A Colonial Cousin.

Evening Star, Issue 9582, 31 December 1894, Page 2 (Supplement)

A Colonial Cousin.

[By Mrs MacLeod.] (Specially Written for the Evening Star.) ✓ CHAPTER V. AUNT MAGGIE'S STORY. IjiMpgjUNT MAGGIE lived in a small, house in a quiet street, which (although it was within three ^ B' wa lk °f a bußtling thoroughfare, where you might take passing trams and omnibuses to anywhere) had an air of old-world peace, and oven a indescribable touch df romance about it. There were houses on one side of it only, the other was bounded by the high wall of some hospital (k other institution. Over the top' of this wall the trees waved in summer, and multitudes of bold sparrows twittered in their boughs in winter, when glimpses of red sunsets could also be seen. The street-was not a thoroughfare, it was respectably closed in by a long row of dismal iron railings, which separated it from a small graveyard, in the midst of which rose a little, black ohurch. This church had a sepulchral bell, whioh rang oft, for the officiating curate was " High," and added a dirge-like effect to the scene. . Aunt-Maggie's house, like its neighbors, stood close on the street. It had long, smallpaned windows, draped with faded curtains. Everything was very orderly, but dingy and worn. Each article of'furniture had grown into its place, ao that you could fancy it would be of no use anywhere else: the tall clock, the spindle-legged chairs, the highly-polished old table, the few ornaments. Old memories seemed to linger about the rooms and stories to be shut up in cupboards, or hidden in faintly fragrant drawers. The wind, too, would whistle down the passage and through the keyhole, with a sound that reminded the imaginative soul of snowy wastes of moorland, or wind-swept shores when the tide was down, or of sighing fir woods under breezy moonlit skies. Aunt Maggie never went into the country now, she could not afford it; but she often farcied such scenes and sounds, as she sat over her sparing little fire, with her feet on the fender, on winter nights; or, in the long, sad twilight of summer evenings, when, stationed by the narrow window, she sewed as long as her eyes could see. . Perhaps it was for fanciful reasons, or just because it suited her, but she loved her house, and did not wish to leave it, though it was rather beyond her means now, for she grew constantly poorer. Misfortune seemed to wait upon her through life. After suffering a great disappointment in early youth she had married late. Her husband was a man whom herfamily considered to be beneath her. He was a teacher of music ; she his pupil. Her only child had been injured as a baby, by a fall from his nurse's arms, and had held but a precarious tenure of lifesincc. Not long after this accident her husband fell into a tedious and wasting illness, of which he died, leaving his widow but scantily provided for., Her own means had been constantly decreasing since her marriage, and they continued to do so during her widowhood, for she was one of those people who, while not without both ability and energy, are almost sure to be exploited by those they have to do with. She had a good deal of musical ability, and gave lessons most days of the week, visiting her pupils for the most part, her own piano being too old and worn to do her much service. Her life had been greatly brightened by the presence of Alice Otway, who, notwithstanding her fair and delicate looks, was an extremely sensible girl; self-reliant and cheerful. The affection between them increased daily, and tliey suited each other none the less that both were warm tempered and outspoken. Thoy were not in the least afraid of each other, so told all their minds with a freedom that kept their daily life free from insipidity and stagnation. But the centre of the little household was undoubtedly Tommy! Of course, they loved him all the better because he was small and Biekly and helpless. He ruled over them to hits heart's content when they were at home, as if in revenge for the many lonely hours he had to spend lying on his back in the little parlor, while his mother was away at her lessons and Alice acting as daily governess to the five little Cheeseboroughs in Brunton square—ever so far off. When they came home at nights, and on Sundays, Tommy held high festival, for they vied with each other in loving service to him. Luckily he was not one of those children who can't be left, but had his own quaint ways of passing the time. He went to school when he was w.ell enough, in the next street, and amused himself with his little store of books and devices when confined to the house. Like many children in his case he was patient and studious; withal, rather an oddity, being precocious in some matters and quite infantile in others. He was devoted to Alice, and often assured her that he meant to marry her, when he was a man—and rich. He knew not if he loved his mother more or less than he did her. She wan his mother; but she had her dark and moody fits when she brooded on life and its sorrows, on memory and fate. Sometimes this brought upon her an aspect from which the child shrank. But Alice! she was so good, so fair, so full of merry stories and loving devices, he would steal away to her, and she, laying her round, soft cheek agaiust his, would listen to his fanciful plans about what should be done—when he was a man—until he forgot the pain that clouded his little life, and was as happy as the best. The day had been close and sultry and Aunt Maggie under a cloud, for that morning she had got her sister's letter, and been terribly displeased. She had uttered one or two fierce, rather incoherent, sentences to the effect that she wanted none of them, and would not have Karl within her doors; they needn't think it; then, after eating no breakfast, she had gone out to her daily work with a spot of color in her thin cheeks, and anger sparkling in her dark eyes. They sat now in the dusk, by the window. Tommy was asleep on his narrow sofa, his hair slightly damp, his cheek a little fevered with the heat; but very quiet. They could talk together freely without fear of being disturbed, for visitors were rare indeed in that little household. "This Utter is so hke Charlotte," said Mrs Helmont, with low-toned bitterness, "but she is right enough when she says that.l should not care to see Karl Dencker. Her letter and his have brought up old sorrow and trouble as if it had happened yesterday." Alice had loosened her fair hair in a shower about her, for her head ached, and waß sitting on the floor resting her arm on her companion's kneo. She looked up sympathisingly, and was Btartled to see a few hard, slow tears in Aunt Maggie's eyes. She, who never cried! ." Why, mother dear!" she said in consternation, half raising herself—she sometimes called her mother, as Tommy did. • "It's nothing, child—at least, it ought to be all past and over. I was thinking of old times, when I was not much older than you are now. Listen, Alice. You don't know much about life except what you read in story books. I daresay you have read in them something like what I am going to tell you. So have I. Such things do happen sometimes ; they happened to me. " When we were all young in-my father's house in the country, and while he was still a rich man, we had a very cheerful life of it, for he was kind and indulgent, hospitable too, and fond of company. Many people came and went. Among them was a young German gentleman "whose father in Hamburg was a friend and business agent ofmy father's. The son, Heinrich Dencker, had com© to England to learn about English commerce and life. He was, I .thought, quite different to the other young anen I saw —scholarly and thoughtful.., Isee, no young men like him now. .One would say he had, been mode expressly to show what God x' « " /

