FAR ABOVE HONOURS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1666, 3 February 1904, Page 6

FAR ABOVE HONOURS.

(By Clara Mulholland iu “The Lady.”)

South’d for an hour, - - KBeauty’s a flower, . Sut%>y© is the jewel that,-wink ste M world.” ■ % $ I Holira (Weil.

®ie handsome drawing-rooms .wore full of flowers and brilliantly lighted'. Banks of -gorgeous aaaleas, roses, and sweet-smelling mignonette filled the air with their perfume. >• “Truly, ’tis a feast of good things, murmured Irene, contentedly, a® she swept round in her dainty evening gown, gazing at the lovely blossoms m delight. “Beautiful as these rooms axe, they never please me thoroughly unless they are full of flowers of every kind and soft-lighted candles. But, then, as Aunt Lesbia says, I am something of a Sybarite. I like everythin® :p|dhe best and most choice. I should never —no never —get on as a poor man s wife, nor as a poor mail’s daughter. . Gh! no, no 1” And she gave a little shiver. I hate the very thought® of poverty, and as to working to cam my living, that would be awful. In Lucy Short’s place I’d be wretched; and yet she is cheerful and happy, whilst 1,. with everything I could wish for or desire, am often depressed, bored, and discontented. All the same, I enjoy my life, love my dissipation, and could never hear poverty, which, fortunately, since my father is a wealthy man, I need never dread. .So I may go on being a Sybarite.” And she Sighed contentedly at the thought. Irene Carter was a tall, slender,, graceful girl, for whom at that moment life was Ml of charm. The only child of a wealthy merchant, she had not a wish, ungratified. Her mother had died when she was four years old, and from that hour she had been petted and pampered . and made much of by her father, who adored the very ground she walked on. Her days- were rounds of pleasure and gaiety. Of the seamy side of life Irene knew little. She was aware that there were many men and women in the world hungry and in want, and, being kindhearted, dhe was sorry for them, and never passed a beggar* in the street without'dropping a coin into his grimy hand. Then her old schoolfellow,, Lucy Short, had to get her living a® a governess and was often without a pretty evening dress or . a becoming bat. But these wants it-was a pleasure to Irene to supply, and.it never occurred to her that a time might come when she would perhaps be lira worse plight than Lucy, who 0 © wise and„ far-seeing mother had carefully prepared her for*the battle of; life. But then, her father was a, wealthy mail. A prosperous- and brilliant future lay before her. She' truly had" nothing to fear. .1- ' >

“Irene will marry a duke or a lord.” she had heard her" father say once or twice to a friend, in a distinctly audible aside. “I’ve a right to expect that ccngid'ering her beauty and.my wealth. No commoner would satisfy me.” Arid although the girl somewhat resented the old man’s proclamation of this to the world, she did not object to the idea, or think it impossible'. “It would be pleasant to be a Duchess -—Your Grace — My lady,” she would tellf;K©rself, laughing; “and I really thinkTm quite nice enough to be either. A Duchess goes in everywhere, before "everyone. - Still, Dukes —especially young Dukes —and I’ll never marry an old one—don’t grow on every bush, so

I’ll not fret for the strawberry-leaves, but, enjoy myself, asM always do.” As she stood before a long mirror, banked up half-way with choice plants, she saw a slim wMte figure suddenly reflected in it® depths, and turning quickly round, she joyfully greeted a young girl, who tripped lightly across the parquet floor towards^-her; “Lucy!” she cried. “At last! I you were never coming down; but the result, of such careful dressing is splendid. You look lovely, and; your frock is nice. I declare you’ll quite put me in the shade to-night.” Lucy laughed and shook her head, her eyes resting admiringly on her exquis-itely-dressed and beautiful young hostess. “The frock is charming,” she cried, “and it was sweet of you to give it to me, you dear, kind darling! Buib it would ba -hard ten find anyone lovely enough to cut out our winsome Princess Irene.”

