IN CUPID'S CHAINS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXI, Issue 9401, 6 January 1894, Page 3 (Supplement)

IN CUPID'S CHAINS.

[To be continaed.l

BY CHARLES GARVICE, Author of " Once in a Life," "A Life's Mistake," " Better Than Life," " On Love's Altar ; or A Fatal Fancy," " She Trusted Him." " Paid For," " Elaine," etc. , CHAPTER IV. The earl rose from his chair, somewhat slowly and stiffly, for fcho demon, gout, had got possession of him, and as he stood upright one could see that his height was over the six feet. .j

" Wait hera until I send for you," he said to Lord Norman; then, after looking him over with the keen eagle glance, he added: "Bub you had better brash your hair and change your coat, for the lady of whom I spoke has arrived. When you are ready, return to this room, and I will send for you."

Lord Norman made no response, but still kept his eyes fixed on the stern face, and the earl went out of the room, crossed the hall, and entered the drawing-room, the door of which was opened for him by a couple of tall footmen in rich liveries, who inclined their heads as he passed them as if they .wei'e in the presence of royalty. * The state drawing-room of the Chase was a magnificent apartment decorated by Inigo Jones, and furnished by choicest examples of Sheraton and Chippendale. There was an \ air of subdued splendour, of refined stateliness, which the owners of the most gorgeous of modern rooms sighed enviously over. .... 1 i The tall windows, with their sentinels of graceful palms, opened on to the terrace, from whence was wafted the perfume of flowers, filling the great room with an atmosphere of coses and pinks, stocks and narcissus. . ' ' i 'By one of these windows eat—almost reclined—an extremely beautiful ' ladybeautiful and young-looking, though tor hair was snowy white. This snow-white hair—quite plentiful, and arranged in innumerable curls— rendered still more striking by delicately pencilled black eyebrows. She was extremely well dressed, and wore an air of languid hauteur that fitted her as perfectly as did her bonnet or the gloves on her small, exquisitely shaped hands. 1 ; * . At a little distance from her, in one of the tall gilt chairs, was seated a young girl. She, too, rather lounged than sat; and her attitude and her face, notwithstanding that she was delicately, ethereally - fair, proclaimed her the daughter of the lady. ■ Lady Delamoor raised her eyes as the earl entered and languidly extended her hand.' ''"" >'■" ' " Well, we are here, Chesney," she said, with a smile of amusement combined with listless curiosity. ' " V

The earl took her-hand and bowed over it so that his lips almost) touched it, then sunk into a chair beside her, glancing, as he did bo, at her girl, who had nob moved, but whose pale-blue «yoB watched ;him with a real or affected listlessness which nearly matched her mother's. -

J" You are always good and gracious," he said; and the metallic voice sounded much softer than it had done a few minutes before in the library. > " Lady Delamoor smiled ", with faint negation. ■ 1 . I " Thanks; but I think it was curiosity, rather than amiability, that brought me here to-day. I said to myself that there must be some very strong object in your asking me to take a drive of twelve miles on such a day as this. Have you any idea how hob *it ishow almost unendurable is the torching sunlight .

Aa she pub the question she leaned back still further and slowly fanned herself) and the girl also leaned back and slowly fanned herself. * , - -

"Forgive me for causing you so much trouble and inconvenience, Maude,'but yes, my object is an important one." He glanced significantly at the girl, and added : " Lady Sybil has not spoken to me yet." "Sybil has learned enough of good manners to bo aware that it is her place to wait until she is iipoken to," remarked Lady Delatnoor, with a smile. " Oh, pardon me I" said the earl, and he rose and approached the girl and extended his hand. "You, too, are tired with the long drive?" he said. "It was very good of you to come. How can 1 best thank you ? Are you fond of trawberries 1"

The girl had risen and bestowed her hand and a kind of courtesy upon him, then sunk into her seat again and regarded him and his question with languid, half-closed eyes. * •• <' ■\ ' " Y-es, I think so," she replied,' in a voice which was a faint echo of her mother's.

