"Thereby Hangs a Tale" (continued 6)

“I will trust you.”

There was something almost painful in the look of joy in Netta’s face as, with trembling eagerness, she threw her arms round her mother, and then, with the excitement of a child, hurried away to put on hat and mantle.

“I shall be back directly,” she exclaimed.

Richard’s heart gave one heavy painful throb as he turned for an instant at the door.

Mrs Lane laid her hand upon his arm as soon as they were alone, and once more looked searchingly into his face.

“I ought not to do this,” she said, pitifully. “You’re almost a stranger; but it is giving her what she has so little of—pleasure; more, it is like giving her life. You know—you see how ill she is?”

“Poor child, yes,” said Richard.

“Child!”

“Yes,” said Richard, gravely. “I have always looked upon her as a child—or, at least, as a young, innocent girl. Mrs Lane, I tell you frankly, for I think I can read your feelings—every look, every attention of mine towards that poor girl has been the result of pity. If you could read me, I think you would never suspect me of trifling.”

“I am ready to trust you,” she said. “You will not be late. The night air would be dangerous for her—hush!”

“I’m ready!” exclaimed Netta, joyfully.

As she appeared framed in the doorway of the inner room, her dark hair cast back, eyes sparkling, and the flush as of health upon her cheeks, and lips parted to show her pure white teeth, Richard’s heart gave another painful throb, and he thought of Frank Pratt’s words, for it was no child that stood before him, but a very beautiful woman.

“You’ll be back before dark, my darling?” said Mrs Lane, tenderly.

“Oh yes,” cried Netta, excitedly. “Mr Lloyd will take such care of me; but—”

The joy faded out of her countenance, and she clung to her mother, looking from her to the work.

“What is it, my dear?” said Mrs Lane, stroking her soft dark hair.

“It’s cruel to go and leave you here at work,” sobbed the girl.

“What! when you are going to get strength, and coming back more ready to help me?” said Mrs Lane, cheerfully. “There, go along! Take care of her, Mr Lloyd.”

Richard had been to the head of the stairs, and spoken to Sam, who was already on his box; and as the young man offered his arm, Netta took it, with the warm, soft blush returning, and she stole a look of timid love at the tall, handsome man who was to be her protector.

The next minute she was in the cab, Richard had taken his place at her side, and Sam essayed to start as the good-bye nods were given.

“Lor!” said Mrs Jenkles, her woman’s instinct coming to the fore, “what a lovely pair they do make!”

At the same moment, on the opposite side of the way, a lady with a widow’s cap cocked back on her head, gazed from behind a curtain, wiped her eyes on a piece of crape, and said, with a sigh—

“And him the handsomest and quietest lodger I ever had!”

Meanwhile, in answer to every appeal from Sam Jenkles, Ratty was laying his ears back, wagging his tail, and biting at nothing.

“Don’t you be skeared, Miss,” said Sam, through the little roof-trap, “it’s on’y his fun. Get on with yer, Ratty—I’m blowed if I aint ashamed on yer. Jest ketch hold of his head, and lead him arf a dozen yards, will yer, mate?” he continued, addressing a man, after they had struggled to the end of the street. “Thanky.”

For the leading had the desired effect, and Ratty went off at a trot to Pentonville Hill.

“Blest if I don’t believe that was Barney,” said Sam to himself, looking back, and he was quite right, for that gentleman it was; and as soon as the cab was out of sight he had taken a puppy out of one pocket of his velveteen coat, looked at it, put it back, and then slouched off to where he could take an omnibus, on whose roof he rode to Piccadilly, where he descended, made his way into Jermyn Street, and then stopping at a private house, rang softly, took the puppy out of his pocket, a dirty card from another, and waited till the door was answered.

“Tell the captain as I’ve brought the dawg,” he said to the servant, who left him standing outside; but returned soon after, to usher him into the presence of Captain Vanleigh, who smiled and rubbed his hands softly, as he wished Tiny Rea could have been witness of that which had been brought to him as news.

In the Woods.

The captain would have been more elate if he had been able to follow the fortunes of Sam Jenkles’s cab; for having received his instructions, Sam bowled along by Euston Square in the direction of the Hampstead Road, till he had to go at a foot’s pace on account of some alteration to the roadway, the result being that for a few moments the cab was abreast of a barouche containing four ladies, one of whom started, and said, in a quick whisper—

“Oh, look, Tiny, that’s the church with the figures I told you about.”

But Fin Rea was too late, her sister was leaning over the side of the carriage, gazing intently at Sam Jenkles’s cab, and the dark-haired girl, with the wondrous colour and look of animation, looking so lovingly in her companion’s face; and as the carriage swept on, unseen by the occupants of the cab, poor Tiny sank back, not fainting, but with a pitiful sigh and a look of stony despair that made Fin clasp her hands, as she set her little white teeth together, and muttered—

“The wretch!”

Lady Rea saw nothing of this; but Aunt Matty, who was beside her, did, and a look of quiet triumph came into her withered features. But nothing was said, and as for the cab, it rolled on and on quickly, till it came to the tree-shadowed hill beneath Lady Coutts’ park, and then, after a long walk up to the top of Highgate Hill, on and on again, till London was far behind, the soft green meads and the sheltered lanes reached; and while Sam pulled up at a roadside public-house, amongst half a dozen fragrant, high-laden hay carts, Richard led off his charge, with sinking heart, over a stile, and away midst waving cornfields, bright with poppy and bugloss; and by hedges wreathed with great white convolvuli, and the twining, tendrilled bryonies, or wild clematis.

Richard was grave, and his heart sank as he saw the joyous air of the young girl by his side, felt the light touch of her little hand, and when he met her eyes read in them so much gentle, trusting love, that he felt as if he had been a scoundrel to her, and that he was about to blight her life.

He was not a vain man, and he had used no arts to gain the sympathy that it was easy to read in the sweet face beside him but he could not help telling himself that it was but too plain; and he groaned in his heart as he thought of that which he had determined to say.

“Hark, listen!” cried the girl, as a lark rose from the corn close by. “Isn’t it beautiful? How different to those poor caged things in our street. Look, too, at the green there—four, five, twenty different tints upon those trees. Oh, you are losing half the beauties of those banks! Look at them, scarlet with poppies! There, too, the crimson valerian. How beautiful the foxgloves are! Why, there’s a white one. Who’d ever think that London could be so near!”

She stopped, panting, and held her hand to her side.

“You are tired?” he said, anxiously.

“Oh no,” she said, darting a grateful look in return for his sympathy—“it is nothing. I feel as if I should like to set off and run, but I think sometimes I am not so strong as I used to be. Mamma says I have outgrown my strength; but it is my cough.”

She said these last words plaintively, and there was a sad, pinched look in her face as she gazed up at him; but it lit up again directly as she met his eager, earnest eyes fixed upon her, and her trembling little hand stole farther through his arm.

“That’s right,” he said, patting it—“lean on me. I’m big and strong.”

“May I?” she said, softly.

“To be sure,” he answered.

“It’s very kind of you,” she whispered, “and I like it. I go out so little, and yet I long to; and if I don’t stay here long, I shall have seen so little of the world.”

“Netta, my child,” he exclaimed, “what are you saying?”

The girl’s other hand was laid upon his arm, as they stood beneath a shady tree, and she looked up at him in a dreamy way.

“I think sometimes,” she said, slowly, “that I shall not be here long. It’s my cough, I suppose. It’s so pleasant to feel, though, that people—some one cares for me; only it makes me feel that I shall not want to go.”

“Come, come, this is nonsense,” he said, cheerily. “Why, you’re not an invalid.”

“I should be, I think, if we were rich,” she said, sadly. “But let’s go on along by that high sand bank, where the flowers are growing; and here is a wood all deep shades of green.”

“But you will be tired?”

“No, no; you said I might rest on you. I should not be weak if I could live out here, and dear mamma were not compelled to work. Poor mamma!”

They walked on in silence, and she leaned more heavily upon his arm. Twice their eyes met, and as Netta’s fell before those of her companion it was not until they had told the sweet, pure love of her young heart. They were no fiery, rapturous glances—no looks of passionate ecstasy; but the soft, beaming maiden love of an innocent, trusting girl, whose young heart was opening, like a flower, to offer its fragrant sweets to the man who had first spoken gentle words to her—words that had seemed to her, who had not had girlhood’s joys, like the words of love. And that young heart had opened under the influence, like the scented rosebud in the sun; but there was a fatal canker there, and as the flower bloomed, the withering was at hand.

“Let us stop here,” cried Netta, drinking in the beauty of the scene; “it is like being young again, when we were so happy—when mamma watched for papa’s coming, and there seemed no trouble in life. Oh, it has been a cruel time!”

She shuddered, and clung to the arm which supported her.

“This is very wrong of me,” she said, looking up, and smiling the next moment. “I ought not to talk of the past like that.”

“Shall we sit down here?” he said, pointing to a fallen tree trunk.

Then, with the low hum of the insects round them, they entered the edge of the wood.

He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments, and twice her eyes were raised to his with so appealing and tender a look that he felt unmanned. He had brought her there to tell her something, and her love disarmed him; so that he snatched at a chance to put off that which he wished to say.

“You were telling me of the happy past,” he said. “Your were well off once?”

“Yes, and so happy,” said the girl, her eyes filling with tears. “I ought not, perhaps, to tell you, though.”

“You may trust me, Netta,” he said, taking her hand.

“I always felt that I could,” she cried, eagerly, as her face flushed more deeply, and her hand trembled in his; for he had again called her Netta, and her heart throbbed with joy, even though he was so grave. “Shall I tell you?”

“Yes—tell me; but are you weary?”