“Base flatterer!” said Irene, with a merry laugh. “I’ll never give you a dress again if you lose your head in such a way. But what is that note, Lucy? Not a summons hack to those tiresome children to-morrow, I trust?”

“No; Mrs Freer has given me a week’s holiday, dear. This note is from Fred.” “Your brother ? Can’t he get down in time for tiho hall, then?” Oh! yes. He arrived in Canterbury this morning; but “Well, don’t look so doleful, Loo. You’re longing t see him, I know; but he’ll be here presently.” “Yes; and it was most kind of you to invite him to the hall.” * “Not at all. Since he was visiting some friends to-day, it- fitted in very well. I’d have been intensely disagreeable if I had not invited' him.”

“It would not bo like you, certainly, to leave anyone cult in the cold, dear; but I’m afraid you'’ll think Fred very impertinent, Irene, and be annoyed with him.”

Irene opened her eyes very wide. “What do yon mean?” “He’s bringing his friend, Bryan Steele, with him to-night.” Irene laughed, and waved her big feather fan lightly before her face. “Mr Steele will be quite welcome. An extra man is always useful.” - “But he doesn’t dance,' Fred says, anch—well, though a nice and a clever fellow/ hi® family is not- ** “Now, Lucy, don’t be a snob. If he’s n!ico and clever., and Fred’s friend, what more do you want ? I’m glacl he’s coming.”

“You’i J e awfully kind. I don’t think there was ever anyone like you, Irene,” Lucy said, with a Sigh of relief. T was afraid you would be quite' angry.” “Well, really, I thought you knew me better. You——”

And then, a® Mr Carter came in, and his arrival was quickly followed hy that of a number of guests, their conversation was brought to an abrupt conclusion. Fred Shjort and his friend appeared early upon the scene, and Irene greeted them so graciously that the two young men felt at their ease at once.

“By Jove! she is a brick,” Fred Short remarked to his sister, “and very lovely. We were quaking in our shoes; I, because of any cheek in bringing a stranger to her ball, and Bryan, because he was terrified at his impudence in coming. But she’s made us both feel as if we’d done something kind and nice.” “It was a rash, thing to. do, Fred ” Lucy answered, “and I’d advise you not to do it again.. Some people would be extremly angry.” V ‘True for you; hut Bryan’s a firstrate chap, and he won’t stay long. He just, wanted to come in, and take a look round.”

Having greeted his hostess a little shyly and awkwardly, Bryan Steele stepped aside, and, charmed with the girts beauty and sweet manners, watched her every movement in admiration and delight. Bryan Steele was not handsome. He was a broad-shouldered young fellow, with strongly-marked features and a pair of earnest grey eyes that looked at one with a straight, uncompromising gaze. Ho was not a dancer, and* felt out of place in the ballroom. He had come to the Carters’ partly out of curiosity, and partly to gratify Fred Short. He had resolved to stay for a quarter of an hour, at most, and then make his escape. But as his eyes followed Irene’s graceful figure round the room., his anxiety to get away gradually subsided. ‘Td give world’s for a word with her,” he thought; “hut I dare not approach, gracious and simple as she appears to be. I am buib an interloper, a nobody. Sio why should I presume to. ask her to waste. her time with me P She has, of course, hosts of admirers here tonight. I have no business here; I must not add to my impertinence in coining by trying to converse with her.” But, notwithstanding the number of men who crowded round her anxious to be noticed by her, Irene did not forget Bryan Steele. Something about him attracted her strangely, and she felt vexed 'when he passed into the crowd without asking her for a dance. “He's not very polite, all things considered. It would only have been right and natural,” she thought, a good deal nettled by hfe apparent indifference, “if he had seemed a little eager to—— — But whfih a goose I am! Buoy sajd he dlid! not dance. That accounts for it,