"Yes? Well, then, let) me show you where there are some growing, that you may pick them." • ; •' ; " " Thank you," she said; " but I'm afraid they will spoil my gloves." " Forgive me again," he said, with rather a grim smile. " You see, lam not used to young ladies. But come with me and I will see that you get the strawberries without spoiling your gloves." She gave him her hand, and he led her down the long ?oom to the windows opening to the gardens at the rear of the house, the two making an admirable study which would have fiilled Mr. Orchardson, the artist, with rapture. From the window he called a gardener who was at work, and who hurried forward with a half-frightened expression on ' his face. '

" Take Lady Sybil to the strawberry beds and pick those, she points out to you," he said.

He stood for a moment watching the girl as, with a languid statelinesjs, she followed the man, then returned to his seat beside Lady Delamoor. ; "She is very pretty," he murmured, almost to himself} "she will be very beautiful. She is like you, Maude." "Thanks," said Lady Delamoor. '"I know that that is a sincere compliment, because you don't like children. Why did you ask"—she laughed—" tell me to bring her? All your requests are formed like commands."

" It is your fault if they are so," said the earl.

She shrugged her shoulders. "It is a matter of habit," she retorted. " I have grown so used to come at your beck and call, to humour your—may I say whims ?"

" You did not humour one of my whims, Maude," he said, significantly. She colourod faintly and cast down her eyes, but raised them again after a moment.

" You mean your whim of marrying me ?" she said. " Well, no. but when you asked me, you were a long way off the peerage, and I could not afford to gratify that whim." ' " V.V. 1

" If you could have guessed how quickly I should become the Earl of Chesney—" She shrugged her shoulders. " Why, I should have married you of course," she said, opening her eyes upon him.

"And spared as both much misery," he said, grimly. : • * "Yes," she assented, listlessly. "I should not have married Delamoor and been beaten about every fortnight; and you—" She paused. "I should not have been driven by devilish pique to—" " Marry a dairyman's daughter, or whatever she was. Yes, we are both to be pitied. I suppose she is to be pitied also, or would be deserving of commiseration if she were nob dead. How wretched you must have been I" she added, with a dreamy smile.

The earl's face darkened and his eyes gleamed, "You speak lightly of my life's agony," he said. " You cannot imagine one tithe of my wretchedness or hers," he added, sardonically. " But as you say, she is dead, and we will forget her, or pretend that we do."

" With all my heart," she assented, waving her fan. " How did we come to speak of her? Was it my fault ?" "No; mine," he said, curtly. "I have been thinking of her— my great mistake, the one crime, if you will, that has darkened my life. Maude," he went on, abruptly, " do you remember, when last we met, any chance remark of mine respecting your child ?" She thought ft moment, then shook her head. " I can't say I do. 1 think you spoke mostly of your nephew, Norman. .By the way, how fortunate for him that the dairymaid, or whatever she was, did not present you with a son !" "It was," he assented, grimly. " Heaven was merciful. There are no children to remind me of the low-born woman I had, in a moment of madness, made Countess of Chesney." His face grew black, the thick brows made a penthouso for his eyes as he spoke, and his hands, knotted with gout, clinched spasmodically. " How you muiib have hated her!" she murmured, sweetly.

He drew a sharp breath, but affected not to hear.

As you say," he said Bpeaking deliberately, and as if he had rehearsed his words, " Norman, my nephew, is my heir —the title, the estates must come to him. I have no objection. His father was my brother. He married a woman of his own rank. The lad will nob discredit the name. I am satisfied—satisfied with the present, but not satisfied to leave the future of my race to chance. I wish to guard against his making the criminal blunder I perpetrated. If lam spared four years longer—and I have no intention of dyingl intend that he shall marry—marry one of his own class — nob a dairymaid as you call her— fitted to wear the Chesney coronet, to bear our honoured name, which I so nearly dishonoured."

" I see," she murmured.

"But do you see?" he questioned, fixing his fierce eyes upon her half-closed ones— "do you see that I have sent for you to propose that your daughter shall be Norman's wife—the future Countess of Ohesney Lady Delamoor smiled up at him. "Of course," she responded, blandly. "I am not an imbecile." .

