LIKE AND UNLIKE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIV, Issue 8020, 6 August 1887, Page 3 (Supplement)

LIKE AND UNLIKE.

BY M. E. BIIADDON,

Author of " Lady Audloj's SecreS," " Wyllar&'e Weird," &0., &c.

/ CHAPTER XV.-(Continued.) MAEOE WILDFIKK.

IsO woman's voice had ever addressed Marenrot Mandeville with so much tenderness, never till to-night had a woman's arms entrriued themselves about her neck. And this rirl waa her own flesh and blood, her only child, looking at her with appealing oye3, trying to lure her awny from tho brimstone path. And of late the brimstone path had u:>t been a way of pleasantness.

" No, I mest soo to night out," said Mrs. lilandevillc, between her set teeth. "I must aco if he cm bo villain enough to abandon me." " Mother, vrcro you ever fond of this cruol man, who treats you so shamefully ?" as'iod Madge, earnestly. Her own intensity of feeling, her own hopeless lovo, made her eymphathntic. Sho could pity this older woman who had saerirc:d all for the mau from whom sho hail bow had only ill-usago and neglect for her rilon. "Was I ever fond of him? Yes," muttered Mrs. Mandovillo, " Don't I tell von that 1 was his slave. I have had my admirers by tho dozen—l hare had my victims, too, and have wasted three or four handsome fortunes in my time. 1 was not called Madge Wildfire for nothing. But this one was tho or.ly man I ever cared for—tho only one who was tho same to mo in riches or poverty—tho only ouo tor whom I mado sacrifices. You would think I was lying, perhaps, if I were to tell you the chances I hare had, and thrown away for his sake. You think, porhsps, that such as we don't have our chances. But we do, girl, and better chances than the women who are brought up in cotton-wool, and looked after by affectionate mothers and high-minded father?, I might have married a man with half a million of rriouoy. I might have married a man with a handle to hia name, and might have beeu wiled my lady, and your ladyship—l, Madge Wildfire. But I flung away my chances, , because I loved Jack Mandevillo—loved him j and stuck to him till he got tired of mo, and only valued mo as a handsome decoy, to nit at tho head of his dinner table, and look Bweet at his rich young dunes when they dropped in for' a night's play. This house has cost Colonel Manr.ovillo very little, MaJga : but ho is tired of i:, and of ins. lie let me give a bill or sale ca tho furniture to my milliner, and there is :iu execution in for nine hundred pounds odd, and if that's not paid out. every stick will be sold, and I flir.il le turned into the street. I owo my landlord three quarters' rent, and he's furious about the bill of sale. There'll bo no mercy from him, even if I could live in 3 house without furniture. That's how the land lies. That was what drove mo to poison myself. I saw rum staring me in the face, and I saw that llaarleville did noi care what became of me."

" Why stay hero, then 1 WLy not come with me at once ?''

" Because he may change his mind—lie rr.r.y brine; mo the money to night. Ho has not been hero since that business with the pri-tOD. But I wrote to him this morning at his clab a letter that might melt a stone. He may help me after aIL He may bo here tonight."

"Very well, mother. I will come again to-morrow morning," ssid Madge, kissing her mother's burning forehead, and then moving towards the door.

'• You had better stay upon the premises if you want to save me from myself." " Anything but that. No, mother, I must go. But 1 promise to be here early." " Bat to-morrow 1 don't promise to see you," answered Airs. Wandevillo, angrily. "Yea arc a prond, cold-hearted, insolent bj.k, I never want to eae your face again." " I shall be here to-morrow morning," said Madse, unmoved by this burst of temper, and she was gone. CHAPTER XVI. IS THE WILbEIiSEFS. This journey to a strange city vras not so wild an act upon Madge's part as it might seeai on the surface of things. Sho had thought long and deeply before launching K:-r frail bark npen that tempestuous sea. 'ice wan a girl of strong character, a resolute, energetic nature which could scarce go on er.oticg without an object to live for. Life. the mere slu?gi3b, cr..or;otonou3 eating am; drinking and Bleeping and waking, the empty mechanism of life, was not enough for her. She must have someone to love—she must have something to do.

Her fellow-Fervanta at tho Abbey had wondered at the impetus with which thia novice in the art of house-cleaning had c: about her work, the vehement: industry with which she had cleaned brasses and polished looking-glasses, and swept and dusted. That strong frame needed movement;, thai tumultuous heart could only be eoothed by constant occupation.

