was locked, she could not enter the room. I passed a sleepless night, and tossed about in bed, longing for daylight. When it came, I rose and commenced to work, and even in the midst of my great unhappiness I found comfort in it, for I loved it. At seven o'clock I heard my mother calling to me, and I opened my door.

'At work so soon, my dear!' she said, in a tone of exquisite tenderness.

I answered that I had a great deal of work in hand, and that it would not do for me to be idle. She sat by my side, and was saying meekly that her boy must not work too hard, but must take proper rest, when she broke down. Looking at her, I saw an expression of such yearning devotion in her pale face, such sweet and wistful love, that, softened for a moment, I laid my head on her shoulder, and sobbed quietly. Her tears flowed with mine.

'Ill could help you, dear child!' she murmured.

You cannot--you cannot,' I murmured in reply. Mother, Jessie must not go out this morning without my seeing her. I must speak to her alone.'

Soon after breakfast, when uncle Bryan was in the shop, I heard her tell Jessie to wait in the parlour for a minute or two, and then I knew that Jessie was alone. I immediately opened my door, which led into the parlour, and stepped to Jessie's side. She did not look at me.

'I have come to ask you to forgive me,' I said.

'What have I to forgive?' she asked.

'You know,' I answered. 'What I said yesterday about Mr. Glover. I did not mean it, Jessie; I spoke in passion. It was cruel of me. Say that you forgive me, Jessie.'

'It was unjust as well as cruel,' she said; but I am not the only person you are cruel to. Do you know what time your mother came to bed this morning?'

'It was very late,' I said remorsefully.

'Have you any idea what she suffered while she waited up for you, Chris? Because you and I have quarrelled, is that a reason why you should be cruel to her?'

'I have been doubly wrong,' I said, 'but I have made my peace with her.'

'Yes, that is easy with such a nature as hers; mine is harder.'

'Still you forgive me; say that you forgive me, Jessie.'

'Yes, I forgive you,' she said coldly; 'not because you were unkind to me, for I deserve that, perhaps, but because you were unjust to me.'

I could extract nothing more than this from her, and I was fain to be satisfied. But I saw clearly enough that she was less cordial towards me than heretofore. The spirit that animated and sweetened our intercourse in the dear old days seemed to have fled, never to return. But I had something in my mind which, when carried out, might, I thought, be the means of reëstablishing myself in Jessie's favour. Her birthday was approaching; in a fortnight she would be eighteen years of age. From the day on which Jessie had given me, as a birthday present, the silver locket, with the words engraven on it, 'To Chris, with Jessie's love,' I had had many anxious consultations with myself as to what kind of gift I should give her on her birthday, and I had resolved that a gold Geneva watch and chain would be appropriate and acceptable. I had seen the very thing I wanted in a jeweller's shop, and the price asked for the pretty ornament--seven pounds--was not beyond my means, for I had been saving money for some time, and was now earning more than two pounds a week. On the very day on which Jessie and I made up our quarrel, I went to the jeweller's and purchased the birthday gift, and gave instructions that on the inside of the case should be engraven, From Chris to Jessie, on her eighteenth birthday. With undying love.' In my state of mind nothing less fervent would satisfy me. Being attracted by a plain ivory brooch, in the form of a true lover's knot, I purchased that also, and felt, as I did so, that that would complete our reconciliation. As I sat at my work after the transaction of this business, I thought of what had passed between me and Jessie when she gave me the silver locket, and I reproached myself very strongly for having uttered a word to give her pain. Was not the inscription, 'To Chris, with Jessie's love,' sufficient? I decided that it was, and I resolutely refused to harbour the words of Mr. Glover which came to my mind, to the effect that Jessie and I had been brought up as brother and sister, and that it was natural we should be fond of each other in that way. How, thought I, could I ever have been so mad as to entertain a doubt of Jessie? She was better than I, cleverer than I, and she saw faults in me which she wished to correct, and she was also naturally hurt at my suspicions of her. Well, I would never again suspect her; from this moment I would have the fullest faith in her goodness, her purity, her love. It was in this mood that I presented myself at Mr. Rackstraw's office, somewhat doubtful of the manner in which Jessie would receive me, but resolved to show her in every possible way how truly I loved her and what faith I had in her. Mr. Glover was there of course, and we all three walked together from the office. That I abased myself before him is true, and it is quite as true, notwithstanding the resolution I had formed, that I despised myself for so doing. Jessie looked at me thoughtfully, and seemed to be considering within herself whether she approved of my new mood. For this reason Mr. Glover found her a somewhat inattentive listener to his confidential utterances, the intervals between which he improved by talking to and at me on his pet theme--his character and good name. Before we had walked a mile, Jessie proposed that she and I should take an ..omnibus home, as she was tired, and Mr. Glover left us. On our way she told me that Mr. Rackstraw had offered her an engagement on the stage. Did she intend to accept it? I asked; and she said that she had deferred her answer until after her birthday.

'I wish with all my heart,' I said, that you were not going on the stage; not that there is any harm in it, Jessie, nor that there could be harm in anything you do, but because it seems as if it will take you away from us.'

'Do you think,' was the reply, 'that a woman has not an ambition as well as a man? If I have a talent--and I really think I have, Chris--why should I not turn it to good account? Besides, I have my plans. I owe money, Chris.'

To Mr. Rackstraw for your lessons. Well, I can pay that, Jessie. All that I have is yours, and you don't know how rich I am growing.'

'You are too good to me, Chris,' she said, giving me her hand, which I took and held close in mine beneath her mantle; in that moment all my trouble vanished, and a feeling of ineffable delight brought peace to my heart once more. Will nothing cure you?'

'Nothing will ever cure me of loving you,' I said, in a glad whisper. 'You would not wish that.'

She turned the subject.

'I owe other money as well. I owe a great deal to uncle Bryan; he is poor, and I should like to pay him. But we'll not talk of this any more just now, Chris; wait till my birthday comes.'

'You will have a secret to tell me then, Jessie.'

'Yes; I have thought a great deal lately of the letter I am to read for the first time on that day.'

'And you have never had the curiosity to open it, Jessie?'

'Oh yes, I have; but I have never opened it. I can be steadfast and faithful, Chris, as well as other people. Let us call in together and see Josey West.'

'Ah,' said that little woman, with a shrewd glance at us as we entered, so you two lovers have been making it up?'

'Don't be foolish, Josey,' exclaimed Jessie.

'How do you know we ever quarrelled?' I asked, in high spirits.

'How do I know that it will be night to-night, you meant to ask.

Because I'm crooked, you think I can't see things perhaps. Have you seen Turk?'

'No,' I answered.

'He has gone to your house to tell you something. I dare say he is waiting there for you. Here is a rose for you.'

I took and dropped it.

'Ah,' said the queer little creature, 'because a rose is pretty and fresh, and smells sweet, you think it can't prick you! There, get along with you, Mr. Wiseacre, and mind how you handle your roses for the future.'

Turk had great news to communicate. His chance had come. By a fortunate combination of circumstances, an opening had occurred in a West-end theatre, and he was to make his first appearance there on the ensuing Saturday night in the new play that had been written for him.

'It's a fluke, Chris, my boy, a fluke,' he said, walking up and down the room excitedly; 'a sensation piece that the lessee thought would be a great draw is a most complete failure, as it deserves to be. He must either fill his house with paper or play to empty benches, so he withdraws his sensation piece, and gives me a show. We came out without much of a flourish; but we shall astonish them, Chris, my boy. The simple announcement of a new play and a new actor at that theatre is sufficient to draw all the critics, and we shall have a great house and a great triumph. You shall come, Chris, my boy; you shall come to witness the effect I shall produce. You shall go into the pit; here is an order for you. I don't ask you to take a big stick with you--I scorn to solicit undeserved applause; but at the same time every friend is a friend, and what's the use of a friend if he isn't friendly, eh, Chris, my boy?--a word to the wise; you understand; there's no need of anything more betwixt us. The piece will be wretchedly put upon the stage; there will be no scenery to speak of; the stock actors who play the other parts will be--well, no better than they should be, Chris, my boy, and, in addition, they will not be disposed to regard with favour a man who is an actor, Chris, my boy, and who comes to break down vicious monopolies and vicious systems. But what matter these small drawbacks to Turk West? They daunt not him! Resolved to conquer, he goes in and wins. Turk's sun will rise on Saturday night, Chris, my boy, and ever after it will blaze--that's the word, sir, Chris, my boy--blaze refulgent, and all the lesser suns shall pale before it.'

'But if you should fail,' I suggested.

He glared at me in incredulous astonishment.

'There's no such word in Turk's vocabulary, Chris, my boy. The man who goes in with an idea that he will fail generally does fail, and deserves to fail. Is there any want of pluck in Turk West? Is there any want of stamina in him? No, no. It's no game of chance that he plays. On Saturday night next he throws double sixes. And after that he'll be able to serve his friends.'

Did his family know of it? I asked.

'Yes, they know of it,' he replied, and those who can come will be there--in different parts of the theatre, Chris, my boy, strangers to each other. And old Mac will be there, with an oak stick; it's an off night with him. Here are a couple more orders which you may like to give to friends,' with most significant emphasis on the last word.

I fully understood his meaning, and I gave the orders to persons who promised to applaud Turk on every available opportunity, and who, I have good reason for believing, basely betrayed their trust; but there are not more ungrateful persons in the world than those who go to a theatre without paying. The receipt of an order has a baleful effect upon them; it deadens their sense of enjoyment, and makes them miserably hypercritical. On the following Saturday I made my way to the West-end theatre in a state of great expectation and excitement. Meeting with a man in the streets who sold walking-sticks, I purchased the stoutest in his collection, and, thus armed, seated myself in the front of the pit, half an hour before the curtain rose. The theatre was quite filled before the performances commenced, and a fashionable company was assembled in the stalls and private boxes. I recognised several members of Turk West's family in different parts of the house, who stared at me stolidly, and made no response to my familiar nods. Debating with myself upon the reason of this, I came to the conclusion that they had resolved not to know any person on that night lest they might be set down as partisans of Turk, and thus tarnish the genuineness of his triumph. The conclusion was strengthened by the circumstance which I noted, that they seemed to be perfectly oblivious of each other's existence; but there was certainly a family likeness in the sticks they carried. Studying the playbill, I found that a piece of some importance would be played first, and that Turk would not make his appearance until past nine o' clock. I paid but little attention to the drama in which Turk was not; my stick was as indifferent as myself; and the other sticks witnessed this part of the performance in mute inglorious ease; nevertheless there was a good deal of applause when the curtain fell. About this time there straggled into the stalls and private boxes certain persons whom a communicative stranger who sat next to me, and who appeared to be a wonderful authority on all matters connected with the drama, pointed out as notabilities.

The critics were the most interesting persons in my eyes, and I stared at them with interest, and with some feeling of disappointment because they were so like ordinary mortals. I asked my neighbour what he thought of Mr. Turk West as an actor--when I mentioned the name of my friend, I consulted my playbill with the air of one to whom he was a stranger--and I learnt to my mortification that he had never heard of him. He did not seem to be very sanguine of the success of the new play or the new actor, and I was mean enough to agree with him. The title of the play was Twice Wedded, or Torn Asunder; and in due time the curtain rose for its introduction to the audience. I cannot undertake to describe it, for the reasons that a good deal of it was not heard, that the actors and actresses were imperfect in their parts, and that the story was so involved and mysterious as to baffle description. The heroine, it appeared, had been twice married--once, many years ago to Turk, who had been torn from his wife, for no assignable reason, on the wedding-day, and who was supposed to have died in battle (what battle, and why he went to battle, were not explained); and afterwards to a person whose identity I was not successful in discovering. Turk played two characters, an Irish servant and the first husband, who instead of dying in battle, as he should have done, had been confined in a madhouse, from which he had just made his escape. After a comic scene as the Irish servant, which was mildly tolerated by the audience, Turk came on in a high-peaked hat, a long cloak, and hessian boots, and hearing that his wife had married again, behaved in so mad a manner as to fully justify his long incarceration. Being a very short man, Turk's appearance in this costume was even in my eyes most ludicrous; no effort of imagination could have made a hero of him, and as (for the sake of contrast, I suppose, with his other character) he spoke in the most lugubrious tone, the audience went through various transitions of feeling. First, they were, as I have said, mildly tolerant; then they became impatient, then indignant, and then, there was something so really comic in the little man's despair, they hooted and laughed at him. Directly the feeling of derision came into play, even I knew that both Turk and his new and original drama were, in dramatic parlance, 'damned.' An unfortunate word which Turk used was taken up as a catchword by the audience, and they flung it at him with merciless enjoyment. They literally screamed with laughter when he was most serious, and even the critics threw themselves back in their seats and showed by their merriment (for critics are rarely merry) that they were tasting a new sensation. In vain the sticks rapped approval; in vain did Turk's friends endeavour to stem the current. The knowing man who sat next to me declared, as he wiped his eyes, that he would not have missed this first night for anything. It's the richest thing I've ever seen,' he said; and, like a coward as I was, I flung away Turk's colours, and basely murmured that it was the richest thing I had ever seen. I was very sorry for poor Turk, and more so because he was so brave all through. He did not exhibit the slightest sign of discomposure at this miscarriage of his ambition, but faithfully spoke every word of his part, until the curtain finally fell amidst peals of laughter; and then the stage-manager came forward and stated that the new drama would not be played again.

When I was out of the theatre, I was almost inclined to run away, for I felt that the verdict was a just one, and I was afraid that Turk might wish me to declare otherwise; but I liked him too well to desert him. I waited for him near the stage-door, and so did a few other of his friends, who seemed to regard their big sticks, as I did mine, with gloomy disgust. Turk soon made his appearance, and, to my surprise, with a cheerful countenance. Not a word was said about his failure. We adjourned to a neighbouring tap, and talked of anything but the drama. Old Mac was there, enjoying his toddy, but he did not at first join in the conversation. Turk, also, was silent. Suddenly old Mac burst out:

'Hang it, my sons, let's speak! Turk, you acted bravely. I was never prouder of my profession than I was to-night when I saw you go manfully and artistically through your part in defiance of the senseless howlings of the envious crew. If I could have broken all their heads with one blow of my stick--did you hear it going, Turk? I stuck to you, my son; I stuck to you like a man--I'd have done it! Dammee, I'd have done it, to see where the brains were. I'd have made a quarry with thousands of these quartered slaves as high as I could pick my lance! Thank you; I will. Another glass of whisky-toddy, miss--as before. As before!' Here old Mac drew the back of his left hand across his eyes, and holding out his right sympathisingly, said: 'Turk, my boy, drown dull care! A small piece of lemon, if you please, miss. Here's confusion to the rabble!'

'Now what's the use of beating about the bush?' demanded Turk, a little huskily. 'I'm not such an ass as not to see that I've made a failure. Is Turk West going to bury his head in the sand, like an ostrich, and refuse to see it? Not he! Well, I'm not the first, and sha'n't be the last. Pass me the pewter, Chris. It served me right. I ought to have taken more time; I ought to have gone on by degrees; I ought to have stuck to my last. I've had my lesson, and I mean to profit by it. Mac, old boy, you and I will never meet again at Philippi. I've had my dream, and it's over.'

'The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces!' murmured old Mac.

'It was all the fault of the piece,' said one. 'What audience could be expected to stand such a hash?'

'It wasn't all the fault of the piece,' retorted Turk manfully. 'We were both to blame. It isn't a first-rate piece. I can see that now; but there's merit in it, merit, my boy, although the subject is an unfortunate one. I've brought desolation upon more than one breast to-night.' He beat his own, and the action would have been ludicrous, but for the genuine tone in which he spoke. 'The author had set his all upon the hazard of the die, and I saw him rush from the side-wings, with the salt tears running down his face. What did I say I'd throw to-night, Chris, my boy? Double sixes? Well, I threw for both, and threw double blank. A nice bungler I am I! My mind's made up. Othello's occupation's gone! Turk West acts no more.'

'Nonsense, old fellow, nonsense!' his friends remonstrated. 'You'll think better of it.'

'I've said it,' cried Turk, with stern resolve. 'I act no more.'

'In that case,' said old Mac, in a tone of gloomy desperation, 'I'll take another glass of whisky-toddy. Little does the English stage know what it has lost this night!'

CHAPTER XXXV.

JESSIE'S BIRTHDAY.

The morning of Jessie's birthday rose bright and clear. How well I remember it, and every trivial feature connected with it, which, apparently but little noted at the time, impressed itself indelibly upon my mind! Often afterwards, in thinking of that day--and how many, many times have my thoughts dwelt upon it I--a rift of light has pierced the black cloud which overshadowed it, and I have seen myself, as I stepped into the street soon after sunrise, stooping to pick up a pin which lay on the pavement. I have awoke in the night, sobbing in bitterest grief, and this smallest and most uneventful of incidents has been the clearest thing I have seen in connection with that day. Other incidents as trivial are clear to me--a costermonger wheeling his barrow, loaded with fruit; a policeman standing by a lamp-post chewing a piece of straw; a woman who brushed past me humming a line of a song. I see the exact arrangement of the fruit in the costermonger's barrow; the face of the policeman is as familiar to me as if he had been an intimate friend; I hear the few words the woman hummed, with the precise and delicate intonations she gave to them. And yet, had these incidents occurred at the North Pole, they could not have been more utterly disconnected from the great and sorrowful event which made the day memorable to me.

My mother had not been well during the past week, and for a day or two had been compelled to keep her room. On one of these days I had gone to Mr. Rackstraw's office for Jessie, and had learned that she had left an hour before my arrival. Hastening home, I found her by my mother's bedside, nursing my mother. Hearing my step on the stairs, Jessie had come to the bedroom door, and had whispered to me indignantly:

'If I had been in your place I think I should have stopped at home with my mother, knowing what a comfort my presence was to her, instead of running after a foolish wilful girl.'

Before I had time for reply, my mother had called out, in her thin sweet voice:

'Jessie, what are you saying to Chris?'

Then Jessie had left us together, and my mother, drawing my head on her pillow, told me how kind and gentle Jessie had been to her, and made my pulses thrill with delight by her praises of the girl whom I loved with all my soul. Something noticeable had occurred within an hour after that. Going into the parlour downstairs, I noticed that Jessie had a pair of new gold earrings in her ears. Now I was sure that she had not worn them when she met me at the door of my mother's bedroom. They were of a pretty and graceful pattern, and became her. I had not given them to her; who had? I looked towards uncle Bryan----but, no; he was not the giver, for his eyes were fixed upon them suspiciously and disapprovingly. It hurt me to see them in her ears, but I would not ask her about them, preferring the pain which lay in ignorance. Besides, I would show Jessie what confidence I had in her, by waiting until she chose to tell me of her own accord who was the giver. But Jessie said not a word on the subject.

On Jessie's birthday my mother was better, although not quite well. We had arranged between us that there should be a little feast at home in the evening, in honour of Jessie, and that Jessie should not be told of it beforehand. I contemplated another surprise for Jessie, and I consulted my mother concerning it.

'Nothing would please Jessie so much as having one of her friends at our little party.'

My mother looked doubtfully at me. Since we had lived in uncle Bryan's house, no stranger had ever sat down at our table.

'I don't think uncle Bryan can possibly object,' I said. 'It is only Josey West, Jessie's best friend, and one of the kindest-hearted creatures in the world. Before you knew her five minutes you would love her, and I believe she would even take uncle Bryan's fancy, strange as he is.'

'Will you ask him, or shall I, my dear?'

'You had better,' I answered; 'you have more patience with him than I. If he refused me, I should quarrel with him perhaps. Tell him she's deformed, and as good as gold.'

A few hours afterwards my mother said,

'Your uncle says we can do as we please. He consents, my dear.'

'Ungraciously, of course,' I added; 'but never mind, so long as Josey is here. Not a word to Jessie, mother.'

I enjoined secrecy also on Josey West, who was really glad of the opportunity of making my mother's personal acquaintance.

'I shall throw my arms round her neck,' said Josey, and kiss her the moment I see her. And as for you,' she added, with a fair disregard of sequence in her speech, 'you are a wise young man. Now what made you think of me at all?'

'Because I knew it would please Jessie,' I answered honestly, 'and because I want to make Jessie's birthday the happiest day in her life and mine.'

She pinched my cheek merrily, as though she understood my meaning.

I had fully resolved that on that day I would ask Jessie to be my wife. Tortured almost beyond endurance by the doubts and difficulties which surrounded me, I had in some way gathered courage to look my position steadily in the face, and the moment I did so, the way seemed clear before me. I became strengthened immediately, and the fair promise which hope held forth appeared realised in anticipation. I set aside all obstacles for future consideration, and mentally leaped out of the entanglement of feeling which had brought so much discomfort into our lives. 'It is for me to speak,' I thought, 'and to speak plainly and manfully.' I painted the future in the fairest colours. My prospects of success were growing brighter and brighter; my sketches for the Christmas story which had been intrusted to me to illustrate were approved of by the author and the publisher, and I felt I only wanted opportunity to rise far above the sphere of life which, in the natural course of things, I could have expected to occupy. 'Jessie's love for the stage,' I thought, 'and her wish to become an actress, only arise from her thoughtfulness of her future, and from her state of dependence on uncle Bryan. Well, I can clear away all doubt; I can offer her a good home; and I can release her from uncle Bryan, and, if she wishes, can pay him what she thinks she owes him.' I resolutely closed the eyes of my mind on my mother's declaration, that wherever our home was, uncle Bryan must share it. I knew too well that it would be impossible for Jessie and me to be happy together, with him as a member of our household. All these things could be considered and settled by and by, when Jessie had promised to be my wife. I reproached myself that I had not spoken plainly to her before now; I had, as it were, driven her by my faint-heartedness to do what she might not have done, if she had had a protector whom she loved and who loved her. All this and other reasoning of the same nature I carried out exactly in the way which best suited my hopes, and at length I lay in my cloud-built castles at peace with myself; for it was not to be doubted that my dearest wishes would now be surely realised. I had an instinctive consciousness that Josey West was thoroughly acquainted with the position of affairs between Jessie and me, and knowing her to be my friend, I was convinced that she would have warned me if she had had any doubt of Jessie's affection for me.

So that it was all clear sailing. What would come, would come, but the bliss which I should presently taste of, knowing Jessie to be mine and mine only--the bliss which I was enjoying already in anticipation--was all sufficient. Outside our own two personalities there was nothing else to be considered. Nothing else? No one else? No; for this one greatest of all joys secured, all difficulties which once seemed to threaten to mar its fulfilment must melt away, as surely as snow melts before the sun. I pleased myself with this commonplace metaphor, and utterly overlooked the common sense of things (common sense, indeed, in this case being the very slave of sentiment)--utterly overlooked the possibility that the current of others' feelings, of others' likes and dislikes, of others' ideas of right and wrong, could run in a different direction from that down which I was sailing with my hopes realised. It is thus, I suppose, sometimes with other selfish natures than mine.

I was up and out early in the morning. I could not sleep the night before, and wishing to give Jessie a bouquet of fresh flowers, I had determined to walk to Covent-garden to buy them. I had a bouquet made of the sweetest and loveliest flowers, and I took it to our house by the back way, and hid it in my workroom. How many times I looked at it, and how in every delicate leaf I found a sentiment which formed a connecting link between me and Jessie, it is unnecessary here to describe. In the afternoon I had to go to the jeweller's for the watch for Jessie, the inscription on which could not be completed before; and when I held it in my hand and read the words, 'From Chris to Jessie, on her eighteenth birthday. With undying love,' I saw Jessie's beautiful eyes looking into mine, and I uttered an exclamation of delight which must have satisfied the jeweller that his work was approved of. Then there was the ivory brooch shaped in the form of a true lover's knot. Perhaps Jessie would allow me to fasten it in the bosom of her dress, as she had allowed me to take the ribbon from her neck, which was now round mine, with the locket she had given me on my birthday. No one but I had yet seen or knew of these offerings of love. It was to be a day of delightful surprises.

I was at home with my flowers before breakfast.

'What made you go out so early this morning, Chris?' Jessie inquired over breakfast.

'That's a secret,' I answered gaily; 'you shall know to-night.'

My mother had already questioned me in private, and I had easily satisfied her. Something unusual occurred when we had finished breakfast. Jessie went to uncle Bryan's side, and spoke to him.

'Do you know it's my birthday to-day, uncle Bryan?'

'I have heard so.' Then after a short pause: 'May it be a day of good remembrance to you!'

Nothing more; not a kiss, not even a hand-shake. And yet she invited it in the tenderest manner, as she stood before him, bright and beautiful, in a new light print dress, with a small lilac flower. I never see a dress with such a pattern without an odd sensation at my heart. She did not move from the spot until he, after some mental communing, I think, turned from her and went into the shop. I experienced a feeling very much like hatred towards him for his hardness and insensibility.

My mother took Jessie's hand.

'May your life be bright and happy, dear child!'

She hid her face in my mother's bosom for a little while in silence; then she raised her face, and they kissed each other. Ah, the world was bright with such a flower in it!

'And you, Chris?' she said presently, holding out her hand to me.

'I shall wish you nothing until to-night,' I said, with an effort of great self-restraint, 'except in my heart.'

She nodded, and smiled, and then busied herself about the room, insisting that my mother should sit and rest while she did the work of the house. But my mother, laughing, said that she could not allow it, as Jessie would find out all her secrets; then ensued fond coaxing and teasing, which ended, as I was afraid it would do, in my mother whispering to Jessie that we were going to have a little feast that night in her honour, and that Josey West was coming to spend the evening with us.

'A nice one you are to keep a secret,' I called merrily after them as they went out of the room with their arms around each other's waist, like mother and daughter; 'it's a good job I didn't tell you everything.'

What with my work and other duties, I saw but little of Jessie during the day; and in the evening I dressed myself in my best, and went for a walk, with the intention of not coming home until past eight o'clock, when Josey West would be at our house, and when everything would be prepared to celebrate Jessie's birthday in a befitting manner. I carried out my programme faithfully, and entered the parlour with a beating heart and flushed face. The room was very bright. My mother had on her best cap and dress, and in the rapid glance I cast at uncle Bryan, who was behind the counter, as I walked through the shop, I fancied I detected some change for the better in his appearance; I fancied also that he expected to see some one with me. Josey West was in the parlour, and the dear little soul was holding my mother's hand in hers with tender feeling. They were already the best of friends. My mother stood on tiptoe to look over my shoulder.

'Whom for, mother?' I asked.

'I was looking for Jessie, my dear. Has she not been out walking with you?'

'No, mother.'

'Ah,' exclaimed Josey West briskly, 'she'll be in presently. I dare say she is going to surprise us with something.'

Unable to keep my secret any longer, I said that I had something to surprise Jessie with when she came in; and I brought the flowers from my workroom, and placed them on the table. Then I showed them the brooch and the watch; before I knew it, Josey had opened the case, and read the inscription, and pointed it out to my mother.

'And is it so, really?' Josey asked tantalisingly.

'Why, you knew it was so,' I answered, very hot and red.

And my mother left Josey, and came and pressed me fondly in her arms.

But where was Jessie? She was nowhere in the house.

'Perhaps she's at mine,' suggested Josey; 'run round, and bring her. I dare say she's waiting for you there.' This with the wickedest of laughs.

But Jessie was not at Josey West's house, nor was she at home when I returned. Our perplexity soon turned to alarm. We looked at each other, to see whether any one of us held the key of Jessie's absence; my suspicions lighted on Josey West, but a frank look assured me that I had no right to suspect her. For an hour I walked about the street watching for Jessie.

'Can anything have happened to her?' my mother asked.

Uncle Bryan was in the room when my mother spoke. He also, in his own way, shared our alarm.

'Mother,' I said, inspired by a sudden thought, if Jessie comes while I am away, do not let her go out again. I shall not be long.'

My thought was to go to Mr. Rackstraw's office to make inquiries, although I knew full well that the office was closed hours ago. But I could not remain still. As I turned to go from the room, a boy's voice in the shop arrested my steps. He was inquiring for Mr. Bryan Carey and my mother. Uncle Bryan, answering the lad, came in with a letter, addressed to my mother. I saw that the writing was Jessie's, and I took the letter from his hand.