"Good!" he said. "And what do you say ? Think, Maude. The title might have been yours ; if you consent to my proposal, it shall be your child's." . She smiled again. ;; 1- " Am 1 likely to refuse such an offer for Sybil ?" she said. " One of the oldest titles, the richest estates in England But are we not counting upon our chickensnot before they are hatched, but before they have consented to be counted upon. The

boy—" ' * " ■ "I will answer for him," said the earl, quietly. f " He is alone in , the_ world, with no one to look to but me. He is dependent —wholly dependent—upon me. iToung as he is, he knows that ; young as he is, he also knows that my word is law, and ; that he must obey. Besides, it is no hard thing I am demanding of him. He has but to realise that he is bound, pledged, rather earlier than most men, that ho is not free to—" " Marry a milkmaid, like his uncle," pat in Lady Delamoor. 0 The earl winced, and his Hps suddenly compressed, but he inclined his head with perfect courtesy and patience. "Exactly. You have summed up my motive, my intention, in a phrase." " Have you spoken to him i" she asked. "Heis so young." • • "'*

" ''Ihave spoken: to him. He is nob too young bo understand the importance of the arrangement—the importance of obeying me. Bub what of Sybil ?" Lady Delamoor laughed softly. *' "Sybil, thank, Heaven, has been > well brought up,, Chesney. I think that I do not assert f too much when I say that she would promise to marry a carpenter and joiner, or a curate J she will not- object to promising herself .to Lord Lechmere, , the heir to the Earldom of Chesney, and though she is no older in years than Morman, »he is a girl, and therefore much older in—shall we' say common sense and woman's wit ? Women think of marriage in their cradles, you know." " know," he said, with subdued bitterness.

" She will be as delighted at the prospect of a good parti as if she were, say, eighteen. Believe me, that long before that age girls hare learned to study the marriage market." -f He smiled grimly. "Good," he said. " Y-es; good, so far," she drawled, watching .him under her half-closed lids. "But how are you going to insist upon them keeping the engagement ?" He frowned.

"I will answer for the boy," he said again. "Do you answer for the girl." "Do you propose to shut Norman up in a brick tower, and that I should do the same with Sybil "No," he said. "I propose to keep constant watch and guard upon him. It will be difficult, but I will do it. It will be easier for you to do the same with SybiL She is a girl and will never be absent from your side. Let it be understood that she is already plighted" She inclined her head. "Do not fear that we shall break our part of the contract," she said. "You see," she added with charming candour, " we have so much too gain." He smiled gloomily. " Frankly, I do not think you could do better for her. The settlements shall be all yOu can desire. While I live they shall nave an allowance which shall satisfy even you." "You are generosity itself," she murmured. There was a pause, the i she said : "I think you may call her." He went to the window, and returned presently leading the girl by the hand. " Well, Sybil," drawled Lady Delamoor, " have you enjoyed the strawberries ?" "I eat only one," she said, listlessly. " The man pub them on a leaf which had had a snail over it."

Lady Delamoor laughed softly. "There must bo no creases in Sybil's bed of roses," she said. " Come and sib here. Lord Chesney and I have been talking about you." Sybil leaned back in her chair and surveyed a slight stain which the solitary strawberry had made on her finger. • " Why ?" she asked listlessly. The earl stood with his hands folded behind his back, looking down at her as if he were reading her face. "Shall I tell her, or will you?" asked Lady Delamoor. The earl signed to her to continue. " Well, my dear Sybil, the earl has been kind enough to make a proposal to me." "To you asked Sybil, lifting her eyes sharply. Lady Delamoor laughed. "For you," she said. "Have you ever heard of Lord Norman ?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders. . "I don't remember—yes, I think so." " Yes. Ho is the earl's nephew, and he proposes that some day— long way off, a very long way off, ever so many years—you and Lord Norman should be man and wife."

There was a pause. Sybil looked from one to the other.

" What is he like ?" she asked.

The earl struck in here. " He is my nephew," he said, as gently as the metallic voice would allow. "He will be the Earl of Chesney, as I am. This place, Chesney Chase, and many other places like it, will be his." "Yes?" she said. "He will be very rich ?"

" Very," he assented, rather grimly. " And I shall be the Countess of Chesney?" looking round. The earl inclined his head.

" You will be the Countess of Chesney," ho said, " when I die; and lam an old man, as you see." She looked at him calculatingly. "I should like to be rich," she said. " Mamma is always saying that we are poor." "Then you do not object?" asked the earl.