% man, toMlf :-s££ptipfe ' i\ jEska;ftsl Germlmy, ntajjy 1 -ejM&d Mi,* and me just p^^u^fe^ifedto • uMeratani and stars things wftfl'ltf We never talked of love, but I could not help knowing that he was very dear to me—in my heart I thought of him as my own—and that he knew it - Everybody else thought so too then, though no one said anything. I suppose they felt things hail better go on naturally. See you, Alice,-you are union prettier than I ever was, and may have more power; but, child, anything like that is almost sure to bring misery,. Don't believe in anyone too much. There's little enough chance though, poor child i you see no one here. Well, I was very happy, and we seemed to be getting closer to each other every day, when my younger sister Susie came home for the summer holidays. * f " I can't tell you all the little things that happened. At first I couldn't believe it, J or 1 make up my mind to take it in; but at I once, for good and all, our friendship, our ' walks and talks went tor nothing—all was : over. Susie hated study wouldn't do ' anything but talk nonsense; had hardly ' more head about her than Ja lively kitten; but Heinrich oared more for her little finger j than for all te d ever known of toe. - [ " Those were bitter hours. It Was no use to struggle; I might as welL-whistle for a ! wind. I could not beat to waton it; and it ' was like a deliverance, when I was sent for 1 to go and visit a sick old aunt in town. 1 What a refuge !" I hurried away, making ' more of it than I need have done. I stayed 1 moping in her close rooms all through the | long summer days, when the roses were ! falling in our garden, and 'the moonlight evenings were enticing people to ldunge and 1 dream and enjoy. The dear old delightful ! life was going on gaily—just as well with--1 out me. Igot letters—oh, yes! It wasn't very long before they both wrote 'con- ■ fiding in me.' 'They had felt from the " very first that they Were made for each | other.' They were to be married in Sep- ' tember, and ' I must be there '—they could | not do without me, .' their dear sister.' 1 If they could have seen my heart! I said I to myself that God had mocked me, and life 1 was a cruel thing. I wrote short, cold, 1 hasty replies—with what an effort! I was 1 almost glad that I could say my aunt was ' worse, and I must not leave her. At first ' they said they would put it off; they could 1 not do without me. Such a fuss ! I wrote ! again in a sort of insanity of impatience. I • don't know what I said. They were hurt ' and offended even my father. What fatuity happy people show! How stupid they can be!" Aunt Maggie stopped her low, hurried 1 speech for a moment, and went on more ' quietly: 1 " Well, child, I only give you a faint idea' ! of it all. After the marriage was over, and | my aunt had died, I had a long illness that ' changed me very much. I never saw Hein- : rich or my sister again ; I might have done ' J so, but I would not. They were full of joy !• and satisfaction; everything seemed to ■ prosper with them. He had the offer of a • iirst-rate post in Australia, and they went out. We did not write much. Their fond, : proud, happy letters filled me with pain and ■ anger. Correspondence languished. I dare- ' say they were patient with me, and if the ' matter was at all understood no word was 1 ever said about it; but it just broke my ' life. I " Many years after, as you know, I ■ married. How did John Helmont manage 3 to love me as he did ?—so fondly, so faith--1 fully. I don't know; I wasn't worth it—to 5 him. When Tommy was born I felt as if I 1 could be happy again ; he was the prettiest, ' sweetest baby. And you know what hap- ' pened—that cruel fall!—and John died—f and how hard things have been since. And i yet, and yet, Alice"—clasping the young ! girl's sympathetic hand—"it is strange, • but do you know, in spite of my hard, bad I ways, when I read this lad's letter again I 5 liked it, though there is but little of it. I > wished I had not written to Charlotte in ' such a hurry." "Have you written already? Oh! ' auntie!" " Yes, and Charlotte will use it if she ' wants to keep him all to herself. She has L no mercy in such things. After all, I would • give a great deal to see him. Who wants • friendship more than we do? And my I sister's son. She was the little one. How - many times I have curled her pretty hair, 5 and nursod hor and sung to her when she ■ was sick. She would cling round my neck, and say : " I love oo best of all, Maggie." 5 Aunt Maggie's voice was a little broken from I its swift flow. She laid her arm on the I window-sill and her head down upon it as ■ she said : " Now, if he would only think to ! come, after all; if anything would bring it ' about! But it's all spoilt, like other things. 1 What a fool I am to-nicrh't!" she added in 5 another tone, rousing herself. "It is just 3 these old memories doming up on the top of the trouble about the rent. I don't know ■ xohat to do about that. Then I've lost the 1 two Turners; they were my best pupils. I ' believe, Alice, we shall come to the work- > house." This last idea had something of the gro--1 tesque in it, and they both laughed a little, ' for the fountains of laughter and tears lie ! pretty near together. They then looked by 1 a common impulse to see whether Tommy was still asleep. Apparently so; he waß quite quiet and breathing gently. Had they 1 looked very closely they might have observed 1 that for a sleeper his expression was remark- » ably solemn and acute, but this escaped 1 their observation. • The fact was Tommy had been disturbed k .when his mother's voice, though low, took I the searching, resonant tone of passion. He had heard the last part of what she said, had : seen her tears and her attitude of utter I dejection. It filled him with dismay and ■ distress. She really wanted to see Cousin ' Karl then. Aunt Charlotte was keeping ! him away. How, he did not quite under- ' stand. No matter; it was a wicked shame. > Auut Charlotte was wicked (Tommy disli k ed : her with a great dislike). He comprehended 1 perfectly, from what he had overheard and i what he knew of his mother, that she would I never ask Karl to come, but she longed that ■ any mysterious chance might bring him I without asking. But Aunt Charlotte meant • to keep him away from them ! They wanted 1 friend!