'I must open it, mother,' I said. The letter contained these words:

'I have gone away, and shall not return. Forgive me for all the trouble I have brought among you, but I think I have not been entirely to blame. Do not be sorry that I have gone; I have caused you too much pain already. It will be useless, if you find where I am, endeavouring to prevail upon me to return. I would starve rather than enter the house again.

'Jessie.'

CHAPTER XXXVI.

I SPEAK PLAINLY TO UNCLE BRYAN.

The paper which I held in my hand became blurred in my sight, and for a few moments the only thing that was clear to me was that Jessie was lost to me, and that all possible happiness had gone out of my life.

There was no mistaking the meaning of Jessie's letter to my mother. It was intended to snap at once and for ever the bonds which united us. She had set herself free from her miserable thraldom, and she was not to be wooed back. 'It will be useless, if you find where I am, endeavouring to prevail upon me to return. I would starve rather than enter the house again.' I heard her speak these words in sharp incisive tones, and I knew too well that she was not to be turned from her purpose. All was over between us, and this day, which I had fondly imagined was to be the happiest in our lives, had sealed the destruction of all my hopes.

Two trivial circumstances recalled me to the realities of the scene. One was the ticking of the watch which I had intended as a birthday present for Jessie; the other was a slight rustling of paper. I had observed, when uncle Bryan entered the room with the letter for my mother, that he held another paper in his hand, which must have been addressed to himself. It was the rustling of this paper which now attracted my attention. Uncle Bryan had opened it, and was reading it. He could have read but a very few lines when a ghastly pallor overspread his features, and his hands trembled from excess of agitation. Every muscle in his face was quivering, and even in the midst of my own suffering these signs of suffering in him did not escape me. They did not move me to pity; they stirred me rather to a more bitter resentment against him. He, and he alone, was the cause of all my misery; he, and he alone, had brought this blight upon my life.

I did not know, until I attempted to move towards him, that my mother's arms were round me. I had no distinct intention of raising my hand against him, but it might have occurred, and my mother feared it and clung to me convulsively. I released myself from her arms, and I stood before him, barring the way, for I detected in him a desire to leave the room unobserved. He gazed at me in a weak uncertain manner; all his old strength and sternness of character seemed to have deserted him, and he was suddenly transformed into a weak and worn old man. That his sorrow-stricken face should have won sympathy from my mother and Josey West--as I saw clearly it had--I construed into an additional wrong against myself, committed not by them, but by him. It inflamed me the more; I felt that my passion must have vent, and that it was impossible for me to be silent.

'Let me pass.'

I did not hear the words, for his throat was parched, and refused to give them utterance; but I knew that he had striven to speak them.

'Not till you have heard what I have to say,' was my reply, as I stood before him.

My mother crept to my side, but I was not to be turned from my purpose. I could hear and feel the rapid beating of her heart against my hand, which she had taken in hers and pressed to her bosom, but the selfish intensity of my own grief made me deaf and blind to everything else. Uncle Bryan did not answer me; he strove feebly to pass me again, but I prevented him from doing so. Something in my attitude caused Josey West to place herself between us.

'I hope you are satisfied,' I said. 'You have driven her from us. What is the next thing you intend to do?'

I paused for his reply, but he did not speak.

'I intended to ask Jessie to-night to be my wife. I don't know what her answer would have been, but I think I know what it might have been but for your systematic cruelty. Will it add to your satisfaction to know that I had set all my hopes of happiness upon her, and that you have driven these from my heart, as you have driven her from your door? I loved her with all my soul. I was not worthy of her; she is far above me and every one here; but I loved her most truly and sincerely, and you have stepped between us and parted us for ever. Does it please you to be assured of this?----Nay, mother, I will speak. I have been silent until now, out of my love for you, and because I knew that you had given even him a place in your tender heart. He has requited you nobly for it. If I had spoken openly before now, things might have been different, but I held my tongue, like a coward, and because I had some latent notion that he deserved respect from me. I think so no longer. On my last birthday,' I continued, addressing him, 'you gave me certain advice which I believed to be good; among other things you said that it is seldom a man can look back upon his life with satisfaction. You drew that from your own experience. With what kind of satisfaction do you look back upon your own life? A man with any tenderness for others in his nature would shrink with horror from the contemplation of such a life as yours. But perhaps you find it a pleasant task to blight the hopes and happiness of those who have the misfortune to come in contact with you. Having no children of your own upon whom you could practise in this way, you turned your attention to others, and you have succeeded most thoroughly. You said to me, when I was of age, that I was a man, with a man's responsibility, and a man's work to do, and you bade me do it faithfully. I have tried to do it--my mother knows that, and so does Miss West, I think--in the hope that it would lead to a good result. But when you addressed those words to me, did you think of yourself, and the example of your own life? They sounded well, but did you think of your own responsibility--or did you think that you, apart from all other men in the world, had no responsibility which it behoved you to look to? You brought Jessie here, a friendless, helpless girl--a girl whom nobody but you could help loving for the goodness that is in her. She brought sunshine into this house, which was gloomy enough without her. She had no mother, no father, no friends, and you were her only protector. How have you fulfilled your duty towards her? Shall I answer for you? You have behaved like a tyrant, in whom all human feeling was deadened. When she strove to love you, you compelled her, by harsh words and cold looks and repellent acts, to hate you. She has good cause for her feelings towards you now, for you did your best to make every hour and every day of her life a misery to her. She told me herself that she was only happy out of the house; so that you did your work well. If you saw faults in her which no one else saw, and which had their birth in your own hard unfeeling nature, what right had you to torture her in the way you did? She was but a child, and you are an old man. Why could you not have dealt tenderly and gently by her? Ask my mother--ask Miss West--ask any of her friends--if there is anything in her character that might not be turned to good account? But you could not see it. Lightheartedness and an innocent flow of spirits are crimes in your eyes. You made her pay bitterly for the shelter you gave her; you have shown the generosity of your nature in its fullest light by making her say, after a long experience of you, that she would starve rather than enter your house again. When you told us the story of your life, you said you wished me to hear it because I might learn something from it. I have learnt something--but not the lesson you wished me to learn. I have learnt that such a life as yours, such a nature as yours, brings desolation upon every life and nature within its influence, and that it would be a happier fate for me to drop down dead this minute than live as you have lived, a torture to all around you.'

'Chris, Chris!' implored my mother, with streaming eyes, and with a gesture of entreaty towards uncle Bryan, who sat before me now, with his head bowed upon his hands. Remember, my dear child, remember!'

'Remember what, mother?' I cried pitilessly. 'That he has robbed me of all that can make life dear to me--of all that is dear to me? You should ask me rather to forget when you point to him, whom I would teach a different lesson if he were not an old man, with one foot in the grave. Shall I remember that he has no belief in goodness here or hereafter--that he believes neither in God nor man? Will such remembrances as these plead in his favour? One thing I will and do remember--that I owe him money for the food he has given me and you. But I will pay him to the last farthing, so that nothing may remain between us but what I owe him for having brought misery into my life. That is a debt that can never be wiped out. And Jessie will pay him also; she told me she would. But for that resolve she would not, for a long time past, have eaten a meal at his expense. Are these the things you wish me to remember?'

I knew that I was striking him hard with every word I uttered, but I would not spare him. I ransacked my mind to hurt him.

'And you, mother,' I said pitilessly, do you think you are just to me in pleading for him, and in disguising the opinion you have of him? When, knowing that all my hopes were set on Jessie, and that it was impossible for her and him to live happily in the same house, I proposed to make a home elsewhere where we could live in happiness without him, did you show your love for me by saying that we must never leave him, and that, wherever our home was, he must share it? When he told us his story, for the purpose, as I now see, of setting us more and more against Jessie, and I asked you afterwards if you would like me to look on things as he does, what was your answer? "God forbid!" you said; "it would take all the sweetness out of your life."' (Uncle Bryan removed his hand from his eyes at this, and raised them for one moment to my mother's white face; there was no reproach in them, but a look of humble grateful affection.) 'In what was Jessie wrong that she should have been driven from us? In wishing him to go to church with us? Ask your own heart, mother, for an answer to that, and remember what occurred on the first Sunday night we were in this house. If I had known then what I know now, I would have starved rather than have accepted the shelter of his roof. Remember how, for days and weeks together, Jessie has been submissive and tender to him, striving by every means in her power to win his affection; and remember how her efforts were received and rewarded. But for him Jessie might have been my wife; you loved her, and she loved you. How often have you told me that you saw nothing in her but what was good! I think at one time she would have consented to share my lot, but that dream is over now. There was an influence strong enough to turn love into hate, and to poison all our lives. I will remember that to my dying day, which I hope may not be far off. I have nothing worth living for. But one thing I am resolved upon--that while I live, those who love me shall choose between me and him.'

Josey West caught my arm suddenly and sharply.

'Are you mad?' she cried. 'Learn the lesson you want to teach others. Look at your mother.'

She let go my arm, and stepped swiftly to my mother's side, in time to save her from falling to the ground. Uncle Bryan made a movement towards her, but I stood before him, and he shrank back. My mother's strength had given way, and she had fainted. I supported her in my arms, while Josey West loosened her dress and bathed her face. She opened her eyes presently, and, recognising me, pressed me convulsively to her breast.

'O my child, my child,' she sobbed, 'my heart is almost broken!'

I looked round for uncle Bryan; he was gone.

'What I did,' moaned my mother, 'I did for the best. I prayed and hoped that time would set all things right. I see now that it was impossible, and that I was a weak foolish woman. But I loved you, my darling, and I would shed my heart's blood for you. What sin have I committed that I should be punished by the loss of my dear child's love?'

'No, no, mother,' I cried remorsefully, 'you must not say that. You have not lost it. God forbid that it should ever be so!'

I think she did not hear me, for she slid from my arms and knelt before me, imploring me with sobs and broken words to forgive her. Many minutes passed before I succeeded in calming her, and then Josey West and I assisted her upstairs to her room, to the room which Jessie had made bright by her innocent devices.

'Jessie will never sleep here again,' I thought, with a choking sensation in my throat. This was her room, Josey,' I said aloud.

Josey nodded gravely, and whispered to me that my mother must go to bed, and that she ought to see a doctor. 'I hope she will not have a fever,' said Josey.

My mother's eyes were wandering around her in a strange way; once or twice she looked at me as if she did not know me. The simple sound of my voice, however, recalled her to herself.

'Yes, dear child,' she said, with a smile so sad and sweet as to bring the tears into my eyes.

'Mother,' I whispered, 'you know what has occurred?'

She considered for a moment or two; I assisted her memory.

'Jessie,' I said.

'I know now,' she replied, with a look of distress. 'Jessie has gone.'

'Will you be strong for my sake, mother?'

'I will do anything you tell me, my darling child,' she said humbly.

'First I will go and send a doctor to you. Then I want to try and find Jessie.'

'Dear child, do you know where she is?'

'No; and I have no hope of inducing her to return. I know she will never come back, but I cannot rest without doing something. I shall go mad if I stop in the house all night and make no effort to discover her.'

'Go, then, dear child,' she said; and added imploringly, You will come back, my darling, will you not? You will not desert me after all these years?'

'How can you think it, mother? I will come back, but it may be late.'

'I will keep awake for you, my darling. Say nothing more to your uncle. Promise me that, dear child.'

'I will not speak another word to him.'

I turned to Josey West; she divined what I was about to say.

'I'll stop with your mother, if you must go. Run round to my house first, and say I sha'n't be home to-night. And look here. If Turk's there, you'd best take him with you. I suppose you are going to Mr. Rackstraw's?

'That was my intention,' I said.

'Of course you know the office will be closed; but I daresay it will relieve your feelings to thump at the door.' She spoke fretfully; but her tone changed when she said, 'Don't think only of yourself. Have some thought for your mother.'

'One word, Josey. You have no idea where Jessie is?'

'Not the slightest,' she replied. 'And you didn't know she was going away?'

'I had no more idea of it than you had.'

'That night,' I said hesitatingly, 'when Mr. Glover was at your house----'

'Oh,' she interrupted in a sharp tone, Mr. Glover! Well, what night?'

'A little while ago, when Jessie was there, and I was not. Did he pay her great attention?'

'Of course he did.'

'Did he seem fond of her?'

'It wouldn't have been natural otherwise,' she replied, with a suspicious look at me. 'Of course he seemed fond of her. Anything more?'

'No,' I said, with a sigh; 'that's all.'

I kissed my mother, and left the room. Her loving eyes followed me to the door.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

TURK MAKES A CONFESSION.

I found Turk at his sister's house. He jumped up at once on my proposing that he should take a walk with me.

'I am glad of the opportunity, Chris, my boy,' he said; 'for I want to talk to you.'

I answered, in as lively a tone as I could command, that I was at his service.

'Like a true friend as you are. The subject I want to talk about is spelt with four letters--s-e-l-f. Such a subject needs no overture; up with the curtain, then. I start with a self-evident proposition. A man must live. What do you say to that?'

I had nothing to say in contradiction.

'Very well, then. To live, one must have money; to have money (barring the silver spoon), one must work for it. Granted?'

'Granted,' I assented listlessly. He looked at me in surprise at my despondent tone.

'Ah,' he said, 'there's more in that than meets the eye.'

'More in what, Turk? In your proposition?'

'No, Chris, my boy. In your face. You are in trouble.'

'I am, Turk; in the deepest, most terrible trouble. I am utterly, utterly wretched. I have nothing in the world worth living for.'

'It's bad when it comes to that,' he said, with an expression of deep concern. 'Money?'

'No, Turk.'

'Heart?'

My silence was a sufficient answer.

Is the trouble of such a nature that it may be confided to a friend--to a friend with a kindred soul, Chris, my boy?'

'I will tell you about it presently, Turk. Go on with your own story first.'

'In one act, then. Without detail. Since that ever-to-be-remembered night when a strong verdict was pronounced against me on the other side of Temple Bar--in which direction, by the bye, I see we are walking now--and when I determined to relinquish the profession in which I glory--I do, Chris, I glory in it; and you can hardly have an idea of the sacrifice I have made in giving it up--I have been looking about me. Not having been born with that silver spoon in my mouth, I can't afford to be idle. Well, to be brief, something that will suit me has come in my way, and I have snatched at the chance. The affair will be settled to-morrow. Near the theatre in which I made my first and last appearance in the new and original drama which was played for the first and last time is a theatrical wig and hair shop, with a shaving connection attached. To-morrow that shop and that connection will be mine. That's the head and front of my story. But there's something more. I have a friend of yours to thank for it all.'

'A friend of mine!'

'Two, I may say--one fair, one dark. I do perceive here a divided duty. But we'll speak of that anon.'

'No; tell me now. What friends do you mean? I haven't many.'

'You have one who stands for a host. If she were such a friend to me, I wouldn't call the king my uncle.'

'She!'

'I see you must hear it. Briefly, then, this was the way of it. The business was for sale, Chris, my boy. Money had to be paid for it--not much, but too much for a poor actor whose purse has always resembled a sieve. I had saved a little, but not more than half what was required for the purchase of the goodwill. I mention this in the presence of these friends of yours----'

I interrupted him.

'Don't let us have any mystery, Turk. Who are they?'

'Jessie the peerless and Mr. Glover.'

I started. Turk continued:

'I mention this in their presence, and lament my impecuniosity. Jessie sympathises with me--wishes that she had money, so that she might help me. She has a heart of gold, Chris, my boy, a heart of gold. Two or three days afterwards, Mr. Glover sends for me--says he has been considering the matter, and that he is disposed to assist me. He goes further than being disposed to do it--he does it. In short, he provides half the purchase-money, and there we are. It is a matter of business, Chris, my boy. I asked him to make a matter of business of it, and he said he intended to do so; and he has. Mr. Glover is a moneylender, and he lends me the money at ten per cent. But there's one thing I'm certain of. He wouldn't have done it but for Jessie.'

I reflected with some bitterness on this information.

'Are you certain of that, Turk?'

'Morally certain, that is all. For when I thanked Jessie, she modestly averred that all that she did was to express a wish that she had a friend who would assist me. And now, Chris, my boy, unbosom yourself. What's your trouble?'

'Jessie has left our house, Turk.'

He gave me a look of deep concern. 'What do you mean by that, Chris, my son?'

'She has left us, never to return--left us suddenly, without explanation.'

And then I narrated to him, in detail, all that had occurred, omitting only what had passed between me and uncle Bryan. Still when I mentioned his name, which was necessary several times in the course of my narration, I spoke of him with sufficient bitterness to make Turk aware of the terms upon which we stood to each other.

Turk, growing more and more serious as I proceeded, listened to me without interruption, and pondered deeply. By the time I had finished he had become very serious indeed, and there was an air of gloom upon him which somewhat soothed me.

'There is more in this than meets the eye,' he said; and added, somewhat unnecessarily as I thought, 'Bear with me a little while, Chris, my boy,' for I felt that such a request more properly belonged to me than to him. But he explained his meaning presently.

'You have given me your confidence, Chris, my boy, and you want me to stand by you.'

'I do, Turk.'

'And I will stand by you, as you have stood by me--I don't forget the big stick you bought, Chris, to assist me on a certain eventful night'--(here I was stung reproachfully by the remembrance of my cowardly behaviour on that night); 'nor other occasions at the Royal Columbia when you led the applause like a true friend. I'll stand by you, my boy, but you must first hear my confession.'

I did not wish to hear his confession; I wished to continue talking only of myself and Jessie, but I was bound to listen.

'As before, Chris, in a very few words. I knew that you loved Jessie, but I scarcely thought that your passion was as strong as it is--as powerful, as deep----'

'No words can express its strength and depth, Turk,' I said, in a tone of gloomy satisfaction.

He nodded, as if he fully understood me, and continued: Well, others may love as well as you, Chris.' I looked at him in jealous curiosity. 'I shouldn't be true to you nor to myself if I didn't confess it before we proceed to the consideration of the state of affairs. I love her, also.'

I started, and let go his arm.

'Don't do that, Chris, my boy,' said the honest fellow; 'it's nobody's fault but my own. I know that I can't stand in comparison with you. You are ten years younger than I am--you are handsome, clever, bright; and I--well, I am a failure. That's what I am, Chris; a failure. Even if you were out of the way, which I don't for one moment wish, curious as it may sound, I think I should stand but a poor chance with such a beautiful creature as she is. I am not a hundredth part good enough for her.'

'No one is, Turk,' I said, somewhat mollified.

'No; I won't say that. I think that some one whom I know is good enough' (he pressed my arm sympathisingly); 'and besides, you have a claim upon her. You mustn't be surprised or hurt at my loving her, Chris; I could mention half a dozen others who are in the same boat. You see, one can't help loving her, she is so bright and winsome. Why, if she were mine--which she isn't, and never will be--I think I should take a pride in knowing it, for it would make her all the more precious to me. That is how the matter stands with me, Chris, and I think it's right that you should know it. I give her up, not without a pang, my boy, but freely; I am used to disappointments, and I shall bear this as I have borne others.'

'But you never had any hope, Turk,' I said, disposed, after his magnanimous conduct, to argue the matter with him.

'No, not to speak of,' he replied, with a melancholy sigh. 'If I can't be Jessie's lover--don't be angry with me for using the word--I can be her friend, and yours. It rests with you to say the word. If you know enough of Turk West to trust him, say so, Chris, and he pledges himself to act faithfully in your interest. He may be of more use to you than you imagine. Well?'

'I should be an ungrateful brute not to say that I accept your offer thankfully, Turk.'

'That's settled, then. Shake hands on it. And now, Chris, we'll be silent for just two minutes, and then we'll go into the matter.'

At the end of that time he resumed.

'I said that there was more in your story than meets the eye, Chris, my boy; and there is. Jessie disappears on your birthday, suddenly, without any forewarning. This morning everything was nice and pleasant with all of you at home.'

'With the exception of uncle Bryan,' I interrupted; 'you mustn't forget that.'

'I don't forget it, but then he is the same as he usually is, and there's nothing unusual in that. She is affectionate to you; she is affectionate to your mother; and I think that she couldn't have avoided seeing that there was to be a little celebration of her birthday to-night. Well, it is plain to me that this morning she had no idea of going away. Now what has occurred since this morning to cause this sudden change in her? That's the first thing to consider.'

I could not think of anything. Jessie had not been out of our house.

'There's something I have not told you, Turk, but I don't see what it can have to do with Jessie's going from us. We were talking together once, when Jessie said that she wondered that I had never asked her any questions about herself--she meant about herself before she came to live with us. I answered that mother had desired me not to do so, because uncle Bryan might not like it.'

'What had he to do with it? asked Turk.

'I don't know, but mother said he might have secrets which he would not wish us to discover. When I told this to Jessie, she said that she had a secret, but didn't then know what it was. It was in a letter which she was not to open until she was eighteen years of age--until to-day. Then she said she would tell me everything.'

'There's a mystery somewhere,' said Turk, pondering; in that letter perhaps.'

But I could not agree with him. Eager as I was to receive any impressions which would divert my suspicions from the current in which they were running, I could not see the slightest connection between the circumstance I had just mentioned and Jessie's absence. By this time we were at Temple Bar.

'Where are we going?' asked Turk.

'To Mr. Rackstraw's,' I answered. 'Jessie has been taking lessons of him, you know. He may be able to tell us something about her.'

Turk shook his head. 'There are two strong reasons against the realisation of that expectation, Chris. First, Jessie has not been there to-day, according to your own statement; second, Mr. Rackstraw's office closes at five o'clock.'

But we may be able to discover where Mr. Rackstraw lives.'

'Well?'

'Well?' I echoed, irritated at his seeming discouragement of my plan. 'Turk, can't you see that I'm almost mad with misery. I thought you were a friend----'

'And am I not? That's news to Turk. What good can you do by finding out Mr. Rackstraw's private address?'

'He may tell me where Mr. Glover lives.'

'And then?' demanded Turk, in a grave and sorrowful tone.

I turned from him petulantly. 'If you do not care to understand me,' I said, 'I had best go alone.'

I walked swiftly onwards towards Mr. Rackstraw's office, Turk following me at a distance of a few paces.

Mr. Rackstraw's office was situated in a quiet narrow street in the rear of Covent-garden. It was closed, as I expected it would be, and although I rang all the bells on the door for fully ten minutes, I received no answer. Turk stood quietly near me, without speaking. I was heartily ashamed of myself for my treatment of him, and I made an attempt at reconciliation by holding out my hand to him as I turned disconsolately from Mr. Rackstraw's door. He took my hand with affectionate eagerness.

'I can't find it in my heart,' he said with rough tenderness, 'to be angry with you; but I ought to be.'

'I am ashamed of myself for behaving so badly to you, Turk, but I couldn't help it. I think I am ready to do any mad or foolish thing.'

'Oh, I don't care about myself. I have a stronger reason for being angry with you. Who of we two should be Jessie's champion? You, I should say. Yet I am obliged to defend her from your suspicions. If you were ten years older than you are, I should quarrel with you, Chris; I would with any other man who dared to say a word against her.'

'Who has said anything against her?' I demanded hotly.

'You, in coupling her name with Mr. Glover--you, even in the expression of the idea that Mr. Glover has had anything to do with her disappearance. I don't want you to be ashamed of yourself for treating me badly, but you ought to be for your suspicions of her.'

'You don't know what I know, Turk. I am bringing no charge against Jessie--God forbid that I should; I love her too well, and think of her too highly. But Mr. Glover has been paying court to her from the first day he set eyes on her.'

'What if he has? Is that her fault? Aren't you old enough yet to know that there are hundreds of men always ready to run after a pretty girl? Now, I daresay it has hurt you to hear that Mr. Glover has helped me into my new business because Jessie expressed a wish that she had a friend who would assist me. Why, what was more natural than that she should say so, out of her kind heart, and what was more natural than that he should be glad of the opportunity of obliging her, and of doing a fair stroke of business at the same time? It isn't a large sum that he advances--a matter of seventy-five pounds only, and he has a bill of sale, and goodness knows what, all for security. Now you are better satisfied perhaps. I can't say that I am over-fond of Mr. Glover, but he is said to be an honourable, straightforward man. I'll tell you what I'll do, if you must see him----'

'I must,' I said firmly.

'I don't know where he lives, but I'll take you to a theatre that he often pops into of an evening; he may be there. The acting-manager is one of my new friends, and will pass us in, I daresay, or will be able to tell us if Mr. Glover is in the theatre.'

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

MR. GLOVER DECLINES TO SATISFY ME.

The friend to whom Turk referred was, fortunately for us, in the lobby of the theatre, and as the two were engaged in conversation, the man I came to seek lounged towards us. He seemed surprised to see me, but approached me quite affably, and asked what I was doing in his part of the world so late in the night. I made some sort of awkward, bungling answer, and then he recognised Turk.

'You, too, Turk,' he said in his slow way; 'but that is natural, for these are your quarters now. Let me see. You take possession to-morrow?'

'Yes,' Turk answered, everything was settled, and he went into his new place of business early in the morning.

'And how is business with you?' asked Mr. Glover, directing his attention to me again.

I answered that it was very good, and that I had nothing to complain of in that respect.

'You have nothing to complain of in that respect,' he said, glancing from me to Turk and from Turk to me, and appearing to be seeking for some solution of the circumstance that we were in company together. When he was in any doubt, he had an irritating habit of repeating the last words spoken by the person he was conversing with, which gave him time to think of his own words in reply. 'That must be very satisfactory. I hear good accounts of you. You will get on, I should say, if you are steady and straightforward, and if you keep a good name. That is everything in this world. A good name--a good name. But what brings you out to-night? Have you business in this quarter too?'

'No,' I said; 'I did not come out for business.'

'You did not come out for business. For pleasure, then. Well, young men will be young men.'

'To tell you the truth, sir,' I said----

'That's right, always tell the truth,' he interrupted, speaking from a height, slowly, and coolly, and patronisingly, as though he were truth's conservator, and was glad to hear that it was being practised. 'Yes, to tell me the truth----'

'I came out partly for the purpose and in the hope of seeing you.'

With his hand playing with his moustache, he looked not at me, but at Turk, for an explanation. Turk, however, had nothing to say.

'You came out for the purpose and in the hope of seeing me. Yes. Have you brought me any message?'

'Did you expect one, sir?' I asked quickly.

'Did I expect one? No, I cannot really say that I did; but I should not have been surprised. Go on,' he said, with gentle encouragement.

There were some persons passing us occasionally, and I moved to a more retired spot. I saw that he was curious, and I saw that his curiosity increased at this movement.

'You seem agitated,' he said. 'Turk, our young friend here seems agitated. Take your time--take your time. If you are going to beg a favour, I shall be glad to assist you in any way in my power--in any way in my power.'

'I have not come to beg any favour of you, sir. I only came to ask----'

But I hesitated here; the justice of Turk's reproach came upon me with great force, and I was conscious that the words I was about to utter might be construed into an ungenerous suspicion of Jessie. If they reached her ears from the lips of one who was not well disposed towards me, I should sink for ever in her esteem.

'Take time--take time,' said Mr. Glover, outwardly quite at his ease.

Turk came to my rescue here. He divined my thoughts, and the cause of my hesitation.

'Perhaps, Mr. Glover,' said Turk, 'if you would not mind regarding what passes as confidential, and not to be mentioned to any one else, Christopher would be more at his ease.'

I gave Turk a grateful look.

'Christopher would be more at his ease,' repeated Mr. Glover. 'This really is very mysterious. I don't see any objection. Then you know what he is going to say?'

'I know the subject he wishes to speak upon--but I was not aware of it when I first came out with him to-night.'

'Is it such a subject as ought to be spoken of in confidence between us?'

He totally ignored me, as if my opinion on the point were of the smallest possible value.

'I think so,' replied Turk, 'if it be spoken of at all.'

'You have your doubts as to the judiciousness of the communication our young friend is about to make?'