She looked at her mother questioningly. " What shall I say, mamma?" She glanced round the magnificent room as she put the question, and the pale-blue eyes grew warmer. She might, indeed, have been eighteen, as the countess had said.

" You shall do as you please," said Lady Delamoor. "I'm afraid you can't be expected to know your own mind, bub"she spoke slowly, impressively if I were in your place, I should say, 4 Yes.' " Sybil raised her eyes to the earl's face. " Yes," she said. There was a pause, then she added "I thought it was only princes who were engaged when they were young." "Sybil has not neglected hsr history, you see," said Lady Delamoor, with a laugh. The earl smiled. You can imagine yourself a princess, Sybil," he said. " Wait, and i will bring the prince." He went into the library. Lord Norman had washed his hands and brushed his hair, and exchanged the Eton jacket for one of tweed, and was seated on the table swinging his leg to and fro, a thoughtful expression on his face.

" Come with mo," said the earl. Lord Norman got off the tabic and followed him into the drawing-room. At sight of the lady and girl, whose eyes were fixed on him, he stopped short, and a faint flush rose to his face.

"He i« handsome," murmured Lady Delamoor, just loud enough for the earl's ears.

The earl smiled as9entingly. " Gorman," he said, this is Lady Delamoor—an old friend of mine." Norman bowed. " And this is her daughter Sybil. Go and take her hand, for she has consented to be your future wife."

Sybil held out her hand after a moment's pause, and smiled faintly. Lord Norman went up to her and took her hand and looked at her, and as he looked the flush faded and his face grew pale. "I am very much obliged," he said, in a low voice; " bub I cannot marry you." The girl drew Ker hand from his limp grasp and rose to her full height, turning her eyes with startled hauteur from him to her mother, and from her to the earl. For a moment the earl seemed stricken dumb. Then he laughed—a laugh more savage than most men s oaths. Lady Delamoor -leaned forward, startled out of all her languor. What does lit say?" she asked, in a hushed voice. The earl grasped Lord Norman by the shoulder.

" Are you mad, boy?" he demanded, hoarsely, " Don't you understand ? This is the young lady— . "I know I remember, sir," said Lord Norman, with downcast eyes. "It —it is very kind, and—and lam sorry ; but I could never marry her." i The earl forced a smile—an awful smile.

"Hedoes not know what he is saying," he said. " The boy is a boor— clown ! " "No," said Lady Delamoor, "he knows what he is saying. And he is not a boor." She burst into £ rippling laugh of mockery. "You have made a mistako, Chesney." The light scorn seemed to drive the earl mad. His grasp, tightened upon the lad's shoulder and he wrenched him round facing him. ;■ ' '

* " You—you" ' He struggled for breath. " Boy, have you forgotten where you are— who I am? If you are'hob the fool 1 am trying to believe you to be, you know the meaning of the words you have spoken." "I know," said Lord Norman, in a low Viifce, but a perfectly brave one. " You cur !" snarled the earl. " Perhaps you know, too, that you are a beggar—a pauper—a dog that lives upon my charity Do you understand' that? You do. But there is something more that you do not know, and that is that, if I choose, you should remain a beggar and a" pauper for the resb of your life. A word from me—" He seemed to feel, rather than see, the eyes of the two females fixed upon him anxiously, and with a great effort he pulled himself up. " Enough I" he said, hoarsely. "'Ou £ of my Bight!" . • V

: As he spoke he thrueb the boy from him, and while so thrusting him, struck him savagely across the face. Lord" Nofmatt reeled,;bub saved himself from falling by catching at a chair, . ( For a moment he stood white and panting and pushing the hair from his forehead then, with a steady > look at the ■ earl, he turned and lefb the room. .As he did so he glanced, by chance, at the fair-haired girl. She had not moved from her seat, had not uttered a cry ; "arid as he looked at. her he saw a smile of satisfaction; of girlish malice, upon the pretty, delicately-cut face. >

: , ■ , CHAPTER V. . Lord Norman went out into the hall and down the steps. " There was a stinging, aching pain across his face, but a far worse pain about his heart. 7 ! - > 1 . m The Chesneys and the Lechmeres—and he belonged to both these high familieswere bad at taking blows. As a rule, they gave them back, and with interest—plenty of interest. But Lord Norman, seeing that he could scarcely return the blow, had to bear it. ,

For a time he felt stunned and bewildered by the furious indignation which raged within him. He had been struck in the presence of ladies, and undeservedly struck. This was bad, but worse remained behind. ; .■ ' *'

Tingling in his ears, as the blow tingled On his cheek, were the words the earl had spoken. He had called Norman " a pauper and a beggar," and had declared that if he, the earl, so pleased, Norman should remain a beggar and a pauper , for the rest of his life.