She had loved Valentine Balfield with all Tier might. She had beoa tempted many a time tj fling herself into his aru;3, to throw herself in tho dust at his feet, to surrender to him as a beaten foe surrenders, slavishly, knowing not what her future was to be, what the cost of that Dclf-abandonment, But ehe had battled with that weaker half of her naturethe woman's passionate heart; and the strong brain, which had something masculine in its power, had come to her rescue. irhe had sworn to herself with clenched hand end Bet teeth that she won'.d not go that easy fatal ror.d, by which so many tjirlj have travelled, girls whose story the knew, girls who had been shining lights in the parish school, model students in the Scripture clashes, tvhite-veilcd young saints at confirmation. She would not do as they had done, yield to the fir3t tempter. I: her mother had pone wrong, there was bo much the more rca3Ou that sho should cleave to the right.

She fought trial; hard between love 2nd honour, but the agony of the strife was bitter, and it aged and hardened her. .She hardened still more when she saw her lover transferring hie liking to another woman. bio v."&8 keen to note the progress of that treacherous love. Helen had found her the handkat unci olovereat of housemaids, and h;vl preferred her services to those of anyone elie. And while she aviated at Beauty's t'jiht, Mr.dtjo had. ample leisure and opportunity to note the phases of Beauty's mind, »r.d to discover the kind of intellect that forked behind that classic forehead, and '(13 quality of tho heart that boat under that Wiostely moulded bust. She found Colonel Devcrill's daughter (hallow and fickle and false. Sho discovered let treason —had seen her with Valentine jnst often enough to_'oe aure oi their treachery ';;-iri't Adrian. And by this time eho hud Recovered Adrian's infinite superiority to his orotbtr in all the higher attributes of manaood. s;ho knew this, yet she had not Wavered. He.- nature was too intoneo for the possibility 0! fickleness or inconstancy, Sao I'jvf.d with purpose and sincerity, as well as v.v.;. passion. There wan no wavering in her affections, yet she admired Adrian with a r° Wfcr f ;t appreciation which was far in alysrrje of her education, Passing to and fro id the corridor near the library, sho had stopped from time to time to listen to the organ or the piano, under tbo3o sympathetic fingers. Music was a passion with her, and till thia time she bid scarcely heard any music except 'lie church organ, indifferently played by a feeble old organist. Thia music of Adrian's was a revealation i:i it.-: infinite variety itn lightness, itH solemnity, its unspeakable depths of feeling. Once in tha winter twilight she heard him playing Gounod'a" Faus';," gliding from number ,to number, improvising in the darkness in too old sombre room, where them was no "Rat but the glow of the fire. The lamp had pot yet been lighted in tho corridor ; the °'U<;r servants were all at their tea ; Madge crouched in tho embrasure 01 the door, and u «i;* in those Bounds to her heart's content. »\hen he played tho "Dies Irao" aho fell DOI hisr kneea, and had to wrestle with herBe 'i ltat Bhe should burnt into sobs. •In another of these solitary twilight hours, «' ( > a °' l Valentine out hunting, he played ; 'I'm Giovanni," .and again Madge crouched 'n ~ orw »y an drank in tho (iweet bounds. _ bo lighter music moved her differently, )p in this there were airs that thrilled her. uere was an awfulneas Bomotimoe in the ">aat of the lightness. When the spring ™me and the afternoons were light shu wua no longer lurk in the corridor . but her »«lo was in a gable ahovo the library, and en ] a . u' r L ' ram ' a windows were open she, jnia b ear every noto Jn the April

