"Have you never mentioned my engagement to Patricia?" Harry asked Anne one day.

Jobson.

That lady had, indeed, given him cause to repent. She lost no opportunity of teasing him about the

"It seems strange that she has never spoken of it," he rejoined. "Are you sure that you have not

made a mess of it?"

"That is really too bad," replied Anne. "I have tried to make the best of everything. I do not see that it is so strange that Patricia should not speak to you about it, as you have not spoken to her," she added.

So day after day passed, and neither Harry nor Patricia spoke of the subject that was now uppermost in their minds. All companionship between them was at an end, and theirs had been an unusually close companionship. Home was not the same to either of them now. Patricia sat dreaming away the lonely hours, almost empty of interest or occupation. As for Harry, he had lost the one pure influence that had had power over his life. Since his engagement he had been more attentive to business, and more at home when free from it; but as the alienation between Patricia and him was confirmed, he fell back upon his former associates, and these were not of the highest order. He began to be absent even more frequently than before, but Patricia took no notice. It was Anne who waited for him now, and remonstrated with him in vain.

And where was his love for Nelly? Where was the influence which she ought to have exercised over him? To say the least, it was in abeyance. That love had been the turning-point of his life, and, taken at the flood, would have led him on to ground where he would have been safe from his present temptations at least, even if he had not reached a higher level; but the tide had ebbed away, and now he was floundering among the shallows and the pools. It was not that he had ceased to love Nelly; he longed for her presence, chafed under the arbitrary separation to which he had agreed, and mentally concluded that it was a mistake which he had committed in accepting the terms his father had imposed. But Harry Palmer was not of imagination all compact. His love was not independent of time and space. Influences reached him through human eyes, and hands, and lips, and not otherwise. His passion could no more live on memory than his sturdy corporeal person could live on air. His alienation from Patricia, too, had something to do with the state of mind which led him to put thoughts of his betrothed away from him. He had lost his confident, and he needed one sorely. Patricia was just the one he wanted; she would make light of nothing. He had an idea that Anne would laugh

friends to tease him too. He was not quite at ease in the society of these men; but he was intensely sociable; and, having once got into the set, it was very difficult to get out of it. From their coarser vices he was free as yet; and even Mr. Jobson, who thought it sport to play the fiendish part of making others as bad as himself, refrained from tempting Harry Palmer further than to an extra glass of his favourite wine. 66 'Palmer's a perfect baby," he would

say; "let him alone."

It was, as Patricia had seen at a glance, a very bad set that Harry had fallen upon; and among them Horace Eden reigned supreme. He was the prince of good fellows among them, enjoying their coarsest jests, and keeping a cool head even when drinking with them glass for glass, but assuming a very different character when it suited him to do so. In short, he was an accomplished hypocrite. His father was a clergyman, a fact of which he had made considerable use, and he had been educated according to his choice as a civil engineer; but he had in reality forsaken his profession for a life of adventure. In the days of Queen Bess he would probably have been a pirate; and, improved by the practice of the trade, he would have made robbery romantic. This was not to be done in the days of Queen Victoria, however, and therefore he was obliged to be content to make it safe and easy by a skilful use of legal measures.

To this man Harry Palmer seemed an easy prey. When first introduced to him, he did not know to what use he might put him; but, as he was constantly using people in some way or other, he secured him as likely to be of future avail-laid him up in stock as it were. The enemies of whom he frequently spoke were the used-up people. People have a curious objection to being used up. He had used the names of some, the money of others also by the way, the affections of a few-these last being of the weaker sex. Harry Palmer was rich, or would soon be rich. He had sisters who would be rich also, and who were reported handsome. These facts were enough.

It was Mr. Eden who contrived the Jobson dinner party, and so accomplished an introduction to Harry Palmer's sisters. He also singled out Patricia by a whisper to the complaisant host. He had rendered himself so agreeable to the young man that he made sure of an invitation to his home; but as it was slow of coming he found a pretext for inviting himself, and he made the liberty he took appear only the freedom of a man accustomed to mix much in society. Out of Patricia's dreams, his figure seemed to pass

into reality without surprise. He came one wet and dreary day, and his stay was prolonged without excuse. He seemed to bring warmth and life with him. Patricia felt the thrill of it through the chill at her heart, and expanded under it. Anne, always ready to be pleased, was more than pleased-was grateful to see her sister thaw out of her frozen mood. Harry, for whom he had waited nearly a couple of hours-he had not thought it half so long, he said-pressed him to stay to dinner; but that, he said-always careful never to wear out his welcomewas impossible. He stayed, however, to the very verge of it, and saw Mr. Palmer senior, who repeated the invitation, though looking on "a friend of Harry's" with some suspicion. Before Mr. Eden left, though he had not spoken half-a-dozen sentences in the old man's presence, he had managed to impress him with the idea that he was a sensible fellow, by

far the least objectionable of his son's set whom he had seen.