'I have; and I have told him so.'

'Oh, you have told him so.'

He appeared to me to debate within himself whether, under such circumstances, he should listen any further; but his curiosity overcame his evident wish to baulk me.

'You may go on,' he said to me, with a condescending wave of his hand.

'It is understood, then,' I said, somewhat more boldly, 'that what we say to each other is quite private and will not be repeated?'

He stared at me very haughtily, and bent his head, and stood before me, with his fingers to his lips, waiting for me to speak. A singular fancy occurred to me at this moment as I gazed at him--a fancy which need not here be mentioned; it lingered in my mind then and afterwards, although I strove to dismiss it on this occasion as being utterly wild and out of all reason. But, in conjunction with another circumstance, which came to light in the course of time, it led to a strange discovery.

'I have not come to make any communication,' I said; 'I have only come to ask a question. I can speak more freely now, as you are a gentleman, and as what I say will not reach her ears.' (His lips repeated 'Her ears,' but he did not repeat the words aloud.) 'It is about Miss Trim'----

'About Jessie,' he said, in a lighter tone. 'Yes; what about her?'

'Do you know where she is?'

His looks were disturbed now, although he strove to be cool.

'Do I know where she is?' he repeated, with a contraction of his eyes.

'That is what I have come to ask.'

'Oh, that is what you have come to ask.'

'There is no need for me to repeat the question, I suppose,' I said, controlling my desire to strike at him, for his manner was in the last degree contemptuous, notwithstanding that the interest he took in the conversation was evidently strengthened.

'No; I understand the English language, and you will be kind enough to understand that I am not in the habit of being questioned. There is no need for you to repeat the question, but there is a need for my asking why it is put to me.'

'Then you do not know?'

He would not give me the satisfaction of a simple answer.

'Let me see,' he said, in a musing tone, 'to-day is her birthday.'

'You do know that.'

'She told me herself; these things are not guessed at.'

'You have not answered my question,' I said, trembling from passion and from a sense of helplessness.

'You have not answered mine,' he replied. 'I ask you why you put it to me?'

Turk motioned to me that I ought to tell him, but I could not speak.

'Perhaps I had best explain,' Turk then said. 'This is Jessie's birthday, as you know, and Christopher and his mother had prepared a little feast in honour of it.'

'After the manner of such people,' observed Mr. Glover, with a sneer and a laugh, which set my pulses beating more quickly. Turk took no notice of the observation.

'My sister Josey was invited, to please Jessie, and Chris had a little present to give her----'

'Exceedingly pretty and pathetic,' interrupted Mr. Glover. 'It would make a charming domestic scene in poor life, if it was placed on the stage. These commonplace circumstances tickle the fancy, and please sentimental persons, whenever they are presented in an unreal form. In real life, of course, there is nothing very attractive in them--often the reverse, I should say. But the picture you have drawn would be a failure even on the stage, if there was nothing exciting to follow. We want a "situation," Turk.'

'We have one ready,' responded Turk. 'Without warning, and most strangely and suddenly, Jessie leaves her home. Her friends suppose she has gone out for a walk, and are waiting for her with uneasiness, which grows stronger as the time goes on and Jessie does not return. While they are waiting, a letter comes----'

'Are you concocting a plot?' asked Mr. Glover.

'I am telling you exactly what has occurred. A letter is received from Jessie, in which she says that she has gone away, and never intends to return. Chris, in his anxiety, has come to see you, in the hope--or the fear--of hearing some news of her.'

I had been watching Mr. Glover's face all the time Turk was speaking, but it was impossible for me to decide whether he was acting or not. The only change I observed in him occurred during Turk's last words; then a little light came into his eyes, which might have been construed into an expression of triumph.

'And Chris, in his anxiety,' he said, has come to see me in the hope--or the fear--of hearing some news of her. Which is it?' he asked, turning to me; 'hope or fear?'

'Fear,' I replied unhesitatingly.

'What do you suspect me of?' he continued politely; 'running away with her? You don't answer. Afraid to put it into words. But that's the plain English of it, isn't it? You did a wise thing in stipulating that what passes between us is to be kept private, or I might have been tempted to tell the young lady in question something which would not be pleasant for her to hear. Had you known what is due to a gentleman from one in your station of life, I might have been induced to satisfy your inexplicable anxiety concerning her; as it is, I decline to do so. She would be both amused and angry to learn that you have set up some sort of a claim upon her, as if there could be any community of feeling between you. You seem to forget that she is a lady, and that you--well, that you are not a gentleman. Take this piece of advice from one who is competent to give it--go home and stick to your bench, and don't presume to cast your thoughts on what is not only beyond your reach, but immeasurably above you. Good-night, Turk.'

And with a contemptuous glance at me, Mr. Glover walked away in a very leisurely manner.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

A NEW FEAR.

I walked home in the most sorrowful of moods. Turk accompanied me part of the way, but when he began to speak in Mr. Glover's favour, I said that I would prefer to walk by myself. The good fellow took the hint, and would not notice my churlishness.

'I know, I know, old fellow,' he said, shaking hands with me; 'but you might count me as nobody. Never mind, Chris, my boy, you won't find many better friends than Turk West; and he's not to be shaken off, let me tell you.'

I reflected with bitterness that I had not one friend who thought as I thought. Everybody was against me, and I was distrusted and misunderstood even by those who should have held to me most closely. I walked for miles out of my way, almost blindly, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, but my own despair and grief. The streets were very still as I approached our house, and I lingered about the spots where Jessie and I had lingered and talked in the days that were gone.

Josey West opened the door for me. Her face was very grave.

'Well?' she said.

'I have heard nothing, Josey. She has not come home?'

'No.'

A peculiar accent in her voice struck me.

'How is mother?' I asked.

She closed her lips firmly, and looked at me seriously and reproachfully. I rebelled against that look; my heart was full almost to bursting.

'Why don't you and those who were my friends say what you think of me?' I demanded bitterly. 'Why don't you say at once that I am to blame for all that has occurred, and that I, and I only, am the cause of all this misery?'

'I don't say so,' she replied gently, 'because I don't think so.'

'But you look at me as if it were so,' I said loudly; 'you and all the others. You have fair words and fair excuses for every one but me----'

She placed her fingers on her lips. 'Hush!' she said; 'don't be cruel as well as unjust.'

Her hand was on my arm, and I shook it off roughly. 'Who is the just one? Uncle Bryan? I will talk to you no more. How is mother?'

'Go up and see; but tread softly. You are not the only sufferer--remember that.'

I went upstairs, and into my mother's room, softly. Josey West followed me.

'Mother,' I said.

She opened her eyes and looked at me vacantly. She did not know me; even when I took her hand, and fondled it in mine, she showed no sign of recognition. Then a feeling of desolation, more terrible than any pain I had yet suffered, entered my heart, and I fell on my knees by her side. Was I to lose her next? It seemed so. Her white pitiful face, her parched restless lips, her mournful eyes gazing on vacancy, her hot skin, were like so many tongues reproaching me for my selfishness.

'For God's sake tell me, Josey,' I whispered, 'how long has she been like this?'

'The change came a little while after the doctor left. She bore up while he was here, and tried to answer him cheerfully; but when he was gone, she broke down.'

'Did she speak, Josey.'

'A little at first.'

'What about?'

'Only about you, Chris; but I cannot tell you what she said. They were only broken words of tenderness----' Josey turned from me, and could not continue for her tears.

'Did you not go for the doctor again, Josey?'

'I could not leave her, Chris.'

'Uncle Bryan might have gone--'

I knocked at his door, and called him again and again; but I got no answer.'

I went at once to his room, and knocked, but no answer came. I tried the handle, and found that the door was unlocked. I entered the room, and struck a light. Uncle Bryan was not there, and his bed had not been lain upon. I went downstairs into my own bedroom, and searched the house swiftly; uncle Bryan was not in it.

Did you see him go out, Josey?'

'No; I have not seen him since you left.'

'I must run for the doctor. Will you stop here?'

'I'll stop, Chris, and do all I can to help you.'

I pressed her hand, and within half an hour the doctor was at my mother's bedside. I waited below until he came down.

'If you will walk back with me,' he said, will give you some medicine for your mother.'

'Is she very ill, sir?'

'Very.'

My heart sank as I asked, 'Dangerously?'

'I think so, but we shall know more in a day or two.'

'Then there is no immediate danger, sir?'

'I think not--I think not; but we must be prepared for the worst.' He said something more than this, but I did not hear him. A mist stole upon my senses, for his quiet tone portended the worst. 'Bear up, Mr. Carey,' he said; 'you must not give way. We will do our best. A great deal will depend upon good nursing. That is a sensible little woman who is with her now.'

This doctor was a man who was deservedly worshipped by the poor in our neighbourhood; his life was really one of self-sacrifice, for he was a capable man, was paid badly, worked hard, and did his duty bravely.

'Can you tell me what she is suffering from, sir?'

'I was about to ask you that question Mr. Carey,' was his reply. 'All that I know at present is that she is in a high state of fever, that her blood is thin and poor, and that she is as weak as a human being dare be who requires strength to battle successfully with disease. It appears to me that she must have been suffering for some time, for a very long time probably--but I am in the dark as to that--and that she has at length given way. If you put upon a beam a pressure greater than it can bear, the beam must break.'

'But I do not think my mother has worked too hard, sir.'

The mind has acted upon the body. Hard physical work itself seldom, if ever, kills. In the case of this beam----you follow me?'

'Yes sir.'

'In the case of this beam, there have been secret inroads upon its power of resistance, and the wood has rotted. I have seen stout planks cut through, and colonies of little insects bared to the light which have been steadily and surely eating away its strength. I am speaking plainly, because I think it is the best course in all these cases, and when I am speaking to a sensible man.'

'Thank you, sir; I should prefer to hear the truth, terrible though it be.'

'Outwardly, these planks seem capable of bearing any pressure, but when a great trial comes, they must give way. There are thousands and thousands of human beings walking about, in seemingly good health, in precisely the same condition. Has your mother suffered any great trouble?'

'A great trouble has come upon us within the last few hours.'

'An unexpected trouble?'

'Totally unexpected, sir.'

'For which you were quite unprepared?'

'Quite, sir.'

'That may be the immediate, but is not the direct, cause of your mother's illness. She has been enduring a long strain, as I have said, and has at length broken down under it.' By this time we were in his shop, and he was preparing the medicine. 'You look ill yourself. Let me feel your pulse.' He looked me steadily in the face. 'You are your mother's only child, I believe. Miss West led me to infer as much.'

'She was right, sir.'

'Well, then,' he said, giving me a rough and kindly shake, 'your mother's ultimate recovery may depend--I only say may--upon you. Think of that, and don't be falling ill yourself.'

'I'll try not to,' I murmured, for I felt sick and faint.

'Drink this,' he said, pouring out a draught for me; it will revive you. You will try not to? Nay, you must make up your mind not to, for your mother's sake. We never know what we can do. Why, we can conquer pain, if we are strong-willed enough. I was explaining about your mother. She is so delicately and exquisitely susceptible, that to have those about her whom she loves may contribute more to her recovery than anything all the doctors in London could do. She is in a state of delirium at present; under the most favourable circumstances, she is likely to remain in this state for a week or two, probably for longer. If, when she recovers her senses, the first face she looks upon and recognises is a face that she loves, it may not only contribute to her recovery, it may accomplish it. On the other hand, if she misses a face that is dear to her, and that she has been accustomed to see about her, it may cause a relapse, and prove fatal. I have tried to make myself clear, and to give you a good reason why you must keep well. Don't mope. If you have any private grief of your own, keep it under until this peril is past.'

I thanked him, and left him. I told Josey West exactly what the doctor had said, and she returned the compliment he had paid her of calling her a sensible little woman by saying that he was a sensible man.

'And now, Chris,' she said, 'you must go to bed.'

I said that I would sit up with my mother, and tried to persuade Josey to lie down; but she refused, saying rest was more necessary to me than to her.

'In the first place, you have your work to do; that must not be neglected for all the Jessie Trims in the world. Oh, yes, my dear. You may shake your head, but I've been remarkably quiet all through, and I think I'm entitled to say a few words.'

'I'll not stop to hear anything spoken against her,' I said.

'That's right. Fly up. You think you're fonder of her than I am. That you can't be. But I'm not satisfied with her, and I sha'n't be until I get all this explained. There's something behind it that neither you nor I suspect, or my name isn't Josey West.'

'That's what Turk says,' I interposed.

'I expect you've been leading him a fine life to-night. Poor Turk! Why, he worships the ground she walks upon. I tell you what it is, my sweet child,' she said sarcastically, there's more lessons than one you've got to learn. But to come back. There's some mystery behind all this; but it might be one thing, and it might be another. I'm in a whirl, that's what I am, my dear.'

I really think Josey administered these words to me as a kind of medicine. But she could not deceive me as to the feelings she entertained for Jessie. If any person had dared in her presence to say a word against her friend, she would have been the first to defend her.

'Josey,' I said, 'I shall feel much relieved if you will promise me one thing.'

'That depends. I'm not going to open my mouth and shut my eyes.'

'If Jessie tells you the reason of her going away----'

'Which she's sure to do. Oh, I shall know all about it.'

'And if the knowledge does not come to me in any other way, will you tell me?'

'Upon my word! Me tell a secret? Not for all the world, master Chris.'

'But if it's not a secret?'

'Then of course you'll hear it.' We spoke in an undertone, so as not to disturb my mother, who lay unconscious of what was going on around her. But here you are stopping up,' continued Josey fretfully, when every minute's rest is precious to you and all of us. I have only told you one of my reasons why you must be fresh in the morning--and mind you sleep, master Chris, when you get to bed. I'll tell you another. There'll be the shop to look after.'

'That's uncle Bryan's business,' I replied, flushing with anger. The mere mention of his name aroused all my bitterness against him. 'If mother could be moved from this house to-morrow with safety, I'd take her out of his sight without a moment's delay.'

'You'll not see your uncle Bryan again in a hurry,' said Josey. 'You mark my words--he's gone for good.'

I did not stop to discuss the point, but went to the bedside and kissed my mother. As I leant over her, I could scarcely hear her breathing, and but for a light convulsive sob which rose to her throat every now and then, and which she seemed to make an effort to check, it would have been difficult to detect any sign of life in her. The doctor's words dwelt in my mind as I gazed at her beloved face, and for the first time in my life I appreciated at their proper worth the sacrifices which this dearest of women had made for one so unworthy as I. I knelt at her bedside, and prayed that her life might be spared to me--prayed with humble heart--and my tears flowed freely.

Josey was outside on the landing.

'Good-night, my dear,' she said; 'give me a kiss.'

Mine were not the only tears on my face as I walked downstairs.

CHAPTER XL.

WHAT THE NEIGHBOURS SAID.

Josey West's prediction proved to be right. When I rose the next morning uncle Bryan had not returned. Josey, looking as fresh as though she had had a good night's rest, told me that there had been no change in my mother's condition--that only a few words had passed her lips, and that those words were about me.

'There's a lot to do,' she said; you've got your work to look after, the shop must be attended to, and there's your mother to nurse. I really think, my dear, that if your uncle doesn't make his appearance, we had best take possession of the place. Two things we must be careful of--we mustn't let the business be ruined, and we must try to keep the neighbours from talking of what has occurred. When a lot of gossiping women get hold of a woman's name, with a story attached to it, they tear that woman's name to pieces with as much pleasure as they would eat a good dinner; and as for the story, my dear, when you hear it the next day you wouldn't know it, they twist and mangle it so. Stop here while I run round to my house; I sha'n't be gone ten minutes.'

During Josey's absence the doctor came.

'Your mother is no worse,' he said, after his examination; 'but I am not satisfied with her condition; it puzzles me. I can say nothing at present except that rest and freedom from agitation are imperative; there must be no noise in the house, no voices raised in anger, nothing that can in any way disturb her. Her life may depend upon it.'

By this I knew that he must have heard something more of what had taken place than what I had told him. Indeed, the gossips of the neighbourhood had commenced their work. I have puzzled my head many times to discover by what means they knew what they knew, but it was and is a mystery to me. They were familiar with matters which I had supposed no person outside our little circle could possibly be acquainted with. They knew that uncle Bryan and I were at daggers drawn, and that there had been a desperate quarrel between us; they knew that he had left the house, that Jessie had run away on her birthday, and that my mother was lying dangerously ill. Being in possession of these bare bones, they put them together with amazing ingenuity, and produced the most astounding results. The first thing they settled was, that uncle Bryan and I had quarrelled not alone with our tongues, but with our hands; and one of the pictures which grew out of the story as it was related by one to another represented uncle Bryan lying on the ground and me standing over him with a knife, while Josey West was rushing between us to prevent murder being done. Another picture represented uncle Bryan packing up in a handkerchief all his treasure in money (for, strange to say, I now learned for the first time that he bore the reputation of a miser, and that it was generally supposed he had large sums of money concealed), and stealing off in the dead of night in fear of his life. Another, and the worst, picture concerned Jessie and Mr. Glover. Mr. Glover, an enormously rich gentleman, had fallen desperately in love with Jessie, and she had consented to elope with him. The gossips gloated over the details. A carriage with a pair of gray horses was waiting at the corner of a certain street (name given) about a quarter of a mile away; Mr. Glover, in a large cloak, was on the watch at the appointed time; Jessie made her appearance, with a small bundle in her hand wrapped in a handkerchief; Mr. Glover lifted her into the carriage, jumped in after her, and away they whirled. Even if they had been inclined to doubt the truth of this story (which they were not), it was impossible for them to do so because of the exact and wonderful details which accompanied its relation. There were a coachman and a footman dressed in such and such a way, down to their very buttons; the carriage was painted blue, with edgings of yellow; Mr. Glover wore a smoking-cap, and his cloak had a fur collar, and two gold tassels attached to it. This cloak gave an air of mysterious romance to the picture, and added much to the enjoyment of it. It is worthy of notice that both uncle Bryan and Jessie left our house with something done up in a pocket-handkerchief. This occurs to me as an arbitrary feature in the painting of such pictures; and I have no doubt that, had a dozen persons been missing, each would have been portrayed as stealing away with something done up in a pocket-handkerchief in his hand.

Before the day was out, the whole neighbourhood was busy talking over these stories, and discussing their probable results.

Josey had returned within the ten minutes, and brought with her Matty and Rosy. The shop was opened, and a more than usually brisk business was done, in consequence of the gossips dropping in to pick up information; but I resolutely refused to go behind the counter. I would have nothing to do with it. I had already saved a little purse of money, and my earnings were good. I was determined to have no further connection with uncle Bryan in any shape or way whatever.

'Then I must take possession,' observed Josey, after listening to my views, which I expressed in most unmistakable terms. It would be a pity to let such a business go to rack and ruin. If your uncle Bryan returns, I shall be able to render a proper account.'

She entered upon this as she entered upon everything else, with intense and thorough earnestness, and the business was carried on, and the duties of the house performed, as though nothing of importance had occurred to disturb them. She might have been born a grocer for the intimate knowledge she displayed of the requirements of the trade. When I expressed my astonishment, she said philosophically:

'My dear, nothing's difficult. One can do anything if one makes up one's mind to do it. All one has got to do is to go about it willingly.'

In the mean time I looked out anxiously for news of Jessie, but on the first day of her absence I learnt nothing. I went to Mr. Rackstraw's in the afternoon to make inquiries, but he received me coldly, and desired me not to call again--in such terms that I was certain Mr. Glover had made him my enemy. Then I went to Turk's new shop, and found him very busy, and sanguine of his prospects. But as he had no news of Jessie I listened to his relation of his plans with small interest.

'I shall be able to serve you, Chris,' he said, before I went away; 'I shall keep my eyes open.'

That night I sat up with my mother until three o'clock, when Josey relieved me. My mother did not know me, and although I strove hard to make her recognise me, her eyes dwelt on my face as they would have done on the face of a stranger. What pain and grief this brought to me I cannot describe.

There was something different in the arrangement of the room, and I made a remark concerning it to Josey. The room was clearer, lighter. Josey explained it to me in a sharp tone, as though she desired not to be questioned.

'The doctor said the room must be made as airy as possible; he doesn't want a lot of lumber about.'

But the next morning it occurred to me that the box in which Jessie kept her clothes and nicknacks had been taken out of the room. I looked about the house for it, but could not find it.

'Where is Jessie's box, Josey?' I asked.

'Gone,' was the short and snappish reply.

'Gone where?'

'Well, I suppose you must be told. While you were away yesterday, Jessie sent for it.'

'Then you know where she is,' I cried excitedly, jumping to my feet, and tearing off my working-coat.

'Yes, I know where she is.'

I waited, but Josey did not volunteer further information. I looked at her reproachfully.

'I'll just tell you as much as I'm compelled to, master Christopher, and no more. I had a letter from Jessie yesterday---O, no; you'll not see it! It was meant for my own eyes, and no others. I said that Jessie would tell me the reason of her going away, and she has done so; and I know where she is, and I've sent her clothes and all her things to her. And that's all, master Christopher.'

'No, it isn't all, Josey. You will tell me something more. If I'm not to know where she is----'

'Which you are not,' Josey interrupted; 'not from me at least.'

'I may know whether she is well.'

'Yes, she is well in health.'

'And happy?'

'I don't know; I can't tell.'

'Did she do right in going away?'

She answered me in precisely the same words.

'I don't know; I can't tell.'

'Is she stopping with friends?'

'Yes, she is stopping with friends.'

'But what friends can she have that we don't know of?'

'Ah,' exclaimed Josey, more snappishly than before, 'what friends, I wonder?'

'Josey,' I said coaxingly, putting my arm round her waist----

'I tell you what it is, master Christopher. If you ask me many more questions, I shall run away;' but in spite of her assumed severity, her tone softened.

'I won't ask you many more, Josey,' I said, and I felt the tears rising to my eyes, 'but you might have some pity for me.'

'Bless the dear child!' she said, with a motherly air, I have some pity for you! Why, you stupid boy, I'm as fond of you as though you were my own brother!'

'Then tell me if it was because of me Jessie went away.'

'You had nothing to do with it.'

It was a relief to me to hear this, for I had in some way got it in my mind that Jessie had run away to escape the proposal she suspected I intended to make to her. I approached a more delicate subject.

'You have heard the stories the neighbours are telling each other, Josey, about Jessie and Mr. Glover.'

'Oh, yes, I've heard them! The scandal-mongers! I'd like to wring their ears for them.'

That was sufficient for me; a great weight was lifted from my heart. There was another question that I must ask.

'Did Jessie in her letter say anything about me? Did she send me any message?'

'She did, and I wasn't to give it to you unless you asked for it. Perhaps I'd better read it.' She took the letter from her pocket and read: '"Chris will be sure to miss my box"--you see,' said Josey interrupting her reading, 'Jessie sent the letter to my house; she didn't know I was here; and I was to ask your mother to let me have her box, so that I might send it to Jessie without your knowing.'

'Then there's a message to mother in that letter?'

'There is, but I can't give it to her, poor dear!'

'Go on with what Jessie says about me, Josey.'

'"Chris will be sure to miss my box, and if he asks you if I have sent him any message, say that I hope he will not try to discover where I am, and that I hope also he will not think worse of me than I am. If we meet again----"' here Josey broke off with, 'But that's not for you, I should say.'

'It must be for me, Josey. You have no right to keep it from me.'

'Well, if you will have it. "If we meet again, it must be at my own time and in my own way. Whether I am right or wrong in what I have done and what I intend to do, I have quite made up my mind, and no one can advise me." Now I hope you are satisfied.'

I was compelled to be. There were both balm and gall in the letter--balm because the tales that slanderous tongues were circulating were false, and gall because Jessie had written in such a manner as to give me but little hope that she reciprocated my love. If she loved me, she would have confided in me. Is it possible, I reflected with bitterness, that she could have led me on, knowing my feelings towards her, and making light of them? But the thought was transient; I would not entertain it. It would be a shame on my manhood to doubt her. What if she were not for me--would that prove her unworthy? But it was bitter to bear, and the scalding tears ran from my eyes as I laid my head on my mother's pillow. My sobs disturbed her, and she moved her fingers feebly towards my neck. It was the first sign of recognition she had displayed since her illness. I fondled her poor thin hand, and kissed it, and moved close to her lips, for she was murmuring faint words. But these words were addressed not to me, but to my father, who had been dead for so many years. She was speaking to him of their darling boy, and of the happiness he would be to them when he grew to be a man. I listened sadly; every soft word she murmured was a dagger in my heart, for I was beginning to learn the strength of her love and the weakness of mine. Heavy as was the blow which had fallen upon me, I felt that there might be comfort and peace even yet for me, if my mother lived to enjoy the outward evidences of my penitence and love, and that a curse indeed must fall upon my life if she died without blessing me.

CHAPTER XLI.

JOSEY WEST DECLARES THAT SHE HAS GOT INTO HER PROPER GROOVE.

A week had passed, and there was still no change in my mother's condition. Every time the doctor visited her, his manner became more serious. The shadow of death seemed to hang already over the house.

'Her strength will not hold out for another week, I am afraid.' He spoke these words to Josey West, out of my hearing as he thought.

I followed him from the house.

'I heard what you said to Miss West,' I said to him. 'Is all hope really gone? Can nothing be done?'

He did not reply immediately, and before he spoke he took my arm kindly.

'This is one of the cases outside my experience. Your mother has nothing that a physician can grapple with. She has no organic disease that I can discover, and although physically she is fearfully weak, it is mental suffering that is killing her. It is not usual for a doctor to speak as plainly as I am speaking to you, but it is best to do so. I have heard so much that is good and noble in your mother's life, that it would rejoice me exceedingly to see her rise from her bed in health.'

'No one but I can know how tender and beautiful her life has been,' I said, with sobs. 'If I could give my life for hers, I would resign it with cheerfulness.'

'But I suspect,' said the doctor, with a curiously-observant air upon him, 'that that is just the thing that would be most effectual in killing her. Come, now, recover yourself: I have something to say to you. I shall count a hundred, and then I shall go on. . . . When you first consulted me, and I asked you what your mother was suffering from, I seriously meant it. I want to cure your mother, or at all events to show you the way to do it, for I have an idea that you, not I, must be the doctor. I will make you a present of all my little fees in this case if I am successful. That ought to assure you of my earnestness.' He smiled gently as he said this. 'Knowing full well, as you say, that you would treble them if we happily succeed. I will give you another proof of my earnestness. I loved my mother. Have I won your confidence? Well then, I can grapple with physical disease with fair success; give me the opportunity of grappling with the mental disease which is killing your mother. I have an hour, perhaps two, to spare. Tell me, unreservedly, the story of your mother's life, in which of course yours will be included. Conceal nothing, and be especially explicit in every incident where the feelings are brought into play. If you understand me, and are willing to trust me, commence at once.'

I told him all, freely and without reservation, from my first remembrance in connection with my mother, to the time--but a few days past--when I heard her in her delirium speaking to my father about me and my future. Many times during the recital I was compelled to pause from emotion, and when I finished his eyes also were suffused with tears.

'I know now,' he said softly, what will kill your mother if she dies. It will shock you to hear it, and you must not think me cruel for telling you. When your mother, in the night she was taken ill, cried to you that her heart was almost broken, it was no mere phrase that she uttered--it was a cry from her soul, and the words exactly represented her condition. If she dies, it will be because her heart is broken. And you will have broken it. Ay,' he continued gently, as I started in horror from him, 'and so would your mother start from me if she had strength and sense to hear and understand. She would think me the cruelest monster. But what I have said is true nevertheless. Your mother's life has been bound up in yours. No woman, unsustained by most perfect and most unselfish love, could have held up against such trials as hers; where she has had doubts she has thrust them from her, and her deep affection has given her strength to bear her sufferings. For a long time there has been raging within her a mental conflict, the torture of which only those can understand who love as she loves, and only those can feel whose natures are as delicately sensitive as hers. Even I, until now a stranger to her and to you, can see the fire which has been consuming her gentle spirit. And when the final blow came, and she was made to feel by your words that she had wrecked your happiness and had lost your love (for she must have felt then what she had long feared), she sank beneath it. I have, thank God, through all my life reverenced woman's character, but I never reverenced it so thoroughly as I do now, after hearing your story. You ask me if all hope is really gone, and if nothing can be done? Well, I see a way. What can kill can cure. I warn you that the chance is a slight one, but it must be tried. Can you afford to go away from London for a time?'