''Wo!!!;/', ropricior3 ofthe * New ZKALOD Heramj

The sound of that music seemed a kind of link between thorn, for apart as thoy were in all other things, and over sad abovo her jsalousy on her own account, she waa angry aud jealous for Adrian's sake. She could have wept over him as tho victim of a woman's feoblenean, a man's troachery. And now sho told herself that she had I nothing to lovq or care for upon this earth. Ho who had wooed her with such passionate persistence a few mouths ago had transferred ilia love to another. Sho stood alono In tho world; aud in her loneliness her heart yearned for that erring mother, of whose lace sho had no memory. She tried to penetrate the mista of vanished yeara, to gropo back to thoso early infantine years before h:>r grandfather had found her squatting b'side his hearth ia the autumn twilight, tie had told her that she waa old enough to t.ilk a little, and to toddle about at hii heels, Surely she ought to bo ablo to remember. Y<>B, she had a kind of memory, so faint and dim, that sho could scarcely distinguish realities from dreams in that long-ago life. Yen, she remembered movement, constant movement, rolling whei-U, summer boughs, summer dust, cloiuld of dust, white dust that choked her as she lay asleep in that rolling homo, amidst odours of hay and straw. Sho remembered rain, endless days of rain and groyness, dull, dreary days, when she squatted on tho loose straw at the bottom of a pi pay' 3 van, staring out at the dull, dim world. There waa a dog, which she was fond of. The sensation of a dog's warm, friendly tongue licking her face, always recalled those long, slow hours of dim, grey rain or aunlic dust; that strange vague time in which the days rolled into the nights, without difference or distinction, aud in which faces mixed themselves somehow, no ouo face being more distinst than another. There was no memory of .1 mother's face, bonding over her in day time and night time, nearer and more familiar thau all tho rest. Despite this void in her memory, sho had

yearned after tho mere idea of motherly love, >ho had seen other girl 3 with their mothers, scolded and caressed, kissed and slapped by turu3, and in spite of slaps and hard words, sho had seen that a mother's love waa a good thing—strong and tender, and inexhaustible. And then, as she progressed frqin tho knowledge of good to the knowledge of evil, she brooded over tho mystery of that life which she had been toid was full of shame, and began to meditate how she waa to help and save that erring mother. She hail heard her grandfather prophesy evil for his ungrateful daughter, the evil days that were to come with faded beauty and broken health, tho natural cud of a wicked, reckless life.

At the Abbey, Madge's knowledge of the world grow daily. Her fellow-servants were older than horself, quick witted, experienced in that seamy side of life which is oeen from the butler's pantry and the servants' hall.

The old Abbey sctvaut3 were rural and narrow enough ; hue there wcro those who had served in many households be fora they came to the Abbey, and these kuew tuo world iu many phases. Due to whom Mad~e took most kindly was a woman of thirty, who had taken to domestic service only live years before, after losiug a widowed toother, with whom and for whom she had toiled in a factory from fifteen to livo-and-tweuty. It v.-.-.a a cartridge factory in the Gray's Inn Road at which Jane White and her mother had worked, tho mother oil' and on as hor health permitted, but the daughter from year's end. to year's end, without rest or respite; They had occupied a couple of attics in a side street not far from tha factory ; they had their own poor sticks of furniture, and had lived iu their two little reot::3 under tho tiles, happy enough till Isath c.una to part them ; and then Jane Wbito sickened of her loneliness and her iudependence, and she, who had once sworn that she would nover eat the bread of servitude, never call anyone master or mistress?, changed her mind all at ones aud went into aervice for company's s:\kc.

She was an energetic, hard-working girl, and made a good servant, so good that, alter emigrating to Devonshire v,?ita a middle-class family, whoso service she left after a year or do in a hut], tho rumour of her good qualities reached jlr. j , Marrable through the butcher's foreman, and she was engaged as second housemaid at the Abbov.

Hero Madge took to her, aa the kindliest; of all her fellow-servants, aud from her Madge learned all she knew of London, and the possibility of an industrious girl maint;unia£ herself by the labour of her hands. Was cartridgomaking hard to learn, Madge asked. No, it was learned by easy ctagos. There were hands taken on that knew nothing :ibcus it before they wtnt there. Jane Whits gave Madge a little pencil note addressed to a mm who was an authority in the factory, who engaged the hands and dismissed them at hia pleasure.

" VYe naed to walk out together on Sunday evening," said Jane, "and I think he'd do a ;pot turn to any friend of mine. Hβ might v.ant to walk out with you, perhaps, if you took hia iaiicy, bat it would be for you to settle that. Ue'a a well-conducted young man."

Madge sniiiel a smilo of exceeding bitter-* ness, but was mute.

And now in the mild spring night sho tramped from Mayfair to Grey's Inn Kcad, inquiring the way very oftan, and plodding resolutely onward with her laea to the east, caring nothing for the strangeness of thoao everlasting streets, or the lateness of the hour. .She had such a dogged air, sjemed ho absorbed in the business she was bent upon, that no one addressed her, or tried to hinder her progress. But fast a3 she walked it was nearly eleven o'clock when she arrived in the dingy, little street at the bask of Gray's Inn tload, so far behind the road as to be in the rear of the prison, which she passed shudderingly, for the idea of captive criminal was new and thrilling to hor.