Mr. Eden had established his footing in the family, and soon became an intimate among those with whom intimates were few. He divided his attentions among them, the old man when present receiving the greatest share. He professed himself interested in the factory, and in business in general-a man fond of domesticity, though denied the pleasures of a home. The little rectory in Dorsetshire had greater charms for him than the brilliant scenes which he frequented. It was so difficult for an unmarried man to get a glimpse of home life in London, however free of so-called society he might be. No one noticed how fast his intimacy progressed. He ate his Christmas dinner with the Palmers, and openly gave Patricia a kiss under the mistletoe. (To be continued.)

66

PART II.-WINNING HIS LAURELS.

OTHING broke the calm of life for the Ellises until the death of the old man, which happened about five years after Caleb Crossland had left England. During that time letters had come regularly from him, and the inmates of the cottage had been kept well informed about him in his new life. From time to time there were glowing accounts of his success; but

to the surprise and disappointment of his village friends, there was no talk of Caleb coming back, even for a holiday visit.

Ruth's parents never knew exactly how the young people stood towards each other. They were sorely troubled and perplexed when their daughter once said, in answer to some gentle rallying about her courtship, "I don't think it likely that Caleb and I will ever marry, so you will not be in danger of losing me, mother. I shall be

That was the only time Ruth ever spoke her mind so freely on the subject. After her father's death, the letters from Berlin grew shorter and came at longer intervals; for which shortcomings, as a correspondent, the busy writer sent excuses which Ruth accepted without a word of comment or complaint; then word came that he was about to travel for a time, after which letters became more uncertain, and at last ceased.

In the meantime change and reverse of circumstances had come to Ruth Ellis and her mother. The failure of a bank had so much lessened their slender means that they were obliged to leave their cottage and take a smaller one at greatly reduced rent, which had been offered them by a distant relation of the late Mr. Ellis. The only drawback was, that it was situated some miles distant, and in the neighbourhood of a large manufacturing town-the busy hive of industry where Ruth's father had spent most of his early life. After their removal Ruth heard no more from Caleb, and thus the two lives hitherto bound together by the frail link of occasional letters drifted still further apart.

Ten years had been added to the five, fading the lovely face of Ruth Ellis, and making her mother a very old lady, confined to her easy chair, and more entirely dependent on her daughter's care. Time had not dealt very harshly with Ruth, for the quiet-looking, fair-browed woman of thirtyfive was not much less attractive than the girl of twenty. The great brown eyes had the same dusky shadow in their depths, and the mouth the same sensitive sweetness. But how had it been with her through all the grey, colourless years where the days succeeded each other with such unvarying sameness, that the history of one might have been taken as a type of all that followed through the round of her life?

She trod her lowly path with such cheerfulness that none could have guessed what a cross she carried by the way; for shy Ruth had never thought of taking any one into her confidence; even her mother did not know how deeply she loved Caleb Crossland, or what pain it had cost to keep the hard resolution, which she made in the bygone time, to draw herself out from his life, and leave him free for the career which he had carved out for himself.

The light was closing in upon a cold grey autumn day, and the mother and daughter were sitting by the fire in their cottage-room, which in those days served both for parlour and kitchen. The tea-tray was ready on the table, and the brightly polished kettle was singing on the fire, while Ruth, bending over the fender, was toasting bread for her mother. She was tired; since early

various kinds of work; but for the sake of the helpless old lady, her weariness was rarely suffered to show itself. Mrs. Ellis had been knitting, but now it lay idly on her knee, and she was sitting with her head back, thinking and watching her daughter.

"Well, Ruth," she said, at length breaking a pause in their talk, "you have not told me if you made up your mind to go on Tuesday night."

Ruth quietly prepared to butter her toast as she answered, “I don't know, mother; I have not quite decided, but I think I shall give up the idea. I should not like you to be left here alone for a whole evening."

The old lady looked at the speaker with loving wistfulness.

"You said yesterday how much you would like to go, my dear; and it's only natural, for you were always fond of music"-adding, with a little sigh, "and you have so few pleasures now."

Ruth replied, hastily, "Never mind me, mother; I can live on without them. Don't get talking in that strain; it will not be good either for you or me."

"But I do want you to go on Tuesday, Ruth," persisted Mrs. Ellis, anxiously. "It can be managed very well: you can get little Sarah West to come and sit with me while you are gone. Mrs. Hawkins has promised to bring you back in their cab, and you will have enjoyed a treat. Make up your mind to go, my dear," continued the old lady, fondly solicitous for her daughter to secure the rare chance of enjoyment which had fallen in her way.

For an instant Ruth's eyes brightened, and the smile of other days came back.