of course. Well, lie can talk, I’m suie. and talk he shall before very long.’ When two young people in the same room are anxious to converse, theii speedy meeting is a foregone conclusion, and so before very long Irene and Brvan were walking arm in arm round the beautiful ballroom. Then, a® the band struck up another waltz, they quite naturally, and without a remark upon the subject, istrolled slowly towards the conservatory. Here they sat together., well-nigh alone, through the dance, he talking to her upon gra,ve and serious matters. Surprised at herself. Irene listened with interest, and when another partner claimed her, she went away regretfully. His earnestness had deeply impressed her, and as she moved graoefuly round, in time to the inspiring, strains of the “Blue Danube,” the sound of his full, rich voice still rang in her ears making her silent and thoughtful. “To hear him talk, one would think that everyone, even a girl like me, could and ought to do good,” she reflected; “that life is not all dancing, amusement and fine dresses. I hope I’U see him again soon. I like to meet those earnest eves, to listen to that deep, strong voice. Heigh-ho! I wonder what he means to do —what profession -he will choose? He’s clever—brilliantly so—l feel sure. Fred Short is a lawyer. Perhaps he will be one t 00. I must ask him all about himself when next wei meet, and I do hope that may be soon. I shall not be able to have another moments conversation with him to-night. That is the worst of a ball at home: one has to take a turn with so many,” she murmured, with a sigh. Irene’s next meeting with Bryan Steele came about much sooner than She expected; but it was short and hurried, and, to her sorrow, it was the last. . In the afternoon, two days after the ball, arrayed in a dainty and becoming costume fresh from Pari®, lovely and distinguished-looking, Irene was passing into the Cathedral Close, where a bazaar was being held in aid of a local charity. Lady Pemberton, her chaperon on_ this occasion, * stopped, to speak to a friend. As she stepped out of the carriage, and without taMng any part in the conversation, the girl paused also, letting her eyes wander admiringly over the beautiful grey walls of the old Cathedral. “What .tales those stones couldi unfold,” she thought, a little sadly, “had they but the power of speech 1 "What wonderful sights those statues have looked down upon during the long ages that they have stood in their niches round that splendid old door 1”

Suddenly a rich, deep voice, that thrilled her as no other voice had ever done, broke dn upon her reverie, and Bryan, Steele appeared most unexpectedly by her side. “Miss Carter,” he said, hie grey eyes looking sad and troubled 1 , his manner.

somewhat nervous and agitated, 1 1 trust you will forgive me for taking the liberty of speaking to you at such a trine and in such a place, considering how very slight our acquaintance is, but I am leaving Canterbury.” Irene started and changed colour aa she laid her hand quickly in his. “Leaviug Canterbury? Oh! surely, Mr Steele, this is very unexpected!?” . “No;” smiling, “I can hardly say it is unexpected. I have been intending to go for some time, though I confess I should probably have put ofl my departure for some time longer had 'it not been for Fred Short. He is something of a whirlwind, and is hurrying me out. of this peaceful old town .as fast as he Cau.i We start" for London to-night.” “For London? What are you going to do there, Mr Steele?” He laughed a little nervously. “I go to seek my fortune. Will you wish me Cod speed and good luck ?” “Indeed I will,” Irene felt her colour rise. “I am sorry you are going. But surely you have some distinct object in view? You are not going vaguely to seek your fortune?” “Not quite. My great' desire is to' be called to the Ear. I mean to. be so some day, but it will take time and money. To begin with, I shall have to work incessantly at journalism to earn the latter and keep myself. Therefore many years must elapse before I can hope to attain the object of my ambition.” “You have indeed set yourself a. difficult task,” the girl cried, with an miring glance, “and I like, your courage and spirit. But it will be hard work.” .. “Very, and slow. But I must teach myself the great lesson that every man and wo main, wishing to achieve anything great or good, Miss Carter, must learn sooner or later. I must learn to labour and wait,’ and I trust I shall do so, and then in time —sooner, perhaps, than one imagines—l’ll succeed, get called to the Bar. and perhaps make my fortune as a barrister. And when I do— — He stopped abruptly, and his eyes fell.; “1 know you’ll get on,” the girl cried, her lovely face lit up with a sudden enthusiasm. “You will be sure, to conquer all before you. Yon will make “ at Her **%&?£* >*'s T,l fresh courage, and have scattered all my depressing fears of fall^ e ’“~., , „ is as feiODon't forget that, -find now I most saj! ilu It?a not fair to keep yon ftSSf'thegay scene inside the Close.'' “Oh! youl are not keeping me. Lady Pemberton is still talking to her friend,. are°very’kind,” he murmured, a little awkwardly, for he was going to