Jane had told her that the woman with whom she had lodged was a Sf-amstrcKS, and always up aud at her sewing machine till after midnight; so, though tho clocks were striking cloven as she passed tho prison, Madge had uo fear of finding the door shut in her face , . The only question waa as to whether the landlady would have an unoccupied room to giro her. She found tho number. Tn.; s'-reet was squalid, but tho house looked tidier than ita neighbours, and the doorstep waa oiesn. Tntrs was a piraliin lamp burning biight'y in the little parlour next the door, ami tho lean elderly female who answered the dour had an air of decent poveriy. Sho looked at Madga suspiciously, but on bearing Jaao White's name, ahe softened, and at once bocama friendly, and acknowledged that &ho had room for a lodger.

" It's tha bedroom whero Jane and be mother used to sleep," who said. " I fur ; nished it after they loft, It'u .1 clean, airy i roam, with u nice look out towards King's Cr(M?. It'll be half-a-crown a week, and you'll h&vti to pay for washing the linen, and beyond boiling your kettle for you in summer tiiru:, you inusn't expect any attendance from me. I'm too busy to wait upon lodgers, and 1 only charge tho bare rent of tho room. "That will suit mo very well," answered Madge, "it will be for my mother and me." "Oh," said the woman, "you've got a mother, have you ? What does she do for a living?" Madge reddened at the question. "Nothing, just at present," sho eaid; "ahe'a out of health." " But I suppose you are working at something," sak'-cl th.3 woman, waxing Bi;spiciouo. "You're* not living on your fortune," with a sneer. Madgo explained her views about the cartridge factory, and reassured by this, Mrs. Midgery took her up tho etaep, uncarpeted tairs to the attic, with its one dormer window, looking over a foreai of chimney pots towards tho glories of King's Cross and itn triple stations. There was nothing to be seen from the window to-night but tho distant whiteness of tho cleotrio light, shining between the smoke and tho clouds.

It was a small, shabby room, with an anciont iron bedstead, two rush-bottomed chairs, a ricketty cheat of drawers and a still more ricketty table. Everything in tho room was one-sided and uneven, beginning with the floor, which was obviously downhill from the door towards the window. However, tho room looked clean, and had a wholesome odour of yellow, soap, as of boards that had been lateiy scrubbed. "It's an old house," said Mrs. Midgery, with a deprecating cur, "aud an old house never pays anybody for their work, but there's no one can any 1 don't slave over it."

Madge took out her shabby little puree, a cast-oil puroo of Mrs. Marrable'e, which that good soul had bestowed upon her one morning with oilier unconsidered triiies that had been eliminated ill the procoas of tidying a bureau. »She gave Mrs, Midgcry one of her list Ualf-crowns, a week'a rout ia Advance ;

and at this unasked for payment she rose conuiderably. in tho good Midgcry'a estimation. •'I believe wo ehall got on very well together," she said. " I hope your mother is like you." Madge waa silent, looking round tho littlo room in a reverie, comparing it with the luxurious litter, the velvot and lace curtains, and heapedup cushions, and easy chairs of the room in May fair. Could sho hope that any woman with hor mother's experience would endure life in such a garret as this. But if there wero only tho .choice between tho garret aud suicide, and if the garret meant rescue from a soouudrcl'a alternate tyranny aud neglect?

CHAPTER XVII. BREAKING TIIIC SPKLL.