“Oh, no, no,” she said, excitedly. “But I must not mention names. Mamma wishes ours kept secret, for she is very proud. Papa is an officer, and as I remember him first, he was so handsome, even as mamma was beautiful. We used to live in a pretty cottage, just outside town, and papa was so kind. But how it came about I never knew, he gradually grew cold, and hard, and stern, so that I was afraid of him when he came to see us, and he used to be angry to mamma, and then stay away for weeks together, then months, till at last we rarely saw him. The pretty cottage was sold, with everything in it—even my presents; and mamma and I lived in lodgings. And then trouble used to come about money; for poor mamma would be half distracted when none was sent her, and this dreadful neglected state went on, till mamma said she could bear it no more. Then she used to go out and give lessons; but that was terribly precarious work, and soon after she used to work with her needle.”

“And your father?” said Richard.

“Never came,” said Netta—“at least, very rarely. But I ought not to tell you more.”

“Can you not trust me?” he said, with a smile.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” cried the girl, impetuously, and she nestled closer to him. “I can trust you. It was like this:—Papa was a Roman Catholic, and mamma had always brought me up in her own Protestant religion; and by degrees I found out he had made a point of that, and had told mamma that their marriage was void, as it had only been performed according to one church. He used to write and tell her that he was free, and that if she would give up every claim on him, and promise to write to that effect, he would settle a regular income upon her.”

“And your mamma?”

“I heard her say once to herself that it would be disgracing me, and that she would sooner we starved. That is why we have worked so hard, and had to live in such dreadful places,” said the girl, shuddering.

“My poor child!” he said, tenderly. “Yours has been a hard life, and you so delicate.”

“I shall grow strong now,” she said, half shyly; “but why do you call me child?”

She looked up in his face with a smile, half playful, half tender—a look that made him shiver.

“You are not cross with me?” she said, gazing at him piteously.

“Cross? No,” he said, gently.

And he once more took her hand, trying hard to begin that which he had brought her there to tell, but as far off as ever. At the end of a minute, though, she gave him the opportunity, by saying naïvely—

“You have never told me anything about yourself. Mamma wondered what you were—so different to everybody we meet.”

“Let me tell you, Netta,” he said, earnestly. “And promise me this—that we are still to be great friends.”

She looked at him wonderingly.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Why should we not be? You have always been so kind.”

He paused for a moment or two; and then, there in the calm of that shadowy wood, with the sunbeams coming like golden arrows through the leafy boughs, and the distant twitter of some bird for interruption, he told her of his own life and troubles, watching her bright, animated face as she listened eagerly, sometimes laying her hand confidingly upon his arm, till his tale approached the chapters of his love; and now, impassioned in his earnestness, he half forgot the listener at his side, till, in the midst of his declaration of love and trust and fidelity to Valentina Rea, he became aware of a faint sigh, and he had just time to catch the poor girl as she was slipping from the tree trunk to the ground.

“Poor child!” he said, raising her in his arms, gazing in the pale face, and kissing her forehead. “It was a cruel kindness, for Heaven knows I never thought of this.”

He sat holding her for a few moments, as animation came slowly back, till at last her eyes opened, looking wonderingly in his; and then, as recollection returned, she put up her two hands as if in prayer, and said, piteously—

“Take me home—please, take me home.”

“Netta, my child,” cried Richard, sinking at her feet, “recollect your promise—that we were to be friends. I have hurt you—I have wounded you. I call God to witness that I never meant it!”

A sad smile quivered for a moment on her poor white lips, as he kissed her hands again and again; and then, as the full reality of all she had heard came upon her, she uttered a low, heart-breaking wail, and sank upon the ground amidst the ferns and grass, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud.

“My God, what have I done?” exclaimed Richard, hoarsely. “Netta, my child, I tried to be kind to you, and it has all turned to gall and bitterness. For Heaven’s sake, tell me you forgive me—that you do not think me base and cruel. Netta, pray—pray speak to me.”

She dropped her hands in her lap, and raised her blank white face to his.

“You believe me?” he cried, hoarsely.

“Yes, yes,” she said, piteously. “It was my fault. I thought—I thought—”

“Hush, my poor darling!” he whispered, “I know what you would say. I should have known better.”

“No,” she said, sweetly, and her trembling voice was so piteous that the tears rose to the strong man’s eyes. “It was I who should have known better, Richard—I, who have only a few short months to stay on earth.”

“Netta!” he cried, and his voice was wild and strange.

“Yes, it is true,” she said, simply—“it is quite true; but you came like sunshine to my poor dark life, and I could not help it—I thought you loved me.”

“And I do, my child, dearly, as I would a sister!” he exclaimed, passionately, as he raised her up, and kissed her forehead. “Netta, I would have given my right hand sooner than have caused you pain.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” she said, softly, extricating herself from his arms; “I should have known better. Take me home—take me home!”

She caught at his arm after trying to walk alone, and looked pitifully in his face.

“You see,” she whispered, “it was a dream—a dream; but so bright, and now—”

She reeled, and would have fallen but for the strong arm flung round her; and Richard held her for a few moments till she recovered.

“Richard,” she whispered, sadly, “forgive me if I was unmaidenly and bold; but it seemed so short a time that I should be here, that I could not act as others do. But take me home—take me home.”

She seemed half fainting, and raised he handkerchief to her lips, to take it down stained with blood. Then, shuddering slightly, she turned her face to his, smile faintly, and laid one little thin hand upon his breast, before hanging almost inanimate upon his arm.

Richard uttered a groan as he raised her in his arms, and bore her rapidly into the lane, where, at the distance of a hundred yards, stood the cab, with Batty grazing comfortably, and Sam Jenkles dozing on his box.

“Taken ill—quick!” gasped Richard, as he lifted his burden into the vehicle. “Quick—London—the first doctor’s.”

The Use of Money.

That evening Frank Pratt was busily preparing himself for a City dinner, when Richard rushed panting into the room, haggard, his face covered with perspiration, and a look of despair in his eyes that frightened his friend.

“Why, Dick, old man,” he cried, catching his hands, “what is it?”

“Money, Frank—give me money—ten—twenty—fifty pounds; doctors—doctors. I’ve killed her—killed her!” he groaned.

Pratt asked no questions, but unlocking a desk, he took out and placed five crisp bank notes in his friend’s hand.

“I knew you would,” panted Richard. “God bless you, Frank! Best doctor—consumption?”

“Morley, Cavendish Square,” said Pratt, with sharp brevity.

Then waving his hand, Richard dashed from the room; while Pratt quietly sat down, half-dressed, to think it out, which meant to light his pipe.

Meanwhile his friend had rushed down, taken Sam Jenkles’s cab, which was waiting, and, as he was being driven through the streets, went over the incidents of his return—how they had called on a suburban surgeon, who had administered a styptic, and ordered them to go back very gently—how Mrs Lane had met him with a look of reproachful agony in her eyes, as he lifted out the half insensible girl, and bore her upstairs; and then, as he turned to go, after laying poor Netta on the bed, she had held out her hands to him, taking his in hers, and kissing them—so unmanning him that he had sunk upon his knees by her side, and hid his face.

He could hardly recall the rest—only that he had had to go to four doctors before he could find one ready to come to the shabby street; and when at last he had been brought to the poor girl’s bedside, he had recommended the hospital.

It was this that had sent the young man to Frank Pratt’s for money, the value of which he now thoroughly realised for the first time in his life.

The old white-haired physician came with him at once—Ratty, the horse, never once causing trouble; and Netta gave the messenger a grateful smile, as she saw the mission upon which he had been. Then, with his mind in a whirl, Richard waited to see the physician, taking him over into his own rooms, that his questions might be unheard.

“But she will recover?” said Richard, eagerly.

The old physician shook his head.

“It is but a matter of time,” he said, gravely. “I can do nothing. Quiet, change, nutritious food, are the best doctors for a case like hers. A southern climate might benefit her a little; but it would be cruelty to send her away from home, and might do more harm than good. The poor girl is in a deep decline.”

Richard was alone. What an end to the pleasant day he had projected!—one which should do his poor little neighbour good, and wherein at the same time he could quietly tell her of his position, and so stop at once any nascent idea she might have that he was seeking to win her love. How could he know, he asked himself, that matters had gone so far—that the poor child really cared for him—for him, who had not a disloyal thought to Valentina Rea; who, like the poor sufferer, lay that night wakeful, and with a weary, gnawing pain at her heart—in the one case mingled of hopeless misery, in the other tinged with bitterness, and a feeling new to her—anger against the author of her pain.

Thus the days glided by, with Netta lying dangerously ill, too weak to be moved. Richard was over a dozen times a day, asking after her health, and he had insisted upon Mrs Lane taking money for the necessities of the case. Then came a day when a fly stopped at the door; and Richard from his window, expecting to see a fresh doctor, saw a quiet-looking man step out, enter, stay a quarter of an hour, and then return; and when, an hour later, he went over himself, it was to find Mrs Lane deeply agitated, and with traces of tears upon her face; but she made no confidant of him.

At last, while he was sitting writing one day, there came a letter for him, with Frank Pratt for bearer. It had come to his chambers by post, he said, enclosed in another, asking him to forward it.

Frank went away as soon as he had delivered it, seeming troubled; and on Richard opening the note, he found these words:—

“I think it right to tell you what you have done, though no one knows that I have written. I did trust you, Richard Trevor; for I thought you a true, good man, who would be as faithful to my dear sister as she would have been to you. If any one had told me you would give her up directly for somebody else, I could have struck him. But I’ll tell you what you’ve done, for you ought to know it for your punishment: you’ve broken the heart of the dearest, sweetest sister that ever lived, and I hate you with all mine.

“Fin Rea.

“P.S.—Tiny’s very ill, almost seriously, and all through you.”