make. kr\ requash.vj&at • Irene might oonr acquaintance. But/ after a little paus©, rather huri-Kedly , , holding towarj^ r lj.er a - SmalL bunch of you accept: th'esC ; f ewy fl w|-|3a. > ,, of my rev gand,? but it will; tybur dresG. ana for a. mu'meribb qc V twoy- per n&p&, wlnial they afe freak.’* ■■■■ :/• “X'/ivill aiwayra (remember you,” Irene cried, impnlbively; “And, oh !Mr Steele, I wis,h I too could work. My life—you have' made me think so—is a very empty,

■pleasure-seeking bne. There mum bo r something better-in this world even fur 1 a girl like me to do. I would giauiy

do good if only I knew how.” Hia fine face shone With pleasure, his earnest eyes looked straight into hers. “The opportunity will come to you.

as to all, some day,” he sard, quickly. “Meanwhile,-be happy, ana But Lady Pemberton “is - musving. Good-bye.” In another instant he was gone, and Irene,' ar strange, feeling of depression and loneliness about her heart,_. was of the^Jfaishibiiabld'bazaar; the tiiiy'biihcli of fdrgetr-me-nots grasped tightly in her haridi After this Irene’s life went on in the oldyway. Visits., /dinners-, dances and tehnis.-partieb occupied' her 'as 'before, and-; "as time passed, though she kept liisAyithered 'dowers locked up amongst hei’htroasufes, Bryan Steele became to her ibut a pleasant memory. Few people' in her set even knew his name, and to (Those who did she never mentioned himJ • A feeling cf shyness prevented her from doing, so. Their acquaintance had . been such a short 'and fleeting one tha/t' she had decided it' was best to keep the- recollection of it to herself.

“He is'gone out of my life forever,” slid. would think from time to time. “’Tis better to forget h)lm as quickly a* possible. And, after all, his ways wert not our ways, so it’s a good thing he went. We probably would not have liked each other liong. I’ll forget him,"

Still,-in her graver moments, when alone, Irene thought of/the earnest in an with- the noble aspirations and ambitions, and wondered how he was getting on. “With a friend, like him, I—yes, even poor : Tittle frivolous, me—-might have come 1 ■ to 1 some f good,” she would murmur. “Shall we ever meet again? Ohl I hope so. And yet before that happens I’d like to have done something he’d approve of,; but. alas! that is quite, impossible. Living as I do, it would ibe very, very difficult."

Gradually these thoughts became less frequent. Surrounded on all sides oy admiirers, going from one gay country house to another, absorbed in pleasure and amusement, the vague longing to do good • inspired: in the girl’s breast by Bryan Steele’s earnestness in time passed away, and wherever there was a gathering of young people the gayest and most heedlessly merry of the party was sure to be Irene Garter. One evening, just a year after the ball at whioh in such an unusual way she had been introduced to the young man Irene ryas once again in her beau - tiful drawing-room, which was profusely decorated with flowers, awaiting her father, who had promised to return early, so that he might-help her to receive the guests whom they had invited to dinner that evening.

“Just a. year ago!” she murmured, roaming round, admiring the lovely flowers. “How well I remember it! And yet I really thought I had forgotten. It- Dear me,” she broke off, impatiently, “ifcbher is extremely, late! .1 wonder what keeps him friends will soon be, beginning to arrive. I wish he would come. ... I feel oddly depressed',, and my thoughts will keep wandering to Bryan Steele. “The opportunity will come some day. Meanwhile, he happy.’ Strange, words, but he’s nob a true prophet so far. Things go on just the same. I’m more luxurious, more frivolous than ever just now.” The door of the drawing-room was pushed slowly and cautiously open at this moment, and, looking round in surbad been her nurse in days gone by stealing in on tip-toe.

