PAUL CHALLIS' WOOING.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

" The Cost of Conquest," •« A Sinless Crime."

CHAPTER 11.

(Continued.) •There has been from the first hour of his corning to us—the wrong of too much money. He has deemed his purse inexhaustible, and tot into all sorts of money scrape*. He's young enough to mend, and I hope he will.' ' I don't mean legitimate money scrapes. I am afraid he has been p-rillinghis place in the regimemt and his own Rood name into the bargain. A money-lender of no very good repute called upon me the other day ostensibly about a bill of Burton* of which there oou'd be no passible doubt. The real object of his vinfc was to pump me about Leonard Hastings, Of course I would not tell anything, but I gathered from hints he? dropped that .the Beauty had been soiling his hands wi'h some very fishy transactions.' 'Ihope not with a'i my heart,' the colonel said, warmly. * These fellows play the very devil with our lads. I wish I could sweep the whole tribe off the face of the earth.' ' I wouldn't be a bad thiog. Good night, colonel.' • Where are you off to now P Are you going out side ?' ' No, only to my own quarters.' • Come oyer to mine and hare a little music. Mrs Beauchamp end the young folks will be glad to see you. They hav'n't heard a song from you for a long time. I know they are all at home this evening.' Paul Challis was always a welcome guest in Mrs Beauchamp s pretty draw-ing-room. The colonel's pleasant, motherly wife would hare liked nothing for one ot her girls to have been the captain's wi'e, poor though he was. ; She had no absu.dly high? notions for them, and only strove to make them ladylike, well-educated nirls, worthy of the lore of any good man. She hoped for good matches for them, of cours», but she would bare seen them peasants' wives sooner than schemed in any unwomanly fashion or men with fortunes for them. Captain Challis was an engaied nun ; they had seen his fiancee, so there was no flination, only great fiiendshp between them, and they greeted him with unfeigned pleasure when ho entered with their father. The evening passed away plea antly enough with songs, and music, and cheertnl chat, and it was late when at length. Captain Challis rose to take his leave. , ' We've be?u keeping dissipated hours, | Challis,' the colonel remarked, as he let his guest out. ' There* half-past twelve J going on Big Ben.' ' I had no idea it was so late.' ' Nor I. How time flies 1 Good night.' ' Good night,; The hospitable door closed behind Paul Challis, and he waked away to his own quavt ?rßj ha mining the refrain of one of Moore's melodies, a quaint, almost forgotten old song he bad bung to p'tase Mrs Beaaehamp. At the foot of the stairs leading to his quarters he saw the sentry looking up. « What is it sentry f' he asked, and the man turned und saluted. ' I was looking, sir,* he said, 'as I turned the corner-I'm almost sure I saw a, woman go up.' ' A woman P* Captain Challis looked surprised. ■ I thought so, sir. It mirht have been the shadow, and I can't hear anything.* The staircase was as still as the grave, not a sound came from any of the rooms, There were not many up that way, and i three at least were empty, Leonard Has- ; tings, Paul Challis'a and another officer's who was away on a couple of day's leave. Captain Challis'a servant had laid out bis master's things and gone away, as he \ generally had permission to do unless he was epeoiaHy wanted, and all was silence and darkness. . ' 1 thiok you were mistaken,' Captain Cballis said to the man, adding, a little more gravely,' I hope you were:' i • So do I, sir, I'm sure.' \ The captain bade him good night, and; the sentry saluted again, and turned to ,'iis measured pacing once more, while C 'aptaio Chailis went upj stairs. No sign, of anyone was to be seen or heard, and; lie opened the 4oor of his room and went j n- There was a dim light burning, but ; not c. ,w»Kh to enable Mm to see, and be-! fore he' bad taken two steps he atumbled and neivdyfell headlong oy«r a prostra' c female >Vm. ( CHAPTER UJ. | ! A WALF ! i On that sa™« w«b diiazUng Sunday when Leonard Hastings was P'WWJ to set foith on i*" : a man's life, and>» CMIm nnxahed b . : evening so pleasant? at the, colone-s quarters, perhaps m.M* p °* tn6. J*™* men thought much of amy phase of human life but their °™;J>' what might be drifting to ™J 8 «™» °»| the strange stream of *"• »J* " constantly flowing towards «*rT I,T,n * creature on thia earthy ~m*inttJl Certainly, in their we!l-a.*^ n™j; rooms, neither of tbem thought "V C~I misery that was outside their dot ,f*» ** tuessed at the wretchedness that * **"?! drive one miserable soul, at least, to fe **X the shelter of the barrack. wall, rcgat **| less of what the welcome there might be* Towards noon, perhaps a little past tl\e j hour, a woman emerged from a miserable house in one of the most forlorn streets, and heaven knows there are many forlorn enough—that abut upon Whitechapel. That she did not go of her own free will was evident, and the hand that pushed her forth grabbed at some faded article of dress that bung upon her arm as hf r foot crossed the dirty threshold. 4 You shan't take anything out of my house except what you stand apright in,' said an angry virago. 'I'm fed your laziness long enou-rh, and iuside thh door you don't come again til I get my money.' The sight fieure she was abusing loosed the cloak she had seized, and let her take it, bu- made no attempt to enter tte frowsy-looking house. : It does not matter,' she said wea-i'y. • It is not far to the river.' t ' No, it ain't, and a pleasant walk to> " you/ was the heartless reply, and thenj the door was banged to, and the girl, for she seemed little more, was left standing in the cold, drizzling raio. \ For a minute she did not move, hot, [ stood as though she were and: then she vt ajked slowly away, and gained) the gieat busy thoroughfare, where, amid; ihe incessant stream of people, scarce anjone turned their heads to look at her.; The London Hospital was just opposite her, and she looked up at its windows, with a bitter smile. 'Starvation is no sickness,' she muttered, bitterly, *or I could get help there. The c's only the work house, and I can't—l can't—-I'll try the river first, and see what the other world is like, i there is one.' a few tears ran down ber cheeks— (ears born of despera-e hunger and bodi'y weaknes—and she wiped (hem .way with the edae of he; thin shaw, I damp " r a.iy with the drizzling rain, and utterly insufficient as a covering to the pco>' d'css underneath. A faded dres? seemed her only garment, and a battered bonnet covered her liesd, U'der which a quantity of wavy black haii was twisted i up anyhow, bo it was out of the way.