'Yes, I have money saved; and I think I could arrange to take work with me, and do it in the country.'

'That is well. If you will take your mother away from London, say to the scenes with which you were familiar when you were a child, and attend to her yourself, and make her feel and understand that you love her as she deserves and yearns to be loved, she may recover. That is the only chance. She is almost certain to have conscious intervals. If you have tact enough to be alone with her, as you were in the old days, when her consciousness first returns, it may prove the turning-point towards convalescence. I cannot explain myself more fully; I will give you a simple strengthening medicine with you, and all necessary directions as to diet. When will you go?'

I arranged to go on the following day, and Josey West said that, notwithstanding what the doctor had said, it was impossible that I should go alone. Her sister Florry, who was nearly sixteen years of age, should accompany us.

'If your mother asks who she is,' said Josey, 'you can say she is the maid.'

So it was settled, and Florry, a pretty good girl, who was wild with delight at the idea of going into the country, promised to do her best.

No news had been heard of uncle Bryan. I cannot say that, after my anger had cooled, I was not anxious about him. It was impossible for me to be indifferent as to his fate, and I made inquiries quietly, but without result. He had disappeared most effectually, and had left no trace behind. My principal reason for wishing to find him was to let him know that we were leaving his house, and that we should not return; I had made up my mind on this point. Josey West and I had a long conversation about him.

I believe he will never come back, my dear,' said Josey, 'never, under any circumstances. Of course you have heard what some of the neighbours say--that he has made away with himself; but that's all nonsense. He's not a man of that sort. He'll rub on grimly and grumly to the end. Why, my dear, if it was to happen that he was to starve to death--which he wouldn't do willingly, and without trying to get bread--he'd starve quietly and without a murmur. Ah, he's a wicked old man, I daresay, and I know that you have cause to hate him, but I can't help liking him a bit for all that. What I shall do about the shop is this, unless you object. I shall shut up our house--there's no business doing, my dear; I don't lend out a wardrobe a month--and all the children shall come round here to live. It will be good fun for them. I shall keep the accounts as square as I can, although the figures are getting into a mess already, and I'm beginning to be bothered with them--but never mind, there's the money, so much paid out, so much coming in; it'll be simple enough to reckon what's left. And if I do hear anything of your uncle, I'll be off to him at once, and bring him back, tied up, if he won't come any other way.'

I could see no better plan than this, and I thanked Josey cordially.

'Where are you going to first?' she asked, interrupting me abruptly.

'To Hertford, where I was born,' I replied.

She nodded, and said she thought it was the best place, and that I must be sure and keep her informed of my whereabouts, as she would want to write to me regularly. The next morning we were off.

We reached Hertford by easy stages. Josey was quite right in insisting that I should take Florry with me. I soon learnt that I could not have done without some one, and I found Florry to be so quietly and unobtrusively useful that I grew very fond of the little maid. I took lodgings in a pleasant suburb, from the windows of which we could see the river Lea, and the barges gliding indolently along. Florry said it was heavenly. My mother bore the journey well, and was no worse at the end than when we started. I was very thankful for that, for I feared she might not be strong enough to bear it; but we were very careful of her, and if she had been my sister Florry could not have been more attentive and affectionate. But my mother knew no one, and saw only the pictures and figures which her fevered imagination conjured up. I selected for her bedroom a large room on the first floor, and placed her bed so that she could see the river from it. I fixed my table for work so that when she opened her eyes, and looked towards the river, she could see me also. I had been fortunate enough to obtain sufficient work to last me for three or four weeks, and I was sure of more to follow.

On the very first day I observed what I thought was a favourable change in my mother. Awaking from a restless sleep she opened her eyes, and saw a white sail passing along the river; she watched it quietly until it was out of sight, and then closed her eyes and slept again, but more peacefully than before. She did not seem to see me, although I turned my face to her and smiled. It was soon evident that she took pleasure in the prospect of the river, for before two days had passed I observed her lie and watch it restfully. It appeared to act like a charm upon her, bringing peace to her troubled heart in some strange way. In London, during her illness, scarcely an hour had passed, day and night, without her rest being broken by sobs; but here in Hertford, after she grew accustomed to the sight of the river, her days were quiet and peaceful, and it was only in the night that she was disturbed. During the first week I left her but twice; once to go to the house in which I was born, and once to visit the old churchyard in which my father was buried. The house was the same as I remembered it, and the churchyard had a few new gravestones in it; there was no other change. All my childish experiences came vividly to my mind, and I should scarcely have been surprised, as I peeped through the parlour-window, where I used to sit in my low armchair with my grandmother, listening to her monotonous heavy breathing, to see her sitting in state, in her silk dress, with her large fat hands folded in her lap! I did see a woman who reminded me of Jane Painter, our servant, and I crossed the road quickly and walked away from her. In the churchyard, I went to my father's grave, and then to the grave of Snaggletooth's little daughter. I found it quite easily, but the inscription upon it was no longer discernible. I remembered so well every incident of that day that I could see myself carried out of the churchyard in Snaggletooth's arms, and I closed my eyes as I thought how I fell asleep there.

These scenes and remembrances soothed and consoled me; I seemed to be lifted out of a fever of unrest.

Gradually my mother's eyes grew accustomed to see me working always at my table, and they began to dwell on me, at first unconcernedly, but presently with a kind of struggling observance in them. I hailed this change with gladness, and waited and hoped, and prayed humbly night and morning. Josey West wrote to me regularly, and one day this letter came:

'My dear Chris,--Don't open the packet enclosed in this until you read my letter. If you do, I'll haunt you, and you shall never have a minute's rest again. You told me once that every person in life has a proper groove. I think it very hard that I should have lived all these years without, until now, falling into my proper groove; I am in it at last, but I am ready to slap all the children's faces to think that so many years have been wasted. I was born to be a grocer, and at last a grocer I am. If you can find me a better one than I am, show him to me, and I'll resign. I've been looking over your uncle's books, and, as true as I'm a living woman, I'm taking more money than ever he took, if his figures are right. Every day I make a new customer. There's Mrs. Simpson, the bricklayer's wife, at No. 9. If she's been in the shop once, she's been in it a dozen times to-day and yesterday: all the years the old gentleman kept the shop she didn't spend two-and-twopence in it--that's the sum she mentioned, and as I'm a woman of figures now, I must be precise. She does so like a gossip, she says, and she don't mind getting short weight, she says, so long as she can have a friendly word with her quarter of a pound of moist, and her two ounces of the best mixture. She tried all she knew to get the old gentleman to gossip with her, and as he wouldn't, she wouldn't deal with him. Mrs. Simpson is not the only one. There's Mrs. Primmins, and Mrs. Sillitoe, the butcher's wife, and Mrs. Macnamara, who takes snuff. They all like a gossip, and they all come to have it, and so long as they buy their groceries of me, I shall encourage them. Why, you'd be surprised to see the old shop sometimes! It's quite an Institution.

'Well, I've got along very well with everything, from the figs to the brickdust; but one thing puzzled me. If you have any love for me, my sweet child, don't betray me, for I'm not at all sure they couldn't hang me for it; but it pays, my sweet child, and it doesn't do any one any harm, and I shall go on doing it, and risk the consequences. Well, it's this. On the first Saturday I was here, the people came in for uncle Bryan's pills and uncle Bryan's mixture. Well, there was a supply in the drawers, and I served the customers. If there was one of them, my dear, there was fifty, and every one spent his penny or twopence, and a few threepence. Well, during the early part of the week I ran short of the pills and the mixture, and I was puzzled about another supply. I knew that the old gentleman made his own medicine, and I looked about for the prescription, but couldn't find it. Now, for all I knew, the success of the business might depend upon these pills and mixtures, which some of the neighbours are ready to swear by as being able to cure asthma, and consumption, and indigestion, and bronchitis, and dysentery, and flushings, and palpitation, and wooden legs, and sprains, and bruises, and pains in the bowels, and headache, and too much brandy, and low fever, and high fever, and jaundice, and warts, and scrofula, and coughs, and colds, and the chills, and I don't know what all besides. And if you knew the trouble I've taken to put all these things together, you'd cry out, "Bless the little woman! What a painstaking creature she is!" But to come back. Well, for all I knew, if the customers couldn't get these wonderful pills at our shop, they might go elsewhere to buy their tea and sugar, and that would never do. I was in a pucker, and Turk came in last Tuesday night, and I told him my trouble. Says Turk, "How many pills and how many bottles of mixture have you got left?" I counted them. Fourteen bottles of mixture, and eleven boxes of pills, large and small. "And what do they cure?" says Turk. I went over all those things that I've written at the top of this sheet. "I don't feel as if anything particular is the matter with me," says Turk; "how do you feel, Josey?" I told him that I felt the same. "Then," says Turk, "it's quite necessary that you and I should take a bottle of that mixture, and six pills, without one moment's delay. Else it might prove fatal." And would you believe it, my dear? Before I knew where I was, Turk had poured one of the bottles of the mixture down my throat, and another down his own, and made me, willy nilly, swallow pill for pill with him until we had each swallowed half a dozen. "And now," said Turk, "if we die, we'll perish in one another's arms; and I'll come to-morrow night and write our epitaphs. We'll be buried in one grave, and all the neighbours will come to the funeral." I didn't like it, I tell you, and I kept awake all night, fancying I had pains; but I ate a very good breakfast the next morning, and everything inside of me went on as usual. Turk came in the evening, and we compared notes, as he said. He said then that it was a very bad case indeed, and we must take another bottle of mixture and six more pills each of us. I said I wouldn't; he said I should, and that he wouldn't die without me; and as I'm a living woman, he held my head and poured the mixture down my throat. After that, I thought I might as well take the pills, especially as Turk said I'd have to. One may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, you know. They didn't have the slightest effect upon us for better or worse (and the sooner that day comes for me, and the man with the ring, the better I shall like it, my sweet child, and that's plain speaking), and Turk said it was the most wonderful cure that ever was known of the most wonderful complication of diseases that ever was heard of. Now if you can guess what Turk did next, you're a clever boy; but as you never would guess, I'll tell you. He set to work making bread pills by the thousand (we found the board your uncle used to make them with), and he made a great basin of mixture, that tasted for all the world like the mixture in your uncle's bottles. You know, there scarcely is any taste at all in it. He coloured the water, and then we filled all the empty bottles and pill-boxes, and had stock enough to last a month. You would have laughed if you had seen us making the medicine. It was done after the shop was shut and all the children were in bed. We locked the doors, and put something over all the windows and keyholes, and every minute or two Turk wriggled to the door, to slow music, to listen if anybody was outside. We were like conspirators. We had a great run on the pills and mixture on Saturday night, and my heart felt as if it was sinking into my shoes every time I served a box or a bottle; but I was obliged to put a brave face on it, and I served them over the counter as if they were the "real grit," as the Yankees say. When I went to bed, I wondered how many murders I had committed, and how many times I could be hanged. I felt worse on Monday morning when I stood behind the counter; but as the day went on, and I didn't hear of any persons in the neighbourhood dying in convulsions, and as I didn't see any undertaker's men about, I began to get a bit relieved in my mind. And when Mrs. Huxley came in--Mr. Huxley is besieged by a regular army of diseases, asthma, and rackets, and "ketches in the side," as his wife calls them--well, when she came in, and told me how ill her poor dear man was on Saturday night before taking the pills and mixture, and how well he was on Sunday after he'd swallowed two big doses, I began to think better of them. I plucked up courage to ask one and another how everybody was who had taken the physic, and would you believe it, my sweet child, none of them were ever better in their lives. And a story has got about that your uncle Bryan has gone to some place to make the pills and mixture in secret, so that no one shall find out what is in them. I say nothing, except "Oh," and "Ah," and "Indeed," very mysteriously, and as if I didn't know anything about it (as how should I?), and the effect of these "Ohs" and "Ahs" and "Indeeds" is so extraordinary, that if I stood in a wagon, and talked by the hour together, with music playing all about me, and all the young ones dancing and posing, the thing couldn't work better. People are beginning to do what they never did before--they are buying the medicine in the middle of the week; and two strangers have already come in from a long distance for two boxes of the wonderful pills, one to cure palpitation and the other for the jaundice.

'Turk is getting along famously. He is a real good fellow, and everybody likes him. He is making heaps of new friends, and is doing a fine business. He sends his love to you, and says he will have plenty to tell you when you come home.

'Gus is going to India and Australia with a company; he plays leading business, and has a three years' engagement at twelve pounds a week, and all his travelling expenses paid. Not so bad for Gus; but then he's a genius, my dear.

'I hope Florry is behaving herself; but I am only joking when I say that. Don't you let her fall in love with you, and then break her heart; I'm joking again. When you come to think or us altogether, master Christopher, don't you think we're a re-markable family? If you don't, I do. You'd find it hard to beat us. You should read the letters Florry writes to us; they are perfect gems. Where we all got our cleverness from is a perfect puzzle; but it runs in some families. I'm glad Florry is with your mother; it will do her good. Ah, my dear, do you know I pray every night that you may bring your dear good mother home to us strong and well? I do, my dear, and it does me good.

'The letters that are in the enclosed packet came to the shop this morning. One of them is very heavy. I know your uncle's writing from the account-books he left behind him, and I see that it is his writing on the envelope. If there's any address inside, let me know, and I'll go and drag him home, although it will be the ruin of a fine business I see looming in the future in bread pills and the famous mixture made of coloured water.

'And now, my dear, I must leave off. This is the longest letter I ever wrote in my life, and if anybody had told me that I could have written it, I shouldn't have believed him. All the children send their love and kisses, and I send mine, and six kisses for your mother. When you give them to her, whisper that they're from a queer little woman in Paradise-row who loves both of you very much. Now don't you run away with the idea that I'm going to break my heart over you.

'Oh, I almost forgot to say that the doctor was here to-day. He hasn't time to write, but he says he has read your letter carefully, and he thinks that your mother is going along well. He expects a change very soon for the better. He gave me another prescription for you, which I send in this.

'I never thought much of it till lately, my dear, but really there are a great many good people in the world--But there! if I don't stop at once, I shall go rambling on all night, and there's some one tapping at the door. Come in! Only think, I've written it instead of saying it--Your affectionate friend,

'Josey.'

I untied the packet which Josey had enclosed, and found two letters in it--one, very bulky, in uncle Bryan's handwriting, the other written by Jessie. How my heart beat as I gazed at the latter! Both were addressed to my mother.

It was a fine clear night, and a sweet soft air was stirring--so sweet and soft that I was sitting at my work-table with the window open. Florry had gone to bed; my mother was asleep. I had always opened my mother's letters, and I reflected whether I was justified in opening these. After a little while I decided to read uncle Bryan's letter, for the reason that it would probably inform me where he was staying; in which case I should be able to rid myself of the responsibility of his business. Jessie's letter I would not read--at least for the present; she may have written in it what she might not wish me to see. I laid it aside, and unfastened the envelope of uncle Bryan's letter. It contained many sheets of manuscript, methodically arranged, some in uncle Bryan's handwriting, some in a writing which was strange to me. I give them in their order. The first was from uncle Bryan to my mother:

'Dear Emma,--I will not speak of my reasons for leaving you. Perhaps you may be able to guess them. I did it for the best. My absence may bring peace and happiness into your home, for it is yours. I relinquish all claim to it. When I tell you that I shall never return, you will know that I shall not set foot inside the shop again. I cannot have many years longer to live, and I shall do well enough, so do not give yourself any anxiety about me. I shall always be able to get my bread, and I shall wait patiently for death, and shall be grateful when it comes, but I shall do nothing to hasten it. Life has been a weary load to me, and I shall be glad to shake it off. This impatience would change to resignation and to gratitude, not for death, but for life, if it were possible for one thing to happen; but it is utterly, utterly impossible, and it is just and right that it should be out of my reach.

'I have a distinct purpose in writing to you, apart from any selfish words which fall from my pen. It is this: In telling you and my nephew the story of my life I threw blame upon my dead wife. I did worse than this--I slandered her memory. That I spoke what I believed is no excuse for me. I created for myself, out of my blindness and fatal imperiousness of self, a delusion and a lie which have embittered my life. I could bear this with calmness if the consequences had fallen only on myself; but I see now, when it is too late, how I have made others suffer. The bitterest punishment that could fall upon me would not serve to expiate my deadly sin. I do suffer bitterly, keenly, and my soul writhes from pain and shame.

'Can I speak more strongly? And yet these words are weak. Too late I see my folly and my crime. Many things that Christopher said to me were true. I humbly ask his forgiveness, and I humbly pray that the happiness he said I did my best to destroy may yet fall to his lot. If he will picture me an old man with a bleeding heart into whose life few rays of sunshine have passed, pleading to him, he may soften towards me. Perhaps he may believe that I loved him; if he does believe it, he will believe the truth.

'The letter I send with this is from my dead wife; it will explain itself. I received it at the same time the letter came to you from Jessie. Merely looking at her name upon paper, now that I have written it, deepens my anguish, my shame, and my remorse. It will never fall to my lot to ask her forgiveness, as I ask yours and your son's. I put myself in her place, and I know what her feelings are.

'Let Christopher read this and my wife's letter.

'Good-bye, Emma. For your unwavering kindness and gentleness to me, who have repaid you so badly, receive the humble heartfelt thanks of    Bryan Carey.'

Then followed the letter from his wife.

CHAPTER XLII.

FROM FRANCES TO HER HUSBAND, BRYAN CAREY.

I address you from the grave, and I pray that what I write may never reach your hands. If, unhappily, you are fated to read these words, they will bring their own punishment with them.

Do I hope, then, that you may be dead on the day that this letter shall be opened or destroyed, unread? No. But rather than you should receive it, it would be better that the earth covered you, as it has covered me these many years. You will understand my meaning before you have finished reading. I write in no vindictive spirit. All bitter feeling has left me; although even yourself may acknowledge that I have good cause for feeling bitterly towards you. But I am resolved that you shall not blight another life as you blighted mine. Another life so dear to me! that should be so dear to you! Another life that has been some comfort to me in the midst of my sorrow and affliction; and that I hope may be long spared for happiness.

It is not a giddy girl who is writing to you. It is a woman who has learned to look upon things with fair judgment, notwithstanding that she has suffered deeply from a cruel wrong inflicted upon her.

When you first came to me I was a child almost in years. I had had no opportunity of knowing the world, or of gaining that experience which is necessary to those who move in its busy quarters. I had never known trouble or sorrow, and, until my father fell into misfortune, I had lived very happily with him. He had his faults, I do not doubt, as we all have; but he was a good father to the last, and I loved him to the last. You judged him harshly, I know, and made no excuses for him--but it is in your nature to judge harshly. Weak as he was to some extent, I do not believe that he would have wronged his wife--doubly wronged her--and then have deserted her: as you wronged and deserted me. I have some remembrance of my mother, who died when I was very young, and I know that he was indulgent and good to her.

I fancy I can see a hard look on your face at the word indulgent. But some natures require indulgence, and are the better and the happier for it. You were for a time indulgent to me, and it was for this, as well as for other qualities in you upon which I placed higher value than you deserved, that I loved you.

Yes, I loved you. I scarcely know whether you ever believed I did; for, thinking over matters since our separation, I have arrived--whether rightly or wrongly--at what I believe to be a correct estimate of your character, at what assuredly is a correct estimate if you are destined to read it. I see you, hard and intolerant; doubtful of goodness in others; prone to place the most uncharitable construction on the actions of others. Lightness of heart is in your eyes a sign of levity. Surely the moods which were familiar to me in the first days of our acquaintanceship, and in the first few months of our wedded life, must have been foreign to your nature.

I see something more in you. I see you false to your wife and to your marriage vows. I see you, who prided yourself upon your sense of justice, most unjust and ungenerous to me. Let your heart answer if I am wrong.

Recall the evening on which we met for the first time, and certain words which passed between us. You were at my father's house, advising him upon his business affairs, which had become complicated. You said that my voice reminded you of a friend--a lady friend, very dear to you--and that she was dead. The words did not make much impression upon me at the time; but I had occasion afterwards to remember them. I liked you that evening. Your grave face, your sensible ways, were agreeable to me, frivolous girl as you supposed me to be. We kept but little society; the only regular visitor at my father's house was my cousin Ralph. I loved him; but not in the way you suspected. We had been intimate from early childhood, and I had a sincere affection for him. When I became better acquainted with you, I saw faults in him which I had not hitherto discerned; there was a want of stability in his character; he was indolent and deficient in manliness. Even if you had not entered into my life, and marred it, I think I should never have had any but a cousinly love for him. So far as I was concerned, there were no grounds for jealousy on your part, and no grounds for your base suspicions of me. I do not speak for him; I speak for myself. And when you wrote to me on the day you deserted me, and accused me of loving him as a woman should love the man she wishes to marry, you lied. But you had another purpose to serve, and it suited you to write the lie.

Of our married life I need say but few words. I was very happy for a time. You had behaved nobly and generously to my father; you were most kind and indulgent to me. If, as I afterwards learnt, we were living beyond our means, I had no suspicion of it. You never gave me the slightest hint to that effect, and you encouraged what I now know were extravagances in me. But--believe it or not as you will--I could have been contented and happy without them. You told me you were rich, and you could not fail to know that I had no idea of the value of money. Why could you not have confided in me? Was it honest to keep me, of your own free will, in such absolute ignorance, and then to blame me for not having known? I think, if you had trusted me, that you might have found some good in me--judged even by the light of your own hard judgment; but it is in your nature to accuse and judge in the same breath, and to do both unmercifully.

I remember well the last day you were kind to me. You left me in the morning with smiles; you returned home long after midnight a changed man. I, also, was changed when you returned. I have other cause to remember the day; for in the evening my cousin Ralph came to see me, and stayed with me until nearly eleven o'clock. You had sent me a note saying that you were detained at your office by important business. I read the note to my cousin, and he laughed at it, and said that you had good cause for your absence. His words conveyed a strange meaning to my ears, and I asked for an explanation. He gave it to me; and I learnt, to my horror, that you were in the habit of visiting another woman--a stranger in the town. Before I had recovered from the shock, I received another. My cousin Ralph, in a mad moment, proved himself to be what I had not hitherto suspected--a vile bad man. He told me, in passionate terms, that he loved me, and that he had loved me from boyhood; that it had been the dream of his life that we should be married, and that, but for you and your money, his life might have been a life of happiness. I listened in dismay and astonishment; I knew that he had an affection for me, but I thought it was such an affection as one cousin might innocently have entertained for another. I was so overwhelmed by this discovery, and by his accusations against you, that I had no power to stay his words. He misinterpreted my silence, and proceeded in wilder terms to propose flight to me. I tried to answer him, but my grief, and my terror lest you should return while he was in the house--for he was at my feet and refused to stir--made me weak. I implored him for my sake and for his own to leave me; and presently, when I grew stronger, I addressed him in words which it was impossible for him to misunderstand. It flashed upon me then that he had invented the story he had told me about you, and I taunted him with it. He answered me to the effect that he would prove it true before many days were over, and that then I might possibly listen to him more favourably. He left me; and your own conduct towards me from that day, during the short time we were together, was almost a sufficient proof. You would have judged upon that evidence; I was not content with it. I soon tasted the bitterness that lay in knowledge. A clerk in your office, who had for a purpose of his own made himself acquainted with the history of this woman--probably to use against you in some way--and whom you had employed to convey money and letters to her at different times, told me more than I wanted to know. On the day that you had the public quarrel with my cousin Ralph--I heard of it soon afterwards, for it became matter of common talk--I discovered that this woman came from a town in which you had formerly resided--that you knew her then--and that her history was a shameful one. Then there came to me the words that had passed between us upon your first visit to my father's house, when you said that my voice reminded you of a woman who was dear to you, and who was dead. It was easy to supply the blank spaces in the story to make it complete--shamefully, miserably complete. Your clerk told me that the life you had lived in that town was not a respectable one: I did not ask him how he had gained his knowledge, but I was sure of its truth. You left that town, and came to this place, a complete stranger, knowing no one, known by none. You refused to speak of your past life; not a word had ever passed your lips with reference to it. What other confirmation was needed of the truth of your clerk's statements? You tried to blot out your past career, knowing that it would not bear the light, and that the good name and position you had gained would be sullied and lost if the particulars were made public. You deserted the woman who had been your companion, and when you were inadvertently betrayed into remembrance of her by the sound of my voice, you told me she was dead. You never mentioned her again, nor did I, for I had forgotten her. But see how hard it is to lead a life of hypocrisy, as you have done! Shame never dies, nor can it ever be completely wiped away. After years of sojourn here, when you had gained money, position and a good name--when you had position, a simple, ignorant, and innocently-vain girl to your heart, and had sworn to cherish and protect her--this woman tracks you, finds you, and appeals to you by the remembrance of old times, and perhaps by other arguments more powerful, of which I am ignorant. On the very evening she meets you, you take her to a house in the town, and provide lodgings for her, and from that time your visits are frequent. Is this part of your story complete, and need I add to it by saying that you mentioned not a word concerning the woman to the wife you professed to love? If there was no shame in the relations that existed between you and her, why should you have taken such pains to conceal them? On the day you deserted me, you told me you were ruined, and you adopted the miserable subterfuge of saying that you had discovered all, and that you could no longer live with me. Your meaning was plain enough. You implied that I was false to you and to the vows I had taken on the day we were married. A more wicked lie never poisoned the heart of man or woman. I had brought shame and disgrace upon you, you said, and that it was useless my sending after you. I have read this letter often--it is destroyed now; I burnt it lest one who is dearer to me than my heart's blood should see it--and I have wondered at my folly and credulity in ever, for one moment, believing you to be a good and just man. For I did believe you to be this. There was a time in my life when I set you up as a model of honour and integrity and truth. The last words of your letter are burnt into my heart. Do you remember them? 'If I could make you a free woman, so that you might marry the man you love, I would willingly lay down my life; but it cannot be done. The only and best reparation I can offer is to promise, as I do now most faithfully, to wipe you out of my heart, so that you may be free from me for ever.' How fair those words sound--how self-sacrificing--how manly! What a noble nature do they display! Would it be believed that while this letter was on its way to the wife whom he was about to desert--to the wife whom he had most cruelly wronged, and most shamefully betrayed--the man who wrote it was entering the house where the woman lived who had been his companion in former years? The next morning you left. Two days afterwards, the woman followed you to London.

Is anything more wanted to complete the shameful story? Had I brought disgrace upon you, or had you brought it upon me? A noble reparation, indeed, did you make to me!

You may ask how it was that I discovered your visit to the woman. My father and my cousin saw you coming from the house, where doubtless you had completed all your arrangements, and left your final instructions. My cousin it was who told me. 'Now,' he said, 'do you believe that he is false?' 'Yes,' I answered; 'I am convinced of it' What followed? Remember it is your dead wife who is speaking to you, and do not dare, for your soul's sake, to add to your cruelty by doubting what she says. My cousin Ralph then began to speak again of his own selfish passion, and I bade him never to presume to address me again. From that day I never saw him; some little while afterwards my father told me he had gone abroad, but we never heard from him.

We remained--my father and I--for a few weeks after your departure, and then my father's health suddenly broke down. In one thing you had most completely succeeded; you had blackened my name as well as your own. Innocent as I was, wronged as I was, I think no one in my native place pitied me. Persons who had once respected me avoided me, or slighted me. Day by day the torture of living in this atmosphere of injustice grew until it was unbearable; and when my father broke down, I took him with me into a strange place, where neither of us was known, and where I hoped by carefully husbanding our small means, and by employing some hours of the day in needlework, to be enabled to live quietly, if not in peace. There was another reason why I was anxious to leave--a reason which you will now learn for a certainty for the first time. I was about to become a mother.