• ‘Thank God no one’s come!” she said, in a low, solemn.voice. “Miss Irene, I want to speaks to you.” Irene laughed, and '-ran forward to meet her.

“Begone, Nan,” she cried, gaily, waving her fam in-her ; face. “This is no place for you. ]The rooms will soon be full of the peacocks you admire so much. The silk dresses and the jewels will be gorgeous enough, to take your breath away. But goodness! what’s the mauter? You’re positively crying. v Have .yon had bad news from Ireland, or— OK I” in sudden terror,\“Na<n, Nan, what as wrong?” :: 'i&- “Whisht. alanna. Don’t take on so.” Nan answered, in a choking voice, her eyes streaming with tears. Sure. I told ' them to let me break the sad news to you meself; jt’s bad, euthirely. (Yei? maybe- >4&h might he worse, v: Stilly — me darlin’l —-how will

‘‘Bear what?” Jrehe was white a® the ' : drees she wore, i -‘‘Speak, Nan, at oncei = Tedf me, ; ds ; wrong.” : t‘ ‘The masthep, alanna —oh! to think

of ttf^-TSp;sudden, too: taken unawares. The shock was—:*«*;'> '** “The master? Father?” And Irene aadglitf the woman’s arm, her lips quivering! throbbing to suffocation. quick! He is not dead ?” but I fear yen wilf say ® worse.” Cold and terrordragged herself towards “Nothing is—nothing could be^lsrbad as death. Nan.”

“OK, my lamb!” Nan put her arms round hot, and made/her sit down upon the sofa. “Don’t go .yet. Wait till I ten you ail.”

“Ail? if father’s ill, I must go to him; he’ll want me>, and nothing else matters.”

“Miss Irene, my darlin’ young mistiiress,” Nan moaned, “’tis little yos. know of trouble or suffering, an’ 'sure, it breaks me heart to have to tell you. Bub know it you must, an’ better me to tell it iba-.i one of these rough men; ,an 5 they do say the mas tiler’s lost ail his money, and the agony of it, the shock, has brought on— — Oh! they’ve carried him, home, an’ up to bus room, struck dowh senseless —iii 'paralysis;”' / , n. “ ‘Worse than death, Nan- was right. I would rather see him dead, I sometin ios think, than reduced to that,” Irene n oared, uokmg with sad and tearful eye* at- the fa' her ,sho loved, once »> strong' alert, ana clever, now a hopeless, helpless wreck, his mind a blank, Ills limbs without power of movement, his spornh thick and inarticulate. “In bis state, and with everything gone! Oh! ’tis terrible. How shall I tend, nurse, care for him ? And on a hundred a year—all that remalias to ns now-—I cannot pay rent. doctors, and keep a servant”; and. with a heavy heart, Irene sank into a chair at the foot of her father’s bed.

“Alamia, you’re low,” Nan whispered in the girl’s ear. “An’ sure, it’s no wonder. B-ut you mustn’t give way, bub be brave and courageous. You’ll have hard- times; bub God. is good; He will not try too far. An’ look now, the. pooi mast,tier’s a bit easier to-day.” “Easier? Ob! Nan, wQI he "ever be that?”

“Ooh! yis, honey. Sure, he’s not sufferin’ half what you’d think. An’ then he was saved a lob. When you were cry in’ and’ breakin’ your heart leavin’ your beautiful home and dear old Canterbury, that you loved so well., he knew-' nothing, or very little, about it, an’ he boro the journey well, an’ the elector that comes to see him so reg’lar says he’ll improve, an’ maybe he able to move about after a while; so cheer up, now, an’ hope for the best.” “I wissn' I canid, Nan; but when you. are gone, and lie and I are left in these miserable rooms alone, he’ll get worse, and then I’U be so lonely. London is an . awful wilderness, Nan, for a girl without friends, very little money, and a sick fa'.her. Ton’ll have to go, i know.” “Go? Me go an’ leave him an’ you, Miss Irene? What do you take me for ?’’ Nan’s face flamed with indignation, and a sob choked her utterance. “I’ll niver leave him till lie leaves me —all in God’s time.” ’

Irene looked up with streaming eyes, and clasped her hands tightly round the woman’s arm.

