either him or me in great haste. I must go at once of course. Don't say much about it to your father, but give him his tea directly he comes in."

"Willie and Johnnie and Artie are away at cricket. I don't believe they will be back till late."

"No, that does not matter. Frankie is in the back-garden, but call him in soon. These autumn evenings turn chilly when the sun is down, and the damp will fall early. I wish your father were back."

Constance wished it too. She would have gone in search of him, had she known where to find him. Rosamund Rivers hastened away in her own blithe style, and Constance waited on patiently-with a patience somewhat tried, till a man appeared round the nearest bend in the road, toiling slowly up the slight ascent.

Constance rushed out, hatless, to meet him. She said nothing, but offered her arm, and John Rivers, with a wordless smile, accepted the slight support. He was labouring for breath, and drops of exhaustion stood upon his brow. The garden-gate reached, he leaned upon it, faint and panting! Constance watched him with sorrowful eyes, while he lingered to gather strength for the crossing of the lawn. Before he stirred again, a carriage with two horses dashed up the hill, and stopped before the Vicarage. A gentleman made his way hastily to the ground, and then with a look of concern, exclaimed,

I am

"John! No, not John! Not possible." "Maxwell-surely!" said John. "Thank you, thank you-nothing more. very much obliged," said Maxwell hurriedly, to the coachman. "My box? Oh, it can stand anywhere --here on the path-it does not matter-till I go to the inn-"

"Or rather, till you sleep here." said John, laying his wasted hand on Maxwell's shoulder, partly in friendship, partly for support. "Bring it in, please."

No, no, I shall be in your way. I did not think of that. My poor fellow, I never dreamt that you were so ill," said Montgomery in distress. Though John Rivers had not be ʼn one of his pupils, the two had been intimately acquainted, and for many years had held constant intercourse with one another.

The protest was disregarded. Constance obeyed her father's glance, and took the matter of the portmanteau into her own hands, while the two gentlemen went slowly up the path. Having seen it carried in, she gave directions as to the spare room, and then rushed to make the cup of tea which she knew was needed. Entering the drawing-room, she found her father suffering from one of his most violent paroxysms of coughing, while Maxwell looked on with a helpless air of concern. The excitement of his sudden appearance had acted as Constance had feared it would act. The tea was useless, for he could not touch it, and his struggles for breath were painful to see. Twice the fit nearly passed off, and an attempt to speak brought it back with renewed intensity. The third time he was past speaking. A small glass of a restorative, kept at hand for such emergencies, was fetched by Constance, and after taking it he lay with closed eyes, the flush on his face giving place to a ghastly pallor.

"Is he often like this?" asked Maxwell under his breath.

"It won't hurt by-and-by," said Constance hastily, "if he could have an hour quite quiet. Would you mind, please, just going into the dining-room? I will come as soon as I can. It is only across the passage. I am afraid papa will talk if you are here, and he ought not to speak."

John's eyes opened, with a little smile at them both. I "You are quite right-quite prudent," said Maxwell. "I know the way. Don't come. I will wait any length of time."

He had a good half-hour for the indulging of old memories, and then Connie appeared.

"The room is in a dreadful mess, I am afraid." she said apologetically, looking round. "But the boys learn their lessons and play here, and they don't put things away."

"Do you remember me, Connie?" asked Maxwell. "My dear, I do not know whether I ought to call you Miss Rivers, but I can't. Your father is John

to me."

"I never like to be called 'Miss Rivers,"" said Constance. "Yes, I think I remember you. Didn't you come to the house a great many years ago, when papa had low fever, and poor grandpapa was taken with his first paralytic stroke? Oh, yes, and you nearly let out to papa that grandpapa was in the house, when nobody wanted him to know it. I remember all that. You are the Mr. Maxwell that dear Muriel thinks so much about."

Child-like, Constance did not know the import of her own words.

Maxwell flushed somewhat, and asked, "How d you know?" Then he felt as if the question were hardly justifiable, and would have withdrawn i but could not. His "Never mind, I have no right to ask," was lost upon Constance.

"Why, she often talks about you to me, Mr. Maxwell. That is how I feel as if I knew you so well, because really I don't seem to remember seeing you very clearly. Muriel never forgets anybody, you know. She often tells me about the time when you used to teach her so much, and be such a good friend to her. I can recollect those years, when poor grandpapa wouldn't let her ever come to our house, and she says your kindness was the greatest comfort she had then. She often calls you that good Mr. Maxwell.' And one day lately she seemed downhearted and sad- I don't know why, only she does sometimes-and she talked about parting with people for years being so melancholy. She was thinking partly about papa and us having to leave England so soon, I suppose. I said to her, You haven't often parted from your friends for very long, Murie, have you?' and she said, 'Oh, so often!' And then she spoke of her great friend, aunt Sybel, who went out to India a few years ago, and Muriel never thought she would die in one year of cholera. I had forgotten that, for I know Muriel always feels so much about her. And I said, 'There is your good Mr. Maxwell, who has gone abroad;' and sire said, That may be a parting, too, for life. I am not likely ever to see him again, and I dare say has left off thinking about us all by this time." "Muriel ought not to have said that," observed Maxwell.