| For • minute, after she nahed Whitechapel, the girl staggered diaaily, and then aat down fora minateon a doorstep > to rest, tilthestem 'More ool* of a passing I policeman made her rise and wa k slowly across the road. To make strai ht for the nrer was the thought uppermost with her, bat all of a eudde* she stop* ped

'No!' she said. 'There's one ohance left, I'll seek him. He'll gi-<erne something to save me from starving, safely, my darling!'

She spoke the last two words wi h a fierc? passion thai was the keynote of her whole na'ure, and with the new idea thai

had taken hold of her sew life seemed to

come to her, and she struck out brar< 1/ westward through the sloppy streets. She was faint with hanger. A era*'- of • bread and a little tea had been her on y food for many days, and she hid not broken her fast on this one yet. Bug hope does wonders, and the new liea that had taken pos session of her seemed lit c food and strength. It brought new light to her eyes, and a tinge of colour to her ran face. . , "

'£ ingere<l him,' *he nwUeted ; * I broughtib.ell on-my*e\t,bnt he will forsire me bo*. H* wi 1 not let me die at his door for; want of food.' . !; The ne «f impulse which had thai taken possession of her helped her alota< through many a long street, and *t length she left the East-end and it» Bqoalor behind her, and passed .along the Strand, and so to Regent Cirens. ' Sbn was getting drowsy and confused now, and was sbireely able to dis> tinguiah between her fancies an 4 reality. She was wet to the ckin, andaadoontpied . a long, time ia her wslk. , Her ap- , pearanee attracted more attention now than in the more squalid district* of London, and people gassed at her with susqici-.n and aversion. They thought, and not nnnatarally, that she hsd been drinking, for she tot* tared as she walked, mattering feebly to herse'f, At length just beyond Barfing* ton House, she fell half faiotfng into acorner, and would hare slipped to the ground bnt for the krasp of a policeman who come np at that momeut. 1 Now, then,, he said, not roughly, out in a tone of command, 'hold up young wom»n. This won't do, you Know, What's the matter with 50a, eh P' ' Death, I tbink,' she said sharply, recalled to life again by his touch and words. ' Lst me go, please. I can get out of yonr beat before I die, I dareeay.' ' Come, now, none of that,' ha said, at she stood up once more, trembling all over, bat on her feet again. 'No impm* deuce, or 1 Bball hare to lock you up. Move on will you ?* She obeyed the mandate, and mored on and he watched her oat'of sirfht, informing a compassiona'e passsr*by who asked what was the matter that lie ampposed she had been drink ins again. .- Onward towards Hyde Park the slight form of the girl went, amid the throng of the stree'. She was doubtful whether she should eter reach the end of her* journey, for her strength was spant, and her transcient buoyancy of spirit over. She s*t down under the dripping trees ' of the park, and it seemed to her aa ' thoush she must pass quietly out ef the • word in the dreamy stapor Inat came over her. , * No one came near her. and the half

slumber did her good, though she wok* presently with a start and a ■biTer, erery limb trembling and aching, and her head burning and throbbing as tbouith it would burst. It was quite dark bow. She had.'no idea of the time, but it seemed to her midnight. She had sat there a long time, but not quite so long as that, and she hurried op as fast as her strength wquld permit. No faltering or failing bow, for a nejr fear gave her strength to get on. 'I shall be eh»t out,' she murmu^d, 1 and I shall die in the ctreets.' Knghtsbridge Barracks was her desti•ation—her ieurney's end. Within that dingy old yi « was the man to whom she kid resslred to make a last appeal, and for his own sake—for the sake of charity and mercy, he would not turn her away hungry f om bis door. {To be Contnwd.)