He had hardly read the note a second time, when Mrs Fiddison came in dolefully, to say that Mrs Jenkles wanted to speak to him; and upon that lady being admitted, it was to say, with a curtsey—

“If you please, sir, Mrs Lane says Miss Netta has been begging for you to be sent for, if you’d come.”

Richard rose to follow the messenger, who said, softly—

“You must be very quiet, sir, for she’s greatly changed.”

In the Square Called Russell.

There’s plenty of room in Russell Square for a walk, without the promenaders being seen by those without, either in the houses or on the pavement.

Russell Square had grown very attractive to Frank Pratt of late, and he used to smoke cigars there at all sorts of hours. He had been seen by the milk there at 6:15, railway time; Z 17 had glanced suspiciously at him at one a.m.; while the crossing-sweeper said she “knowed that there little stumpy gent by heart.”

It was one afternoon about three, though, that Pratt was sauntering along one side of the square, when he saw Vanleigh and Sir Felix go slowly up to Sir Hampton’s house; and a pang shot through the little fellow, as envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness took possession of his heart.

“Lucky beggars!” he groaned.

He felt better, though, the next minute, for the servant who answered the door had evidently said “Not at home!” card-cases had been withdrawn, and then the visitors had languidly descended the steps and continued their way.

“Lucky beggars!” said Pratt again. “Heigho! what a donkey I am to wander about here. Poor Dick, though, it’s to do him a good turn.”

He crossed the road to the railings of the garden, and as he walked there he cast a very languishing look up at the great, grim house, almost fancying he heard “Er-rum!” proceed from an open window; and if he had not said his presence there was on account of his friend, any looker-on would have vowed it was in his own interests.

He walked slowly on, thinking about Cornwall, and another visit he had projected there; of Fin Rea; about Richard and his disappointments; about his pretty neighbour; and lastly of a case he had in hand, when a little toy dog rushed amongst the shrubs inside the railings, and began snapping and barking at him with all the virulence of an old acquaintance.

“Get out, you little wretch!” thought Pratt, and then he fancied he recognised the dog.

“Why, it’s Pepine!” he mentally exclaimed.

And if any doubt remained it was solved by a voice crying—

“Naughty Pepine, come here directly!”

Then through the trees he caught a glimpse of a lavender dress gracefully draping an iron seat.

It was not the dog that made Frank Pratt flee with rapid strides, till a thought made him check his steps.

“Suppose some one else was walking there!”

In the hope that it might be possible, Pratt went slowly on, taking advantage of every break in the trees to peer anxiously through the railings, seeing, however, nothing but nursemaids in charge of naughty children, whom it was necessary to correct by screwing their arms at the sockets—a beneficial practice, no doubt, but whose good was not apparent at the time. There was a perambulator being propelled by a nursemaid reading the Family Herald, while the two children it contained were fast asleep—one hanging forward, sustained by a strap, and looking like a fat Punch in a state of congestion; the other leaning over the side, and having a red place ground in its ear by the perambulator wheel. Farther on there were more children, playing alone at throwing dirt, their protectress being engaged in a flirtation with a butcher in blue with a round, bullet head, whose well-oiled hair shone in the afternoon sun.

Pratt walked on, getting hopeless as he progressed, for soon he would come within range of Pepine, and perhaps be discovered when—What was that?

A sharp, short little cough that could be no other than Fin’s; and there, through the trees, were she and her sister, Tiny resting on Fin’s arm, and walking very slowly.

There was an opening in the shrubs farther on; and hurrying to this, though it was dangerously near Pepine and Aunt Matty, Pratt waited the coming of the sisters.

Alas, for human hopes!—they had turned back, and he had to hurry after them for some distance before he could find an opening sufficiently clear to display his figure, when he hazarded a cough; and on Fin looking sharply round, he followed it up with a “How d’ye do, Miss Rea?”

“It’s Mr Pratt!” he heard Fin whisper. And then came back a quiet response.

“Do you always walk like this—within prison bars?” said Pratt, walking on parallel with them.

“It can’t be prison when one holds the keys, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, sharply.

“You’ll let me shake hands?” he said, after a pause. “I never see you now.”

“How can you?” said Fin, sharply, “when you never call.”

“What was the use of my calling, when your servant could only speak me one speech?” said Pratt.

“And pray, what was that?” said Fin, with her nose in the air. “Not at home.”

Fin gave her foot a little stamp on the gravel, and whispered to her sister. By this time they had reached the gate, just as a nursemaid unlocked it to pass through with her charge.

“Thanks,” said Pratt, quietly. And, walking in, he was the next moment with Fin and her sister; the former looking defiant, and half drawing back her hand, the latter so pale and ill that, forgetting Fin, Pratt took both her hands affectionately, as, with a husky voice, he exclaimed—

“My dear Miss Rea, I didn’t know you had been so ill.”

Tiny answered with a gentle smile; and Fin, who had been setting up all the thorns about her, ready to tear and lacerate this intruder, now looked quite humid of eye, and shook hands warmly.

“I—I didn’t know you’d be so glad to see me,” said Pratt, flushing with pleasure.

“I didn’t say I was,” said Fin, archly.

“You looked so,” it was on Pratt’s lips to say; but he checked it, and they strolled on—away from Aunt Matty, after Fin had mischievously proposed that Pratt should go and see her—till Tiny complained of fatigue and sat down.

Here was an opportunity not to be lost; and, after a little solicitation, Fin consented to leave her sister and walk on, conditionally that they kept in sight.

Pratt, on the strength of his prosperity, had determined to sound his little companion; but before they had gone a dozen yards, he found that his own affairs were to be of no account.

“What’s become of that wretch of a friend of yours?” said Fin, sharply.

“Do you mean Sir Felix Landells?” said Pratt, borrowing a shaft from her own quiver.

“No, I don’t,” said Fin, flushing scarlet, “nor any such silly donkey, I mean—”

Pratt would have gone down on his knees in the gravel, only there was a nursemaid close by, and a big, fat child was sucking its thumb, and staring at them; but he burst out, in a husky voice—

“Oh, Miss Rea—Finetta—pray, pray say that again.”

“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” said Fin, sharply, and becoming more red—“why should I?”

“Because it makes me so happy,” said Pratt. “I thought it was to be he.”

“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Fin. “A nice feeling of respect you must have for me, to couple me with that scented dandy.”

“Finetta, don’t be hard upon me,” gasped Pratt—“I can’t talk now. If I had you in a witness-box I could go ahead, but I feel now as if I were going to lose my case.”

“What stuff are you talking?” said Fin, whose breast was panting.

“I was trying to tell you that I loved you with my whole heart,” said Pratt, earnestly; “even as I learned to love you down in Cornwall, when I was such a poor, miserable beggar that I wouldn’t have told you for the world.”

“And now you’re in Jumbles versus Hankey, and the great cotton case.”

“Why, how did you know?” cried Pratt.

“I always read the law reports in the Times” said Fin, demurely.

Pratt choked; he felt blind; then the railings seemed to be dancing with the trees, and the little children to be transformed into cherubs, attended by angels, with triumphant perambulating cars. He felt as if he wanted to do something frantic; and it was a minute before he came to himself, and could see that the tears were running down Fin’s cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Finetta—Fin—may I call you Fin?—dearest Fin, say I may.”

“No, no, no,” jerked out Fin, hysterically—“you mustn’t do anything of the kind. Pa wouldn’t approve, and Aunt Matty hates you, and—and—and I’m nearly sure I do.”

“Go on hating me like this, then,” cried Pratt, rapturously. “Oh, darling, you’ve made me so happy!”

“I haven’t,” protested Fin, “and I can’t, and I won’t. How can I, when poor darling Tiny has been so treated by that odious wretch?”

“What—Vanleigh?”

“No, you know what I mean; but he’s an odious wretch, too. It’s abominable. Mr Trevor ought to be hung.”

“Why?” said Pratt.

“Why?” echoed Fin. “Hasn’t he jilted my poor darling, and behaved cruelly to her, after winning her heart, just as all men do?”

“No,” said Pratt, stoutly.

“What!” cried Fin, “didn’t I see him out with her himself, and hasn’t somebody been at our house dropping hints about it—unwillingly, of course—and made pa delighted, and Aunt Matty malicious? while poor mamma has done nothing but cry, because she liked and believed in your nice friend. As to poor Tiny, she was dangerously ill for a time.”

“I don’t care,” said Pratt, vehemently; and he arranged an imaginary wig, and waved some non-existent papers in the air. “Matters may be against my client—I mean Dick; but I’ll stake my life on his honour. I say Richard Trevor—Lloyd, as he calls himself now—is a true man of honour. Look how he gave up the estate! See how he yielded his pretensions to Miss Rea’s hand! And do you dare to tell me that this is a man who would stoop to a flirtation, or worse, when he owns to being cut up by the loss he has sustained? I say it’s impossible, and that the person who would dare to charge my cli—friend, Richard Trevor, alias Lloyd, with such duplicity is—”

“What?” said Fin, sharply. That one little word went through Frank Pratt. He cooled on the instant, the flush of excitement passed away, and, in a crestfallen manner, he groaned—

“That’s just like me. What a fool I am! Now you’ll be cross with me.”

“No, I shan’t,” said Fin, demurely. “I like it. It’s nice of you to stand up for your friend. I like a man to be a trump.”

Fin’s face was like scarlet as soon as she made this admission; and to qualify it, she hurriedly exclaimed—

“You may like him if you please; but till I see him cleared I shall hate him bitterly; and—and—and—I don’t know how he ought to be punished. He’ll be punished enough, though, by losing my sweet sister. Why didn’t you like her, instead of some one else?” she said, archly.

“Don’t ask me,” said Pratt. “I’m so happy, I shall do something foolish.”