I kept this secret from you. Often and often had I listened to the expression of your wishes--the dearest wish of your heart, you said--that our union might be blessed with children. Your wish was that our first child might be a girl, and I used to hang with delight upon your words--believing in them in my credulous faith--when you described how you would educate and rear her into a good woman. I kept the secret, intending to joyfully surprise you later on; but it was fated that you should never learn it from my lips. When my time drew near, I was among strangers. I prayed that I might be blessed with a boy, who would be able to fight against the world's cruelties--with a boy who might one day--if you lived--be able to tell you to your face that you had slandered his mother. I had those thoughts at that time, and I set them down so that you may know exactly the state of my mind towards you. I prayed most fervently that the child might not be a girl, whose fate it might be to be treated by a man as her unhappy mother was treated by you. But my prayers were not heard. The child I clasped to my breast--your child--was a girl.

I hardly dared to look into her face at first, for I feared that it might resemble you, and that I should be compelled to hate her. I thanked God when I saw that there was but little resemblance to you. Think when you read this what my feelings towards you must have been.

My darling's was the sweetest, most beautiful face that I had ever gazed upon. I had never conceived it possible that a human heart could throb with such ineffable delight as mine did even in the midst of my bitter sorrow and shame, when I looked into my darling's face and eyes. I offered up grateful prayers that I lived and was a mother, and I offered up prayers of thankfulness also that it was out of your power to rob me of my treasure. That you would have done it had you known, I entertained no doubt.

The first few months of my child's life I was as happy as it was possible for a wronged and betrayed woman to be. Intending in these lines to hide nothing, I will not disguise from you that I shed many bitter tears because she was deprived of a father's love; but she did not lack love and attention. She was my one comfort and joy; I soon had no one else to love but her.

My father died. The doctor who had attended him in his illness warned me that, unless I was careful of myself, my life might be short. The thought that my darling might be left, helpless and dependent, among strangers, frightened me, and I did not know which way to turn for counsel and advice. I had not a friend in the world capable of helping me by a kindly, sensible word. To this condition you had brought me.

But my cup of sorrow was not yet full. The doctor I have mentioned was an unmarried man. He believed me to be a widow, as I had given out. I had no other resource than to speak this untruth. It was impossible for me to say that I was a helpless, unhappy woman, who had been deserted by her husband. To such a creature strangers show no mercy; they put their own construction on the story and judge accordingly--as you would judge, harshly, unfeelingly. I think I should not have cared so much for myself, but I had my darling to look to.

The doctor flattered me by saying that he saw I was a lady, and, in most respectful terms, he invited my confidence. He was most delicate and considerate, but I could not confide in him or any one; my cruel story and my cruel wrongs must be for ever locked in my breast. He did not press me when he saw that I was pained by his inquiries, but he paid me great attention, and by his kindness lightened my load. I did not place any serious construction upon his intentions, nor indeed did I think of them, for I was entirely wrapt up in my love for my darling child, who was growing every day more beautiful and more engaging. But when he asked me to be his wife, my eyes were opened. If I had been a free woman I would have accepted him, if only for the sake of providing a comfortable home for my child. As I was in chains, I refused him. He said he was a patient man, that he loved me very sincerely, and that he would wait. In the heavy catalogue of my sins that you have against me, place this new one--that this good man loved me. He continued his attentions, and they brought me into fresh disgrace. In the place I was living there were single ladies, and mothers who had daughters to marry, who entertained a hope that the doctor would choose from among them, and they were angry when they saw that I stood in their way. I do not know whom I have to thank for what followed, but gradually rumours got about to my discredit. I was not a widow; I was not a married woman; the name I went by was not my own. Women shrugged their shoulders when they met me; men stared at me insolently and familiarly. What had occurred in my native town when you deserted me was repeated here. I had no alternative but to fly from the place.

At that time my darling was nearly three years old, and the unkind creatures had attempted to drop poison even into her young and innocent mind. One day she asked me, in her pretty way, where her father was. 'You have none, my darling,' I said; 'he is dead.'

In the new place I found refuge in I made friends with a kind family, who grew very fond of my child--as none indeed could help doing. Her bright ways, her innocence, her artlessness, would win any heart not dead to human affection. If anything should happen to me, these friends will take care of my darling as long as they are able. I think it is likely that I shall not live long, and I have thought anxiously over the future of my darling until she arrives at an age when she may be able to protect and provide for herself. I have consulted with my new friends, and I have arranged everything to the best of my ability and judgment. I shall place in their hands a small box, which, in the event of my death and of their being unable to maintain my child (for they are poor people), is to be given to her with plain instructions. These instructions it will be necessary for me here to explain, first saying, however, that should these good friends be able to look after my child until she arrives at womanhood, there will be no necessity to give them to her. In that event, also, the box and its contents will be burnt. They have promised me faithfully, and I know they will keep their word.

If I am gone, and they are too poor to help my child, she will be, as I have been, without a friend. These good people have some idea of emigrating, if they can save sufficient money, and then my darling will be indeed helpless. They might take her with them, it may be said; but they may not have sufficient means. And then, again, it inflicts the most bitter pain upon me to think that my darling child should be taken thousands of miles from the spot where her mother's ashes are laid. She will be helpless, as I have said; but there is one upon whom she has a just claim--yourself. I wished her never to see you; I wished that you might never look upon her beautiful face, nor feel the charm of her presence. But I see no other way to secure a home for her. Should she be left without friends, she will come to you, a stranger, with a letter from me, who will even then be dead, asking you to give a home to a friendless child. She will bear a strange name, and will know you only as a stranger. Neither will you know her; it may be that you will see in her face some slight resemblance to the wife whose happiness you have destroyed, and it may be that you may place that resemblance to your dead wife's discredit. Do so, and bring another shame upon your soul.

How do I know where you live in London? It has been discovered for me, by means of a clue which my father obtained soon after your flight. When a mother is working for her child, she can do much. I have never seen London, but I know your address; and on the day that the friends I have made for my child find they can no longer provide for her, she will present herself at your door. Hard and unfeeling, cruel and unjust, as you are, I think you will not turn her from it.

In the small box which my friends will give to my darling child are three letters, numbered first, second, third. On the first letter is written, 'To be opened first, on your eighteenth birthday, before the other letters are touched. This is the sacred wish of your dead mother.' I copy this letter in this place, so that you may clearly understand what I have done:

'My darling Child,--I wish you to regard these written words as though they are spoken to you with my dying breath, and to obey them. If Mr. Bryan Carey has made your life happy, and if you are in the enjoyment of a happy home, destroy the second letter by fire, and hand him the third. If it is otherwise with you, and your life with him has been in any way unhappy, destroy the third letter by fire, as you would have done the second. Then seek some quiet place and read the second letter, and when you have read it, send it to Mr. Carey, and act as you think best for your welfare and happiness. That God will for ever bless and protect my darling is the prayer of your mother,

'Frances.'

The third letter contains a short account of my life since you left me, and the statement that Jessie is your daughter. It leaves it to your judgment to make the relationship known to her, or to let it remain a secret.

The second letter you are now reading.

If it fall into your hands, Jessie will have read it first, and will know how basely you behaved to me. She will know that your conduct towards me was such that a woman never can forgive, and she will understand that a man had better kill his wife than inflict upon her such shame and misery and humiliation as you inflicted upon me, a guiltless woman, as God is my Judge. She will know that you deserted me for another woman, and left me, a simple inexperienced girl, to battle alone with the pitiless world. Ah, how pitiless it is, how uncharitable, how cruel! How many nights have I passed shedding what might have been tears of blood, for they were wrung from a bruised and bleeding heart! She, who has lived with me many happy years in her childhood's life, will, when she reads this, be able to look back with the eyes of a woman upon the life I led while we were together, and she will know whether it was without stain and without reproach. She will have had experience both of you and myself, and of both our natures and minds, and she will have sense and intelligence enough to judge fairly between us. I repeat here, with all the strength of my soul, what I have declared before--that when you accused me of loving my cousin Ralph and of being false to you, you lied most foully.

I believe that I decided rightly when I decided to write these things. As you have acted towards your daughter, so shall be your reward. Whether it be for good or ill, you have earned it.

Your unhappy wife,

Frances.

After the last sheet of this letter, there were a few words in uncle Bryan's handwriting, evidently intended for my mother: 'If you see her whom I scarcely dare call my daughter for the shame which overwhelms me, tell her but one thing from me--that her mother's suspicions concerning the woman I befriended are unfounded. She will believe this, perhaps; it is the truth.'

CHAPTER XLIII.

A HAPPY RECOVERY.

The perusal of this letter affected me powerfully. There was something solemn in the mere handling of a confession written by a woman long since dead--a woman who had been so cruelly wronged and had so cruelly suffered. It was like a voice from the tomb, and it was impossible to resist the conviction that forced itself upon my mind that it was the solemn, bitter truth.

I had never suspected that Jessie was in any way related to uncle Bryan, but it did not surprise me to learn it. The fact that she was my cousin brought with it no sense of pleasure; it gave me no claim on her affection. Rather would she be inclined to look with feelings of repugnance upon all who were connected with her by blood, for by the nearest of these her mother had been brought to misery and shame, and her own life had been made most unhappy; and it was not to be doubted that all her soul would rise in vindication of her mother's honour.

It was past midnight, and everything about me was very still. My mother was sleeping more peacefully than she had yet done through her illness, and I remarked with thankfulness that the distressed expression on her face was wearing away, and that she was beginning to look something like her old sweet self. Insensibly in her sleep her arm stole round my neck. I let it rest there for many minutes, and when I rose from her side and kissed her fingers, there was a soft smile upon her lips--the first unclouded smile I had seen there for many a day. It gave me hope and gladdened my heart.

I was in no humour for sleep, having had some rest during the day, and I had told Florry that I would sit up with my mother until the morning. I placed the letter I had been reading in my desk, and then, arranging the screen in such a manner that the light by which I worked should not fall upon my mother's face, and also in such a manner that when she opened her eyes they must rest upon me, I sat at my table and worked and thought. My work was noiseless, and I could do it without disturbing the stillness. I was thankful for that. I do not know in what way it came into my mind that there are numberless small things in life which we ought to be grateful for, but the thought came. Presently, while my hand and eyes were busy on delicate manipulations in the wood, my mind reverted to uncle Bryan and Jessie, and the strange, strange letter I had read. Could Jessie ever forgive her father? Never, I thought. The unkindnesses inflicted upon herself she might have been eager to forgive when she made the discovery that she had a father living, but the wrong inflicted upon her mother was past forgiveness. Truly, the dead wife had punished the living husband with a cunning hand. But it was a just blow that she had struck. She had shown no vindictiveness; for had he behaved kindly to the girl to whom he had given the shelter of his home, Jessie would never have been made acquainted with her mother's wrongs. Yes, it was just, but it was terrible.

Terrible indeed. To find a father only to hate him. To find a father, and in the discovery to gain the knowledge that his conduct to her mother might have brought lasting shame and disgrace upon her own good name.

And he? How did he feel it? The words he addressed to me in his letter to my mother were very clear in my mind. Too late I see my folly and my crime. Many things that Christopher said to me were true. I humbly ask his forgiveness, and I humbly pray that the happiness he said I did my best to destroy may yet fall to his lot. If he will picture me, an old man with a bleeding heart, into whose life but few rays of sunshine have passed, pleading to him, he may soften towards me. Perhaps he may believe that I loved him; if he does believe it, he will believe the truth.'

I did believe it; I felt that it was true. I asked myself whether all the fault was his, whether he was entirely to blame because it was not in his nature to show love in its sweetest way. I recalled the words he had used when he described to me and my mother the home in which he spent his childhood's days. I raised up a picture of his mother, a weak-minded woman, ruled as with a rod of iron by her husband, ruled even in her affections by a man whom his own son could not respect, knowing him to be a hypocrite. The son must have learned bad lessons in such a home. Was it not to the son's credit that he refused to be moulded by such influences? But if the son had had such a mother as mine----

Ah, if an influence so sweet had sweetened his life--if an affection so pure had purified his mind--how different it might have been with him! The cobwebs of scepticism and bitter distrust might have been swept from his soul. He might have grown into a good and noble man. For I recognised qualities in uncle Bryan's nature far higher than those with which the men I was acquainted with were gifted. My blind unreasoning anger against him was gone, and I felt only pity for the desolate old man. I pictured him, as he had desired me to do, an old man with a bleeding heart, into whose life but few rays of sunshine had passed--an old man who in his youth had been soured, misdirected, misjudged, his rare qualities and gifts turned against himself; and I pitied him with a full heart, and most freely forgave him.

At this point I recalled everything in his character that spoke in his favour--his love of flowers, his love of justice, which had something heroic in it, his contempt for meanness and roguery, his gentle behaviour towards my mother, by whom alone he was properly understood. He would have been astonished had he known my thoughts.

In this better mood I continued my work. Tick, tick, tick, went the little clock on the mantelpiece, and the sound seemed to add to the stillness instead of disturbing it. Once, upon raising my eyes to my mother's bed, I fancied that she was awake and was observing me. I stole towards the bed, but her eyes were closed; I kissed her softly, and resumed my work. The wood-block I was engaged upon represented a woman standing by a field after the corn had been cut and gathered. It was sunset, and the woman, who was between forty and fifty years of age, was gazing sadly and mournfully at the setting sun and the bare field, with only the stubble left on it. I knew the story which the picture was intended to illustrate. The woman had been parted from her son, who was in a distant land, many thousands of miles across the sea, and the last news she had received from him represented him as being beset by misfortune and sickness. She was standing now, thinking mournfully of the times when she and he were together; and the sun, setting among sad clouds, and the cornfield, shorn of its golden glory, were in fit keeping with her thoughts. Another picture drawn on the wood, and which I had not yet commenced to engrave, lay before me. The scene was the same, and the figure of the woman was there, but the time and circumstances were different from the last. It was morning in the opening of summer; the corn was ripening, and lying on the ground at the mother's feet was the son, restored to her in health. Insensibly, as I proceeded with my work, my thoughts reverted to a certain time in my childhood when my mother toiled during the day and sat up late in the night working for me. How many a night had I seen her sitting at the table in our poorly-furnished one room, stitching until daylight dawned to earn bread for her child! The songs she used to sing softly to herself came to my lips, and I murmured them almost unconsciously, while the tears ran from my eyes. My heart was throbbing with exquisite tenderness towards my mother, and I thought that never in all my reading had I met with a woman so thoroughly good and pure and true. I covered my eyes with my hand to shut out the aching fear that, with the force of a visible presence, was creeping upon me and whispering that the priceless blessing of her love was lost to me for ever; but the action brought a deeper darkness to my soul. It lasted but a moment, thank God! for suddenly my name was uttered in a soft clear tone.

'Chris!'

My heart almost ceased to beat as the sound of my mother's voice, with its old sweet cadence, fell upon my ear; but I remembered the caution which the doctor had given me, and I quietly proceeded with my work.

'Yes, mother.'

'What are you doing, dear child?'

'Working, mother.'

I scarcely dared to raise my eyes, and I waited anxiously for her to speak again.

'It is late, my child.'

'Not very, mother. The night was so beautiful, and I had such a long rest this morning, that I thought I would work for an hour or two upon some pictures I have to get done quickly.' I spoke calmly and softly and cheerfully. 'I thought you were asleep, mother.'

'I have lain for some time watching you, my darling, and wondering whether this was not all a dream.'

'A dream, mother!' I said, and I went to her side, and passed my arm under her neck. 'No, it is not a dream.' She gazed at me long and earnestly.

'Where are we, dear child?'

'In the country, at Hertford. You were not very well, and I brought you down here to nurse you into health again.'

She pondered over these words. 'You were singing my songs, my dearest'

'I hope they did not disturb you, mother.'

'What sweeter music could I hear, dear child? But what made you sing them?'

'I was thinking of the old times, mother, when you and I were together, and when you used to work late in the night for me. There was a prayer in my heart while I was singing.'

'What prayer, my dearest?'

'That I might be able to repay you by my love for the love you have given me all my life. That God would be merciful to me, and would give me the power to show you that I love you with all my heart and soul, and to prove that as no son ever had a more loving mother than you have been to me, so no mother ever had a son who was filled with a deeper love than I have for you.'

'Dear child! darling child!' she said, with deep-drawn sighs of happiness, what can I say to you for your goodness to me? I do not deserve it! I do not deserve it!' She folded me in her arms, and I lay by her side with my face pressed close to hers.

'If you say that, mother, I shall think you do not believe me.'

'No, no, dear child, I do believe it. These are tears of joy that I am shedding. And we two are alone, darling!'

'Yes, mother, and I only want one thing to make me quite happy.'

'Tell it me, child?' she asked, a little anxiously.

'To see you well again, mother, that is all. Then I shall go on with my work, and we shall get along famously together. But you mustn't talk any longer; you must go to sleep. Shall I sing you to sleep as you used to do to me? Do you remember that dear old song? Well, but I must not talk any longer. I am going to lie here; first let me put out the light.' When I returned to the fond prison of her loving arms, I said softly, 'I shall only say two or three words more. First, mother, you must promise me to get quite well. Promise, now, for my sake.'

'I will try to, dear child; I think I shall; I feel strong already.'

'Then you must tell me that you are happy, dear mother.'

'Ah, my darling, there is not a happier mother in the world. Blessed with such a son, I should be ungrateful to God if I were not.'

'And now, mother, not another word----'

'But draw the counterpane round you, darling; you will take cold else.'

'There, it is done; feel: and I'm quite warm. Good-night, mother. One kiss--two--three; and before you can count three more I shall be asleep.'

I pretended to be, but I remained awake, listening to her sighs of happiness. Every now and then she passed her fingers over my face, and over my eyes, to learn if they were closed. After a time she fell asleep herself, and her composed peaceful breathing seemed in itself an assurance of returning health.

CHAPTER XLIV.

AT REHEARSAL.

As the curtain falls upon a scene in a drama, and when it rises again so many years are supposed to have elapsed, so between the closing of the last chapter and the opening of this six months must be supposed to have passed. We are again in London. My mother, thank God, is well, and I have within me the happy assurance that I have nursed her into health; the doctor has told me so, my mother herself has repeated it a hundred times, and I believe it and am humbly grateful.

We are living near to Paradise-row, but not in uncle Bryan's shop. My mother, knowing all that occurred on Jessie's birthday, showed no surprise when, on returning to London, I took her to some comfortable rooms I had engaged, and said that these were to be our home. She made only one remark--she hoped I would not have any objection to her going to the shop occasionally to see Josey West. I told her I should be glad if she went, and that I intended to go there myself very often.

We are as happy as we can reasonably expect to be. That we have sorrows is certain; but we refrain from speaking of them. We are as silent concerning our hopes, if we have any.

Nothing has been heard of uncle Bryan; Josey West conducts the business as though she had been born to it, and it is really prospering under her management. She is such a favourite with all the neighbours, that her customers increase every week, and the takings are nearly doubled.

'I think we shall be able to set up a plate window soon,' says Josey West, with a grand air. 'The sale of the pills is astonishing, my dear, astonishing! Do you know, Chris, I feel quite like a respectable member of society! I shall soon begin to turn up my nose at play-actors, who are nothing but vagrants, my dear, nothing but vagrants. And they're bad paymasters, Chris; I've two of them on my books already.'

When I ask her about Jessie, Josey says that she's all right, and that I have no occasion to bother myself about her. I can extract nothing more from her than this, and if I endeavour to press the subject further, she turns snappish.

My mother and I have had many conversations about uncle Bryan, and I think one great cause of her contentment is the altered state of my feelings towards him, which I do not disguise from her. I am prospering in a worldly sense, and when I feel most despondent I work the hardest; it is a relief to me. My name has appeared in print, connected with words of praise, and I often wonder whether Jessie has seen it. As for my mother, when I brought home the paper containing the two lines in which my work was spoken of favourably, I thought she would have gone wild with joy. I am afraid to say how many times she must have read the few ordinary words, but, knowing what a delight they are to her, I am glad that I have earned them for her sake.

In this way the months roll on. With reference to my feelings towards Jessie, I shall be almost as silent now as I was at home during that time. Sufficient to say that I never forgot her, and that I never loved her less; but her name is rarely mentioned at home.

There is one person, however, to whom I speak of Jessie freely--to Turk West. Turk is getting along capitally in his shop, and has already paid off more than half his debt to Mr. Glover. I see this gentleman occasionally in Turk's shop; Turk shaves him, and dresses his hair for him two or three times a week; whenever I go into the shop and see him there, I retire immediately. I have no wish to injure Turk's business, and when I reason calmly over matters I cannot see what tangible ground of complaint I have against Mr. Glover--which does not lessen my detestation of him.

'He is a good customer,' says Turk to me, 'and it will be best for more reasons than one not to offend him. I can't say that I like him--although I try to, Chris, my boy, let me tell you--but I know that he is the soul of honour.'

'How do you know it?' I ask.

Turk scratches his head. 'Well, he says it, Chris, my boy, and everybody says it who knows him. He comes from a highly-respectable family.'

I can say nothing in opposition, knowing nothing of his family.

'And it is something to be proud of, Chris?' says Turk.

'What is, Turk?'

'To be so respectably connected.'

'I suppose so,' I answer indifferently.

Old Mac is a constant visitor at Turk's shop; indeed, it appears to me that he spends most of his time there, for whenever I go westward and open Turk's door, his is the first familiar face I see. He keeps guard, as it were.

'Turk is inside,' he says; or 'Turk is upstairs, crimping a lady's hair.' For Turk has lady as well as gentleman customer's, and has become very skilful in the business. His flow of conversation and anecdote is of great assistance to him; he has always something to say, and, not having been born a barber and hairdresser, he seldom commences about the weather--which is a relief.

On a windy day in April, I visited Turk, and, as usual, found old Mac there. Turk, very busy over some theatrical wigs, looked up from his work, and asked me if I wanted to speak to him. No, I answered; I had merely dropped in as I passed. I had as little excuse for the visit as I had for many others; I only went in the vague hope of hearing something of Jessie. Turk understood this, without being told.

'Business good, Turk?' I inquired.

'First-class,' said Turk. 'I shall have to get an assistant, I expect. By the bye---- O, never mind!'

He suddenly interrupted himself, in a confused manner.

'By the bye, what, Turk?'

'Nothing,' he replied, bending over his work.

Old Mac looked at me somewhat significantly, and, rising, said he should take a stroll in Covent-garden Market.

'It does one good to walk up and down that arcade,' he said. 'One smells the country lanes there. How would it do to have it on the stage, Turk, with real hothouse fruit and flowers fresh from the market gardens every night? I daresay it will come to that, in time. The stage is not what it was, my sons.'

Winking at me, old Mac went out, and I, regarding the wink as an invitation to follow him, wished Turk good-morning.

'This is not the way to Covent Garden,' I said, as I joined him. 'Have you had your morning drain, Mac?'

'No, my son, no,' he replied cheerfully; 'and I know a place.'

Without more words he conducted me to the 'place,' where I paid for his morning drain twice over.

'You took my hint, my son,' he said, when he had drained his glass, and eaten his lemon; he always ate the slice of lemon after he finished his glass, saying humorously that it was a preparation for the next. 'You took my hint.'

'You wanted to speak to me I thought, Mac.'

'Well, not exactly wanted, my son; but I have something to communicate which may be interesting to you. I know what the tender passion is, and how it burns. I've had my day, and, faith! I'd like to have it over again! It wasn't all sugar, my son. There was one--ah, there was one, I do remember me, in my hot youth!--

But what cared I? I whistled her off, and took another, for they're as thick as mulberries, my son. And I'd like to have my time over again, pleasures, pains, and all. But this is not to the point, and yet it is, although the lines will not apply--that is to say, I hope not.'

I listened in anxiety; I was well acquainted with old Mac's character by this time, and I knew it would be useless to interrupt him and ask him to come to the point at once; he must come to it his own way.

'Old Mac can tell a hawk from a handsaw with half an eye,' he continued, 'and he has two good ones at his command. Old Mac says to himself, seeing a certain talented young friend whom he esteems--your health, my son. Ah, I forgot, my glass is empty'--(I was obliged to fill it again; I had no fear of Mac's getting tipsy on three glasses; he was too well seasoned)--'Old Mac says to himself, what does this talented young friend of his mean by coming so often to Turk West's establishment? Well, there would be nothing in that, but he comes in unseasonable hours--that is to say, in the hours during which he is supposed to be working for the public. What does that mean? says old Mac, in confidence to himself. Your health, my son. It can mean but one thing. Old Mac knows the signs. And that's why he winked at you to follow him. Do you follow me?'

'Not exactly,' I was obliged to confess, notwithstanding that I had a dim glimmering of what was coming.

Old Mac laughed.

'Well, not to beat about the bush--but I thought I'd lead up to it by easy stages--a certain fair friend of ours is at a certain place this morning, and I fancied you might like to see her.'

My heart beat violently; I knew that he referred to Jessie.

'Did she tell you to come for me?'

He dashed my hopes to the ground by hurriedly replying, 'No, no, my son; she knows nothing of it, and had best not know, perhaps. The fact is, our fair friend is about to make her first appearance on the boards, and she is now rehearsing her part. I know the box-keeper, and he will let us into the dress circle, where you can see her without her seeing you.'

I thanked him cordially, and we walked together to the theatre, and were admitted to the dress circle, which was in complete darkness. Certainly no one on the stage could distinguish us, but in the dim light I could see all the actors and actresses engaged in the rehearsal. Jessie was among them.

Eight months had passed since I last saw her, and I gazed on her with aching eagerness. It was a cold day, and she was warmly dressed; and the only change I could discern in her was that she appeared to have grown more beautiful. What pain and pleasure I felt as I heard her voice once more, fresh and sweet as ever, and saw the old familiar action of her hands, I cannot describe.

'Steady, my son, steady,' whispered old Mac warningly.

I controlled myself, without being aware what I had done to excite this remonstrance.

'When does she appear?' I asked in the same low tone.

'Next Monday week.'

'In her own name?'

'No; she has taken the name of Mathews. You will see the announcements outside the theatre. There's a good deal of curiosity excited about her already, for she plays an ambitious character; she commences at the top instead of at the bottom of the ladder. I should have liked her to begin a little lower down, or to have appeared in the provinces first. There's one great thing in her favour, though. She plays in a new piece, and can't be compared to other and more experienced actresses in the same character. There's somebody you know.'

He referred to Mr. Glover, whom I had seen before he had, and who, standing at the side wings, appeared to be on familiar terms with all the company; but I knew the lodestone which had drawn him there. When I first caught sight of him Jessie was engaged in a scene; presently she was free for a time, and then he approached her, and they talked together.

'Mac,' I said, in a whisper, 'I think you are a friend of mine.'

'I am proud to hear you say so, my son. I am your friend.'

'What does that mean?' And I pointed to Jessie and Mr. Glover.

He looked at my agitated face, and then at the two persons I was interested in; but he did not answer me.

'Why don't you speak, Mac? Why don't you answer me?'

'Because I don't quite understand you, my son.'

'When a person in Mr. Glover's position,' I said, 'pays attention to an actress commencing the world as Jessie is, what does it mean?'

'Speak a little lower, my son. It means that he is interested in her. There's nothing unusual in that.'

'But it may mean something more; it may mean that he is fond of her.'

'It may; and there would be nothing unusual in that. But it does not follow that she is fond of him. Beware of the green-eyed monster, my son. Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend from jealousy! Take a lesson from an old stager.' (But what the lesson was he did not state.) 'Why don't you ask Turk about it?'

'I have my reasons; I would rather Turk should not know anything of this.'

'Well, I'll find out for you, quietly between ourselves. Old Mac knows the signs. He has seen a few things, old Mac has. Only don't you run away with the idea that there's anything wrong in a gentleman speaking to an actress. I daresay it's through him that my fair friend has got this chance. Well, why shouldn't she speak to him, then? I know what you feel, my son. I've felt the same myself, and wouldn't mind feeling so again. It comes in the regular course of things.'