The lad bad not) the least idea of the meaning or the worth of the threat, bub it stung and lashed him until the tears of rage and humiliation smarted in his eyes. His father and mother were dead. He was alone in the world, save for this uncle, the powerful earl, and was virtually dependent upon him. Ib was true, he thought), that he was a pauper, but, at any rate, he would nob be a beggar. As he looked aD the great red house, he resolved-that he would never enter it again while the earl lived that ho would never accept another penny from him, or eat another morsel of food that came from his hands. Some day the place would be his, bub, until thab day, he would never cross its threshold.

As he looked at the house, he was reminded of the lady and the girl, and if the aching and smarting on his cheek had not stung him into the resolution, the remembrance of the smile, the sneer on Sybil Delamoor's face, would have done so. He could see them, feel them, upon him now. He sat for some timehow long he never knew—dwelling upon bis humiliation, and strengthening his resolve, and the evening was growing into the duskiness of an early summer night, waiting for its moon, when he rose from the stone bench.

He felt in his pockets, and examined their contents. They were numerous, and from the miscellaneous collection he picked out what money he had. There was a sovereign, six shillings, and some coppers, and slowly mounting the steps, he flung them on the great mat inside the door, where, the next morning, they were discovered and appropriated, with equal .surprise and delight, by the hall porter. The lad would have liked to have taken the clothes off his back and flung those also over the threshold of Chesney Chase; but that, he felt, was scarcely practicable. With his pockets lightened, and his wounded spirit somewhat soothed, he went across the lawn, and entered the cottage garden. As he did so, the two dogs in the stable recognised the step of their newlymade friend and yapped entreatingly, and Lord Norman waved his hand toward them.

"Good-bye, Carl, old good-bye, Tozer. I'm afraid you won't see me any more."

All was very still as he entered the small garden, and he looked round uncertainly. He had come to say good-bye to his promised wife, Madge Gordon, but he did nob know whore to find her or how to apprise her of his presence. He flung himself down on the seat where he and she had sab so happily only a few hours ago, and pondered. The moon rose, and, as if she had been waiting for it, as w<jll as he, Madge's small, brown hand opened the lattice window and Madge's face looked out. Lord Norman's heart gave a bound of joy and satisfaction, and he ran to the window " Madge I Madge !" he whispered. She started and'looked down at him, and, in the first moment of her surprise, was about to shut the window again.

" Don't!" ha pleaded. " I want to speak to you. Don't shut he window." " What do you want to say?" she asked, after a moment's p&iiee. " Can't you come and say it in the morning ?" " No," he said ; " I sha'n't be here then. I shall bo far away." "But lam up at six o'clock," she said, leaning her elbows on the window-sill, her face in her hands.

" Yes ; but I am going to-night—now 1" he said, in an earnest whisper. She looked beyond him. "i\ow—this minute? Where is the carriage? I don'ib see it." " There isn't any carriage. I'm going to walk. Madge, I want to tell you all about it, but I'm afraid someone will hear me and find me."

He ran his eye up the wall. There was the remains of an old lattice round which a Devomeuser rose had climbed until it had grown thicker and stronger than the lattice itself. He swarmed up this lightly as a cab or a monkey, until he could rest his arm on the window-sill.

" You'll fall," she said, with a little catch in her breath. ' J

" Not a bit of it. I could hang on here for hours, and the stuff is strong enough to hold an elephant." ; •; " Grandfather will be very angry if you break it down," she said. "All right, I sha'n't hurt it. Madge, I've come to say good-bye" " You could have said that down there," she interpolated, thinking dreamily at the moment how strong he was, and how easily he had gob up to her. x " No, I couldn't, not so well. Madge, I'm going away to-night, and—and I may be away a long time. , As he spoke, she looked at him attentively. There was a ring, an earnestness in his voice which she had not heard before. It seemed to her—child though she was— as if he had grown older, ever so much older than herself, whereas, ib was she who only a few hours ago had seemed the elder. " Where are you going?" she asked, in a voice as low as his own.