“You haven’t anything to be happy about,” said Fin; “for I’m going to devote myself to Tiny, and if they force her into this hateful marriage, I mean to be a nun.”

“What marriage?” said Pratt.

“Why, with that Bluebeard of a captain.”

“And are they pushing that on?”

“Yes,” said Fin, “and it’s abominable. It will kill her.”

“No, it won’t!” said Pratt, coolly.

“Then you’re a wretch!” said Fin, with flashing eyes. “I say it will.”

“And I say it won’t,” said Pratt; “because it must never come off.”

Fin stared at him.

“I’ll see to that,” said Pratt, confidently. “I have a friend busy about Master Captain Vanleigh. But, oh!” he exclaimed, as the recollection of one Barnard, solicitor, brought up a gentleman of the name of Mervyn—“but, oh! I say, tell me this, Fin—Mr Mervyn—you know—there wasn’t ever—anything—eh?”

“Oh, you goose!” cried Fin, stamping her foot. “Mr Mervyn—dear Mr Mervyn, of all people in the world!—who used to treat us like as if we were his little girls. Oh, Mr Pratt, I did think you had some sense in your head.”

“Oh no,” said Pratt, solemnly; “never—not a morsel.”

Then they looked at one another, and laughed; but only for Fin to turn preternaturally serious.

“I must go back to Tiny now,” she said.

“But when shall I see you again?” urged Pratt.

“Perhaps never,” said Fin—“unless you can come about once a week, on a Friday afternoon, here in the square, and tell me some news that will do poor Tiny good.”

“I may come and say good-bye to her, then?” said Pratt, getting hold for a moment of the little half-withdrawn hand.

“Yes, if you like. No—here’s Aunt Matty.”

In fact her herald approached in the shape of Pepine, who no sooner caught sight of the retreating form of Pratt, than he made a dash at him, chasing him ignominiously to the gate, where he stood barking long after his quarry had gone. But Pepine was no gainer in the end, for during the next week Fin never neglected an opportunity of administering to him a furtive thump.

Netta’s Appeal.

Richard felt very bitter as he followed Mrs Jenkles across the road. Mingled with pity for the poor girl he was about to visit, there was a sense of resentment; for she seemed to have been the cause of pain and sorrow to one he dearly loved. And yet, how innocent and gentle she was—how unlike any one he had met before! Pity may or may not be akin to love, but certainly it was very strong in Richard’s breast at the present moment.

“If you’ll step in the kitchen just a moment, sir, I’ll see if you can go up,” said Mrs Jenkles, smoothing her apron.

She ushered the visitor into the clean, bright place, where Sam was seated by the fireside, looking very hard at his pipe.

“How do, sir, how do?” he said. “Take a cheer, sir.”

“Thanks, no, Sam, I’ll stand,” said Richard, quietly. “But where’s your pipe?”

“There it hangs, sir,” said Sam, folding his arms and looking at it.

“No tobacco?”

“Plenty, sir,” said Sam; “but I’ve put the pipe out at home, sir: cos why? It sets that poor gal a-coughing, and that spoils it. It’s a wonder, aint it, as doctors can’t do more?”

Further converse was cut short by the entrance of Mrs Jenkles, who beckoned their visitor to come, and he followed her upstairs to the neat little front room, where a pang shot through Richard as he saw the change. Netta was half lying on a couch, propped up by pillows, and beside her, on a table, were the two plants he had sent across, evidently carefully tended,—not a withered leaf to be seen amongst their luxuriant foliage, while she who had made them her care lay there, white, shrunken, and so changed.

There was a bright smile of pleasure flickering about her lips, and a ray of gladness flashing from her eyes, as she held out her hands to him—hands that he caught in his and kissed, as he sank on his knees by her side.

“My poor girl!” he exclaimed, huskily, “is it so bad as this?”

“I’m so glad you are come,” she whispered; and then she lay gazing at him, as if her very soul were passing from her eyes to his. “I’ve longed and prayed so for this. I thought once that it wasn’t to be—that I was never to see you again; but I’m better now.”

“Better—yes; and you’ll soon grow strong and well again.”

“Do you think so?” she said, looking at him wistfully, while an incredulous smile was upon her lips. “But don’t let’s talk of that. Sit down by me, where I can see you—I’ve so much to say.”

He drew a chair to her side, and, as he did so, he saw that they were alone, for Mrs Lane had gone out softly directly he had entered. Then sitting down, the note which he had received fell from his pocket, and lay half beneath the couch.

“You are not angry with me for sending for you?” said the girl, piteously. “Why do you frown?”

“Did I frown?” he said, gently. “It was only a passing thought. There, now, let’s have a quiet, long chat.”

“Yes,” she said, eagerly. “I want to thank you for being so kind to us—for the fruit and flowers, and all you have done for mamma. As for me,” she continued, laying her hand in his, “I shall be so ungrateful.”

“No, no, I cannot believe that.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling, “you have done so much to make me well, and in return I shall die.”

“My dear child, you must not talk like this,” exclaimed Richard, with an involuntary shiver. “You must get well and strong again.”

She shook her head sadly, and then lay gazing up into his eyes.

“Netta,” he said, gently, “you have thought a great deal about me since you have been ill.”

“Yes—oh yes,” she said.

“Looking back, then, do you blame me—do you think I was cruel, and led you on to think I loved you?”

“No,” she said, and her hand closed almost convulsively on his. “I don’t think so now. I have thought it all over, and it was my folly and weakness. I seem to have grown old since then, and to have become so much wiser. That’s all past now; but I want you to tell me, first, that you did not think me forward then, and strange.”

“My child,” said Richard, “I have felt that the blame has been on my side, and it has caused me many a pang.”

“But it is all past now,” said Netta, eagerly. “I know—I can see plainly enough. You knew better how ill I was than I did, and pitied and were very sorry for me; and it seemed so sweet to me that—that I could not help watching for you—feeling glad when you came. But that’s all past now, and you said we could be friends.”

“Indeed, yes,” he said, gazing into the great, brilliant eyes; but in a sad, dreamy way, for he could read but too plainly the coming end.

“And you forgive me—quite forgive me?” she murmured.

“My poor child, I have nothing to forgive,” he said, leaning over and kissing her forehead.

“Thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes; and she lay silent for a few moments. Then, brightening, she said, “Now tell me again about her.”

He remained silent, and she repeated her request—almost impatiently.

“Tell me her name.”

He looked at her wonderingly for a few moments, before he answered, softly—

“Valentina.”

“Valentina,” said Netta, smiling. “Yes, a pretty name—Valentina. I shall love it as I love her.”

“You love her?”

“Yes, though I have never seen her. Did you not tell me that she loved you? You think me strange,” she continued, smiling in his face, “but I am not. Why, if you could have loved me, I could not have stayed, and you would have been unhappy. It is for the best, and I shall know that you are content.”

“Netta,” said Richard, hoarsely, “you must not talk like this.”

“Why not?” she said, wonderingly. “All the trouble seems past to me. Now I know you feel for me—I believe you like me. Everybody seems kind to me now, and that foolish little dream has quite passed away. Come, tell me about her. I should like to know her. Would she come to see me—if she knew that I was dying?”

“Yes, I feel sure she would, if she knew all,” said Richard, sadly. “She is everything that is gentle and good, and would have loved you dearly, Netta. You may meet yet.”

“I should like to see her,” said the girl, enthusiastically, “that I might tell her how noble and good you are. There, you see how I make an idol of my brother Richard.”

He started, and looked hard at her.

“Yes,” she said, “brother Richard—you were behaving like a dear brother to me, only I could not understand. I never had a brother, but you will be one to me still. You will not stay away, Richard, even if I love you, for it is a chastened love now—one that I need not feel ashamed to own. You’ll not stay away, but come and sit with me, and read to me, as you did before?”

He shook his head sadly.

“Yes—yes, you will come,” she cried, putting her hands together. “I shall have something to live for then—a little longer—and we can sit and talk of her—of Valentina. If you stay away—I—I—shall—die.”

It was no fiction of the lips, and Richard knew it, as her voice grew weaker, and she seemed to droop. The mark was upon her face, telling that she was one of those soon to fall. Her pitiful appeal went to his heart; and raising her in his arms, he pillowed her head upon his shoulder, and kissed her quivering, pallid lips, as in a voice broken with emotion he muttered in the familiar old scriptural words—

“God do so to me, and more also, my poor stricken lamb, if I do not try and smooth your poor, thorny path.”

Once, and once only, did her poor, thin lips respond to his caress. Then, her transparent, white hand was passed lightly over his forehead; her eyes closed, and with a faint sigh of content, she lay quite still, her fluttering breath telling, at the end of a few minutes, that she had, thoroughly exhausted, fallen asleep.

Waiting for News.

The weeks went on, and glided into months. Frank Pratt had been as punctual as the clock in his visits to Russell Square, but his love matters made no progress. Unless he had something to communicate affecting Tiny, Fin would hardly stay a minute. Then, too, at times, there were checks caused by the presence of Aunt Matty, when Pratt would return to his chambers disconsolate, and yet happy at having had a glimpse of the darling of his heart.

Once, when he had entered strongly into his affairs, and spoke of trying to renew his acquaintance in a straightforward way with the family—

“Because I should not be ashamed to meet Sir Hampton now,” he said.

Fin responded coolly—

“I’m afraid I hate you very much, Mr Pratt.”

“Hate me! Why?” he exclaimed.

“Because you’re so unfeeling.”

“Unfeeling?”

“You think so much of yourself, and your silly love nonsense, when poor Tiny is persecuted and tortured by that hateful Vanleigh, who only wants her money. I believe he’d ill-treat her before they’d been married a month. He looks like a wife-beater.”