6

he

With the best intentions and a most kind heart, Montgomery Maxwell was, as will have already appeared, an extremely absent man. The captive always of one leading idea, side notions and background duties were apt to slip out of existence. In the landscape of his mind he knew no blue distances, green trees, or picturesque cottages, lending to the effect of the prominent figure or group. The picture consisted of sharply-defined foreground, bounded by grey fog. Every figure that retired from the foreground was immediately lost in mist.

So fared Mrs. James Bertram and her young daughter. When he left them, albeit much interested, with feelings stirred, and sense of duty alive on their behalf, the figure of Muriel rose before his mind's eye, and the London Bertrams faded away. He had to hasten home, to look out the trains, to prepare for his journey. Moreover, being tired, he slept soundly. One way and another, it came to pass that the thought of the promised doctor's visit occurred to him no more, until he was in the act of going to bed, on the first evening after his arrival at Bushby Vicarage.

One day more or less might make little difference to the invalid; still Montgomery blamed himself extremely. He wrote a letter forthwith to his medical friend, giving the address, mentioning his own strong interest in the case, begging him to call without delay, and offering to undertake all expenses. The letter went off by the early morning's post, and in due time arrived at its destination. But the doctor was absent, having started on a brief walking tour, and the doctor's wife, having opened the letter, decided at first sight of the signature that it was "merely one of that odd Mr. Maxwell's scientific essays by post." The lady, not being scientific, and wishing to spare her husband, put it aside till his return. So it came to pass that Pauline and her mother waited in vain for the expected visit.

It is plain enough the gentleman doesn't mean to have anything more to do with us," Mrs. James Bertram said on the fourth day. "He might as well not have promised. But I thought it odd that he didn't give us his name. He doesn't know he has let slip Mrs. Bertram's secret; and he thinks he won't come in the way of being asked it again."

"Mother, he wouldn't be likely to be back so soon," said Pauline.

"You don't know. I don't see why not. But at any rate the doctor would come if he was asked. I don't see anything to hinder that. No, no, I know better. He daren't show himself again for fear I should find out where Mrs. Bertram lives."

"We can't go to Bushby. We have not money for the journey," said Pauline.

"That's all you know! Do you think I haven't kept an eye to the journey all the while? Get me my lock-box, Pauline."

Pauline obeyed. It was a rough little brown box, with a stout key. Mrs. Bertram's shrunken yellow hands opened it, and took out a small packet.

"You told

"It is like yours," said Mrs. Bertram, letting drop the thick lock, black, shiny, and uncuried. From the centre she took something—a green translucent stone.

"Mother!" said Pauline, trembling.

66

It is worth twenty pounds, if it is worth ten," said Mrs. Bertram.

66

Mother!" said Pauline passionately. She had been educated at an English school; not a first-rate one, yet she had there gained a certain sharplydefined English sense of honour and honesty. Als she had a straightforward nature, a character which in its very pride scorned duplicity.

"You needn't look angry, Pauline."

"You had that, mother, and you let the gentleman give you what he did-and you told him we had nothing!"

"I told him we hadn't another sixpence. Wasn't it true? Don't you fuss, Pauline. I know what I am about very well-better than you do. I set this apart ever so long ago for the journey, and I promised myself I wouldn't use it for anything else-no, not if we were starving. I will get to Mrs. Bertram's. I mean to do that before I die, if I never go anywhere else. I tell you it is all for you, Pauline. I am not going to die, if I can help it, leaving you without a home in all the world. Mrs. Bertram must do something for you. This is our very last, and we shan't get over ten pounds for it, I suppose. Lucky if we have so much. Old Moses will beat you down to five if you let him, so mind you stand firm. He'll say it is a sham, and you may tell him that's a lie. It's as pretty an emerald as ever he handled with his dirty fingers. It's worth twenty pounds at the least, and it ought to take us to Bushby, and keep us there till things are arranged. Mrs. Bertram will do somethingno fear about that, if it's only to get rid of us. We must pay our rent here, too, before we leave; so you see you needn't fret, for we are going to be honest. I have made up my mind. We'll go to Bushby to-morrow. I am glad the doctor has not come. He might say I wasn't fit to travel, and go I will-if it kills me! I'm just set upon it. We'll go to morrow. I don't believe 1 should get off, if we waited much longer. Mind, you've got to see to everything. You have, Pauline. Do you hear?"

She had had no answer through her long and excited speech. The girl's face had whitened and settled into a stony look of displeasure and pain. The last question, twice repeated, drew from her a reluctant, "Yes."

"And you are to manage everything for me. It's as much as ever I can do to stand. I tried last night, and I didn't know how to bear myself, the pain was so dreadful. I think I shall die of it if it gets much worse. I wish that gentleman had not come and talked as he did. He hadn't any business. The things he said bother me at night. Pauline, you've got to take this."

"If only we needn't go to Bushby, mother. I hate it-hate it. I can't tell you how I hate it." Ah, you're like your father. But there's no need to mind. You don't know anything about it at all, nor about them. Mind, you are a lady by birth, and you've got to hold to it. I wasn't, may be, but you are, for your father was a gentleman.