“But, Nan ” “But, asthore, machree, 'it’s an honour that’s due to me, after all these long years, to wait on my dear masther, an’ ,nurse him in his time of suffering an’ trouble. We came to London that, you, me dariin’, might get work”— she softly stroked the girl’s silken hair —“an’., sure, you couldn’t do that same an’ mind your dear father as he ought to be minded. Sure, you're gettih’ on bravely with youi- typewriter. I never imagined anyone could have the nimble fingers you’ve got. Why, you’ll be earnin’ pounds an’ pounds by-an’-by.” Irene sighed! heavily. “Dear old Nan ! You are an angel of unselfishness. It would be hard to part with you, but it seems wicked! to keep you without giving you any wages; and,” flushing hotly, “you know, if we are to live, 1 could not do that.” “I think not, indeed: but don’t trouble your pretty head about me. What for would I want wages livin’ quiet here and with you an’ the masther. an’ me not knowin’ a soul to speak to. in thlis big town?” ‘You should be earning' and- putting away for your old age.” ■ .“ Nan threw back her head and “laughed. ; “I’ll be doin’ better now that, an’, sure, you’ll give me what I want by-an’-by, when you make your fortune, dearie. Why, you had work that kept you busy all day yesterday, and ” “And earned two shillings. I’m slow at the work, yet,' Nan, and at eightpence a thousand words“lt’s dreadful!” indignantly. ‘Think of thim purty fingers playin’ out —Tor it’s for all the world lake piano-playin’ —a whole thousand' words for eightpence 1 Ooh! sure that fellow ought to be ashamed to offer it to you. Does he know who yon are at all, at all?” 'don’t: think he would be much impressed if he did, Nan,” Irene said, smilh%?i®adly; “and, under the edreumstanoea, he’s a perfect Godsend. It’s ahjWiWOrk, andl get impatient over it IMntirtiinum and that shows-.-me that I have a areafc’ lesson to learii; a hard

one for me, spoilt as I’ve been all 1 my life- A good, clever man told me one© that ha was going to work, and learn it. I often think of what he said now, and begin to understand) what be meant.” .

“And what is the lesson, Miss, dear? Maybe I might . Learn it too.” Irene rose up, and walking across the room, leaned her anus against the win-dow-sil 1 and looked out into the street. She stood thus for an instant. Then she said, softly, “ ‘Learn to labour and to wait.’ He told me that that was what he would have to do. Then I will do the same. The thought that he, good, strong, clever, set that before him will help me. And so I’ll take it for my motto, Nan, and no matter what happens, I’ll neither complain nor grumble agalin. And since I have you to look after my father “Ochl thin, you’ve that. And, sure, I’d do the typewritin’ too, if only me fingers wasn’t like so many sticks.” - Irene laughed, and turning, threw her arms round the woman’s neck.

“Don’t be greedy. Nan, and want to do all the good. tlnngs.” “Good things?” making j» Tittle gri-

mace. ' “Sure, thin, it’s few good things I’m fit for; ... But, - tell me. Mist* Irene, did you ever hear how that fine- clever man’s; gettin’ on?- Is he still strugglin’ at that disagreeable task, or has he made some way with his work?” Irene blushed to her eyes, and turned quickly away towards the window again. “I don’t know, Nan. He hasn’t had time to do much yet. But I hope—oh! I hope, he’s doing well. ‘Borne wasn’t? built in a day ’ and' it’s slow work getting on at the Bar. He’ll have to law hour a great deal, and wait long, I’m afraid.” “And it is in London he’s worlnin’ and waitin’, Miss Irene?” ' “Yes, in London. He left Canterbury, a year before we did.” ; : - “And you haven’t his address?” . “No, oh! no,” Irene replied, hurriedly. “I only met him once or twice, Nan, but he was clever and ear-nest, and even in Those frivolous d ays ,fr espe cted pebple like that. I’ll never see him again. Pin sure.” . :? A.-- • marked, : looking sharply ait 1 her ybijrig