“But they never persecute you,” said Pratt.

“Don’t they? Why, only this morning pa told me that he should expect me to receive Sir Felix Landells; while ma cried, and Aunt Matty nodded her head approvingly.”

“And—and what did you say?” cried Pratt.

“I gave Pepine a vicious kick, and walked out of the room. And now, sir, if you please, how about all your fine promises? What have you done all these months? Have you got that wicked wretch Trevor back his property? Come, speak!”

“No,” said Pratt, “I went down on Tuesday to see how things were, and Master Humphrey seems settling down comfortably enough. Quite the country squire.”

“Serve Richard Trevor right,” said Fin. “And now, about that girl? Does he go to see her still?”

Pratt was silent.

“How dare you stand there like that, Frank, and not answer me?” cried Fin.

“Call me Frank again, darling, and I’ll say anything you wish.”

“I won’t,” said Fin. “You shall tell me without.”

“I don’t like telling tales about poor Dick,” said Pratt.

“If you care for me, sir, it’s your duty to tell me the honest truth about everything. Am I less than Richard Trevor?”

Bodily, of course, she was; but as she meant in his regards, he said she was all the world to him.

“Now, then,” said Fin, “does he go to see that girl now?”

“Yes,” said Pratt; “but I’m sure it’s all in innocence. The poor girl is in a dying state. I went to see her with him once, and a sweeter creature you never saw.”

“Then she has captivated you, too?” cried Fin, viciously.

“Oh, come—I say!” exclaimed Pratt. “Fin, that goes right to my heart.”

“And now about Vanleigh. You’ve boasted over and over again that you could produce something which would put a stop to his pretensions—where is it?”

“You are so hard on a poor fellow,” said Pratt. “I am trying my best, and I feel quite sure that he has no right to pretend to the hand of your sister; but then, you know, before one makes such a charge, there must be good personal and documentary evidence.”

“Well,” exclaimed Pin, “and where is it?”

“I haven’t got it yet,” said Pratt; “but I have tried very, very hard. I shall succeed, though, yet, I know.”

“And while you are succeeding, poor Tiny is to be sacrificed?”

“Oh no; not so bad as that. I don’t despair of seeing Dick back at Penreife, and your dear sister its mistress.”

“Then I do,” cried Pin, bitterly; “for she’s drifting into a state of melancholy, and will let them persuade her to do what they wish. She thinks Richard has given her up, and deceived her; and soon she won’t care whether she lives or dies.”

“But, Fin—” said Pratt.

“Miss Rea, if you please, Mr Pratt,” said the girl, formally.

“Don’t be hard on me,” he pleaded. “I’m trying my best, and if I can only get some one to speak, I shall have the whole thing at my finger’s ends.”

“Then the sooner you do the better,” said Fin, sharply. “Good-bye.”

“One moment, dear,” whispered Pratt.

“Well, what is it?” said Fin.

“Give me one kind look, you beautiful little darling,” whispered Pratt.

Fin made a grimace, and then, as if in spite of herself, her bright eyes beamed on him for a moment ere she withdrew them.

“And now tell me this,” whispered Pratt; “if they say any more to you about Landells, or if he speaks to you, you’ll—you’ll—you’ll—”

“There, good-bye!” cried Fin. “How can you be such a goose? I haven’t patience with you—good-bye.”

There was a look accompanying that good-bye that sent a thrill through Frank Pratt, and he went back to his musty briefs as light as if treading on air.

On reaching his chambers, though, it was to find Barnard, the solicitor, waiting for him.

“Well, what news?” was Pratt’s greeting.

“Nothing more,” was the reply. “I’ve sent, and I’ve been myself. That this Vanleigh has compromised himself in some way, so that his marriage is impossible, I feel convinced; but a solution of the matter can only come from one pair of lips.”

“Well?”

“And they remain obstinately silent.”

A Visit.

And the months glided on. Winter came, and in its turn gave place to the promise of spring; that came, though, with its harsh eastern blasts that threatened to extinguish the frail lamp of life still burning opposite Richard’s rooms.

He had responded to Pin’s letter soon after its receipt, but he had heard no more. His attempts at obtaining an engagement had proved failures still; and so he had accepted his fate, and spent his time reading hard, his sole pleasures being a visit across the road, or a dinner with Frank Pratt.

Of the acts of the Rea family he knew little, save that they had wintered in Cornwall, from which a letter came occasionally from Humphrey or Mr Mervyn, both sent to the care of Frank Pratt, Esq.; and in his, Humphrey had twice over expressed a wish to divide the property with his old companion.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t do so,” Pratt had said. “It’s Quixotic not to accept his offer.”

“Aut Caesar, aut nullus,” was Richard’s reply. “No, Franky, I’m too proud. I could never go to Cornwall again but as master. Those days are gone.”

“But, Dick, old man!”

“My dear Franky,” said Richard, dropping something of the misanthropical bitterness that had come over him of late, “I am quite content as I am—content to wait; some of these days a chance will turn up. I’ll abide my time.”

“He’s gone back to her,” said Pratt, shaking his head. “Poor old Dick!—some people would misjudge him cruelly. Well, time will show.”

Pratt was quite right, Richard had gone back to Netta; for it promised to be a fine afternoon, and on such days it had grown to be his custom to devote the few shillings he could spare from his scanty income to the payment of Sam Jenkles.

It was so this day. Sam was at the door by two, with the old horse brushed up, and every worn buckle shining. Then Richard would go upstairs, to find Netta with a bright spot in each cheek, and an eager welcome in her eye. She had gained ground during the autumn, but in the winter it had all been lost; and now the time had come when Richard raised her in his arms, and had to carry her—grown so light—down to the cab, wherein he tenderly placed her, and took her for one of the drives of which she was never weary.

It seemed a strange taste, but her desire was always for the same spot—the little wood where the fallen tree was lying. Here, on sunny days, she would sit for an hour, while he read to her; and then the quiet, slow journey was taken back, when the little ceremony had to be gone through in reverse, there was a grateful pressure of the hand, and Richard took his leave.

Twenty or thirty times was this little excursion made, and always with a foreboding on Richard’s part that it was to be the last. But still she lingered, brightening with the balmy April weather that came by fits, and then fading again under the chilling blasts.

By some means Netta had informed herself of the return of the Rea family to town for the season, and she prepared to execute a little plan that had been long deferred. She had possessed herself of the note sent by Fin—the note which Richard had let fall. Probably Mrs Jenkles was the bearer of her messages, and had obtained the information she required. Suffice it that Tiny Rea, now somewhat recovered, but still pale and dejected, received one morning a note, which she read, and then placed in her mother’s hands.

It was as follows:—

“I have heard so often of your beauty, goodness, and your many acts of kindness, that I have been tempted to ask you to come once and see me before I pass away. I would say pray come, but I think your gentle heart will listen to my simple appeal. Come to me, and say good-bye.

“Netta Lane.”

Here followed the address.

“It’s some poor creature in great distress, my dear, who has heard of us. We’ll go this afternoon, and take her something.”

“Would you go, mamma?” faltered Tiny, whose heart told her whom the letter was from.

“Certainly, my dear. I shouldn’t rest to-night if I’d left such an appeal as that unanswered, let alone enjoy our At Home; though there isn’t much enjoyment to be got out of those affairs, with everybody drinking tea on the stairs, and ten times as many people as we’ve room for.”

“Then you would go, mamma?”

“Certainly, darling. It’s an awkward time for her to send, but we’ll go; and oh, my darling, pray, pray try and look bright. You make me wretched.”

“I do—I will try, mamma!” exclaimed Tiny, suppressing a sob. “But tell me, is Captain Vanleigh going to be here to-night?”

“I—I was obliged to send him an invitation, my darling,” said Lady Rea, pitifully. “Your papa stood at my side while I wrote it. If—if—he—Mr Trevor had stood firm to you, they should have cut me in pieces before I’d have done it; but as it is, what can I do?”

Tiny made no reply; and directly after luncheon the carriage came round, and, being left at the corner of the narrow street, Lady Rea and her daughter made their way on foot to the house of Mrs Jenkles.

Mrs Lane met them, and said it was her daughter’s wish to see Miss Rea alone, if she would condescend to go up and see her; and a minute after, with a mist floating before her eyes, and a singing in her ears, Tiny stood near Netta’s couch, as the poor girl lay, with clasped fingers, gazing up at the graceful, fashionably-dressed girl.

Tiny maintained a haughty silence for a few minutes. This was the girl for whom she had been forsaken. She felt sure of it. How could it be otherwise? But the letter said that she was dying. Fin had told her of Pratt’s assurances; and, as the mist cleared away, so melted the hauteur, for she could not look upon the soft, sweet face before her with anger; and if he loved her, should not she do the same? The two girls gazed in each other’s eyes for a few moments, and then, with a smile, Netta held out one hand.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I have wanted to see you for months, and I was afraid I should not live long enough. Do you know why?”

“No—I cannot tell,” said Tiny, in a choking voice; for she, too, could see for herself the truth of what had been said.

“I wanted to see the beautiful girl that he loves—her of whom he has so often talked—and to tell you that you have misjudged him, if you think as your sister thinks in the letter she sent.”

“Letter?” exclaimed Tiny.

“Yes, this,” said the girl, producing one from her bosom. “Oh, Miss Rea, how can you slight his noble love? If you only knew! You both misjudge him. Look at me, dear. I am here now; perhaps to-morrow, or the next day, I shall be gone. But I do not think I could have died without seeing you face to face, and telling you that he has been true, and noble, and faithful to you. You might not have believed me if I had been different; but now, ready to go away, you know mine are true words, when I tell you Richard Lloyd has been to me as a brother.”