—his mother had said so. Cousin " Karl would help them to pay the rent > perhaps! He was rich and a man; the I summit of Tommy's own ambition. No such r idea as this had entered Aunt Maggie's head, » but it found a way into Tommy's shrewd ' pate and dwelt there. i " If he could see Cousin Karl he would ' tell him all about it and ask him to come ' and see them. Why not?" ■ From these cogitations it was a natural I step to wonder if he could see Cousin Karl, I out of which idea rose in his fertile brain a ! plan to be further dwelt upon and developed. i " j .CHAPTER VI. AN EXPEDITION. \ Alice stole downstairs early next morning; she was usually the fit st person to appear, [ for Aunt Maggie slept but ill, and often I only closed her eyes when the summer sun was already in the heavens. It was possible, therefore, to do ah hour's good,, hard work ' before she appeared, and Alice, in her plain | little grey gown and big apron, was as busy , as possible when she was surprised by Tommy, who came hopping briskly into the \ little parlor. " Alice,' r said he, " will you get me my money box?" ; TommyVmoney box was, at his own request, kept on a high shelf, owing to his invincible desire to open it about once a week when its contents had mounted up to the sum of about three halfpence. " Why, you don't want to spend it, do you?" said Alice. "I thought you were going to save it till Christmas; yon will never Be rich that.way." " I want to lopk at it, at any rate," said the precocious miser. " X havn't seen it for ever bo longi" { " Better wait tilT Christmas "—teasingly. " Well, if you won't, I'll get a chair and put it on the table, and get up and get it myself," declared, Tommy, sturdily. , "No, no,", cried ,-AJioe hastily, in some dismay at the idea, She reached It .and shopk it with a,inisehievousiace. " How much do you guess ?" said Bhe. t *«I Bay threepence t halfpenny,". " There's a great deaf .more than that, I'm sure," said Tommy as with an anxious, preoccupied air he carried his -treasure away to 1 the window. He sat in the glint of the, morning light,' pouring eagerly, over shia I little store. It did not take much counting,

Iqdfin' it. Was Mitr shough he sat thinking tin- mm smitm ;&Jittle line, showed between Mas* im in aud out, Mw#fl}&a&aßl ready, and, talking to him fee whiles. "Would he give Ael»>■S)^penny? >, 'she asked. He deigned no rejiiyj * " Was he going to invest V Itt'.th&Ti'cast he would perhaps lend her a penny. She very hard up." • He looked at her with large, serious eyes. " Will you lend me ono ?" said he. "J would, dear-; but feally I havn't a penny in the world until next Saturday; then 1 shall get'paid." "Havn't you one penny? Poor Allie f It's a pity to be real poor, isn't it?" said Tommy with a sigh. "Hush!* signalled Alice, for Aunt Maggie was coming downstairs. These two had their little conspiracies; 'they discussed ways and means at times after a fashion which they kept secret from mother. They both, loved her dearly, so it did no great harm; bdt it was one of the drawbacks that arose out of certain phases of her own character. Both felfin a measure that they must take care of her and not let her be vexed more than they could help. Breakfast tV<r and Alice gone, Tommy maintained a preoccupied silence, for the most part, during the morning. He kept rather out of his mother's way, as if he feared that she might detect his scheme in his face. It was nothing less than to go to his Aunt Charlotte's house by himself, and ask to see Cousin Karl. He carefully conned over the necessary steps in his mind; hehad several times been there, but always with his mother. He must get the omnibus to Oxford Circus, tell the man he wanted to get out there, ahd wjilk along till he saw another one, which he knew would take him within fiye minutes' walk of Aunt Charlotte's very door. . ( Everything seemed simple enough contemplated in advance; only, the first omnibus would cost twopence; and the next threepence—fivepence each Way ! And he had only eightpence, all told. Here was a desperate question of finance ! He settled it by saying he would get there at any rate ; that was the main thing. He could get back to ' Oxford street, too, after which he would walk on as far as he could, or he might borrow some money; anything might happen at Aunt Charlotte's. He would manage somehow ! He had no idea of distanoes, never having walked much. As for the possibility of not seeing his cousin, he never faced that at all. What dismay would have filled his mother's breast could she have divined her darling's plan ! She would hardly have gone off so serenely to her lessons after their early little dinner was over. As she bade him goodbye Bhe kissed him, parted the brown hair ' on his forehead, and looked at his shining eyes with a mixture of anxiety and admiration (he was a pretty little fellow), wondering if he were better than usual or rather feverish—he looked so bright. "This is seven o'clock day mother, isn't it ?" was all he said; to which Bhe replied with a sigh: "Yes, dear; I shan't be able to be backbefore then. Be sure and take care of yourself!" Tommy, for his part, felt very brave and well; he set forth on his errand as soon as ever he thought his mother would be safely out of the way. He was fortunate to begin with; he oaught his bus without waiting, also, the conductor was good to him; particularly careful to see him safely in and out; he even looked after the little, halting figure in the busy route oLOxford Circus. Tommy bopped joyfully on his way, looking sharply out for what he called "Aunt Charlotte's bus." Anyone but' the right one seemed to come up; at 'last, however, there it was; he managed to catch it, though it was not so easy and pleasant this time, and now he had nothing more to mind for the present, as he went on to the end of its beat. It was a long way, longer than he had thought; but, here he was at last, close to his destination. The wide suburban road looked very grand to him, with its tall houses on either side set in their pretty gardens amidst waving trees. Tommy felt small and lonely; his heart sank a little. Who would he see, and what should he say? Too late to go back now, though. He .looked at the two bells on Aunt Charlotte's gate post, tugged at the one for visitors, mounted two or three broad, low steps, and stood waiting before the big door with an enormous handle in the middle of it, that opened nothing. It ww » grctvt relief when tv familiar face appeared and a friendly voice said : " Well, I declare! Lorrks, Master Tommy! and where's your ma ?" It was Martha, a middle-aged upper servant, who had lived in the family from childhood, and who would have been at this moment with Aunt Maggie rather than Aunt Charlotte had fortune so permitted it. " I came by myself," said Tommy; " and I want " "Dear; dear," interrupted Martha, "I don't know what to do, I'm sure. I don't like to send you away; but your aunt is out, and when she'll be back 1 couldn't tell you." "J don't want to see her thank you," said Tommy; "I want to see my cousin Karl." They had entered the hall, and Martha had shut the door. Everything seemed very quiet and left-alone ; there was a smell of flowers, and the tall clock ticked relentlessly. " Why, my dear," said Martha, " he's out too. They're all gone together; the young ladies are with them." Tommy's heart sank; be looked at her as If she might somehow make it different. He felt dreadfully disappointed and far from home. " Did you want to see him perticulerlike," asked' Martha, full of curiosity. "I wanted to see him, of oourse; that's why I came." said the child, rather petulantly. "Will you tell him, Martha? Not Aunt Charlotte, mind—Cousin Karl." "That I will," said Martha attentively. " What shall I say ? Your ma wants to see him?" " No, no," cried Tommy, alarmed. " Give me a bit of paper, Martha, will you ?" She produced a card; he put it on the polished table, and wrote down the only words he could think of at the moment: — I came to see you, but you were out. Please eome and see me at 13 Brunton street, S.