I went outside the theatre with him, and made an excuse to get rid of him. Then I waited, in the hope of seeing Jessie; and bearing in mind Jessie's words, 'If we meet again it must be at my own time, and in my own way,' I resolved not to show myself to her. She came out in the course of half an hour, accompanied by Mr. Glover. I walked behind them at some distance on the opposite side of the road, making many shifts and pretences of looking in shop-windows, so that they should not see me. But Mr. Glover, happening to turn his head in my direction, caught sight of me. I saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. He must have uttered an exclamation, for Jessie turned, and also saw me. I hesitated for one moment; should I retrace my steps, or walk boldly on? Jessie decided the question for me, by running towards me. Her face was scarlet, but that might have been caused by her running too quickly, for her breath came fast.

'O Chris!' she cried, in the first excitement of the moment. 'How glad I am to see you! What brings you this way?'

She held out her hand eagerly, and I took it, and would have retained it, but that the appearance of Mr. Glover, who paused quite close to us, caused me to relinquish it.

'What brings him this way?' echoed Mr. Glover. Not accident, I'll be bound.'

'I came on purpose to see you, Jessie,' I said; 'I heard through a friend that you were rehearsing this morning, and I gained admission to the dress circle, and sat there for some time.'

'Was it Turk who told you?' she asked.

'No, not Turk. I think he would not tell me anything that you did not wish me to know.'

It was not without intention that I let this arrow fly. Jessie made no comment upon it, but said:

'And then you waited outside to see me, Chris?'

'Yes; I had no other purpose. But I did not intend that you should see me.'

No? But we'll not quarrel now that we have met. How is mother, Chris?'

'She is well, Jessie. You know that we were very nearly losing her.'

'I know; and you took her into the country, and nursed her.'

'Thank God, she is well now.'

If Mr. Glover had not been present, I should have spoken in a very different manner, but I could not show my heart while he stood by, with a look of cold contempt in his eyes.

'And you?--you are looking thinner, I think, Chris; but you are well and happy.'

'Yes,' I answered mechanically, 'I am well and happy, Jessie.' Although I strove to speak in an indifferent tone, it must have miserably belied my words.

'And you are getting along famously,' continued Jessie hurriedly; I read your name in the papers, and it made me very proud.'

'We shall read your name in the papers soon, Jessie.'

'I suppose so; if I have strength and courage to go through with it. I hope you will not come on the first night, Chris.'

I was silent, and she was generous enough not to exact the promise.

'At all events, then, if you do come I shall have one friend there,' she said.

'Not more than one, Jessie?' asked Mr. Glover, in a tone which made my heart throb violently.

Jessie, looking first at me and then at Mr. Glover, said that she must wish us good-morning, and with her parasol hailed an omnibus that was passing.

'Good-bye, Chris. Will you give my love to mother?'

'Yes, Jessie.'

She drew me aside, out of the hearing of Mr. Glover, and whispered, 'Don't quarrel with him, Chris.'

'I will not, Jessie. One moment. Are you happy?'

She cast a swift glance at me, and then turned her eyes to the ground. 'I think so, Chris; I am not sure.' With this singular answer, she pressed my hand, and left me. I watched her get into the omnibus, and when it was out of sight I turned homewards, without noticing Mr. Glover. But he was at my heels, speaking to me.

'How did you gain admission into the theatre, young man?' he said. 'Did you sneak in, or did you tell the doorkeeper a lie?'

'That is my business,' I replied calmly; for I was determined to keep my promise to Jessie.

'Especially your business, I should say--sneaking and lying. But unless you wish to find yourself in an unpleasant position, I should advise you not to make the attempt again. For Jessie's sake, who might not like to hear of your getting into trouble, I will look over the trespass this once.'

'You will overlook it!' I retorted, without any outward exhibition of anger. 'Is the theatre yours, then?'

'In your own words, that is my business. But I have authority there, believe me; so you must be careful. I should, if I were you, give over the spying business; you will gain nothing by it. Perhaps, however, you have not the manliness to see that the young lady has chosen for herself, and that, as she has removed herself from you and your common surroundings, there is distinct cowardice in your thrusting yourself upon her. Only a gentleman can entertain these proper sentiments----'

'Such a gentleman as yourself,' I interrupted.

'Yes, such a gentleman as I,' he said, with a frown; and not only that, but one who knows how to resent impertinence and blackguardly interference.'

I left him suddenly; if I had not done so he would have fastened a quarrel upon me. I saw clearly that this was his desire; but I disappointed him.

CHAPTER XLV.

OLD MAC EXPRESSES HIS OPINION OF MR. GLOVER.

The only person to whom I spoke of my interview with Jessie was my mother, and even to her I did not relate all that had passed.

'Is she coming to see us, my dear?' my mother asked.

I answered that she had given no hint of any such intention.

'Perhaps,' said my mother, 'Mr. Glover being by restrained her.'

'Perhaps,' I replied curtly.

As the tone in which I spoke denoted that I did not wish to continue the conversation, my mother said nothing more. Not that she had grown indifferent to the subject upon which we were conversing, but that she studied my moods more closely than ever. Her heart had never been stirred by such tender love for me as during this time; it showed itself in a thousand little undemonstrative ways, and with a delicate cunning which I am sure has never been excelled, she said and did precisely the things which were most comforting to me. I have only her to thank that my sorrow did not make a cynic of me.

My thoughts ran so much upon Mr. Glover, that I dreamt of him frequently in connection with some singular fancies. The principal persons who played parts in these dreams were we two and Jessie. In one of my dreams he was standing on a height, with his fingers to his mouth, curling his moustache into it as usual; I stood below, at a great distance from him; and Jessie was midway between us. He was beckoning to Jessie, saying in a boastful tone that he was a gentleman and a man of honour, and Jessie was walking towards him. In another of my dreams he was standing over me, preaching the same text. In another, Turk was very seriously impressing upon me the fact that Mr. Glover came from a highly-respectable family, and that it was a thing to be proud of. This was the leading idea of all my dreams.

I did not go again to see Jessie at the rehearsals. I knew I had no right to be in the theatre on those occasions, and I did not intend to give Mr. Glover a chance of placing me in an unpleasant position. I had scarcely a hope of seeing Jessie at our house; my mother thought differently, saying that in certain things she was seldom mistaken, and this was one of them. It was known to me that she had never ceased making inquiries for uncle Bryan, and that she had taken many and many a journey about London in the hope of finding him. I did not question her as to the result of these inquiries, and she herself was silent on the subject.

'Oh,' said Josey West to me, a couple of days after I had seen Jessie, 'so you've seen her.'

'Yes, Josey,' I replied, 'I have seen her.'

'And never told me!' she exclaimed.

'Why should I tell you, Josey? You have kept things from me which I think you might have told me, without doing any great harm.'

'Do you, my sweet child? How wise we are, to be sure! But I don't blame you. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I tell you what, Chris! On the first night that Jessie plays, you and I will go arm-in-arm to the theatre.'

'No, we will not.'

'Why, my sweet child?' she inquired, not in the least disturbed by my abrupt tone.

'Because I have not made up my mind whether I shall be there.'

'Oh, indeed!' she said, with a little laugh.

I was not ingenuous in my reply, for I had quite resolved to go, and to go early. During the days that intervened between my meeting with Jessie and her announced first appearance I was very busy with important work. This kept me close to my bench, and I did not have time even to visit Turk, but it did not prevent me from thinking constantly of Jessie. What would be the result if she made a great success? Would she grow into a fine lady, and would her picture be in all the shop-windows? What was the nature of the connection between her and Mr. Glover? What were her feelings now towards her father? I found a hundred different answers to these questions, not one of which brought any satisfaction or consolation to me. But I could not relinquish the consideration of them, and, in the usual way, I extracted from them as much unhappiness as they would fairly yield.

'My mother knew where I was going when I prepared myself on the evening that Jessie was to make her first appearance before the public, and as she kissed me she said she did not expect me home very early. I nodded, and left her. I could not trust myself to speak, for I felt as though my own fate were about to be definitely decided by the issue of this night's events. I arrived at the theatre before the time announced for the opening of the doors, and to my surprise, instead of finding, as I expected, a great mass of people pressing towards the entrances, I found a few scores of persons standing loosely about the closed doors, grumbling and wondering at notices which were pasted on the walls to the effect that in consequence of the indisposition of the new actress the opening of the theatre was postponed. The disappointment to those assembled was the greater because the play in which Jessie was to appear was the first dramatic work of a new author, who, although his name was not given on the bills, it was said was a nobleman well known in fashionable circles. While I was reading the notice, and tormenting myself with the idea that Jessie must be seriously ill, Turk accosted me.

'Hallo, Chris,' he said, hooking his arm in mine; 'this is a surprise, isn't it?'

'Is Jessie very ill, Turk?' I asked anxiously.

He looked at me inquiringly, seemingly in doubt as to whether I was in earnest in asking the question. I repeated it.

'I do not think so,' he replied.

'Have you seen her lately, Turk?'

'Not since Saturday, Chris; then she appeared to be well. That notice is only put up as an excuse. There's a hitch with the author, or the lessee, or the man who advances the money, I expect.'

'I should like to know if Jessie is really well,' I said.

'Go round to my shop, then; here's the key. I'll make inquiries and come to you soon.'

I went to the shop, and unlocked the door, and as it was dark inside, I lit the gas. I had not been in the place many minutes before old Mac poked in his head.

'I saw a light,' he said, entering, and closing the door behind him.

'Ah, Chris, my son; it's you, is it? This is a rum go, isn't it? Where's Turk?'

'He'll be here presently. You mean about the theatre, don't you?'

'I do, my son. So our fair friend doesn't make her appearance after all. Well, the loss is the public's. The stage is going to the dogs. Going! Gone, I should say. Not conducted on straight principles, my son. Elements introduced into the management of theatrical matters which have no business there at all. Where's your school for acting nowadays, I should like to know. How do men and women come to be actors and actresses? Where's the education for the profession? Once upon a time--ah, well, no matter. Drown dull care. Anything to drink about?' He looked around for the desired bottle. I could not assist him in his search, and did not desire to do so, for it seemed to me that he had already had a glass too much. 'Closed through the indisposition of the new actress!' he continued. 'That's the way the public is gulled. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy. Look here, my son. A word in your ear.'

This word in my ear was a whispered request for a trifling loan of two shillings and sevenpence. He always asked for loans in a whisper, even when there was no third person near. It was not the first time I had lent old Mac small sums of money, and I pulled three shillings from my pocket, not having the coins for the exact sum. He gravely gave me fivepence change.

'Thank you, my son,' he said, 'and now, a word to the wise. On a certain morning you and I went to the Rialto--no, to a rehearsal in which our fair friend took part.'

'Yes.'

'You confided your woes to me, not in words perhaps, but in look, accent, manner. Old Mac knows the signs. The liquid eye, the tremulous tone, the sighs that come unbidden. I saw them all, my son, and my sympathising breast received them as a sacred deposit. You remember the lines I quoted: "Her lips to mine how often did she join!" But I see that you are impatient, my son. You said to me then that you believed that I was your friend. I answered in suitable terms. The word to the action, the action to the word. Shake hands, my son.' By this time I had fully made up my mind that old Mac was tipsy, although he was as steady as a rock; it was only his voice that betrayed him. 'To continue. You drew my attention to two persons who shall be nameless, one of whom was paying attentions to the other, and you asked what it meant. I replied in general terms, and after warning you to beware of the green-eyed monster, I said that I would find out, in a quiet way, what those intentions meant, and that I would let you know, in a quiet way. Am I correct, and do you follow me?'

I said that he was quite correct, and that I was following his words.

'I placed myself at once in communication with our fair friend----'

I was surprised into an exclamation by this information. In no way disturbed, old Mac went on.

'I did. I placed myself at once in communication with our fair friend----'

'You did not mention my name, I hope,' I could not help saying.

'Was I born yesterday, do you think, my son, or the day before? I had some slight acquaintance with our fair friend, as you know, and I threw myself in her way. That is what I mean when I say I placed myself in communication with her. I read her part for her, and gave her a hint or two, which she received and thanked me for in a manner very different from some lady stars I could mention, who think themselves above tuition because they have pretty faces, and because they happen to have made a third- or a fourth-rate success. They come to grief in the long-run, my son, these clever ladies. They shine for a little while, with much outside pushing and puffing, and then, Out, out, brief candle! Our fair friend is a different kind of creature. She is amiability, sweetness, and modesty combined, and when the old actor ventured to throw out a hint or two as to emphasis in certain places, as to appropriate action, as to where and how a point could be made, she received them with gratitude and deference. Damme, my son! the old actor could not help wishing he was a thirty years younger man; and then again he was glad he wasn't, because it might have interfered with the chances of a young friend of his, whom he sees before him now. But if I don't hurry on with my story, you will be applying to me Hamlet's words to Polonius, "These tedious old fools!" The old actor doesn't mind giving himself a rub, you see. Well, having fairly established himself in the sweet graces of the young lady, old Mac, from his point of observation, kept one eye steadily fixed upon a certain gentleman whose name commences with G, and who seems to have a habit of biting his nails--a sign of ill-temper, my son. Old Mac was on the watch, my son--"On the Watch," a fine title for a drama, and I wish I had time to write it. This gentleman whose name commences with G did not appear to relish the observation of the old actor, which was not, for that reason, relaxed, depend upon it. And now, old Mac has but few words to add. If, having reason to suspect the honesty of the intentions of this gentleman whose name commences with a G, the old actor sounded him artfully, and learnt enough to convince him that his suspicions were correct, and if, being thus satisfied or dissatisfied, the old actor gradually and delicately opened a certain young lady's eyes to the true state of affairs, you may depend that he did it partly out of the friendship he entertains for a fine young fellow--shake hands, my son--partly out of his contempt for a certain person whose fingers are always playing with his moustache, but chiefly out of his admiration for a young lady whose beauty, grace, virtue, and modesty are unparalleled in the experience of an old fellow who has seen the world, and knows the stuff that men and women are made of.'

Ambiguous as this speech was--and old Mac seemed to make it purposely mysterious, and to enjoy it--I thoroughly understood it, and I thanked the speaker cordially. My heart felt lighter after it, and when Turk returned--old Mac being gone--I met him with a smile on my face.

'Has any one been here, Chris?' he asked, as he entered.

'Only old Mac; it is scarcely two minutes since he left.'

'No one else?'

'No, Turk. Have you found out about Jessie?'

'I have reason to believe she is quite well,' replied Turk, and that the notice is only a blind. I thought Mr. Glover might have called.'

'No; he has not been here. Did you expect to see him?'

Turk, without replying to my question, commenced to walk up and down his shop, which unusual proceeding on his part caused me to observe him more closely. A strange expression of trouble and perplexity was on his face, and I questioned him concerning it.

'I asked you once,' he said, somewhat awkwardly, 'if you were in trouble. You will remember it--on the anniversary of Jessie's birthday.'

'I remember, Turk.'

'Yours, you said, was not a money trouble.'

'But yours is, Turk?'

'Yes; chiefly. Partly my own, partly another person's. Chris, if I speak vaguely, it is because I am on my parole; I mustn't break my word. Now we can trust one another, I think?'

'I am sure I can trust you, Turk.'

'And that is just what I want,' he said, with a perplexed look.

'What is?

'Trust. It is a tremendous misfortune, sometimes, to be a poor hard-up devil, not to be able to lay one's hand on a five-pound note. Generally, it doesn't matter; as a rule, I am happy enough with half a crown in my pocket, and owing no man anything. Chris, I want a large sum of money. Can you tell me where to borrow it on my word of honour?'

'How much, Turk?'

'Eighty pounds.'

I had more than that saved out of my earnings.

'I can lend it to you, Turk,' I said quite gladly.

'You, Chris! Your own money?'

'My own money--money that I have saved.'

'And you will lend it to me on that security?'

'What better do I want from you, Turk?'

He resumed his walk, and was silent for a few moments. When he paused before me, there was a soft bright light in his eyes.

'It's good to have a friend. But, first, let me tell you. Only twenty pounds of the eighty are for myself. I want that sum to pay off my debt to Mr. Glover. The other sixty is for another person; and I shall be quite twelve months in paying you back.'

'I am satisfied, and more so, because you will be free, and out of Mr. Glover's clutches. I can give you the money to-night. Mother has it.'

'Is it all you have saved, Chris?'

'No; I shall have a little left.'

'Then, when I've paid Mr. Glover, I can give you a bill of sale over my stock.' He looked round upon his wigs and other theatrical property. 'It is worth the money.'

'I can't lend to you upon that security, Turk. The first you mentioned is the only security I can accept.'

He laughed a little huskily.

'All right, Chris, my boy. I'll borrow the money on those terms. This may be a good night's work for all of us. I never thought that Turk West's word would be good for eighty pounds. But stranger things than that might occur, eh, Chris?'

I acquiesced, although I had not the slightest idea of his meaning.

'If you knew,' he continued, 'the relief it will be to me to get out of Mr. Glover's clutches, as you called it, you would be surprised.'

I was sufficiently surprised at the change that was apparent in his tone concerning Mr. Glover, whom he had hitherto extolled so highly.

'Curse all professional moneylenders, I say!' he exclaimed excitedly. 'And if ever I believe again in a man with a handle on the top of his head, my name's not Turk West.'

I could not help laughing at these singular words.

'Ah, you may laugh, Chris; but when he sat in that chair--the very one you are sitting in now, Chris, my boy--for the first time last week, and asked me to shampoo him, and I felt the knob, it made me curious. I thought he had been fighting, or had knocked his head against something, but he told me he was born with it. That sort of thing runs in families, I should say. If he had it, his father must have had it before him. Look here, Chris; you are good at figures--I never was. See how I stand with him.'

He produced some papers and receipts, all of which bore reference to the account he had with Mr. Glover. I examined them, and found that he had paid Mr. Glover a large interest for the money he had borrowed. He had already paid the full sum of seventy-five pounds advanced, and there were still, as he himself had calculated, twenty pounds odd to be paid before he could call himself free. I made out a clear statement, and gave it to Turk.

'Mr. Glover has managed to make a large profit out of you, Turk.'

'Yes, and I don't know how it has been done. I was to pay ten per cent for the money, I understood; but what with one thing and another--lawyer's charges, drawing up of deeds that were not required, I am sure, signing of printed papers, inquiry fees, and a dozen other things--it has come to a deal more.'

'I see that you only received sixty-five pounds,' I said, busy over another calculation.

'That is all.'

'So that,' I continued, having finished my calculation' which I handed to Turk, when you pay the balance to-morrow, Mr. Glover will have received at the rate of at least sixty per cent per annum for the loan. Not much of a friend in that, Turk?'

'No, I should say not; I have only rightly understood this, and other things in connection with Mr. Glover as well, within the last week.'

'Perhaps,' I ventured to say, 'you do not now think me so unreasonable in the dislike I took to him.'

'It is I who was wrong, Chris, my boy. I see that now.'

'Do you know, Turk, it pleases me in some way to be convinced that he is not the soul of honour, as you tried to make me believe.'

'There, there, Chris--let's say no more about him.'

'We'll be done with him presently. I don't know how it was, but I suspected and disliked him from the first. That trick of his of curling his moustache into his mouth--old Mac told me he bites his nails----'

'I cannot tell what it was that made me pause suddenly here, but pause I did, and the sentence was not concluded.

'Do you know where Jessie lives, Turk?'

'Yes, Chris, but you mustn't ask me to tell you. I am on my parole.' He repeated this statement with a certain air of enjoyment.

'Very well,' I said. But can you tell me when Jessie is likely to make her appearance----'

He interrupted me, and asked me as a favour to change the subject; and as I saw that I made him uneasy by my questions, I discontinued them. He walked home with me, and I gave him the money.

'I wonder,' he said, as he pocketed it, 'that you haven't asked me what I wanted the other sixty pounds for.'

'I have been going to ask half a dozen times,' I replied, 'but I thought it might be another of your secrets.'

'It is a secret,' he said with a smile. 'And if you had asked, I shouldn't have told you.'

Certainly, Turk was playing a most mysterious part; but I trusted him thoroughly, knowing what a good fellow he was.

My mother was surprised to see me home so early, and more so when she heard what had taken place.

'I have a presentiment, my dear,' she said, 'that this is going to turn out a fortunate night for us.'

We went to the shop in the course of the night, and there was Josey West behind the counter, as busy as a bee, serving the customers, and chattering away like any magpie. Uncle Bryan would scarcely have known the shop. Josey had had it cleaned and painted, and the scales and counter, and nests of drawers in which the spices and more valuable commodities were kept, had been so smartened up that they looked like new. You could see your face in every bit of brass about the place. During a lull in the business, Josey came into the little parlour where we were sitting.

It's wonderful,' she said; 'we've taken eleven shillings already for pills and mixture. I'm beginning to get frightened. If an inspector of something or other were to come in and analyse us, I should drop down in a fit. Turk says there's nothing to be afraid of, but I'm not so sure of that.' Presently, however, she derived consolation from the reflection that, after all, the medicine could not possibly do any one any harm.

'Have you been to the theatre, Josey?' I asked.

'If you ask no questions, my sweet child,' was her reply, 'you'll be told no stories. Theatres! As if I haven't something a thousand times more important to attend to!'

For all that, she found time to have a quiet chat with Turk, and when he went away she called me into the shop, and saying she had something very particular to whisper to me, kissed me instead of making any communication; by which sign I knew that Turk had told her of the money I had lent him. She shut up the shop earlier than usual, and we had supper together. I had not had a meal in the little parlour for many months, and my mind was filled with the memorable incidents in my life with which the room was connected. It was just such a night as that on which Jessie had tapped at the door, years ago, when uncle Bryan was asleep, and my mother and I were sitting quietly together. I remembered the story I was reading, Picciola, and during a silence I raised my head to the door, with something of expectation in my mind. I dismissed the fancy instantly, but it was not unpleasant to me to think of what had occurred on that night--the conversation in the shop between Jessie and my mother, the awaking of uncle Bryan, and the first passage-at-arms between the child and the old man. My mother must have divined the current in which my thoughts were running, for she took my hand under the table, and held it fondly in hers.

'I can't help liking the little room after all, mother,' I said.

CHAPTER XLVI.

A STRANGE DREAM.

My mother and I stopped up talking until very late on this night. The future was not mentioned; all our talk was of the past. My mother recalled the reminiscences of her younger days, and dwelt upon them with affection. She drew pictures of her home when she was a girl, and told me a great deal concerning her parents, and especially concerning my grandmother, of whom my own impressions were so vivid. As though she were living her life over again, she travelled from those days gradually to the day upon which she first saw my father, and in tender tones related many incidents of their courtship which I had never before heard. She required a great deal of coaxing before she would speak of her courting days, but I led her on artfully from one thing to another, and listened to her with delight. On such occasions as this my mother seemed to grow twenty years younger; her face grew fresher, rounder, and in her eyes the soft light of youth lived again. Then came the description of her wedding-day, and she laughed or grew pensive as she recalled the names of those who were present, stopping occasionally, until I said, 'Yes, mother, and then,'--upon which she took up my words, saying, 'And then, my dear,'--and proceeded with her descriptions. When, in the course of her narration, I came into the world, I was able to take a larger share in the conversation, and I added my experience to hers. We were by turns grave and merry, according to the nature of our reminiscences. My grandmother's peculiarities, her death, the search for the long stocking, and the picture of Snaggletooth ripping open the beds and the armchairs, and sitting on the floor with his hair full of feathers; then on to my father's burial, and my illness, and the removal farther and farther away from our native town until we found ourselves in London--scarcely anything, except what was painful, was left unspoken of.

'And there's an end to it all, mother,' I said, when we had brought the reminiscences up to the very night upon which we were conversing.

'No, my dear,' she replied, with a tender shake of her head, not an end; there are brighter pages to come in my darling's life.'

'Do you know, mother,' I said, as I stood by her side at the door of her bedroom, 'I have often thought of grandmother's long stocking, and fancied that one day we should find a treasure somewhere.'

My mother laughed.

'Why, my dear, where on earth would you look for it? We have not a thing left that belonged to your grandmother.'

'Yes, we have; you don't forget that brown monkey-man that used to stand on the mantelshelf and wag its head at us?'

'I remember it perfectly, dear child; you don't mean to say you have kept it all this time?'

'It is in my box now; I shall take it out to-night, and have a look at it.'

'You don't suppose the treasure is in that?' said my mother, laughing.

'No; though Jessie and I did think one day that we had made a discovery. Good-night, mother.'

'Good-night, dear child, and God bless you. Remember, my dear, there are brighter days to come, and your mother will live to see them.'

That, before she went to sleep, she prayed for those brighter days, I was certain, but I scarcely dared to hope that what she so fondly desired would ever take place.

Before I went to bed I took from my box the stone image of the brown monkey-man; it was at the very bottom of my box, which I had not opened for many months, for the reason that it contained all the sketches I had made of Jessie, and which I had put away when I lost her. But for these, and the tender thought which they excited, I should have given more attention to the stone image which looked uglier and more repulsive than ever. How such a hideous thing could be considered an ornament it puzzled me to think; but it occurred to me that there were more flagrant violations of art than this. On the previous day I had seen a ghastly death's-head pin in the cravat of a coxcomb, who seemed very proud of it. I set the image of the monkey-man on the mantelshelf, and slowly replaced the sketches in my box, lingering over them with fond regret.