“Oh, I believe, I believe!” sobbed Tiny, sinking on her knees beside the couch. “But it is too late—too late!”

“No, no,” whispered Netta, “it is not too late. Make him happy. Send to him to come to you. He is too proud and poor to come himself. But I know his story: how he lost all through being so honourable and good. Tiny—you see I know your name; why, he has described you to me so often that I should have known you—send for him, and bless him. You could not love such a one as he too well.”

“Too late!” sobbed Tiny. “It is too late.”

She started up, and turned as if to go; but only to push her hair back from her forehead, lean over Netta’s couch and kiss her, as a pair of thin, weak arms closed round her neck. Then, tearing herself away, she hurried from the house with Lady Rea, who vainly questioned her as to the cause of her agitation.

“I asked the woman, who is very ladylike, my dear, but she said her daughter would explain; so I waited till you came down; and now,” said the little ruffled dame, “you do nothing but cry.”

“Don’t ask me now, mamma, dear,” sobbed Tiny, covering her face with her hands. “Another time I’ll tell you all.”

“Very well, my darling,” said Lady Rea, resignedly. “But, pray, try now and look brighter. Papa will be terribly put out if he finds you so; for he said you told him yesterday you would do as he wished about Captain Vanleigh, and Aunt Matty has been quite affectionate to me ever since.”

“Mamma, dear, do you think it will make you happier?”

“I don’t know, my dear,” said Lady Rea. “I blame myself sometimes for not being more determined; but I’m obliged to own that Captain Vanleigh has been very patient, and he must care for you.”

Tiny shuddered again, and her sobs became so violent that Lady Rea drew up the carriage window, for a few minutes being quite alarmed. At length, though, the poor girl grew calm, and seemed to make an effort over herself as they neared home, just as Fin crossed the road from the square garden, looking as innocent as if she had not had half an hour’s talk with Frank Pratt.

At Home.

“And what do you mean to do, Tiny?” said Fin, as she stood by her sister’s side, dressed for the evening. “Papa told me about it, and nearly boxed my ears because I said it was a shame; and he ended by saying if I did not follow your example, and listen to Sir Felix, he would keep me on bread and water; and then I laughed out loud, and he left the room in a fury. How could you be so weak?”

“I don’t know,” faltered Tiny, “only that I was very miserable. Constant dropping will wear a stone.”

“Then the stone must be very soft. Withdraw your promise,” cried Fin. “Do as I do. I’ll be as obedient a child as I can, but I will not be married against my will.”

“Please, Miss, somebody’s downstairs already,” said their maid, entering the room. “And Edward says Sir Hampton’s in a towering passion because there was no one but him in the drawing-room.”

“Isn’t mamma there?” cried Fin.

“No, Miss, her ladyship was dressed, and going down; but her primrose satin came undone—give way at the hooks and eyes—and she had to go back to change it.”

“Tell Edward to say we’ll be down in a moment,” said Fin.

Hurrying the girl out of the room, she turned to Tiny, who stood looking pale and stunned.

“It wasn’t true, Fin!” she said, pitifully, as her face began to work. “He wasn’t deceitful. I saw her to-day.”

“Saw whom?” exclaimed Fin, in wonder.

“That poor girl. She sent for me—she is dying; and oh, Fin, darling, I feel as if my heart would break!”

She sank sobbing on her sister’s shoulder, sadly disarranging poor Fin’s dress; but that was forgotten as, with eager haste, the little maiden tried hard to soothe and comfort her.

“If ma won’t fight for you, Tiny, I will,” she cried, impetuously. “I declare its too bad. I don’t half know what you are talking about; but Frank—I mean Mr Pratt, always sticks up for his friend. Ugh! I wish I’d been near when that wicked Mrs Lloyd changed the babies, I’d have knocked her head off.”

At this moment there was a knock at the bedroom door.

“Coming—coming—coming—coming!” said Fin, in a crescendo,

Then running to the door, she opened it once more to the maid.

“Please, Miss—”

“Bother—bother—bother!” cried Fin. “Don’t you see Miss Rea’s poorly? Go and say we’ll be down soon.”

“But, please, Miss, Sir Hampton sent Edward for me, and jumped on me horrid. He said it was my fault you weren’t dressed, and your dear ma looks quite frightened with the people coming.”

“Go and say we’ll come down as soon as my sister’s better—there!”

She half pushed the girl from the room, and then turned to Tiny.

“Now, look here, Tiny—you’re very fond of that wicked Richard Trevor, bad as he’s behaved to you.”

Tiny gave her a pitiful look.

“Then I say, once for all, it would be a piece of horrible wickedness for you to let papa frighten you into this engagement. Now, tell me directly how it was. You ought to have told me before. If you had been a good, wise sister, you would.”

“Oh, Tin, I could not tell you!” said Tiny, plaintively. “You had just come in from the square, and looked so happy about—”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—I hate him; and I won’t listen to him any more till you are happy,” burst out Fin.

Tiny smiled.

“Papa sent for me into his study, and took my hand, and sat down by me. He was so gentle and kind. He said he wanted to see us both settled in a position which should give us the entrée into good society; for he said that, after all, he knew well enough people did not care for him, as he’d been a tradesman.”

Fin gave her head a jerk.

“He told me he had given way about—about—”

“Yes, yes—go on—I know,” said Tin.

“And that if he had not lost his position he should never have opposed the match; but as that was all over, he begged me to consent to receive Captain Vanleigh’s attentions. And, oh, Fin, he knew about the attentions to that poor girl, and told me of it.”

“Then some spiteful spy must have told him that,” cried Fin. “Oh, Aunt Matty.”

“He talked to me for an hour, Fin, so kindly all the time—said it would be for the best, and that it would make him happy and me too, he was sure; and at last I gave way. For oh, Fin, darling, I had no hope yesterday—nothing, I felt, to live for; and I thought that if I could make him satisfied, and dear ma happy, that was all I need care to do.”

“Then you were a wicked, weak little coward,” said Fin, “I’d have died sooner than given way. There, here they are again for us; and now I suppose we are to meet those people to-night.”

“Yes; papa said he should write to Captain Vanleigh.”

“And Sir Felix, of course. Madame, your humble servant—Finetta, Lady Landells. There, we’re coming down now. Miss Rea is better,” she said, in answer to a knock at the door.

Tiny turned to the glass, and smoothed her hair, while Fin went and stood behind her, holding her waist.

“What are you going to do?” she said, sharply.

Tiny shook her head.

“Masterly inactivity—that’s the thing,” cried Fin. “Do nothing; let things drift, same as I do. It can’t go on, I’m sure it can’t. There, let’s go down, for poor dear mamma’s sake, and I’ll be buffer all the evening. Whenever Bluebeard comes near you, I’ll get between, and we’ll have a long talk to-morrow.”

The two girls went down, to find many of the visitors arrived; and the news of Tiny’s indisposition having spread, she was surrounded directly with kind inquirers. But she hardly heard a word that was said to her, for her timid eyes were wandering round the room, to see if the object of her dread had arrived; and then, noticing his absence, she sank back in a fauteuil with a sigh of relief.

Fin mounted guard by her side, and snubbed the down off the wings of several butterflies who came fluttering about them, her little lips tightening into a thin smile as Sir Felix and Vanleigh were announced.

Directly they had freed themselves from their host and hostess, they made their way to the corner of the great drawing-room, now ablaze with gas and candles, where the sisters were together; and, in spite of Fin’s diplomacy, she found Vanleigh too much for her, as he quietly put aside her vicious little thrusts, and ended by interposing himself between her and Tiny—Fin being carried off by Sir Felix, whose face wore quite a puzzled expression, so verbally nettled was his little prize.

Aunt Matty met them, carrying with her a halo of lavender wherever she went, and exhaling the sad fragrance in every direction as she moved. Pepine was poorly in bed, so that his mistress was able to devote the whole of her attention to those with whom she came in contact.

“Ah, Sir Felix!” she exclaimed, “and so you’ve captured my saucy little bird of a niece. You’ll have to clip her wings some day,” she continued, playfully.

As she spoke she tapped Fin on each shoulder—from whence the imaginary wings doubtless sprang—with her fan, while aunt and niece gazed in each other’s eyes.

“Yes, exactly,” said Sir Felix, smiling feebly.

But somehow he did not feel comfortable, and in spite of his after-efforts to lead Fin into conversation, he failed.

The end of it was that the little maid telegraphed to another admirer, and had herself carried back to where she had left her sister; but Tiny was gone.

In fact, as soon as they were left alone, Vanleigh had quietly offered his arm.

“This room is too hot for you, Valentina,” he said. “Let me take you out of the crowd.”

“Masterly inactivity,” Fin had said, and the words seemed to ring in Tiny’s ears, as, unable to refuse, she suffered herself to be led through the crowded rooms, past Lady Rea, who nodded and smiled—past Aunt Matty, who came up, tapped the Captain on the middle shirt stud with her fan, and pinched her niece’s cheek, as she smiled at her like a wintry apple—past Sir Hampton, who came behind her, and whispered, a faint “Er-rum.”

“Thank you, Tiny: good girl!”—out on to the great broad staircase, now a complete conservatory of exotics where the air was perfectly cool by comparison; and there Vanleigh found her a seat smiling occasionally at the new-comers who kept thronging upstairs to where Lady Rea was receiving—Sir Hampton now keeping an eye upon the couple, a flight of stain below him, and nodding encouragement whenever his eyes met those of his child.

“I received Sir Hampton’s note yesterday,” said Vanleigh at last, speaking slowly, and in a suppressed voice, as the guests passed on. “Don’t start—I am not going to make a scene. I only wish to tell you how happy you have made me, and that you shall find me patient and watchful of your every wish.”

“Masterly inactivity,” thought Tiny.