—Your cousin, TotoMY. " You'll be sure to give it to his own self, won't you, Martha ?" said he. "And, you know, mother doesn't know I came here, and I must be quick back." " If I didn't think so," exclaimed Martha, clapping her hands together. " Well, Master Tommy, if that's it, perhaps you'd better not stay ; for cook trill want to hear all about it, and she'll tell your aunt, certain sure. So you're doing it quite secret ?" " Yes ; please don't tell anybody," said Tommy, gra.vely. Martha let him out, and rustled away, well pleased with her secret. " The queer little "old-fashioned thing," said she to herself ; "but I shall tell hiß ma. Only let me have the chance to see her; it isn't often there is one nowadays." : Tommy felt dreadfully tired now. As he rattled down the long, hot roads in the nearly empty omnibus, on his return journey, he forgot everything, even the fact that he had not borrowed any money from Martha to take him home, and fell fast asleep, so fast that the conductor had to waka., him, which he did with a startling "Hy-up!" when they were just at the Circus. He got out, feeling dazed and hardly knowing where he was. With an accustomed instinct of prompt activity he took a few steps; he could hardly have told what happened, but it was as if he had got into the current of a great rushing river, which closed over his head.. Something struck him; he lostJbis crutch; felt himself looking up into the big eyes of a horse in the shafts of a hansom cab. It was fearfully close to him. Then, almost before he had time to be terrified, he was snatched by strong aad capable hands from under its very Feet. CHAPTER. VII. SIGHT-SBBTNO. f Not many days had passed before Cousin Karl,carried everything before him in the Meredith household They all liked him, and the girls, as their fattier Had prophesied, were "just smfeCwith hpn,"TMir» Meredith in the'; meantime looking on well pleased and iserene as ito possible qnences.' -*•'>.*'' , . . . ! , They we're not actually in ,touch f but" 'were not','aware'of the »ot. . Ba^Ma^ 1

nob know»ior the* thought him rather queer sometimes in spite of.- his 'Various advantages. Hildi did especially; to heir mind ' his Uatea were erratic ftiid miscellanftoiiß in the extreme—in fact,' quite incomprehensible. He cared nothing about athing being " the latest oat" or being what, " everybody" was "raving about," so the; bad somg sharp skirmishesas to what to" see, 3b7 and avoid. They went out a good deal to .picture galleries, concerts, theatres, and .places of general interest. Hilda's tastes inclined to the fashionable; Mrs Meredith's to the proper, which, of course, largely included the fashionable; Tessa was for the " jolly*"; while Mr Meredith; if anything, leaned towards the inexpensive by preference. Karl submitted to all with a good gtabe, though he showed an ecstatic enjoyment of long chamber concerts, which the Merediths distinctly felt to be a mistake, and was terribly bored by a genteel comedy to which they took him; while he only consented to appear at a fashionable garden party, which to Hilda was the event of the summef, on condition that next day they should all go sight-seeing with him wherever he pleased to > take them. In the meantime Aunt Maggie seemed to ' be forgotten. He asked no further questions, and Mrs Meredith certainly did and said nothing to call her to remembrance. She almost wished that she- really did not know where she v was, and would, perhaps, > have convinced herself that she aotually had i lost her address had she not made up her ' mind to write and (av she would have i phrased it) make things clear. ' The morning for Karl's day of sightseeing broke bright and sunshiny. He was • early on the Bcenes in high spirits. " Now," ' said he, explanatorily, to his party, "as ) we've been to all the places where every--1 body goes, to-day we shall do what no* ' body does,,and go where only the world in ' general goes." ; " Where is that, pray?" asked Hilda in i her little superior manner. "First to the Tower. Have you been ' there?" } No, none of them had ever thought of • such a thing. • " Himmel!" said Karl; " think of that. ' 'Then to St. Paul's, and up the river to ; Westminster. Mind, too, we are to get home by no less commonplace means than i omnibuses and walking." i " What a queer idea ! It's just like a i raw country cousin," said Hilda. i : "Of course; that's exactly what I am. • Willyougo?" 1' Haven't you Been these things, Karl ? " ; asked Tessa. He laughed, and would not say. "You ■ haven't," said be; "and Aunt Charlotte ie • longing for the trip, I can see." I ?" I shouldn't mind it," said Aunt Char- [ lotte in her easy way. " Only there mustn't ; be too much fatigue, and as we return I ; shall want to go to Buzzard's." " Oh, we shall all want to do that/'/ cried Tessa. "I think it will be splendid." I .. So they all set off in high glee, and, with- > out exactly suiting as companions, the ' vigorous buoyancy of their cicerone carried i them all along. At the Tower he told them > all sorts of tales, historic and otherwise, and ■ seemed to enjoy himself wonderfully, lookI ing even at the stacks of arms with a sort oi ; soldierly delight, as if he were meditating an emevie. In St. Paul's, where they sat - down to rest, he forgot his companions for a '■> few moments while, throwing back his fine '' brown head, he looked straight up into the i great dome. Its elfect came home to him i with a sense of rest, space, and mystery thai , pleased him well. Tessa looked at him and wondered what he was thinking about. She i touched his arm. "Do you like this?" she ) whispered. 3 " Yes " —briefly, and with a start of recollection. ' " I thought people didn't generally ad ■ mire it much,",, observed Tessa, rather lest t hardily than usual. ; " Well, I don't know that I was admiring i it," said he. "Perhaps that was why 1 ) liked it." > "It's too large; one can't hear in it,' I said Aunt Charlotte, " and who knows what i kind of people may have been sitting here.' - 'She gave a slight shudder, i " How can one like what one doesn'l t admire ?" asked Tessa, insistently. "Oh, Tessa, don't bother," said her sister. [ impatiently. But Karl answered gaily : 1 " You see, admiration to be worth anything is such an arduous business; my mind was r quite idle." i " Then, you wouldn't admire things oi s people without thinking a great deal about fc them, I suppose," said Tessa. "Do yoi understand that, Hilda ?" 