For Valentine and Helen tho summer and autumn of that eventful year drifted away unawares in one long honeymoon. They lived for each other, in a fond and foolish dream of lovo that was to bo immortal, contentment that was to know no change. They I scarcely knew tho days of the week, nevor the days of tho month, in that blissful dream time. They wrote no letters, they scarcely looked at a newspaper, they held uointercourse with the outside world. For a time love was enough, lovo and tho luxurious idleness of tho lake or the mountain side, tho languid bliss of tho long moonlight evenings in tho balcony or verandah, or on teracod walks, looking down upon a lake. Tho mountains and lakes were with them everywhere, a beautiful and everlasting background to tho mutability of honeymoon lovers. They were happy in being at least six weeks in advance of tho common herd. They ha.i tho great white hotels almost to themselves. There was a reposeful silence in tho empty corridors and broad staircases. Thoy could lounge in gardens and summerhouses without fear of interruption from cockney or colonial, Yankee misses, or German professors. In this happy summer time, Valentino gave full scope to tho counterbalancing characteristic of his nature, lie, who as a sportsman or an athlete was indefatigable—a creature of inexhaustible energies and perpetual 'motion —now showed a lino capacity for laziness. No languid aistheto, fanning himself with a penny palm loaf, and sniffing at a sunflower, ever sprawled and dawdled with more- entire self-abandonment than this thrower of hammers and jumper of long jumps. Ho would lie on his back in tho sun and let Helen road to him from breakfast to luncheon, Ho would lie in tho stern of a boat all the afternoon. He would find it too great a burden to dross for dinner, and would take the meal tete-a-tete in an arbour, sprawling in a velvet shooting jacket. Ho would allow hia honeymoon bride to run upstairs for his handkerchief, his cigar caae, his favourite pipe, or tobacco pouch, a dozen times a day. "1 like running your errands, love," tho fair young sbvo declared. "it does mo good." "I really think it does, sweet, for yon always look prettier afcer one of thoso scampers. But you needn't rush all tho way, pet. 1 am not in such a desperate hurry," added the Sultan, graciously. "But I am, Val, I want to ba back with you. I count every moment wasted that parts us." They stayed at Interlalcen till the first week in July, and then went up to Murren for week. Io seemed further away from tho herd, which was beginning to pour into Switzerland. And then they wandered on to too Eiffel, and anon into Italy, and dawdled away another month or six weeks ! beside the Italian lakes, always in tho samo utter idleness, reading only th* very whipped cream of the book world, tho lightest syllabubs and trifles in the shape of literature ; knowing 110 more of the progress of tho groat busy bustling world thau they could learn from Punch or the society paper?, Helen reading tho sporting articles aloud to her Sultan, and poring over the fashion articles for her own gratification.

Sho would clap her hands in a rapture over one of these enthralling esaays. "{lsn't tbia too lovely, Va!. ? Madge says that there in to be nothing but olive preen worn next winter, and 1 have threo olivcgreon gowns in iny trousseau."

" What a pity," said Valentine, "I like you in nothing so well aa in white, like that gown you have on to-day, for example, sof 2 white muslin rippling over with lace." "But—one can't walk about in white muslin ia January, Va!. I think you'll manage to like tne a little in my olive-green tailor gown, with Astrachau collar and cutis."

"I've no doubt you look adorable- in it— but my tasto inclines mo to all that ia most feminiuo ia woman's dross. The atom simplicity of a tailor gown always suggests i\ strong-minded young woman with standoffish manners : tho kind of person who taika politics and puts down young men with a masterful superiority I" "You need not be afraid of my talking politics," said Helen, proud of her ignorance. "No, love, that pretty little head has no room in it for big quostioii3." Tho longest honeymoon most cimo to an end at last. Long as it was, Valentino know no sense of satiety in that solitude of two, that unbroken dialogue in which tho subject was always tho same, lovc'3 young dream. Helen was pretty enough and sweet enough in her boundless fondness and subjection to keep this self-willed and eelfiiflh nature in a paradiao of content. Still, the dream-life among lakes and mountains must come to an end somehow. Valentine gave up otter hunting without a sigh ; ho lot the twelfth slip by, though ho Had an invitation for I .Scotland, and another for Yorkshire —moors ! that were to oat his friends three or four ! hundred pounds for the season, and which ! were well worth shooting over. He gave up tho beginning of tho partridge season, and disappointed a particular chum who3o estate in Norfolk was famous for its partridges. But ho told Helen one day that ho must bo back at the Abbey in tirno for the pheasants. " We can bo in London for tho la3t week in September," ho Raid, "and wo can inspect this flat which my mother baa furnished for us in the wilds of bouth Kensington. I should have preforrad Mayfair or St. Jaraea , , but I am told our income would not stretch to Mayfair.'' "Our income," sighed Helen. "How good of you to say ' ours, , when I did not bring you a sixpence." " What did Helen bring to Paris? Not much, I fancy, deareat, and yet even tho old fogies of Troy thought sho was worth fighting for. You brought mo beauty and youth and love. What moro could I desire ?" Ho kissed the fair face bending over him, as ho lay on a sofa by an open window, with tho moths droning in and out from the dewy garden, and with tho mists of night rising slowly between lawn and lake. " Yea, dear, wo had better go back about the twentieth, I take it." " And this is tho fourth ! So soon ! And then oar honeymoon will bo over," add Helen, sorrowfully. " Shall we ever be as happy again ne wo havo been among tho mountains and bv tho lakes?" "Why not? We shall be just as happy next Bummer, I hopo—somewhere else. Wo would not come hero again, of course." " Oh Val, do>!8 that mean you are tired of Maggiore—tired of our honeymoon " .No, love, but I think we havo had quita enough of Switzerland and the Italian lakes— at any rate for tho next ton years." "Oh, Val, thoro is a tone in your voice a3 if you had boon borod." He yawned beforo ho answered. "I have been intensely happy, child—but, , well, I think we have baen idio long enough, \ don't you . "No, no, no; not half long enough. I should like this s'.voot life to go on for ever."