“I am going to wait—to let you see that heretofore you have misjudged me. And now let me assure you that I am not going to presume upon the consent I have received.”

He waited, and she felt obliged to speak.

“Captain Vanleigh,” faltered Tiny, “it was at my father’s wish that I gave way, and consented to receive your visits. It is only fair to tell you that you are seeking to gain one who does not—who can never care for you.”

“My dear Valentina,” he said, smiling, “I am quite content. I know your sweet, gentle nature better than you know it yourself. And now for once, and once only, I am going to revert to an unpleasant theme, begging you first to forgive me for touching a wound that I know still throbs.”

“Captain Vanleigh!”

“It is odd, is it not,” he said, speaking with a mingling of profound tenderness and respect—“this talking of such things in a crowd? I only wished to say this once, that you do not know me. I am going to prove my love by patience. Valentina, dearest, you have been wasting the sweetness of your heart on an unworthy object.”

She tried to rise; but his hand rested on her arm, and detained her.

“I pain you; but I must tell you, sweet one, that he whom you cared for, no sooner left your side than he sought consolation with another, forsaking a love that is meet for the best on earth—a love of which I feel myself unworthy. Stay, not a syllable. Those were cruel words, but the words of truth. Now we understand one another, let us draw a veil over the past, never to refer to it again. You will know me better soon.”

As he spoke, there was a little bustle in the hall, where visitors were constantly arriving; and as Vanleigh stood gazing down in the pale, frightened face before him, watching the struggle that was going on, a plainly dressed woman brushed by the servant, who tried to stay her, and reached the stairs.

“Forgive me, Valentina,” whispered Vanleigh, bending over her. “I touched the wound but to try and heal it. My future life shall be all devotion; and in the happiness to come you will—”

Tiny half rose; and he was about offering his arm to conduct her back to the drawing-room, when a voice below arrested him.

“Don’t stop me! I must see him. I know he is here.”

“But you can’t, you know. Here, Edward!”

It was one of the servants who called, but he was too late; the strange visitor had already reached the landing as Sir Hampton hurried down, aghast at such a daring interruption.

At that moment the woman uttered a cry of joy, and darted towards where Vanleigh stood with his companion.

“Oh, Arthur!” she cried, “they would not bring a message. I was obliged to force my way in.”

“Who is this madwoman?” cried Vanleigh, turning of a waxy pallor, while Tiny clung to the balustrade for support.

“Yes; mad—almost!” cried the woman, with a piteous cry. “But come—come at once! She is praying to see you once more. Arthur, Arthur,” she panted, sinking at his knees, and clasping them, “for God’s sake, come—our darling is on the point of death!”

“Who is this woman? Er-rum—Edward—James!” cried Sir Hampton, “where are the police?”

“Don’t touch me!” cried the unwelcome visitor, starting to her feet; and her words came panting from her breast. “Quiet, Arthur, or it’s too late! Sir,” she cried, turning to Sir Hampton, whose hand was on her arm, “I am Captain Vanleigh’s wife!”

Too Late.

Frank Pratt, the successful barrister, saw a portion of the scene from the pavement outside, where he formed one of the little crowd by the awning. He had been restlessly walking up and down, watching the lights and shadows on the blinds. He had gazed in at the open door at what seemed to him a paradise, as he heard the music and hum of conversation, scented the fragrance from flower and perfumes that floated out, and then called himself a miserable little beggar.

“Never mind,” he said at last, lighting his pipe, and looking longingly at one of the tall obelisks by the door of a neighbouring mansion, and thinking what a capital perch it would make for him to sit and look on from—“never mind, bless her, she’ll snub them like fun.”

He felt better then, and saw Sir Felix and Vanleigh go up the carpeted steps without a pang. Ten times over he made up his mind to go and have a quiet little tavern supper, and then to his chambers and read; but he could not tear himself away; and so it was that he saw the arrival of the uninvited guest, and in the confusion that ensued witnessed something of what followed, standing aside to let Vanleigh come hurrying out, holding his neglected wife by the hand, furious, and yet too horror-stricken and remorseful to speak to her.

“A cab!” he shouted; and a minute after they entered, and the shabby screw was whipped into a gallop, and going in the direction of Pentonville.

Earlier in the evening Netta had seemed brighter, and had eaten heartily of some fruit Richard had fetched for her from Covent Garden. She was very weak, but she had begged to be dressed, and was lying upon the little couch; while Mrs Jenkles, after helping, had gone down into the kitchen, where Sam was sitting at his tea, to look at him very fixedly, and then her face began to twitch and work.

“She aint worse, is she?” said Sam, in an awe-stricken whisper.

“Oh, Sam, Sam,” sobbed the poor woman, bursting into tears; “and her so young, too. It’s very, very sad.”

“I shan’t go out to-night, then,” said Sam, a little more hoarsely than usual. “Ratty may have a holiday. It’s a hill wind as blows nobody any good. If I do go to have a smoke, old woman, I shall be standing across the road in Mother Fiddison’s doorway.”

“Oh, Sam, it’s very, very sad,” sobbed Mrs Jenkles again; “and her so young. If it had been her mother or me!”

“Stow that, old gal,” said Sam, with a choke. “If there’s e’er a woman as can’t be spared outer this here wicked world of pore cabmen and hard fares, it’s you. What’d become o’ me?”

“Oh, Sam,” sobbed Mrs Jenkles from inside her apron.

“I should go to the bad in a week, old gal. I should never pass a corner public without dropping in; and at the end of six months there’d be a procession o’ cabs follering a subscription funeral, raised by threepenny bits and tanners; and every cabby on the ranks’d have a little crape bow on his whip in memory o’ Sam Jenkles, as drunk hisself to death.”

“Don’t, pray, Sam,” sobbed his wife.

“It’s true enough, missus; and I b’lieve the chaps ’d be sorry; while as for old Ratty, I b’lieve he’d cry.”

“Sam!” sobbed his wife.

“I wonder,” said Sam, dolefully, “whether they’d let the old ’oss follow like they do the soldiers, with my whip and boots hanging one side, and my old ’at on the other. Sh! here’s Mrs Lane.”

“Mrs Jenkles,” cried their lodger, hurriedly, “go and ask Mr Lloyd to come over. She wants to see him.”

“Is she worse, ma’am?”

The mother’s lip quivered for reply; but after stifling a sob, she gasped—

“And ask Mr Reston, the doctor, to step in.”

“I’ll run for him, mum, while the missus fetches Mr Lloyd,” said Sam, hurrying away.

A few minutes after, Richard ascended to Netta’s room, to be received with a smile of pleasure, and he took the seat to which the poor girl pointed.

“Are you better to-night, my dear?” he said, kissing her gravely.

“Yes, much,” she said, retaining his hand and keeping it pinioned between hers. “I want you to sit and talk to me to-night—mamma will like to hear—about our rides, and the woods and flowers. Ah, how little I’ve seen of the country and the flowers!”

She started as she caught a sigh from Mrs Lane.

“You could not help it, dear,” she said, hastily. “Don’t think me ungrateful. Come and kiss me, and tell me you don’t.”

Mrs Lane bent over her, and kissed her poor thin lips; and though the fount was nearly dry, a couple of burning tears fell upon the face of her child.

“If I could only be at rest about you,” said Netta, drawing her mother closer to her, “I could be so happy. There, we’ve asked Mr Lloyd to come, and here is a welcome.”

She half playfully pointed to a chair, and once more took Richard’s hand between both hers, listening to him as he tried to talk cheerfully, not so much of the past as of trips to come, till, meeting her eyes, and seeing in them the sad, reproachful gaze of one who said “Why this deceit?” his voice grew husky, and he was silent.

“What’s that?” said Netta, suddenly, as she heard steps below. “Oh, mamma, you have sent for him again—why did you?”

There was tender love in the reproachful smile—one which faded as the doctor entered, and Richard gave up his place to him.

He made but a brief stay, and was followed out of the room by Mrs Lane.

“Sit down again, Richard,” said the girl, fondly. “Take those,” she said, pointing to a pair of scissors on the table. “Now cut off that long piece of hair.”

As she spoke she separated a long, dark brown tress and smilingly bent towards him as he divided it from her head.

“There,” she said, smiling, as she knotted it together like so much silk; “give that to Tiny—some day—and tell her it was sent by one who had prayed night and day for her happiness and yours.”

“Oh, my poor child!” groaned Richard, as he placed her gift in his pocket-book.

“And, Richard, when you are happy together, talk about me sometimes; you’ll bring her to see where they have laid me—where I lie asleep?”

“For God’s sake, do not talk like this, my darling!” he exclaimed; “I cannot bear it!”

“I must,” she said, excitedly. “I must, the time is so short. Tell her, Richard,” she whispered, earnestly, “that I loved you very dearly; for I did not know then about her. But tell her it was so innocent and dear a love, that I think God’s angels would not blame me for it. I would not talk so now, Richard, but I am dying.”

He started up to run for help, but she feebly restrained him.

“No, no, don’t go; it is not yet,” she whispered. “Stay with me even when it’s growing dark. Promise me you will stay and hold my hand till the last. I shall not feel so afraid then, and I don’t think it can be wrong. I used to think once about you, so strong and brave; how in the future you would take care of me, and that I should never be afraid again. Then I used to sit and whisper your name, and stop from my work to kiss the flowers you sent me, every leaf and every blossom, and whisper to it, ‘You are my darling’s gift.’ Was this wrong of me? I could not help it. No one knew, and I have been so different to others. My life has been all work and sorrow—her sorrow—and those were my happy moments.”

“My poor darling!” was all he could utter; and the words came like a groan.

“Don’t trouble about it,” she whispered; “I’m not sorry to die. You have made me so happy. I feel as if I may take those tender words from you now, Richard. You called me darling twice to-night. Kiss me once again.”