1 " Oh, of course," said Hilda, curtly. "1 think St. Paul's is horrid myself," as if this I clinched the matter. t "In that case, we'd better move," said > Karl, "besides, we haven't half done our 1 work yet, you know." After this, he conducted them with much ' attentive care to the black little wharf, and i on board a steamer going up the river. He enjoyed its picturesqueness himself, and had i seen it under many of its varying aspects ; 1 also, he felt a certain mischievous pleasure 1 in observing the demeanor of his companions under the unwonted circumstances. Aunt Charlotte wore an air of good-humored t tolerance, mixed with some supercilious ; dubiety as to the company into which she had got; this was only Kept in check by het > confidence in her lordly-looking nephew and i her wish to please him in his fancy. She i was, too, old enough and experienced enough to have some faint idea of the ■ grandeur and interest of the historic waterway of the great city; but she did object to bad tobacco smoke and to being rained ou all over by a cloud of smuts. ' Hilda, in* her dainty little dress, coat, hat, veil, gloves, and boots, looked' the picture of disgusted superiority. Tessa ' alone enjoyed it thoroughly; she stood at the prow of the steamer—her black hair s flying—with her cousin beside her. There was a fresh breeze on the river, though the • streets were hot and close enough; the sue 1 shone gaily on the changing scene and on the rolling grey waters hasting to the sea. 5 They shot under the dark shadow of bridges, r and they stopped at lazy little landing stages until, when they left the water at ' Westminster, Tessa said, with a sigh : "I'm sorry it's over; I wish we could have gone ' all the way like that." After this came lunch, with further resting ' and strolling, so that it was late in the [ afternoon when the party found themselves . in Oxford street homeward bound. Aunt ' Charlotte, though professing herself to be ' very tired, was still bent upon ordering I cakes at Buzzard's,, so detained them all for awhile in that enticing region, after which they walked on a little, waiting for ; an omnibus to take them home. Karl was in attendance upon Hilda, who , declared herself half dead with fatigue, and who was, in fact, a pair of tight little boots admirably adapted to make a , quarter of an hour's smart walk on a warm , day a first-class torture. Nevertheless, being a past mistress in the art of small talk, she poured it out remorselessly on her cousin, who leant a seeming attention which \ did not prevent his quick-glancing blue eyes ' from taking in all that was goiitg on around them. "Look there," said he, suddenly; "onemoment, please." He detached his arm and was gone. Hilda, checked suddenly in full flow, had seen nothing, being entirely preoccupied by herself; but Karl had been noticing the movements of a little, lame lad, who had just left an omnibus and was crossing the crowded way. All at once he seemed to lose presence of mind, paused, was almost knocked down by the shafts of a hansom, lost his crutch, and But there was no time for a catastrophe. Karl had darted to the rescue, and lifted him, dazed and frightened, from his perilous- position. " A child like yon ought not to be out alone,"' said he at once. " Where do you live V "At 13 Brunton street—a long way off," gasped the rescued; looking up with a very intelligent face, indeed, in spite of bis alarm. " A long way off! What on earth is to be done f Ksfrl glanced about and caught the eye of "an observant cabman, who bis hajb. The momentary survey sbowef a reliable, fatSerly -looking man. Kail* beckoned to idmV. - - ~ "Takettasch^dtonne,"said inputting .?«VV' ;' :' J

- tenderly paced forl ;,. , ,^^ I -".& itP^i^i'Si , unknown cousin; 'Hi, cojia uaidlflgeW '.■ laughing at the ci, and anf s plicaty with which hVepoke into email; t dear voice. - "'Well, see iim safe home sit > any rate." » r 'l"P.dp that, sir," said the man. So, the 1 fareiwihgpaid,-Tommy ratUedoff instate, ; Uttk dreaming that he had met the wonder- / * fulcansinJafteryi aacTWlowed him to slip 1 through his fingers.. ....... , , i 'tDid' you ever see anything like it ? I Leaving us in this way," said HUda petulantly. " . v, 1 > "Oh, Hilda* someone was being ran * over," cried Tessa, a little; awed and inclined 3 to look upon Cousin -Karl as ajfreat herb, i The thing had-Aeen 'done that i they, haff scarcely - seen #hafe happened, and » bnt few units of the inevitable luttie crowd > had gathered. ' "Oh,incase of an accident,-of course," f> said Aunt Charlotte, -patrtmisingly j "hot, - really, the police should see after .these I things." ,- . - ... • ■ ■ • * -'• "I beg your pardon," said Karl, joining t them. for our omnibus. Here it is, > by good luck, so that's all right" I "Was anyone hart f" asked Aunt Charr lotte. e "Not in the least/' . " I wandered what on earth was the * matter," said Hilda fitfully. "I thought 8 two people must be killed, at lWstt" . " "There was. no time to explain; it wis 8 unfortunate," said KarL Bnt .he did not - detail his adventure. He devoted himself - to the task of getting aU his a a good humor before they reached home. He rather wondered at their limp condition* not a realising how very little* active' exertion they were in the habit of making. He himi self was not tired at all, or damped by the , fact that Hilda was 'disposed U> be ini exorable. In the evening, as he was crossing the i. hall, Martha handed him a little taper, 0 saying demurely: "A yemng gentleman t called to see yon, sir, this afternoon, and „ u left this." He it a message from some chance grown-up a acquaintance, and read it with no little wonder, which deepened to interest u fie * observed the address. "Avery strange coincidence,"' thought he; " there ought to " be something good in it if my mother's old theory of coincidences be the tme one. u However, I can't go now until I get back, I is suppose. What an opening f' ;■ CHAPTER VHL 1 A KETDBN VISIT. It was a hot day. The air was full of - ,j yellow haze, so that though the sky was cloudless its color was unseen. A feeling of weariness was in everything and appeared l " in the features of everybody, from street ? lounger to "busy shopkeeper. There was nothing in all the Walcot road district to j Buggest the vast and varied interests of a great city. The shops of all kinds were '* such as supply the needs of those who must consider shillings with heedful care, and are- | likely to be/ attracted by seeing garments marked at so much and elevenpence halfa penny. The pavements were hot and dusty, e the butcher waged a constant war with e flies, the greengrocer's vegetables looked " stale and himself mournful, and even the L ? dainty matron who presided over the butter, eggs, and milk shop had a weary and fussed ' e expression. Ie Karl Dencker, sauntering at leisure in the . Walcot road, observed all these things with '" a mixture of interest and distaste. He had . a certain tendency to look at things at '' large, to proceed from the particular to the 58 general The sight of the monotonous, careladen bits of life before his eyes suggested S innumerable unseen homes and unknown * lives, where the same processes under similar „ conditions were repeated ad infinitum. A "And," thought he, "this is life, and a » poor business it would be if these daily affairs were not first of all a sort of stage i. where the human drama is played out; no, better—a set of tools for the fashioning of characters and the fining of spirits. Ihis I ought to be about the place." He stopped, looked round, Lhcn crossed tbe road. l 8 The appearance of things was beginning to change a little; the road was quieter, and )r made a slight ascent. Square houses of ,t, some dimensions set in dull plots of garden u seemed to assert a growing respectability. A few yards more and the visitor, whose air I of brUliant vigor was, perhaps, rather out [ s of keeping with the whole aspect