"I don'b know," he answered. "I haven't quite made up my mind." " Aren't you going back to school, college, wherever it is ?" " iN'o," he said ; " I'm not going to school any more. I'm going to begin life. I'm going on my own hook—l mean all by myself." "I don'b understand what you mean she said, wonderingly. " Well, look here, Madge," he said, "I've had a row with my uncle, the earl. We have quarelled." 1 . > ■ "Quarrelled Why, what did you quarrel about

His eyes, which had been fixed on her face, dropped. "Never mind; it doesn't matter," he said, evasively. ' f ' 1 " Oh, don't tell me if you don't liko," sho said, with that sudden exasperating coldness with which a woman resents the baulking of her curo9ity. "Don't be angry, Madge," he said, "It —it was about a girl." " A girl?" Her eyes opened upon him, " Yes," he said, shamefacedly. " They— the earl and her mother— me to promise to marry her, and—l couldn't do that." " Why not ?" she demanded, looking straight before her. ' He raised his eyes to her face reproachfully "Madge!" he exclaimed, in a low voice, " have you forgotten already ? How could I promise to marry her when I've already promised you?" " Oh, but I'd have let you off," she said, bub without looking at him. Without a word he began to climb down. It was the best thing he could have done. Out went her white arm, and her brown paw seized his shoulder. " ' , ' ' "No, no; 1 didn't mean that— if you don't want me to give you up. Stay; I want to know more." fie came up to bis old perch. "Was she pretty?" ' He thought a moment. ■ ; . "I don't know.' Yes, I suppose 80. .

Her grasp relaxed. .f "Oh! Prettier than lam?" "No," he said promptly ; "not nearly so pretty. She was fair and pale, with whatdo you-call it eyes. I don't like girls with that coloured hair and eyes."

She smiled slowly at him., ~. > . , "And you said you would note marry her?" / ■

" Yes; and— then there was a row; the earl flared up and—and said things, and I came away. : I'm not going backnever ! I'm going to earn my own living. And what I wanted to say to you Madge, was' a ; The moon sailed up above the sycamores and shot a placid ray full upon both Borneo and Juliet. •

- Madge started and looked at him. " What's—-what's that on your face I" Bh£ asked, with a catch in her voice. ; The blood rushed to the face, and he looked down ashamedly. " Oh, it's nothing," he said in a low voice and with a poor attempt at a smile. "Nothing Why, it's a bruise {" I can see it quite plainly. Tell me what it is, at once." ♦ .

"The earl" he stammered, overwhelmed by a brave lad's shame and humiliation. ' "He struck you !" die exclaimed In a whisper that hissed through her clinched teeth. '* '

"Oh, that's all right," ha said; "never mind that. What I've come to say—" She stretched out one hand and gently— gently as thistle-down it on the boy's burning cheek. "How hot it is! the brute!" she murmured.

He put up his hand to take hers down. " No," she said; "it hides it, and I don't like to see it; it makes me feel bad and wicked. on."

Her touch confused him ; he looked round vaguely for a moment. "Oh ! thin was it. I came to remind you of our bargain, Madge, and—andto give you the chance of backitig out if you like."

" Thank you. What made you think I should want to back out

"Well—" He hesitated. ".You see, I didn't know whether you'd care to be bound to a fellow when he is in disgraee. I'm only a kind of tramp now. I sha'n't blame you if you cry off. You see, it isn't as if you'd known me a long while and got used to thg idea of marrying me. Her hand dropped. "Do you want me to cry off?" she asked, ingenuously. " Perhaps you'd like to cry off yourself." "No, no," he asserted, earnestly. "I don't want to; I swear I don't But I oughtn't to hold you to it unless you'like, after what's happened." f "I see," she said, thoughtfully. " Well, I do like."