Tiny’s name was on his lips as he bent over her, and raised the little frail form in his arms; and hers were wreathed around his neck as he pressed his lips to hers twice—lips which responded to the caress.

As he laid her tenderly back upon her pillow, she retained one of his broad, nervous hands, pressed her lips to it once, and then placed it feebly beneath her cheek, lying with her eyes half-closed, and her voice coming in a faint whisper as she said—

“I don’t think she would be angry if she knew all. Ah, mother darling, I did not know you had come back. Come here.”

For Mrs Lane was sitting in the corner of the room by the door, with her face buried in her hands.

She came and sat at the foot of the couch, unable to restrain her sobs.

“I could not help loving him, dear,” she said, smiling; “he is so good and true. It was not the same love I have for you. Richard, you’ll be rich again some day. You’ll be kind to her?”

“Rich or poor, on my soul I will!” he exclaimed.

“She has worked so hard for me,” said Netta, feebly. Then starting with a wildly anxious look upon her face, she uttered a strange, passionate cry as of one in intense mental agony.

“My child—my poor child!” cried Mrs Lane, throwing herself on her knees by the couch.

“Why—why did I not think of it before?” cried Netta, wildly. “I ought to have thought—Oh, it will be too late.”

“What is it—what can I do?” cried Mrs Lane.

“Papa—papa—papa!” wailed the girl; “I must see papa.”

Mrs Lane sank in a heap with her head bowed down upon her knees.

“I—I must see papa,” wailed Netta again—“I did not think before—I have something to say—it only came just now. Oh, mother, you will fetch him before it is too late.”

Mrs Lane started up and gazed wildly at her guest.

“Can I go? Can I do anything?” he exclaimed.

“No, no, stay with me,” wailed Netta; “he would not come for you. Mamma, you will go. Dear mother, bring him here.”

Without another word, Mrs Lane ran into the next room and hurried on her things, returning to kiss the anxious, flushed face gazing so wistfully at her.

“You will not leave her?” she said, hoarsely.

“No, he will not go,” moaned Netta; “but be quick—be quick.”

Richard’s heart beat fast, for, as he was left alone, Netta’s eyes closed and a terrible pallor succeeded the flush. He was about to rise and summon Mrs Jenkles, but Netta divined his intention, and uttered a feeble protest.

“You said you would not leave me. I am only tired. It is of no use.”

She lay there with her cheek pillowed on his hand, and her eyes closed, but her lips moved gently; and as in that feebly-lighted room the solemn silence seemed to grow more painful, Richard felt a strange thrill of awe pass through him: for he knew that the words she softly whispered to herself were words of prayer.

After a time, Mrs Jenkles softly opened the door and peered in.

“Can I do anything for you, my dear?” she said, gently.

“Yes,” said Netta, in a faint whisper; “come here. Kiss me and say good-bye,” she continued, after a pause. “Now go and tell Sam I have prayed for a blessing on you both for your kindness to the poor creature you found in such distress.”

Mrs Jenkles’s sorrow, in spite of herself, found vent in a wail; and she hurried out of the room to weep alone by her own fireside.

Then an hour passed without a change, only that twice over the great soft, dilated eyes opened widely to gaze wonderingly about till they rested on Richard, when a faint smile came on the poor wan face, the thin cheek nestled down into the strong man’s hand, and a faint sigh of content fluttered from the lips of the dying girl.

It must have been nearly eleven when Netta opened her eyes widely.

“They are very long,” she said, in a harsh, cracked voice—“Very long; he must come soon. Why did I not think of it before?”

“She must soon return,” said Richard. “Shall I send?”

“No, no! It would be no use,” she whispered; and her great loving eyes rested fondly on his for a moment. “Do not let go of my hand, and I shall not feel afraid.”

She sank back once more, but only to start at the end of a few moments.

“He’s coming—yes, he’s coming now.”

Richard strained his ears to listen, but there was not a sound; but as a smile of content came once more upon the anxious features, there was the roll of distant cab wheels, and he knew that the senses of the dying girl were preternaturally quickened.

The next minute the wheels stopped at the door, and there were steps on the stairs.

“He has come!” cried the girl, joyfully. “Lift me up in your arms, Richard, that I may see him.”

As he responded to her wish, and held her up with her head resting upon his shoulder, the door opened, and, to his intense astonishment, the handsome man of fashion, looking sallow, haggard, and ten years older, with the great drops of sweat upon his face, and his hair clinging wetly to his brow, half staggered into the room.

“Papa, dear papa!” wailed the girl, stretching out one hand; and with a groan, as he read in her wasted features the coming end, he stumbled forward, to sink crushed and humbled to his knees before the face of death.

“My poor child!” he groaned.

“I knew—you would come,” moaned the girl, faintly. “Mother—quick—papa—kind to her—once more—suffered so—so much—”

With her last strength, her trembling little fingers placed those of Vanleigh upon the hand of his neglected, forsaken wife; and then, as a shudder ran through her frame, her nerveless arm dropped, and her head turned away to sink pillowed on Richard’s arm. There was a smile upon her lip, as her eyes were bent fixedly upon his, and then as he gazed he saw that their loving light faded, to give place to a far-off, awful stare, and a deep groan burst from the young man’s breast.

Vanleigh started up at that, exclaiming wildly—

“Quick—a doctor—the nearest physician—do you hear!”

“It is too late,” said Richard, sadly. “Your child is dead.”

Three Months After.

“Why did you come, Humphrey? Why did you hunt me out?” cried Richard, in answer to a speech made by the broad-shouldered West-country-man, who had been ushered in by Mrs Fiddison.

“Because I wanted to see you, Master Dick. I’ve written, and you won’t answer; so I got Mr Pratt there to tell me where you were, and here I am.”

Richard stood frowning for a few moments; but there was something so bright and frank in the face before him that a sunshiny look came in his own, and he shook hands heartily.

“Come, sir, that does one good,” cried Humphrey. “I am glad I’ve come.”

“Well, I am glad to see you, Humphrey; but yet—”

“I know, sir—I know,” said Humphrey. “I could tell you exactly what you feel—a bit of envy-like; but there, bless your heart, if it wasn’t for Polly and the thoughts of her, I should be a miserable man.”

“Well, you’ve got plenty to make you miserable,” said Richard.

“Ah, you may smile, sir—I know what you mean; but I have, all the same. I tell you, I was a deal happier man without the estate than I am with it. Old Lloyd and Mrs Lloyd—begging your pardon for speaking so of them—look sneering-like at me; so do the quality; hang them, they’re civil enough, but I can see them sneer. They look down on me, of course. I’m not one of their sort. I’m ignorant, and can’t talk to them. I get on well enough with the young fellows, shooting, and so on; but I always feel as if I ought to load their guns, and I can’t help saying ‘sir’ to every one of them.”

“But I thought Mr Mervyn—”

“Mr Mervyn’s as good and kind a gentleman as ever lived, and he’s wanted to learn me all sort of things; but I can’t take to them—I can’t, indeed, sir. Then there’s Polly: she’s at a fine school, and, poor lass, she’s miserable, and writes to me how glad she’ll be to get away. It’s all wrong, sir. What’s the good of a horse to a man as can’t ride, or a yacht to a man as can’t sail it? I’ve got Penreife, and I go in and out of it feeling quite ashamed-like, just as if I was a fish out of water. I tell you, Master Dick, upon my sivvy, what with feeling uncomfortable about ousting you, and being sneered at on the sly, and bothered with the company and invitations, and hints to dress different, and learn this, and learn that, I haven’t had a happy day since you left. I don’t like it, and I don’t want it. Damn the estate!—there!”

“Why, my dear fellow, you’ll soon get used to it if you make up your mind. Why, you’re in your old keeper’s clothes.”

“Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be? There’s no one up here I know, so I thought I’d be comfortable-like, and I thought—I thought I should be better in them to come and see you. And now, sir, how’s it with you?”

“Oh, pretty well, Humphrey. I’ve got the command of a schooner, and I’m going on a voyage to India.”

“No, no—don’t go, Master Dick—don’t. Come down into Cornwall again.”

Richard shook his head.

“Nonsense, sir; why, lookye here. Here am I, Humphrey Lloyd—”

“Trevor,” said Richard.

“Hang the name!” said Humphrey, “it’s always bothering me. I more often sign Lloyd than Trevor, which is about the awkwardest name there ever was to write. Ah, Master Dick, it was a bad day’s work for me when there was that change.”

“Nonsense, man.”

“Ah, but it was; and I tell you what: if it wasn’t for my darling little lassie, I should take to drinking to drown my cares—But, look here, Master Richard—they wanted me to take that name, too—Richard—but I wouldn’t stand that. Well, look here, sir, why don’t you come down, and put your foot in the old place again? What’s being born got to do with it? We couldn’t help being born; we didn’t want to be, I dessay; and we couldn’t help what they did with us in our cradles.”

“Of course not, Humphrey.”

“Well, look here, sir; you grew into a gentleman, I grew into a common man. Well, then, what’s stupider than trying to make me what I didn’t grow into, and you into a common man? It’s rubbish: we’re neither of us no good as we are.”

Richard laughed—rather bitterly, though.

“Polly and I have had it all over, sir. I went down to her school-place, poor little lass. She’s very unhappy, and we came to the conclusion that with the cottage nicely papered and painted, and a hundred a year, we should be as happy as the day’s long. So come, Master Richard—there’s the place nohow for want of you. Come down, and take possession.”

“Humphrey, if ever there was a fellow born with the soul of a gentleman, it’s you. But no; there is such a thing in a man as pride, and I have too much to accept your offer; and, besides, I have made an engagement.”