of things, turned into Brunton street. He walked ,j down the row of sepulchral small houses, r with their formally closed windows, and scrutinised for a moment the only one whose hj sash was a little raised. As he moved on to the tall, narrow door e a sharp, childish voice arrested him. d " Halloa!" it said; and a face to match, . with a pointed chin, large eyes, and a e capable forehead—but pale. and sickly—--8 peeped out at him. t " Halloa!" returned Karl; "you're there, a are you"?" i 8 "Yes," responded Tommy, recognising e him, and full of interest. " Have you come ir to see me ?" j "Asyou see."e " Well, I'm awfully sorry, but you can't a come in." ,_ . e "Why not?" r " 'Cause the door's locked." st "Can't it be opened?" u " Everybody's out, and I'm not to get up on any account, because my back's so bad to-day." '* "Is that how you treat-visitors?" said the ' other, coming close to the window to recon- . noitre. He looked at the little couch and ' the table, with its small store of possible , amusements and occupations to cheer the child's solitude. " I think I must come in," * said he. "I'm a visitor, you see, and visitors expect to get in." n -'How?" k< "By the window." ' "Ob ! But the neighbors !" I " There are none," said Karl hardily. ' " Oh, aren't there though !" said Tommy, with a wise look. " That's all you know. " You said just now your back was bad. Does the doctor come to see you ? " * " Yes, sometimes." * "They'll think it's the doctor!" And, as . if this settled the matter, he opened the window wide, laid two muscular hands on the sill, and in a moment was in the room | beside Tommy. " Here's a pretty thing!" exclaimed the invalid, eyeing him dubiously, but not at all afraid. " You know, visitor, now you are here, you ought to give yoftr name." ? "Of course." He gravely produced a f card, and handed it to the child with a fc mojaent'B brilliant smile. Tommy grew very * red. "You see," said his visitor, "you 1 asked me to come, and here I am." | "Are you cousin Karl, then?" asked 1 Tommy, breathlessly. Karl replied by a r little nod, sitting down sideways on a chair 1 and looking at him. Tommy put out a rather ' hot, slight hand, and they shook hands quite ' solemnly. ; "Thisissplendid!" declared Tommy, with 3 emphasis, giving his cushion a thump. I wish mother wasn't out." I "When will she be in?" r "Not till seven o'clock." *- » "Do yom know where she is'?* t He shook his head. "She's away teaching I people to play and sing." i Karl looked at his watch." " Four o'clock » now," said be. "I say, cousin Tommy, > won't yon be hungry before then ?" "Pm hungry now," responded the child, I with a little air of sustained patience; "be- > cause I conleujrU eat dinner." < "Well, it's rather odd," said his visitor. "Fm hunjgry too—eoppose «m invite me to tea." , ' J< Bnt loantrget it'ready." "Oh, ITI ffeready," said this odd, new .. keen bine eyes had bee* ' a UtOe black gasr ptove with

— ' —"*^ — ■' f imds ovwyUiing in that little ooypbo»ra - " >«fcbKlthe curtam." ff r ,"" ; / K»rl dived' into this receptadVand pro- ■" /dneed oups and saucers, bread and sugar, / then paused, as if some idea had struck him. / "It seems to me, Tommy," said he, " that / some ham and eggs would bait oar oonstitutioos very Veil—en f * " Wouldn't itr-just," said Tommy regretfully | "but we can't have it; yoa know." "I don't see why not? There's a attuning shop just round the corner J bat— Bother ItJ I shall have to get out through the. window, I suppose." "No, you needn't; the door's on the latch, yon know." . - , "Oh; that's all right then. I'll be baok iii a minute." , He caught up bis hat and disappeared, leaving Tommy in a'ferment of rapturous interest and curiosity. When he came back he brought the ham—all ready cdoked, for convenience' sake—and he boiled the eggs skilfully in the kettle, asking Tommy meantime how he got home after his accident, and'about his illness; then arranged the* whole menage by his side, and helped him with much kiudnesj. The\-e waauo pretence about it on either side; both were hungry, and were enjoying themselves immensely, Tommy's tongue going like the clapper of a little bell—telling his new friend all the family affairs, his cousin being for the most part an amused listener, when—Rat! tat! came a harsh, insistent knock at the door, immediately repeated, as by one who' did not mean tq be kept waiting. Each laid down his knife and fork and looked guiltily at the other. "Caught!" said Karl. "I know who it is," said Tommy, dolefully; " it's the rent man." " Well, what's to done ? " " I expect he'll knock, and knock, and go dway," said Tommy. "Became once before, when I was all alone, and I covered -myself overhead with mother's shawl till he was gone." Karl laughed. "We can't both do that," said he. " I'll go and speak to him." He went, and Tommy, listening breathlessly, heard the harsh, snarling voice he knew so well, followed up by Cousin KarFs authoritative, masculine rejoinder, so unlike what the rent man was accustomed to in that house. There was a short parley; they seemed to have adjourned to the kitchen! What on earth could they be doing? Then, wonderful to relate, the rent man could be heard saying "Good afternoon, sir," in quite a humble and mollified tone. To be sure, it was no more than might have been expected from the management of such a hero as his cousin. Tommy felt that; Still, it was marvellous. , Karl came back, looking thoughtful. " I've done it now, Tommy," he said. * «Oh—did you fight him ? " "No, child, no—worse ! I paid him." " Well, but that was first-rate, I think," cried Tommy, eagerly. "Yes, but—er—*don't you see, old boy, your mother may not like it. However, finish your tea—you have finished ? Well, Tommy, look here—of course, it's quite right and very natural that I Bhould pay that fellow, being a cousin, and being here ; but, unluckily, my aunt doesn't like me, Fm afraid, so the thing might offend her very much." ' " Ah, she hasn't seen you !" "No, that's it, partly—not altogether though. Can you keep a secret ? " " Sometimes I can." " Well, I want you to keep mine. Do you think you can trust me ? " " I should think so." " Then, I do not want you to tell your motheranything abontmy being here just now —not for a few days, perhaps a week. I must think about it. I may wish to write to her, in the first place—in any case, to manage the matter in my own way. Do you under-, stand!" "Yes," devoutly; "but I must tell , Alice." " No, you must not; tell nobody. It's your fault that I'm here, you know." "So it is," said Tommy; "I'd forgotten. But we can't help Alice knowing, because she'll come home'first, and see the tea !" " Who is Alice!" asked Karl," hesitating. " She isn't our cousin, exactly ; but she lives here, and we love her dearly. I'm going to marry her when I'm a man like you. I tell her everything." "A man like you!" The words struck strangely on the ear of the specimen of vigorous young manhood who was observing the wasted, eager little invalid. He smiled, and said: "In that case, of ««> must make an exception. Bat will she keep our secret if you explain it carefully ?" "I'm sure she will. You needn't be a bitafraid of Allie. See, here she is." Karl started slightly; but it was only a photograph which Tommy drew out of a little drawer in bis elbow-table. Karl looked