Among them I found a sketch with the name of 'Anthony Bullpit' at the foot, and I remembered that it was a fancy drawing I had made of my grandmother's lover, after reading the account of his arrest by the detective Vinnicombe, elsewhere narrated; a sneaking figure was Anthony Bullpit, as I had represented him, with his hang-dog look and hypocritical face, gnawing at his finger-nails. I pushed it out of sight, and turned again to the contemplation of my sketches of Jessie, over which I spent a sad and tender quarter of an hour. Then, with a sigh, I closed the box and locked it, and went to bed. It was my habit of a night to lie awake for a few minutes with the candle alight on a chair close to my bed. Generally I passed these minutes in reading, but on this night 'I lay a-thynkinge,' and did not open my book. Directly opposite the head of my bed was the mantelshelf, with the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone on it, and this was the last thing that presented itself to my sight before I blew out the light. Restless as I was with the events of the evening, and with the conversation which had taken place between my mother and myself, I was tired enough to fall asleep within a very few moments. But I was not too tired to dream; my body was asleep, but my imagination was never more active. To me, the most wonderful feature in the physiology of dreams has always been the fact that Time, the dominant and inexorable tyrant which rules and guides our course, and regulates the passions and emotions of life, is in our sleep utterly set at naught; a lifetime is compressed in a moment, as it were, and between waking and sleeping a hundred years of history are played out. I think I must have dreamt of every important event in my life, and of many in the lives of others; they presented themselves to me without coherence or sequence, and there was but one consistent feature in my fancies--the figure of the monkey-man, which was never absent. I dreamt of Snaggletooth and Snaggletooth's wife. She was relating the stories of the Cock-lane Ghost and Old Mother Shipton, as she had related them in the kitchen on the night my father lay dying upstairs, but in my dream she was not speaking to me, but to the monkey-image, which gravely wagged its head at her as she proceeded; Snaggletooth was running up and down the stairs, and poking in the oddest corners, in his search for the long stocking, and the monkey-man was assisting him frantically, running at his heels, and tearing things open with fiendish haste; I was in the mourning coach, following my father's body to the churchyard, and the monkey-man was sitting opposite to me, grinning at me; Snaggletooth was carrying me out of the churchyard, and as I opened my eyes, the monkey-man, squatting on Snaggletooth's shoulder, squinted at me. In the same way the image presented itself in every incident connected with Jessie and my mother and uncle Bryan; and when I lay trembling in bed, and Jane Painter stood in my bedroom in the dark telling me stories of blood and murder, the monkey-man prowled about the floor, and dropped from the ceiling, and crept from under my bed, and sat on my pillow with its ugly face illumined. When Jessie knocked at the shop-door, as she had done years ago for the first time, and my mother opened it, the monkey-man entered first, and jumped on to the table; and on the night of the amateur performance at Josey West's the monkey-man was among the audience, seated in a place of honour. Suddenly all this chaos of persons and circumstances came to an end, and there were only my grandmother, and I, and the monkey-figure sitting together. I was in my little low chair, my grandmother, very stately and grand, was in her armchair, and the monkey-man was on the mantelshelf. Said my grandmother in my dream, in a very distinct tone, 'He had a knob on the top of his head, and was always eating his nails.' I looked at the monkey-man for confirmation of her words, and it said, in a stony voice, 'He had a knob on the top of his head, and was always eating his nails.' After this confirmation, my grandmother continued, 'And the last time I set eyes on him was on my wedding-day.' Again I looked at the monkey-man, and again it confirmed my grandmother's statement, but with a slight difference this time, 'And the last time we set eyes on him was on our wedding-day.' Which inference on the part of the monkey-man of being my grandfather somewhat disturbed me. Now, at this point of my fancies, what on earth brought old Mac, the actor, into the scene? There he was, however, face to face with the monkey-man, who questioned him as a lawyer would have done. 'What do you say his name commences with?' asked the monkey-man? 'It commences with a G,' replied old Mac. 'And what is that habit of his that you say is a sign of ill-temper?' asked the monkey-man. 'Biting his nails,' replied old Mac; 'he is always at it.' By this time my dream has resolved itself into a court of inquiry; the monkey-man is dressed in a wig and gown, which do not hide his ugliness; my grandmother, very broad and portly, sits as judge, and I, it seems, am in some way the criminal whose case is being tried, for my grandmother nods her head at me continually, and says, 'Perhaps you will believe me now; all these things happened on my wedding-day.' Old Mac fades away, and is replaced by Turk West. 'Curse all professional moneylenders, I say,' he cries; 'and if ever I believe again in a man with a handle on the top of his head, my name's not Turk West' 'Hold your tongue,' calls out the monkey-man; 'who wants to know what your name is? We'll come to names presently. 'When did you first discover the handle?' It isn't a handle,' says Turk, in correction, 'it's a knob.' My grandmother nods in confirmation. 'He had a knob on the top of his head,' she says, 'and he was always biting his nails.' 'I don't know about that,' says Turk, 'but his fingers are always at his moustache, and he is the soul of honour and comes from a highly-respectable family.' 'That he does,' adds my grandmother. 'Poor Anthony! He proposed and wished to run away with me, but my family stepped in and prevented him.' 'Very wrong,' says Turk gravely; 'wasn't his family respectable enough for them? The soul of honour!' 'Quite so,' says my grandmother. 'He told me, after I had accepted this child's grandfather' (at this point of my dream I become suddenly a child, in a pinafore), 'that life was valueless to him without me, and that as he had lost me, he would be sure to go to the devil.' 'Did he go?' asks the monkey-man. 'I always found him a man of his word,' replies my grandmother. 'Now attend to me, sir,' cries the monkey-man, in a bullying tone, turning suddenly upon Turk; 'when did you say you first discovered this knob?' 'Last week,' replies Turk, 'when he sat in that chair' (the chair comes into the dream) 'and told me to shampoo him.' 'You were surprised when you felt it?' asks the monkey-man. 'I was,' says Turk, 'and I asked him if he had knocked his head against something. He said, no, that he was born with it.' 'And what was the remark,' continues the monkey-man, levelling a threatening finger at me, 'you made to the prisoner at the bar?' 'I said,' says Turk, 'that that sort of thing runs in families, and that if he had it, his father must have had it before him.' Suddenly, and as if it were quite in the natural order of things, we are all listening to the statement of a new witness who has risen in Turk's place. 'I am an officer in the detective force, and my name is Vinnicombe. From information received, I went to Liverpool, and tracked Anthony Bullpit on board the Prairie Bird, bound for America. "It's no use making a noise about it," I says to him, as I slipped the handcuffs on him; "I want you, Anthony Bullpit. You sha'n't be done out of a voyage across the sea, but Botany Bay's the place as'll suit you best, I should think." Here my grandmother brindles up, 'You're an infamous designing creature,' she screams. 'He is no more guilty than I am.' 'He pleads guilty at all events,' is the detective's reply. 'That is to spite me,' says my grandmother, 'and to prove that he's a man of his word.' Then, by quite an easy transition, the court and the crowd fade away, and my grandmother, I, and the monkey-figure are again in the little parlour, and she is saying to me, 'Your grandfather has much to answer for, child. Mr. Bullpit was transported for twenty-one years. Some wicked people said it was a mercy he wasn't hanged. If he had been, I should never have survived it. Poor Anthony!' 'You would like to have a peep at him, I daresay,' says the monkey-man to me, my grandmother having disappeared; 'come along, I'll show him to you.' And in the same moment we are peeping through the keyhole of Turk West's shop-door at the figure of Mr. Glover, who sits in the chair with his fingers at his lips. Here a sudden movement or noise partially awakes me.

With all the details of this strange dream in my mind I lay for a few moments half asleep and half awake, endeavouring to bring the confused particulars into some kind of order; but the only thing that was clear to me was the connection that had been created between Anthony Bullpit and Mr. Glover. As I gradually returned to full consciousness, this connection seemed to become something more than a fancy. That the knob on Anthony Bullpit's head, of which I heard so much from my grandmother's lips in my young days, was reproduced, according to Turk West's testimony, on the head of Mr. Glover, was certainly no fancy; Anthony Bullpit bit his nails; Mr. Glover had the same objectionable habit. Stranger discoveries were made every day than the discovery that Mr. Glover was Anthony Bullpit's son. If this were so, what became of Mr. Glover's boast that there was not a stain upon his good name, and that his character and the character of all his family were above reproach? It occurred to me here that his ardent desire to make people believe this sprang from the fact that he had something disreputable to conceal. What made me so anxious in the matter was, that if there were a solid foundation to the suspicion, and if I could prove a connection between Mr. Glover and Anthony Bullpit the convict, then I had a lever in my hands which I could use to good effect against Mr. Glover--a lever which I believed would cause him at once to cease his attentions to Jessie. That he had laid her under an obligation to him was evident, and he might be inclined to persecute her in consequence. The lever I speak of was the printed account by Vinnicombe, the detective, of the arrest and conviction of Anthony Bullpit for the robbery from the bank.

I rose and lit the candle, and taking the mouldy old paper from the hollow of the stone monkey-figure, I read it carefully. I was particularly struck in the reading by the description given by the detective of the peculiarity in Anthony Bullpit's teeth. If that peculiarity existed in the teeth of Mr. Glover, it would be almost impossible to resist the conviction that he was Anthony Bullpit's son. I set to work at once, and made a fair copy of the 'Remarkable Discovery of a Forger by the Celebrated Detective, Mr. Vinnicombe.' At nine o'clock in the morning I was in Turk West's shop, with the manuscript in my pocket.

CHAPTER XLVII.

EXIT MR. GLOVER.

Turk regarded me with surprise.

'An early visitor, Chris,' he said.

'Yes,' I answered; 'I have come on some very particular business. When do you pay the balance of your debt to Mr. Glover?'

'I expect him here at twelve o'clock. I shall pay him then.'

'Can you give me half an hour or so of your undivided attention, Turk?'

'Certainly I can: a couple of hours, if you want them.'

'Then sit down, and read this quietly,' I said, handing him the Remarkable Confession, 'and don't make a remark upon it until you have finished.'

He read it attentively, and returned it to me with a thoughtful look.

'It is cut from an old newspaper, printed a good many years ago, Turk. Do you find anything singular in it?'

'I do; something very singular indeed; but how on earth did you come across it, Chris?'

'I will tell you another time. First, I want to know what it is that strikes you as singular in the account.'

'Well, Chris, there's the knob in this Bullpit's head----'

'Yes, Turk.'

'Mr. Glover has one precisely similar on his head.'

I could scarcely restrain the expression of my satisfaction at this proof that, without prompting, his thoughts were taking the same direction as mine.

'Yes, you told me so, Turk; and that sort of thing runs in families, you said.'

'I did say so, and I think so.'

'Mr. Glover said he was born with it.'

'Yes, he told me so distinctly,' said Turk, with a puzzled look.

'That's all right, then. What else do you find singular in it, Turk?'

'Well, there's that habit of Anthony Bullpit's of biting his nails. Mr. Glover does the same.'

'Yes; anything else?' I asked eagerly.

'Well, Chris, the teeth. Mr. Glover's two middle teeth in his top jaw have just the kind of slit between them that caused the detective to discover Anthony Bullpit, for all his disguise.'

I uttered an exclamation of triumph. 'Now, what do you make of all this, Turk? Do you think it possible that such remarkable peculiarities can exist in two men without there being a relationship between them? Turk, as sure as I stand here, Mr. Glover is Anthony Bullpit's son. Don't interrupt me. If he is a convict's son, what becomes of his good character and his unblemished name, of which he is always preaching, as you know? He trades upon it, Turk--he trades upon it; and if it were made public that his father was a forger and a convicted thief, it would be the greatest blow he could receive. This man is a scoundrel, Turk; a scoundrel and a hypocrite.'

I believe he is, Chris,' said Turk, carried away probably by my hot words; but what good can come of exposure--what good to you, I mean?

'Why, Turk, are you blind? Can't you see that I can make the best use in the world of this strange discovery?'

I told him rapidly what had passed between old Mac and me, and the opinion which the old actor entertained of Mr. Glover, and then I developed my own plan of action.

'It is very simple, Turk. I want Mr. Glover immediately to cease his attentions to Jessie, whose eyes, according to old Mac's account, have only lately been opened to his real character. Jessie, I have no doubt, is under obligations to him; and he may take advantage of this to persecute her. If he does this, I shall expose him; but I shall first give him a chance of withdrawing himself voluntarily. I think there will be no reason to fear that he will prove an active enemy; the proof that I hold will take the sting out of him----'

'But,' interposed Turk, 'what if these personal marks should be mere coincidences, and no relationship exists between Anthony Bullpit and Mr. Glover?'

'We shall learn that very soon,' I replied. 'I shall send him this copy of the Remarkable Discovery with a few words of my own. If he is quiet after their receipt, we may be sure that our suspicions are correct. I know that he is a scoundrel--I have been convinced of that all along, Turk, notwithstanding your defence of him--and I believe him to be a coward. We shall see. Will you let me be present while you are paying him the balance you owe him?'

'I have no objection, Chris.'

'And if I happen to say something to him--something to the point--you'll not mind, perhaps.'

'Say whatever you like, Chris, my boy.'

'I want a promise from you, Turk. Not a word of all this to Jessie.'

'All right, Chris.'

Exactly at twelve o'clock Mr. Glover entered the shop. I was in the back-room, and I listened quietly to the few words that passed, in the course of which Turk told Mr. Glover that he was enabled to pay him the balance of the account between them. Mr. Glover said that it might stand, if Turk wished, but Turk insisted on paying him, and produced the money. As Mr. Glover was signing the receipt to the bond, Turk threw open the door of the room in which I was sitting, and said,

'Chris, perhaps you would not mind witnessing Mr. Glover's signature.'

Mr. Glover looked up with anger in his face, and our eyes met. I quietly placed my name on the paper as a witness, and then, with a glance at Mr. Glover's signature, I handed the paper to Turk.

'So now, Turk,' I said, with a smile, 'I am your creditor instead of Mr. Glover.'

I saw that Turk did not understand why I made this apparently unnecessary statement.

'Oh,' said Mr. Glover, with a sneer, 'it is your money, then, with which Turk West has paid his debt!'

'Yes,' I replied. 'Turk is safer in my hands than in the hands of a moneylender who charges sixty per cent. What was it you said yesterday, Turk? Curse all professional moneylenders, wasn't it? So say I.'

Mr. Glover glanced from me to Turk, and from Turk to me, while his face grew dark with passion.

'I have been thinking, Turk,' I continued, regarding Mr. Glover steadily, what would be the value of a receipt for money paid, supposing the name of the person at the foot of the paper is not his own. How would it stand in law, Mr. Glover? Supposing a person whose real name was Bullpit----'

I saw instantly that the shot had taken effect The dark shade of passion disappeared from Mr. Glover's face, which was now quite white. Added to this, the startled exclamation which escaped him was a sufficient confirmation.

'You shall hear from me,' he said, in a thick voice, as he turned to leave the shop.

'You shall hear from me first,' I replied; within two hours I will leave a letter for you at your house.'

I wrote my letter at once in Turk's shop. The substance of it was that I enclosed a copy of an account of the arrest and conviction of a criminal well known in Hertford many years ago; that this criminal had on his person peculiar marks which were almost certain to be transmitted to his children; that the history of this criminal was known only to me and Turk West; that the secret of it would be faithfully kept if the person to whom my letter was addressed would immediately cease to honour with his attentions any of the lady friends of the writer; and that if this condition were not accepted and carried out in its full letter and spirit, means would be immediately adopted for making public the Remarkable Discovery, and the subsequent history of the forger and thief. I did not mention any names, but Turk West said that Mr. Glover would understand my meaning. I left the letter with its enclosure at Mr. Glover's house, and received no answer. Three days afterwards Turk came to tell me that Mr. Glover had left on a tour to Germany.

'I have other news for you as well,' he said; the theatre in which Jessie was to have appeared is let to a French Company for three months.'

I asked Turk no questions, remembering what he had said as to his being on his parole, but I worked that day with a heart less sad than it had been for many a long month past.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

JOSEY WEST LAMENTS HER CROOKED LEGS.

Exactly three weeks had passed since Mr. Glover's departure, and I here take the opportunity of mentioning that, although I have seen the gentleman subsequently on two or three occasions, we have avoided each other by mutual consent--a state of things with which I am perfectly contented. The connection between him and Turk West is also completely severed, so that he has, as it were, dropped out of our lives. During the above-mentioned interval, nothing of importance transpired; my mind was busy with possibilities, but I saw no clear way of playing an active part in their development. My mother during this time, and especially during the past week, had been out a great deal. I guessed that she was still searching for uncle Bryan, and I should have been happy to learn from her lips that she had been successful in finding him. Within a few days of the time of which I am writing, I entertained a suspicion that she had found a clue, for when she came home her eyes were bright, and there was an expression of great happiness in her face; but I said nothing to her. I knew that I should soon hear good news if she had any to tell. The special direction of my thoughts may easily be understood by an observation I made to my mother one afternoon at the end of the three weeks.

'Mother,' I said, 'I think you ought to go and see Jessie.'

She looked up with glad eyes.

'Some feeling with regard to myself,' I continued, 'may prevent Jessie from coming to you here, and I think it would be a good thing for you to go to her. I know she loves you and would be glad to see you, and you may be able to counsel and advise her. Turk West knows where she lives, and, although he would not tell me if I asked him, I believe he would tell you readily.'

'Do you think so, dear child?' she asked. 'Then I will go to him, and tell him what you say.'

The voice is a great tell-tale, and I knew by the tune in which my mother spoke that my suggestion had given her pleasure.

'There is no time like the present,' I said.

My mother rose immediately, and put on her bonnet.

'I shall leave off work at eight o'clock,' I said, so that she might understand I did not wish her to hurry back, and then I shall go round to Josey West for an hour.'

She nodded, and stood looking over my shoulder as I worked.

'If I see Jessie,' she said, and paused.

'Yes, mother, if you see her---- I hope you will see her.'

'I hope so too, dear child. Shall I give her any message from you?'

'Not unless she asks after me, mother; then you may give her my love.'

There was the merest trembling in my voice as I said this, but it was sufficient to agitate my mother's soul. I laid my graver aside, and said,

'You see how it is, mother; I cannot do or act otherwise. Jessie could not know more about me and my feelings if I stood at her door all day long. I never loved her more than I do now, and I believe I shall never love her less; it would not be true if I said I was happy, but I am far happier than I deserve to be. My mother is still left to me, thank God!'

'Dear child! dear child!' she murmured, with tender caresses.

'And you must not think it strange, mother, if I don't ask you questions when you come back. You will tell me whatever is worth telling. Now, one other word, and then you must run away, for I have work to finish. Should you meet with uncle Bryan----'

'Would you wish me to, my dear?' she asked wistfully.

'Yes,' I answered; I should like you to find him. If you do, give him my love also, and say that I should like to come to see him, if he will not come to us. And, remember, mother, if he wants for anything, all that I have is his; but for him I should not have been in my present position. As for the past, let bygones be bygones. As Americans would say, I should be truly happy to shake hands with him on that platform.'

My mother kissed me, and went out of the room. I thought she had started on her errand, but she returned in a quarter of an hour, with a bunch of wallflowers in her hand.

'I only came in to show you these, my dear,' she said; 'smell them--they are very sweet. You have not studied the language of flowers, have you, my dear?'

'No, mother.'

'Then you don't know what wallflowers stand for,' she said, with a bright smile. 'Now this is for you, my dear; it is the first rose I have seen;' and placing on my table a small rose embedded in moss, she left the room again. I watched her from the window as she walked down the street; she walked almost like a girl.

On my way to Josey West in the evening, I passed the house in which I had first made her acquaintance. The door being opened, I entered, and found the place in an unusual bustle. Florry and her younger sisters were dusting and cleaning up, and putting the rooms in order. In explanation, Florry told me that their eldest brother, Sheridan, was coming to live there with his wife and children.

'They come in next week,' said Florry; and I daresay Clarance and his family will follow them; they have always lived together, and they won't like to be parted now. There's plenty of room for them all.'

'The place will look like its old self again,' I said to Josey West, a few minutes later on; and I added, with a sigh, 'and you'll be having the jolly old times over again, I shouldn't wonder.'

'I shouldn't wonder, either,' replied the little woman briskly. 'Do you know, Chris, there's one thing I do miss--the Sunday evenings we used to have in the old house. Now that Sheridan is coming, we'll revive the Sunday-night suppers. You'll come, won't you, and bring your dear mother. She's never been to one of our parties. Upon my word, I feel quite happy only in thinking of them. There's Sheridan and his seven youngsters, and Clarance with his five--another one added, Chris, a fortnight ago--the sweetest little thing! Well, I do love to have a lot of children about me. When I die, an old woman--I shall be the queerest little old woman you ever set eyes on, Chris!--well, when I die, an old, old woman, I should like to see heaps of children round me, so that I might take the memory of their bright little faces away with me. It isn't often that I talk seriously, but I've got that fancy.'

'You ought to have children of your own, Josey.'

Josey was stitching and mending some of the youngsters' clothes, and, at my remark, she paused and looked at me pensively; but the next moment she gave such a vicious dig with her needle that she broke it, and cried,

'Ought to have! Ought to have! Me, with my crooked legs! No, my dear, never, never, never! Little witches don't have children. Never, never, never!' And for the first time in my experience of her, Josey West burst out crying. Her passion did not last long; she conquered it within a couple of minutes, and, as she wiped her eyes, exclaimed,

'There! A nice little fool you'll think me now, Chris!'

I gave her a kiss, and in a little while she was herself again, rattling away as usual.

'I'm going to sleep in the old house every night,' she said, until Sheridan takes possession; and Turk is coming here to sleep, and to mind the shop, if I want to get away a bit earlier. I wish Turk would marry. I should like to take care of his children. He's a real good sterling fellow is Turk, and deserves a happy home. Your mother was here this afternoon, Chris. She told me all that you said to her.'

'You guess, I daresay, what my reason is in wishing her to see Jessie.'

Josey West laughed. 'I guess, you daresay! Well, yes, I can guess, although I am not in love.'

I shook my head. 'I don't think you have guessed, Josey. It is not for myself that I want mother and Jessie to come together again.'

'What other reason can you have, my sweet sensitive child?'

'Oh, I don't mind your bantering me, Josey. Do you remember sending me a letter from uncle Bryan addressed to mother, when we were away at Hertford?'

'Yes; and I wondered at the time what such a thick letter could be all about.'

'It contained a great secret, Josey, and a very wonderful story concerning Jessie.'

'Indeed!' said Josey, with a cautious look at me.

'I think there is no harm in telling you, especially as you'll not speak of it.'

'Oh, you may trust me, Master Chris.'

'It is a story concerning Jessie and her father.'

'Indeed! So Jessie has a father.'

'You would never guess who her father is, Josey.'

'Then I won't break my head over it; but I shall know if you tell me.'

Uncle Bryan is her father; so that you see Jessie and I are cousins.'

Josey did not express the surprise I expected she would; an expression of thoughtfulness was in her face.

'Go on, Chris; I am waiting to hear more.'

'Well, neither Jessie nor uncle Bryan knew of the relationship existing between them until the day that Jessie went away from this house, and then it came upon them both like a thunderbolt. It was because Jessie discovered that uncle Bryan was her father that she ran away from him.'

'That sounds very dreadful, Chris.'

'There is a dreadful story attached to it--which I mustn't tell you nor anybody, Josey. They are both very much to be pitied; but I am not sure that I don't pity uncle Bryan more than I do Jessie. However, there it is; they are father and daughter, and they are separated. Never mind what has passed, I ask you is this right--is it natural? Uncle Bryan is an old man, and cannot have many years to live. That he repents many things he has been unconsciously guilty of in the past, I am certain.'

'That's a curious phrase,' interrupted Josey, with her thoughtful manner still upon her. 'Unconsciously guilty.'

'It is a correct one. His has not been conscious guilt; what was bad in his character was stamped in him, and was almost forced to take root by the unfortunate circumstances in his early life; what was good never had a chance. We all have good and bad in us, Josey, and surrounding circumstances have much to do in making one or the other predominate in our characters. What is that thought that crossed your eyes just now, Josey?'

'I was thinking that you have grown into a perfect philosopher, Chris. Go on.'

'Say that uncle Bryan had been blessed with such a mother as my mother is--he would have been a different man; he couldn't have helped being a better man. He would have believed in God, in goodness; he would not have grown into a misanthrope. Josey, if there is anything good in me--and I hope I am not all bad--I have mother only to thank for it. It makes me tremble to think that I was so nearly losing her, and that her love for me was very nearly her death; and I know, to my sorrow, that for a long time I repaid her affection with indifference. Well, but that is all over now, thank God. If uncle Bryan had had a good, tender, considerate mother, many unhappy things would not have occurred to him, and it might have been better for Jessie also. As I said, it is dreadful to think of father and daughter being separated as they are, and to think that uncle Bryan might die without a word of affection passing between them. Well, that was the thought in my mind when I said to mother to-day that she ought to go to Jessie; for if mother finds uncle Bryan--and I have an idea that she will--no one but she can bring him and Jessie together.'

'But you didn't tell your mother this, Chris?'

'No; mother did not need telling. She knew my meaning well enough. Words are not required between us now, Josey, to make us understand one another.'

'And so, and so, and so,' said Josey, with tender gaiety, when I had concluded, 'everything having been made right, they lived happily together for ever afterwards.'

It was with sadness I remembered that those were the very words which Jessie had spoken to me in the little parlour in which Josey and I were now conversing.

'Now I'm a witch,' cried Josey, 'and I'll give you three wishes. What are they?'

I looked at her reproachfully, but she did not heed me. She hobbled about as witches are in the habit of doing on the stage, and waved the poker over my head, and conducted herself generally in a ridiculous manner.

'Halo!' cried Turk, poking his head in at the door. 'What are you about with your pokers? What a pity I didn't come in a minute later! There's an account I could have written for the papers! "The first thing that met Our Correspondent's view was the distended"--distended is good, Chris, my boy; I've seen it used so--"was the distended form of the unfortunate victim on the ground, winking his last gasp. Over him stood the infuriated figure of a woman, who, with glistening eyes and rage in her countenance, was brandishing the murderous weapon--an enormous crowbar, weighing fifty-three pounds--preparatory to giving a last fell stroke to the prostrate form at her feet." That's the style, Chris; a penny a line. Spin it out--must have at least two columns. "Upon inquiry among the neighbours, who stood in clusters about the building in which the murderous deed was perpetrated, Our Correspondent learned that jealousy was the cause of the fatal assault. It appears that thirteen years ago there lived in a certain street, called et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." Now, after that, Chris, if you start an illustrated paper, and don't employ me as Special Correspondent, I shall have a bad opinion of your judgment.'

I was relieved by this diversion, and upon Turk proposing that we should pay a visit to the Royal Columbia Theatre, in which he had played the first villain for so long a time, I gladly assented.

I left a message for my mother, desiring her to wait with Josey until I returned, and Turk and I strolled to the theatre. I found not the slightest alteration either in the theatre, the audience, or the performance; they were all the same--the same atmosphere, the same fashions, the same pieces with different names. The very dresses were the same; but I was bound to confess that the First Villain was vastly inferior to Turk, who, I learned, had left a reputation behind him which would last while the walls held together. We did not stay longer than an hour, and then, as we had done on the occasion of my first visit to the Royal Columbia, we visited a neighbouring bar, and over our pewter pots listened and took part in a precisely similar conversation to that which I had listened to with such respectful admiration and attention after the performance of the thrilling drama of The Knight of the Sable Plume. The decadence of the drama, the low ebb of dramatic literature, the glorious days of Garrick and Kemble, the inferior parts which men and women of genius were compelled to play upon the mimic stage, the false positions which pretenders were puffed into by venal critics who ignored real talent--these were the themes touched upon; and I began to reflect whether this state of things was chronic in the profession, and whether, when the golden age of the drama is in its full meridian, the decadence of the drama will not be spoken of as mournfully as it is in the present day.

My mother was waiting for me when I returned; but although she was exceptionally bright and happy, and although there was a tenderly joyous significance in her words and manner towards me, she said nothing of the result of her visit to Jessie.

CHAPTER XLIX.

UNCLE BRYAN AGAIN.

'Chris,' says my mother to me, on the following day, can you leave off work an hour earlier this evening?'

'Yes, mother,' I replied; 'at six o'clock if you like.'

'Then at six o'clock,' she says gaily, 'I shall take possession of you.'

As the hour strikes, she comes to my side, dressed for walking. 'No tea, mother?' I ask.

'We are going out to tea, my dear,' she answers.

I keep her waiting but a very few minutes, and presently we are in the streets. I know that something of importance is about to be disclosed to me, and that it will please my mother to be allowed to disclose it in her own way; therefore I hazard no conjectures, and we talk on indifferent subjects. But this does not prevent me from working myself into a state of agitation as to the precise nature of our errand. We take the omnibus to Holborn, and from there we walk towards Bedford-square. My mother leads the way down a clean narrow street, and we pause before a small three-storied house.

'Somebody lives here that we know,' says my mother, as she knocks at the door.

'Can it be Jessie?' I ask of myself, as I glance upwards. There are flowers on the window-sills of the first and third floor; those on the first floor are especially fine, and almost entirely cover the windows. It is on the third floor we stop when we enter the house.

'Remember what you said to me, my dear,' my mother whispers as we enter the room. There is no one to receive us, but my Mother goes into an inner room, and comes out of it presently, and motions me with a tender smile to go in. I enter alone; an old man with white hair is standing by the window, looking towards the door. A grave expression is on his face, which is deeply lined; I recognise uncle Bryan immediately, although he is much changed. I had had in my mind a lingering hope that my mother was taking me to see Jessie; but in the pleasure of seeing uncle Bryan I lose sight for a few moments of my disappointment.

'Uncle,' I say, as I advance towards him with outstretched hand. He meets me half-way, and clasps my hand eagerly in his, and then turns aside with quivering lips, still holding my hand. I know that he has noticed both my pleasure and my disappointment, and I hope it is not the latter that causes him to turn aside.

I have said that he is changed, but I find it difficult to explain in what way he is different from what he was. It is not that his hair has grown quite white during the months that we have been parted, it is not that his form is bowed, or that his features are more deeply-lined; the same shrewd thoughtful expression is there, but in some undefinable way it is softened, and although the old look of self-reliance is in his eyes, it is less hard than it was. As I silently note these changes, I am reminded of a passage I read a few days before this meeting, in which a man is said to have had in his face an expression which might have been brought there by the touch of angel fingers on his eyelids while he slept.