"Very well, mother; as you wish it, I will gothat is, if Sarah West can come. It was very kind of cousin Hawkins to send me the invitation."

The mother was satisfied, and drank her tea with greater relish than usual; but she was in a talkative mood that evening. By some process of association, the mention of music had brought back to her mind the organist, Caleb Crossland; and she could not resist the impulse to speak out the thought as it came, though the subject was one rarely ventured upon between her and her daughter.

"My dear, I have been thinking about Caleb. It is so strange that we never heard anything from him all these years. I wonder if he is dead."

Ruth's tea-cup came down upon her saucer with a sudden clash, that sacrificed the greater part of its contents. She said, brokenly, "Mother, what makes you speak of him to-night ?"

"I cannot tell, my dear; but I suppose it was talking about this music affair that brought him in my head."

*

The largest public hall that the town could boast had been appropriated for the grand musical gathering which was to introduce, for the first time to a provincial audience, a new oratorio, said to be one of the greatest musical successes of the day. Another attraction was, that the composer

would be conductor on the occasion.

Ruth Ellis spent part of the afternoon at the house of the cousin to whose kindness she owed the anticipated treat. The party consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins, their three daughters, and several young lady friends, all showily dressed. Looks of pitying comment had passed among the ladies concerning Ruth's unpretending grey dress; but Mrs. Hawkins had good-naturedly thrown a black lace shawl over her shoulders, and the eldest Miss Hawkins had followed suit by placing some flowers in her hair, which was rich and ample enough to need no adornment but its own silky coils.

It was a strange scene of excitement for Ruth's unaccustomed eyes-the blaze of light, and the brilliant crowd so closely packed within the vast hall; the gay dresses of the ladies making bright patches of colour here and there, like beds of many-tinted exotic flowers. Ruth held her breath, and gazed half timidly at the sea of faces, all apparently animated by one common expression of eager anticipation.

At length the impatience of the audience reached the usual limit, and found for itself the usual energetic expression. Then the orchestra rapidly filled with the crowd of musicians and singers who were to take part in the programme of the evening; and at last, when expectation was at its height, the composer walked quietly up the steps of the platform, amidst a burst of applause that nearly bewildered poor Ruth. He stood an instant before he took his place, gracefully bowing his acknowledgment of the reception-a tall man, with grave eyes and a pale, intellectual face, that stood out vividly from all the rest.

Ruth Ellis looked on as if it was a vision given back from the dead, then suddenly stooped forward, grasping the edge of the seat to keep down the cry that rose to her lips. Caleb Crossland! Yes; it was he. of recognition had gone to her heart.

The thrill Then came

It was Caleb in the hour of his triumph, and standing far removed from her on the proud height which he had made it the business of his life to climb.

Why had she come from her little shaded bypath of life with that touching history of hoarded love and sorrow, which made her out of place in such gay scenes? Why was she there? it would only re-open the old wound, and break up the contentment of the present by making the division between them more complete; for this was not her Caleb Crossland. The courted favourite of the rich and great, he belonged to fame and the world to whom he had given the fruits of his genius-not to her. She sat through that memorable evening in a sort of stony stupor, like one whose senses were bound by some strange spell. All the surroundings seemed merged into one face and figure, beyond which she saw nothing. The music of the oratorio, upon which so many ears were hanging with delight, fell unheeded upon hers, and the frequent bursts of applause seemed to increase her feeling of helpless be wilderment. At the end, the approbation of the audience rose to enthusiasm the composer retired amid a shower of cheers, only to be recalled again upon the scene of his triumph.

Mrs. Hawkins's party had just quitted the seats which they had occupied in one of the front ranks, when some movement of the crowd separated Ruth from her friends, and drifted her nearer the platform, just as Caleb Crossland made his reappearance. His glance seemed attracted for an instant by some of the gaily-dressed groups of ladies in his immediate vicinity; and by force of its contrast to the rest, the figure in grey drew his notice, At the same moment Ruth lifted up her shy eyes, and their looks met. It was only a flash. Those nearest the gentleman would have seen a change in his face, which was no longer pale, but flushed with excitement. Ruth herself was not sure that she had been recognised, not until some minutes afterwards, when she found herself in one of the passages struggling to get back to Mrs. Hawkins. It was then that she felt a hand upon her arm, and a voice that thrilled her said, hurriedly, “Ruth Ellis."

It was the composer, so effectually disguised by his great coat and muffler, that the people near did not recognise him as the hero of the evening.

"Mr. Crossland!" That was all she could say. His mouth gave a curious twist as she uttered the name, and his grasp of her arm tightened until it hurt her.

He spoke again. "Quick-you will have friends waiting, and I must not detain you now; but let me write down your address, and answer me one question-Is your name still Ruth Ellis?"