at it in silence, thinking it, in his heart, however, the sweetest face he had ever seen. • • Isn't she nice?" asked her adorer. '' Very nice, indeed. Beg her to be extremely careful to keep our secret just for the present. And, Tommy, I must go now. I have to be at Aunt Charlotte's tonight. I shall soon see you again. By-the-bye," he added, as he shook up Tommy's pillow for him (which he did skilfully enough, having been accustomed to nurse his mother), " do you never go to see Aunt Charlotte ?" "No, and I don't want," said Tommy, stoutly. " I don't like her." "Why not?" "She's unkind. I wonder you like her." "Do you? Well, good-bye." Tommy gave him. a hearty hug on parting, which seemed to have more of a welcome home in it to the stranger cousin than tbe elaborate demonstrations of all the young and old. "You won't be long ?" said he. " It'll be • awful, not telling." " No, no; just a few dayß." And in another moment he bad shut the outer door, and his shadow had darkened for an instant the light of the afternoon sun upon the Jolind, which had been pulled down to keep his rays from searching the little room 100 fiercely. Oh, what a long time to wait before Alice came home at six! What joy to behold her coming in—rather hot and tired, certainly, but full of love for the solitary little invalid and of solicitude about his "tea." She stopped short in utter amazement. "Why, Tommy, you've been having a feast! What next? Eggs, I declare—and ham! Gracious, child, the depths of you ! There's no fathoming them. What have you been about?" " Ah!" said Tommy, who looked particularly lively, "ydu don't know who's been here." "That horrid rent man, I suppose; but no, you didn't invite him to tea, I'm quite sure." "He has been here," said Tommy, his thoughts momentarily diverted, "and he got paid too!" " Who paid him ?' in blank amazement. " Cousin Karl! He came here this afternoon, and he paid him; and he asked himself to tea, and this is our spread." "Oh, Tommy! That was very wrong of him; you shouldn't have told him about it." " Why not!" lookingrather dismayed. " Because Aunt Maggie will be so angry." " But it's all right; she wanted it to be paid." 3 T) "Yes, but—you don't understand. It's so queer. He must be queer, I think." "He's the nicest person in the world," declared Tommy confidently, " You'd think so if you saw him." "Oh, Tommy, you recreant!"shaking her finger at him; "why, I thought that I was." " So you are," replied he, driven, into a corner; "but he can do things you can't. Allie," he continued eoaxingly, "do please clear away before mother comes in, because he doesn't want her to know he was here -to-day." Alice demurred. "I think that's the ' worst of ail," said she. "We ought to tenter." , , L . ' This led to a confidential explanation and entreaty on Tommy's part As he grew excited Alice became compliant, and finally promised to wait" a. few days, at any rate," that they might see what the roysterioiw - cousin meant to do. Tommy evidently had "infinite faith in him, and Alice herself could notlielp relishing the jointseoret,and carrying aboufc with her a buoyant sense of something agreaable and momentous being about to happen. -. v - "V CHAPTER IX . It was evening. A tempered the day's heat, and a doaky^glow^flf'the

.*_— j I ] west was all that was. left of the sun's fierw radiance. The windows of Mrs Meredith'i ■ long drawing room stood open to a balcony , overlooking the, garden, from which th« ' mingled scents of flowers floated np fitfully, , like wandering spirits of the sweet and good ■ seeking a restiug place. Things looked pleasant. The great piano suggested music; sundry deep ohairs and comfortable lounges invited to repose or wooed to confidential chat. Perhaps the spirit of the scene operated on Mr Meredith, who, sunk in an easy chair, was supposed by his wife to be enjoying an after-dinner nap. She sat near him, in her own special corner of a couch, as comfortable as it could be made, with a .footstool for her feet, a piece of soft knitting in her hands, a novel in her lap to look at 3 she liked, and a mind given up to blissful vaonitv, except that it now and .then made little half unconscious flights of a more active nature, which caused small smiles of matronly importance to pass over her smooth impassive countenance. She was quite startled when her husband suddenly • uncrossed his legs and said: "E—r, my dear!" in a wide-awake tone of voice, which sounded almost harsh. " Well, what is it ? " she asked, carefully picking up a stitch he had caused her to drop. " What do you think of this young fellow, your nephew?" "I like him very much," said Aunt Charlotte complacently. " He's really quite an addition. Ijiad no idea that coming from such an out of the world place, and—and that—that he could be such an acquisition. The dear girls are so fond of him." " Humph ! Is he fond of them ?" " Oh indeed, yes! Anyone can see that," with effusiou. "Which?" . "My dear, how droll you are! I really don't know." "That's where it is. He's good-natured enough iu his way; but I tell you he's a shrewd fellow—has bis head well screwed on. You won't lead him." Mr Meredith uttered this sentence with a sort of explosive emphasis which seemed to intimate that there was more behind. His wife, however, was not anxious to explore the recesses of his mind. As a rule she disliked plain speaking, and this was one of the reasons why she never could get on with her sister, Mrs Helmont. After a discreet little pause she replied: " Well, of course, everyone must see now very attractive dear Hilda is. Then Tessa is a mere girl, but so bright and spirited—quite a dash about her; he must enjoy her fun; but With Hilda things are more serious—she is so thoughtful and sensible." "Is she? Um—glad to hear it. Never saw much of it myself; but tell you what, Charlotte: it doesn't do to have these things hanging on. I like people to know their own minds. You're a sensible woman, and —er —you know what I mean. Sometimes people need pushing—helping along a little. Hints are all very well if people—er—know how to take them, but " Mr Meredith finished up with a frown; and, joining his finger-tips together, looked over the bridge thus raised at his wife. One reason for his discontent was that he was inclined to borrow, and Karl showed no inclination to take hints about making advances; neither did he display much readiness to communicate the state of his own affairs, and his uncle wanted to get at it. "Girls are expensive," continued he. "I know that to my cost; and there's a good deal of pressure; yes, er—pressure, though no one except myself is called upon to feel it." " The dear girls are a responsibility," admitted their mother, "but such a comfort" a simper. " I will confess to you, George, my dear, I have been thinking it might be a very nice thing if we were to remove a little while from London. A month or two now in the country, or at the seaside, where all is so delightfully free, and there are such opportunities, you know—no disturbance would settle everything. Cousin Karl would be glad to join us, I'm sure. So nice for him, poor boy, to find a home among us." "Do you really think so?" queried Mr Meredith, responding, however, to the firsf part of his wife's speech, and disregarding the reference to the "poor boy" as a flourish. " Oh, yes, I