'I received your message yesterday, my dear boy,' he says presently. 'Your mother brought it straight to me. It gladdened my heart inexpressibly.'

Then I know that my mother must have been in the habit of visiting him for some time; it does not surprise me to learn this; every day of her life brings me fresh proofs of her goodness.

'How long ago was it, uncle,' I ask, 'since mother discovered where you were living?'

'Quite a month, my dear boy,' he replies, and adds quickly, 'it was my wish that she should say nothing to you until I gave her permission.'

I smile softly at this defence of her.

'She can do nothing wrong,' I say. 'I think I know the spirit that lives in the hearts of angels.'

My mother, who is preparing tea for us, peeps in here.

'Do you forgive me, my dear?' she says. 'You never thought your mother would deceive you, I daresay.'

'I shall have to consider very seriously,' I say, kissing her, 'before I can pronounce an opinion on your conduct. There are some things that take a long time in learning.'

She stands between us, embracing us, glancing with tearful eyes from one to the other.

'But I must make haste, and get tea ready,' she cries, running away from us; 'there! the kettle's boiling over.'

'Which is the better kind of wisdom, uncle,' I say; 'that which comes from the head or the heart?'

He answers: 'That which touches us most deeply, which makes us kinder, more tender and tolerant, less harsh and dogmatic, more charitable and merciful, must be the better kind of teaching. All this springs from the heart. You said to your mother just now that some things take a long time in learning. I have been all my life learning a lesson, and have but now, when I am near my grave, mastered it. In plays, in poems, in stories, in songs, those words and sentiments which appeal to the heart are invariably most effective. You see, my dear boy, my views are changed.'

After this he asks me about myself, and I tell him what has passed, and he listens with pleasure and patience, as though he had not already heard it all from my mother's lips--but I do not think of this at the time.

'You have not mentioned Jessie's name,' he says, 'thinking perhaps it would pain me; but I can speak of her without grief, if not without sadness. I have only one wish in life now, my dear lad.'

Believing that he refers to a reconciliation between himself and Jessie, and having full faith in my mother's power to bring this about, I say that I earnestly hope it will be fulfilled, and that I believe it will be. He gazes at me with a soft light in his eyes.

'You know in what relation she stands to me, Chris?'

'Yes, uncle.'

If I could give her to you, my dear boy----'

But I stop him here, and beg him in scarcely distinct words not to continue the subject.

'But one word, Chris,' he says; 'you love her still?'

'With all my heart, uncle, and shall all my life. But it hurts me to speak of her; I can bear it better in silence.'

My mother calls out that tea is ready, and once more we three sit down together.

'I miss the little parlour,' my mother says; 'how many happy years we lived there!'

She forgets all the sorrow and pain we experienced there, and recalls only the tenderest reminiscences. Occasionally a flash of uncle Bryan's old humour gives piquancy to the conversation, but there is now no bitterness or cynicism in what he says. At eight o'clock my mother puts on her bonnet; I am surprised that we are going so early, but she says it is a fine night and that she feels inclined for a walk.

'Uncle Bryan will walk with us,' I say.

My mother shakes her head, smilingly, and says she does not want him. I look towards uncle Bryan; he does not seem in the least disturbed.

'We shall see each other again soon,' he says, as he shakes hands with me on the doorstep of his house.

'You will come to us, then,' I say eagerly. 'I want to show you my work.'

'Yes, I will come very soon; but your mother will see to everything, Chris.'

'There is one thing I want particularly to ask you, uncle, if you'll not mind.'

'Say it, my dear boy.'

'Living here, all alone, as you are doing,' I say, and I pause somewhat awkwardly.

He assists me.

'Yes, my dear boy--living here all alone, as I am doing----'

'I was thinking it must be very lonely for you, uncle.'

'It is a lonely life, Chris, living by oneself.'

'And without any friends near you.'

'Yes, my dear boy.'

'I want you to give up these rooms, uncle, and come and live with us, or if you wouldn't like to do that, to go back to your shop.'

His eyes brighten; my mother's eyes also are beaming.

'It would be a pity to take the shop away from that good little woman, Josey West. And you would really like me to come and live with you again?'

'It would make us very happy--mother especially. Look at her face.'

'With all my eccentricities and oddities, you would still wish me to come?'

'Ah, but you are altered now.' He makes a grimace. 'Well, even if you were not, I should be very, very glad if you will come. You can give me lessons in flower-growing.'

I glance up to the windows in which the flowers were blooming. His eyes follow mine.

'Which do you think the best, Chris; those on the first or those on the third floor?'

'On the first floor certainly, and I am surprised at it. I thought no one could beat you. Mother was never so successful as you were. Your flowers were always the finest.'

He rubs his hand, and says,

'Well, we shall see, we shall see.' And then, more earnestly, 'I am glad you have asked me, Chris; I was wishing for it. Good-night now; we'll talk of it by and by.'

As he seems evidently wishful to get rid of us, and as my mother seems no less anxious to go, I take my leave. On our way home we pass a theatre, and my mother expresses a wish to enter; we go into the pit, and witness a French comic opera done into English. The performance is a good one, but is spoilt by the unnecessary introduction of some foreign dancers, whose coarse vulgarity and outrageous disregard for decency shock my mother. It is seldom that my mother goes to a theatre, and she says, as we come out,

'If that is to become the fashion in theatres, I am more than glad that Jessie is not going on the stage.'

'Then she is not going?' I ask eagerly.

'Well, my dear,' replies my mother, with sudden reserve, 'it almost looks as if she had given up the idea.'

At home I find a letter on the table. I open it and read:

'Miss West presents her compliments to Mr. Christopher Carey, and will be happy to see him and his mother at nine o'clock to-morrow evening, at the Old House at Home.'

'Why, mother,' I say, 'this is exactly like the note Josey sent to me when I first went to her place. I suppose she wants to have an evening in the old house before her brother Sheridan takes possession. I wonder if the kitchen is the same. I shall never forget my feelings when I saw it for the first time. You must come, mother, is a wonderful sight.'

My mother smiles an assent.

'I am glad you asked your uncle to come and live with us,' she says, as she wishes me good-night.

CHAPTER L.

JOSEY WEST DISTURBS US IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

'Well, Master Chris,' said Josey West, as my mother and I entered the kitchen on the following night, here are the old times come over again. Now, children, bustle about! Florry, take mother's shawl and bonnet.' (They all called her mother.) 'Ah, you're looking about you, my dear; they're a queer lot of things; but they belong to a queer lot of people. The first night Chris came here he bumped his head. I heard some one tumbling about in the passage, and I called out to know who was there. "It's Me," Master Chris answered, as if all the world knew who Me was. "Come downstairs, Mr. Me," I called; and down he came head over heels, and fell sprawling right in the middle of the kitchen. Ah, that was a night! Do you remember the scene from As You Like It, Master Chris, and how mad you were when Jessie said, "Ask me what you will, I will grant it;" and Gus said, "Then love me, Rosalind?" You thought no one knew what was going on inside that head of yours, but I saw it all as clear as clear can be. I'm a witch, my dear. Did you ever hear'--(she was addressing my mother now)--'that I played an old witch for an entire season? I did, and played it well; I could show you the notices I got in the papers on the day they contained all about the pantomimes, but you would think me vain if I did. What a big little woman I thought myself, to be sure! I thought all the world must know me as I walked along, and I cocked up my head, I can tell you. How we do puff ourselves out, we frogs! That's what I asked you that night, Master Chris, the name of that thing in the fable that puffed itself out and came to grief; and I remember saying that of all the conceited creatures in this topsy-turvy world actors and actresses are the worst; though I think I know some who are almost as bad. But to come back about Gus, my dear. You've no cause to be jealous of him; he's engaged, my dear--engaged! Here's her picture--a pretty little thing, isn't she? But Gus never would make love to a girl unless she was pretty, and he was always a bit of a flirt. He'll have to settle down now; his ogling days are over; this little bit of a thing has got hold of him as tight as a fish. They'll all be getting married directly--all of them except me and Turk perhaps--and he's the one I want to see married most of all. There's Florry there--what are you listening to, Florry?--you should see how the men are beginning to stare at her! and that sets a girl thinking, you know. As for Chris, he must be blind; I only know if I was a young man--But there! I'll say no more, or you'll be calling me as bad a gossip as Mrs. Simpson. Perhaps some one else would like to say a word or two?'

And here Josey paused to take breath. I knew that she had only chattered on in this way for the purpose of giving me time to recover myself upon entering the kitchen; for as I looked around upon the old familiar walls, a flood of tender reminiscences had rushed upon my mind, and my eyes had filled with tears. Whether by design or accident, the kitchen presented exactly the same appearance as on the first night I had seen it. The old theatrical dresses and properties were on the walls; the dummy man in chain armour that had once played a famous part in a famous drama was lurking in a corner; the curtain of patchwork was hung on its line, dividing the stage from the auditorium; and Matty and Rosy and Nelly and Sophy were busy at work on stage dresses and adornments. My mother was delighted with all she saw, and caressed the children, who all doted on her, and pulled out of her pocket a packet of sweetmeats for them. Her brain could never have been idle; when she went on the simplest errand, she must have thought of it beforehand, and her affectionate thoughtful nature invariably made that errand pleasant to some one. Her wonderful thoughtfulness, wedded as it was to affection and unselfishness, was one of her greatest charms; it strewed her course through life with flowers which sprang up in barren places, and gladdened many a sad heart. I know that, between ourselves, every wish I formed was anticipated before I expressed it, and while the words explaining it were on my lips, she was scheming how it could be gratified. This charming and most beautiful quality--which in a home breeds love, and keeps it always sweet and fresh--was exhibited even on such an occasion as our present visit to Josey, in the pleasantest of ways. As my mother chatted with Josey, she handed one child the thread, another the wax, another something which the little one's eyes were seeking for; and all these things were done in the most natural manner, and without in the least disturbing her conversation with Josey. Trivial as these matters are, they are deserving of mention; happy must be that home which has such a spirit moving in its midst.

'The youngsters are all at work, I see,' I said to Josey, when I had mastered my agitation; 'to fill up the time, I suppose.'

'Not a bit of it, Master Chris,' replied Josey. 'Sophy and Rosy and Matty have an engagement to play in a new burlesque; they play the Three Graces--very little ones they will be, but it's a burlesque, you know--and very well they'll look. Now then, up with you, and go through the first scene.'

The children jumped from their chairs, and went through the scene, speaking with pretty emphasis the few words intrusted to them, and dancing with infinite grace. It was amusing to witness the gravity with which they tucked up their dresses so as to show their petticoats, which looked more like ballet clothes than their brown frocks. We all applauded heartily.

'Bravo! bravo!' cried Turk, who had entered during the scene. 'If the author isn't satisfied with that performance, then nothing will satisfy him. But nothing less than a hundred nights' run ever does satisfy an author--How are you, mother? How do you do, Chris, my boy? Well, Josey, old girl! No, nothing less than that ever does satisfy an author, who invariably says, when a piece is a failure, that the actors are muffs and don't know their business. But they get as good as they give; let actors alone for reckoning up an author. They know how much of the credit belongs to them, and how much to him.'

Josey laughed merrily at this.

'It almost always all belongs to the actor, Turk,' she said.

'Of course it does, and very properly too. The audience say, when an actor makes a point, What a clever fellow the author is! They should read the stuff: they'd form a different opinion. Josey, do you know it is nearly ten o'clock?'

A look of some meaning passed between Turk and Josey, and Josey desired the children to put away their work. Presently they all went to bed, my mother going with them at their express desire. Only Turk, Josey, and I were now in the kitchen. We talked on various subjects, not in the most natural way, as it appeared to me; I said little, not being inclined for conversation. Turk was somewhat thoughtful, and more than usually observant of me, but Josey was in the wildest of spirits, and laughed without apparent cause, and said the most absurd things.

'I knew a lady,' she said, 'who played a character-part in a successful piece, which had an immense run; it was played for more than two hundred nights. She hadn't a great deal to say, but every time she spoke she either commenced or ended with "Bless my soul!" Now, if you will believe me, her "Bless my soul!" made the piece. Every time she said it the audience roared with laughter, and you could hear them as they went away from the theatre of a night saying, "Bless my soul!" to one another, and laughing, as if there was really something wonderfully comic in the words. It was a great misfortune to her, for her mind so ran upon it, that morning, noon, and night she was continually saying nothing but "Bless my soul!" until her friends got so wearied of it that they wished she hadn't a soul to bless. I slept with her one night, and all through her sleep she was talking to herself, and blessing her soul. It was the ruin of her as an actress; for always afterwards the people in the theatre called out, "Hallo! here conies Bless-my-soul!" and of course that spoilt the effect of a good many of her characters.'

'But that's not as bad,' said Turk, 'as me when I played The Thug for seven months. Do you remember, Josey?'

'Do I remember it?' Josey repeated, with a look of comic horror. 'Haven't I cause to remember it? You see, Chris, he had to strangle people in the piece. How many every night, Turk?'

'Seventeen,' he replied in a tone of great satisfaction.

'He had to strangle seventeen people every night for seven months, my dear. Well, that made an impression upon him, and I daresay he began to look upon himself as a lawful strangler. I must say, that when he strangled the people on the stage, he did it in such a manner that no one could help believing that he enjoyed it.'

'It was realistic acting, Josey,' said Turk complacently; 'that's what it was.'

'It was a little too realistic for me,' observed Josey. 'For what do you think he did one night, Chris, my dear? He was living in this house at the time, and we all went to bed quite comfortably, after a heavy supper. Turk had had a great triumph that night, and the audience were so delighted with the way in which he strangled his victims, that they called him before the curtain more than once. We talked of it a great deal after supper. Well, in the middle of the night I woke up with a curious sensation upon me. Something seemed to be crawling towards me very stealthily. I listened in a terrible fright, and sure enough I heard something crawling in the room. I lit a candle quickly, you may be sure; and there I saw Turk in his nightshirt, as I'm a living woman, creeping about on the floor, as he was in the habit every night of creeping about on the stage in the character of The Thug. He was fast asleep, my dear. "Turk! Turk!" I cried, and I was about to jump out of bed and give him a good shaking, when he shouted, "Ha! ha! I have you! Die! die!" and he ran up to me. My dear, if I hadn't jumped out on the other side of the bed, and poured a jug of cold water down his back, I believe he would have strangled me. It woke him up, and a nice state he was in. Every night after that, until the run of the piece was over, and he was playing other characters, I locked him in his bedroom, and took away the key. I wasn't going to have the children strangled in their sleep, and Turk hanged for it. I used to go to the door of his room in the dead of night, and more than once I heard him crawling about on the floor, strangling imaginary people, with his "Ha! ha! Die! die!" He never knew anything of it, my dear, and used to come down to breakfast looking as innocent as a lamb.'

Turk seemed to take pride in this narration.

'It shows that I was in earnest,' he said. 'There's ten o'clock striking.'

We listened in silence, and did not speak until the last echo had quite died away. Then I raised my head and saw that Josey was looking at me very earnestly.

'Chris, my dear,' she said, somewhat nervously, 'you have good cause to remember the first night you came into this house.'

'Indeed I have, Josey,' I replied.

'I'm going to give you better cause to remember to-night. I'm a little witch, you know.' She hobbled about the kitchen, and, after going through some absurd pantomime, came and stood close behind me. I should have been inclined to laugh, but that Turk's serious face made me serious. 'Now, then,' she continued, placing her arms round my neck, and her hands upon my eyes, 'ever since I played that witch, I've had the idea that I could do magic things if I tried. I'm going to try now; shut your eyes, and wish.' She placed her lips close to my ear, and I thought she was about to whisper something, but she kissed me instead. I humoured her, and did not make an effort to free myself from her embrace. We must have remained in this position for fully two minutes, during which time I heard the door open and shut. When Josey removed her hands, I saw my mother sitting on one side, and uncle Bryan on the other. I held out my hand gladly to him; Josey clapped hers in delight.

'It was a whim of this good little woman's,' said uncle Bryan, looking at Josey affectionately. 'And we were compelled to let her have her way. We owe her too much to refuse her anything.'

'But you don't look as surprised as I thought you would, Master Chris,' exclaimed Josey, in a tone of assumed disappointment.

'Well, the truth is, Josey,' I said, 'I saw uncle Bryan yesterday; so it is not so much of a surprise as you thought it would be.'

'Oh, indeed!' she said.

'And then again,' I said, taking her hand, 'do you think that anything kind from you can surprise me? No, indeed, Josey; we all have cause to know the goodness of your heart. I couldn't love a sister better than I love you.'

'Did anybody ever hear the like of that!' she exclaimed, laughing and crying at one time. 'As if a single girl wanted to be loved like a sister! Never mind, Chris, my dear, don't mind what I say; you know what I mean. But, as the first act of my piece is not as successful as I thought it would be, I shall have nothing to do with the second. Oh, yes, it's in two acts, Chris!'

Before I could speak, uncle Bryan took up her words.

'It is another of this good little woman's whims, my dear boy,' he said, that we should all sleep in the old shop to-night, as we used to do, your mother, you, and I. It will only be for this one night, Chris, notwithstanding Josey's persuasion, for if all goes well, I shall regularly make over the business to her; and to-morrow morning she will take possession again.'

'You have decided to come and live with us,' I said; 'that is good, isn't it, mother?'

'We shall have time to talk over that to-night, my dear boy.'

'Then the best thing you can do,' said Josey briskly, 'is to run away at once and settle it. I sha'n't be able to close my eyes until I know how it is all settled. There! Away with you!' And she fairly bustled us out of the house.

'Let us walk slowly,' said uncle Bryan, 'it is a fine night, and I have something to say to you. Nay, Emma, don't walk away; I should like you to hear me. Chris, the words you addressed to me the last night we were together in the old shop have never left my mind. Do not interrupt me, my dear boy--I think I know what you wish to say. You would say that you spoke too strongly, and that you painted all that had passed in colours too vivid; let that be as it may, you spoke the truth. I recognised it then; I recognise and acknowledge it now. But the pain which I suffered--and I did suffer most keenly, my dear boy--was not so much for myself as for your dear mother, for I saw that every word you spoke wounded her tender heart. Had you seen this, you would have held your tongue, and I should have been spared a just punishment. Chris, I did not ask you yesterday, although it was in my mind to do so; I ask you now: have you forgiven me?'

I was humbled by the humbleness of his tone and manner. It might have been a child who was pleading to me. I found it impossible to speak, but I threw my arms round his neck, and kissed him.

'That is well, that is well,' he said; 'I have but one wish now--to repair the wrong I have done. You said that I had driven all hope of happiness from your heart; what kind of happiness should I experience if I could restore what I have robbed you of! Repentance is good; atonement is better!'

I knew by his agitated tone how strong was his wish, and I pressed his hand. Silence was best at such a time.

Shortly afterwards we arrived at the shop, and I saw a light gleaming through the shutters. To my surprise, uncle Bryan, instead of unlocking the door, knocked at it, and I found myself wondering who was inside; all the members of Josey West's family were at home in their old house. As uncle Bryan knocked, my mother grasped my hand tightly; I looked into her face, and saw in it an expression of love, so sweet and pure, and yet withal so wistful and yearning, that a wild unreasoning hope entered my heart. I could not have defined it, but it seemed to me that something good was about to occur. The door was opened from within, and uncle Bryan stood for a moment on the threshold. Before I could follow him my mother pulled my face down to hers, and kissed me more than once with great tenderness.

'You are crying, mother,' I said; and then I thought that joy on entering the old shop, and sleeping again beneath its roof, had caused her tears.

'God bless you, my darling!' she sobbed; 'God bless you!'

We entered the shop; uncle Bryan was standing there alone; a light was in the little parlour.

'Go in, Chris,' he said.

'I went in, and there sat Jessie, working at the table. She looked towards me, with a smile that was tender and arch upon her lips. I passed my hands across my eyes, scarcely believing the evidence of my senses.

'It is true, Chris,' she said, rising; 'are you not glad to see me?'

I looked round for uncle Bryan and my mother; they were not in the room, and the door was closed behind me. Then I understood it all.

'Have you come back for good, Jessie?' I asked.

'I can't hear you,' she replied, 'you are so far away!'

I stepped close to her side, and my arm stole round her waist; she sighed happily.

'Have I come back for good?' she repeated. 'That is for you to decide, Chris.'

'You are in earnest with me, Jessie?'

She smiled. 'I saw you yesterday,' she said.

'Where?'

'When you came to see your uncle Bryan; I have been living in the same house, on the first floor, Chris, where the finest flowers are. Do you begin to understand?'

'Tell me more, Jessie. Did mother know you were living there?'

'Yes, and Josey West, and Turk also. Nearly all that money Turk borrowed of you was for me to pay what Mr. Rackstraw said I owed him. Would you have lent it to him if you had known?'

'You must answer that question for me, Jessie,' I said, still uncertain of the happiness that was in store for me.

We were standing by the mantelshelf, on which lay a little packet in brown paper. Jessie took it in her hand.

'Mother told me to give you this, Chris. Stay, though; what is that round your neck?'

'The ribbon you gave me, Jessie.'

'And the locket, where is that?'

'It is here, Jessie.' I showed it to her; the earnest look that was struggling to her eyes came into them fully.

'You did not cast me quite away, then? Have you always worn it, Chris?'

'Always, Jessie.'

'I am glad, I am glad,' she murmured, and presently said, 'Here is your packet, Chris.'

I opened it, and found the watch and the ivory brooch I had intended to give Jessie on her birthday.

'Do you know what is in this packet, Jessie?'

'No, Chris.'

I took the trinkets out of the paper:

'I bought them as a birthday present for you, Jessie. Look at what is engraved inside the watch, and if you can accept it, you will make me very happy.'

She opened the case and read: 'From Chris to Jessie, on her eighteenth birthday. With undying love.' Her eyes were fixed upon the inscription for a much longer time than was necessary for the reading and understanding of the words. When she raised them, tears were glistening in them.

'Will you fasten it for me, Chris?' she said, in a low soft tone.

With an ineffable feeling of happiness I placed the slender chain about her neck, and while my arms were round her, she raised her face to mine, and I kissed her.

A few minutes later, while we were still alone, Jessie said,

'You know why I left home on my birthday, Chris?'

'I know all, Jessie.'

'And yet not quite all, I think. I shall have no secrets from you, Chris, not one. I believe I should have left soon afterwards, even if it had not been for my mother's letter, and for the discovery that uncle Bryan was my father.'

'For what reason, Jessie?'

'You do not suspect, then?'

'I have a dim suspicion, dear, but I would prefer you to tell me.'

'Chris,' she said, very seriously, 'you loved me too much.'

'That could not be, Jessie.'

'It could and can be. In your love for me you forgot some one else, a thousand million times better than I am, Chris.'

'My mother?'

'Your mother. I reproached myself every day and every night for being the cause of it. I was afraid that your attachment to that dearest angel on earth was growing weaker and weaker, and I knew that I was the cause of it. I saw the pain, the unutterable pain, my dear, that your neglect of your mother was causing her tender heart, and I was continually striving to discover in what way you could be 'brought to learn how much more pure and beautiful and sacred her love was than mine. If things had gone on in the same way, I should have run away as it was, Chris, so that you might have been forced to seek for comfort in the shelter of her love. Do you understand me, my dear? Your love for me made you colour-blind.'

How much dearer this confession made Jessie to me I need not describe.

'I see things in a better light now, my darling,' I said humbly; 'I am not colour-blind now.'

Uncle Bryan and my mother would not have disturbed us all the night if we had not called to them to come in and share our happiness.

Those who understand the strength and purity of love can understand by what links of tender feeling we were henceforward bound to one another--sacred links which death itself will be powerless to sever.

Jessie sat on a stool at her father's feet; my mother and I sat close to them, my hand on Jessie's neck, clasped in one of hers.

It must have been two o'clock in the morning, and we were still talking, unconscious of the hour, when a great thumping was heard at the street-door. I jumped to my feet, and opened the door, and Josey West ran in.

'I couldn't help it, my dears,' she cried; 'I know I have no business here, but I should have done something desperate if I hadn't run round to see how you were all getting on. I went to bed, but as I'm a living woman I couldn't sleep a wink; so I got out of bed and dressed myself, and thought, I'll just see if there's a light in the shop. And when I came and saw the light, how could I help knocking? Well, Chris, how do you like the second act? Better than the first? I do believe, as the speechmakers say, this is the happiest day of my life.'

And the queer good little woman fell to crying and kissing us.

I am afraid you would scarcely believe me if I were to tell you at what time we went to bed that morning.

CHAPTER LI.

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

I resume my pen after an interval of two years.

Within a few weeks after the events described in the last chapter Jessie and I were married. There were six bridesmaids, Josey and Florry West, and their four little sisters. On that day my mother gave uncle Bryan a Bible.

Josey is sole proprietor of the grocer's shop, and the business has wonderfully improved. She is really making and saving money. This of course is known, and has attracted the attention of more than one young man; I say more than one, for there is one in particular who seems to consider that if he were a grocer he would be in his proper groove. His chance, however, of getting into that groove does not appear to be a good one.

'I know what he's casting sheep's eyes at,' says Josey, tossing her head; I see him reckoning up the stock every time he comes into the shop.'

She does not openly discourage him; she makes him spend all his pocket-money in candied lemon-peel and uncle Bryan's medicines, which are having an immense sale.

'You are injuring that young man's constitution, Josey,' I say.

'All the better,' she replies; 'with his present constitution, he'll never suit Josey West.'

'Don't you ever intend to marry, Josey?'

'I haven't quite made up my mind, Chris; but if I don't die an old maid I shall be very much surprised.'

Turk is doing well, but I have lately discerned in him an itching to go on the stage again. He has purchased a splendid wardrobe that belonged to a famous First Villain, and he is reading a manuscript play by a new author with a character in it which he says would take all London by storm.

'No one can play that character but Turk West,' says old Mac, who is egging him on.

'It would be a thousand pities,' says Turk, 'not to play the piece. It's a work of genius--original, Chris, my boy, original.' And then he adds musingly, 'I've a good mind to; I've a good mind to. The situations are tremendous. New blood, Chris, that's what's wanted--new blood.'

Florry is just married. Her husband is a very elegant young man, and plays walking gentlemen. Every year babies are being introduced into the world by the married Wests. The number of children in that family is something amazing, and aunt Josey is idolised by all of them.

Uncle Bryan lives with us. I am prospering, and our home is a very happy one. How could it be otherwise with two such women as my mother and Jessie to brighten and bless it! A great grief, however, came to us lately.

Our union was blessed by a child--a sweet beautiful little girl, whose presence was a new happiness to us. I have not the power to describe the emotion which filled my heart when this treasure was placed in my arms; Jessie's joy and my mother's may be imagined, but it would be difficult to realise the depth of uncle Bryan's feelings towards the darling. We named her Frances, after Jessie's mother; it was uncle Bryan's wish. His love for the dear little creature became a worship; he was restless and unhappy if a waking hour passed without his seeing her. He nursed her, and prattled to her, and rocked her cradle, and would sit for hours by her side while she was sleeping. She grew to love him, and her beautiful eyes would dilate, and she would wave her dimpled arms when he held out his to her. When she was ten months old, and just when she began to lisp the word so dear to a mother's ear, she was taken from us.

'Ah, how well I remember the sad days that followed! This may sound strange, when you know that a very few months have passed since our bereavement, but it expresses my feeling. Our darling seemed, as it were, to sink into the past, and I saw her ever afterwards, as one in a deep pit looks upwards in the daylight to the heavens and sees a star there. When I am an old man, the memory of this dear child will shine with a clear light among a forest of unremembered days. On the night before she was buried, I walked to the room where she lay in her coffin. I opened the door softly, and saw uncle Bryan on his knees by the coffin's side; his hands were clasped, and on the body of our darling lay an open book from which he was reading. It was the Bible which my mother had given him on our wedding-day.

Farewell.

END OF VOL. XV.

LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.