A flush of delight flew over his face. Madge, you're a brick !" he said " that's all I wanted to know. I'll go now. Don't you be afraid that I shall ever forget or want to be off my bargain. I'll come back to you, I swear I will, when I'm a man and I've made my fortune, and we'll be married.'

His whisper rang with youth's hope and confidence, and from under her lashes she stole a swift, admiring glance at him. " And how are you going to* make your fortune ?" she asked.

This gave him pause, as Hamlet remarks. " Well, I don't quite know yet," he said, but not at all despondently, as if the ways of fortune-making were so numerous as to make selection difficult. "I haven't, thoughb it out quite. I'm strong,' and ][ can do all sorts of things, —oh, I shall see;" and his frank, handsome eyes smiled up at her. There was a pause, then he said : "If I were you, Madge, I shouldn't say anything about our bargain. I sha'n't." " Very well," she acquiesced. " And don't you say you've seen me. I don't suppose anyone will ask you. And —and I'm afraid I must go now," he added ; but he still lingered. " You must be tired hanging on there like a monkey or a bat," she said. "No, not a bit. I could stay here all night if you'd stay and talk. But I must go. They might send after me and try and bring me back. Nob that I'd go. I'd sooner die." Another pause. "Madge, I'd like to give you a keepsake; a kind of what d'ye call —token, souvenir, just so that you could look at it now and then, and so nob forget ma." He fished in his pocket and produced from that portable chandler's shop a penknife with many blades, some broken, "Just catch hold of that, will you?" he said. - "I'm sorry it isn'b something newer and prettier; bub you'll find it useful for cutting roses and things. Two of the blades are broken; Smitaminor broke them last term ; but the big one is all right, and it's pretty sharp. Mind you don't cut yourself." "I'll mind," she said, as she looked ab the weapon. "Bub isn'b it unlucky to give me a knife ?" " Oh, yes, so ib is; oh, bub it's all right if the other fellow gives you something. You must give me something, Madge. Oh, I forgot, I've gob something- of yours already. Your handkerchief, don't you know?"

"My handkerchief? Yes, I remember." She held out h6r hand and he began to fumble in his pocket with his disengaged hand, then he stopped suddenly. " I should like to keep it, Madge, if you don't mind ?" ho said, simply. " But that's nothing ; you'll lose it." "No, I sha'n't," he said. "Isn'b there anything else I can give you ?" she asked. He pondered for a moment, his eyes on her face, then he said : " I suppose you couldn't give me a bib of your hair, just a little bit ?" " I could," she said; bub she hesitated. Then she opened the knife. " Cut as much as you want," she said, holding down her head.

"I can't," he said, ruefully; " I've only got one hand." She leffc the window, and returned with a pair of scissors. " Zou can cub it with these," she said. "I'll try," he said, "I won't cut much. I say, what beautiful hair you've gob, and such a lob! You won't miss that little bib, will you ?'| She shook her head.

"No," she said. He dexterously cub and caught the small lock of sofb black hair in the palm of his hand.

"There's an envelope in my breast pocket," he said. "If you 11 take it out and put the hair in it." She dived into the pocket, and got the envelope and enclosed the lock. " Thanks," he said. " Jusb pub it in my waistcoat pocket, please. Pub it in safely; I shouldn't like to lose it." She obeyed with innocent gravity. "You'll lose it in a week," she said. " Oh, no, I sha'n't," ha retorted. " You'll see; and. now I must go. Good-bye, Madge. She leaned over and looked down at his moonlit face.

" Can you coma an inch or two higher ?'V He raised himself so that his face was nearly level with hers, and softly, swiftly as a bird skims over the sea, she stooped down and touched his bruised cheek with her lips. " Good-bye," she murmured. Before he could recover from the strange thrill, the delighted astonishment, she bad withdrawn her head and closed the window.

Bub as he began to descend, the window opened slightly, and the wonderful eyes looked down upon him. Good-bye," she murmured again; "and don't forget." *

On Saturday, January 20, the opening chapters of a new and thrilling story by a new author will be presented to the readers of the New Zealand Herald. The story is entitled

"A SLEEP WALKER," BY PAUL H. GEItRARD. The new story is full of startling incidents and unlooked-for circumstances, and - can hardly fail to prove interesting and pleasant reading. Remember Saturday, January 20.