feel quite sure of it," replied his wife, understanding him. " Well, I'll see—perhaps I might do it: but there, you «w«5 - it's expense again. That's always the way; your hand never out of your pocket !" The conversation was now broken up by the appearance of the young people in a body from the garden. Their entrance was followed by the bringing in of lights, and Mrs Meredith set herself to observe them. Her peace of mind was a little disturbed, and she was disposed to be vigilant. She was unable, however, to decide to which of his cousins Karl was most devoted, or whether, indeed, he could actually bo said to be devoted to either of them. He seemed preoccupied; perhaps something had occurred during his absence to divert his thoughts; his mind might be dwelling on business matters. Really, the seaside' plan was an admirable one ; it would give them time to become confidential, and all things would favor such a consummation as she wished to bring about. She determined to approach the matter at once, so presently called Karl softly from the little group at the piano. He came up, looking at her with his sharp, attentive glance. "Sit down, sit down," said she, making room for him beside her. " Never mind those young people just now; I want to talk to you. How have you enjoyed yourself while you have been away ? " "Oh, fairly; I had a good deal to get through," he answered cursorily, evidently perceiving this to be an opening inquiry which meant nothing. " Were you not very glad to get back?" inquired his aunt blandly. " Well, yes; London is hot and dusty, though, just now. Don't you think so ?" " Oh, dear, yes ! In fact I was just telling your uncle how I and the dear girls longed to be in the country, at some quiet seaside place." " Speak for yourself, ma," broke in Tessa rudely. "I don't want to go away, I'm sure." . " Yes, you do, my dear," said her mother, with smooth insistence. "No one will enjoy it more." " Where are you going, mamma?" asked Hilda, coming up and fixing her small, bright eyes on her mother's face. She was looking very well to-night in her light dress, her arms and neck showed white and round from a cloud of soft lace, and she had fastened a flower daintily in her hair. " To Pontden, love. Don't you remember Kessing Villa, where we stayed two years ago after the children were ill ?" " Where Alice stayed, you mean, mother," cried Tessa—" worrying with Bobbie and Netta, and we all quarrelled every day; but it really was a delightful place—such cliffs and walks, Karl! "■ ' " And such a good tennis lawn !" chimed in Hilda. "Andboating and fishing!" said Tessa. " Oh, ma, do let's go next week." "And what's to become of me, eh, children ?" demanded Mr Meredith, putting in his oar at this juncture. "Oh, you would come, too, my dear," said his wife; " and Karl would come down with you as soon as you could get away." " It sounds first-rate. I think you'll all enjoy it," said Karl with s mething of the empressement a person may show when he does not intend to gp into a thing thoroughly himself. J "You will come, too, though, won't you ?" cried Hilda. "Oh, yes; it would be nothing without you," added Tessa. Karl laughed. "I shall be only too glad to run down if you'll let me, I daresay," said he; "but I have something to look after here first. It may take me some little time to manage.". Nor could they bring him to anything moro definite, for he was determined to see more of his other aunt'B family and overcome her prejudice against him if possible, and he did not know how much time might be required for the enterprise. "At any rate," thought he, "I can't be tied down to be dangling about playing tennis at the seaside. They v must let me off." He was feejing less attracted, to the Meredith family than he had done at first. Their perpetual gaiety and banter, whibh had no serious root in life, wearied him 5 also, he had quickly detected the inexorable hardness whioh lay

» concealed beneath his aunt's smooth 'a manners. She, having-not quite done with y him, turned the conversation, te " Run away now, girls," said she, " and r, leave your cousin and me alone a little." d "What, more," thought Karl; but-he d looked all attention. ; At first there seemed to be nothing m more, except that she offered him a little d roundabout advice, and asked him a few e equally Circuitous' questions, the' general n objeot of which was to place herself on as e confidential a footing with him au possible. ,r By-and-bye she asked him tranquilly, knit1, ting the while, "whether he had heard a from Aunt Maggie yet ?" And when he said a " No," with an unmistakeable air of, inf terest; she added, smoothly: " I have had a il short note, which—really—in fact—l don't e know how I put up with it, even from a e sister. Poor Aunt Maggie's temper grows if worse. I don't understand it; but she r assures me she can't see you, and doesn't a want to entertain you. I hardly like to y show her letters; perhaps the less said y about such things the better." 1, 1 Karl littered a careless monosyllable of assent, but Aunt Qharlotte proceeded: y "I wrote to your Aunt Maggie again, my 0 dear. It was a struggle, I confess—l am such an advocate of domestic peaoe, I'm , afraid rather foolishly so; besides, I knew you wished it." . " Thank you," said he, inquiringly, and j without effusion. He looked as if he exi peoted more, and she took a note out of 1 her knitting bag; she gave it to him, and he . read : " Dear Charlotte,— Dpn't trouble yourself to interfere with my affairs. If I want to ' see Karl Dencker I can manage it for myself; but, for all I can see, the more relations keep apart the better. I can't T come to your house—l'm too busy ; besideß, if I did come I should bring Alice, as I told 1 you, ahd you don't want that, I'm Bure. * I'm glad to hear about Hilda.—Yours, 1 Margaret Helmont." Karl handed the letter babk with his quick 1 flash of a smile, saying : "Well, I suppose > we can't help it." 3 " No, w& can't help it," assented Aunt 3 Charlotte. He sat still a little while i musing, and she knitted placidly. Nothing 3 more was said, only, when Karl was alone, 1 considering this new phase of Aunt Maggie's 1 inveterate temper, he thought: " I suppose [ they've been quarrelling between themselves . about something; however, there's no reason 3 why I should be mixed up with that. What 1 shall I say to her now ? for I shall certainly t write again. It seems so difficult to get at 3 anyone who wants* to have nothing to do with you." This was what he wrote : r "My Dear Aunt,—Aunt Charlotte assures , me that you do not wish to see mo. Never--3 theless, I am anxious to see you, and have r the audacity to think that if we did meet 1 you might change your mind. I have much s to tell you, for my mother particularly . wished that I should know you. I ought 1 also, perhaps, to make certain apologies and 1 explanations on my own account, which I 9 cannot well do by letter. I have your, 3 address, and unless you write to me forbidding it I shall come to see you on Saturi dav. —Yours faithfully, Karl Dencker. " I X< Whether she forbids or not, I shall do > it sooner or later," thought he, " and I'll go 1 down there early in the morning and tale J Master Tommy out for a drive ; it'll do him '" good." After which resolve he went to bed. ( To be continued.) t