"And yon aro not longing to see your sister, and the shops?"

•' Not a bit.'

" Well, I confess to a hankering after my tailor and an inclination for my favourito club."

" Oh, Val, do you belong to a club?" sho exclaimed, ruefully. " Nob being a nuked savage, I certainly do belong to more than one club, my pot; or rather I have three or four clubs belonging to me by right of olection. " Aud your favourite club, which is that ?" "It ia rather a—well—a rapid club. It is a temple whoso name is rarely spoken in the broad light of day. It only bugina to have any positive existence towards midnight, and its pulso beats strongest on the brink of dawn."

"Is ic one of those dreadful clubs where they play cards ?" " Yes, it shareu that privilege in common with a good many other clubs, from the Uarlton downwards."

" But now you are married, Vrl, you will give up moat of your clubs, I hope." "My dearest child, that shows how little you know of the London world. London to a - man of my position means club-land It ia nothing else, A wan lives in London

because his clubs are there, not becauee bis house ia there. Tho club in modem life is the Forum, the Agora, tbo rendezvous of all that is best and wisest and brightest in the town. "But a club that only bagina to exist at night—" "Ia tho necessary finish to a man s day. I shall not go there so often, of course, now I am married ; but you will have your evening engagements, and while you are listenng to classical music, which I abhor, or dancing, which I was always a duller at, I can slip round to the Pentheus for an hour or so, and he back in ticao to hand you into your carriage." " Tho Penthous, Ia that the name of your favourite club?"

" Yc3 ; that is tho name." Helen had an unhappy fooling from the moment the date of their return was fix-id. Sho had delighted with a childish joy in her honoymoon. She had been proud of ita length. "So long, and we are not the least little tired of each other, are we, Val ?" she had said twenty times in her enthusiasm, and had boon assured with kisses that there was no cloud of weariness on her adoring husband's part " Loo declared we should bo sick of each other before the end of Juno," she said, " and we shall have been away throo months. But I can't help feeling as though going back to England will bo like tho breaking of a spell." tier prophecy seemed to her to realise itself rather painfully On the homeward journey. It was a longlsh journey, and Valentino was in a hurry to bo in London. They travelled by long stages, and the heat of the railway carriage waa intolerable, such heat and such dust as Ilolon had never experienced bofore. The stuffiness of tho carriage, the slowness of the train, tho froquont stoppages, the crowded buflota, tho selfish crowd, wore all trying to a man of dillicult and imperious temper. Valentine's temper, after tho first threo hours of that ordeal, became absolutely diabolical. lie angrily rejected all her little attentions, her tannings aud her dabbinga of eau do cologuo, her offers of grappa and peaches, hor careful adjustment of blind or window. ' "I wish you'd stop tho d—d worrying." ho exclaimed. "The heat is bad enough without your abominable tidgetting to make it worse." Yes, tho spoil was broken. The honeymoon waa over. They stopped in Paris for a couple of nights, at the Hotel du Louvre, and hero life was pleasant again, and Helen was happy with her Sultan, sitting about under the great glass roof, reading the nowpapors and sipping cool drinks. But on the second evening of their stay, Valentino went olf directly after dinner to hunt up a bachelor friend in the Faubourg St. Honoro, promising to bo back early. Ho kept hia word in ono sense, for it was oarly next morning when ho returned. Helon had bsen lying awake in tho spacious secondfloor chamber, with its windows facing the Kuo do Lvivoli, The night waa very warm, and both windows were open. She heard every stroke of the bella of Notro Dame, and she knew that it was nearly throe o'clock when her husband came in, "Oh, Val," she exclaimed, reproachfully. " You promised to bo homo oarly. It has been such a long, (ii3inal night." " Why thodeuco couldn't you go to sleep and make it shorter," rctortod Mr. Balfiald, in accents that were somewhat thicker than his ordinary speech. "I couldn't got back any sooner. l)a Mauprat had a supper party on, and 1 wasn't master of my own cimo." [To bo continue;!.]