mistress. “A clever lawyer’s a useful ' friend to have ” Irene laughed. •* ‘You go too fast, Nan. He couldn’t he a barrister yet. It’s much slower j Work than typewriting.” I “Tt’s the patience of Job he’ll be want- ( In’ then,” cried Nan, throwing up her ; hands.' "But all the same, I wish we knew where he lives. A man, young and- clever, as you say he is, would he a pleasant sight lookin’ in. now and again. I’m nothing of a man-hater. Miss Irene, I’d have you know, though for very good reasons of me own I am an old maid.” “Oh l<Nan, Nan,” laughed Irene, “you are funny.” “I’ve made you laugh natural and spontaneous, anyway,, so I’m off,” Nan saiid, cheerily. “The masfcher,” glancing towards the invalid, “is stirrinV He’ll be wantin’ a drink, and I’ve a nice one ready for him in the next room.” And she hurried away. ■ ~ “Hear old Nan I What a treasure she is! Where should Ibe without her?” thought Irene, her heart full of love and gratitude for the kind, unselfish Irishwoman. “I shall perhaps he able to take a situation as a typist by-and-by an an office—that is, when I master shorthand; and can write quickly. That would mean some thirty shillings a week, quite a little fortune to us now, and then some time, I trust, I shall he able to make up to Nan. for all she’s losing through her devotion to us. Now jbo work. The poor dad is asleep again. It is a mercy he troubles so* little about things. Between us Nan and I will be able to give him ill he wants. But I shall require patience —life is so dull. I must Team to labour and to wait’ indeed.” And resolutely determined to acquire the greatest speed ?jad accuracy possible Irene "seated herself once more before her tyepwriter. ~ nr. Slowly and wearily enough the weeks, months and years rolled by. With infinite patience and perseverance, Irene worked early and late, well rewarded by the thought that the money she earned wag a useful addition to her smaiii income, and enabled her to keep her poor paralysed father in something like comfort. The situation which the girl at first told herself was to be the object of her ambition she never managed to secure.’,. For every vacancy there were always sure to be from fifty tot a hundred applicants, and, for one reason or another,’lrene was never a successful candidate. She typed beautifully, but her shorthand was deficient, and in the keen competition for a place she always fell behind. „ „ ... “Never mind, aJanna,” Nan would gay, when she returned, disappointed and depressed, from a journey into the City. “Sure, you’re not fit to be gain’ out in all weathers, an’ the masther, God help him, misses you sore if you’re away long. So it’s all for the best, an’ if yen just wait a bit, somethin’ far better will turn up. Here’s a bundle by post for you. It eama when you were out and it looks lik>3 work.” “Sb it is.” Irene smiled brightly. “A big manuscript, Nan. It will keep mo going for quite a long time.” j “Ain' the pay? Ist that same good?” j “Not too good; but I’m thankful to get fit, Nan. I re-ally think I’ll give up looking for situations. If I work well and moderately, I’ll get gradually known,-and -make enough in a quiet way j to eke out* our income; and, after all : , 1 I Would father be at home.” ' “T'o he sure you would,” Nan answered. briskly, “an’,. sure, it’s the desolate place widout you.” ■'' ' ' -So Irene gave up seeking for situations through town, and set herself to look out'for work to do at home. Being neat, careful, and intelligent, she was unusually satisfactory as a copyist, and as 'her prices were not too high, she soon had a considerable number of manuscripts to type peacefully in her own room. • •

‘Tan doing well, and I’ll do better,” ishe tolcL herself one day; “and I think I’ve ;learned my lesson. lam no longer the impetuous, pleasure-loving creature I was a few agf«. I can now take things quietly. I can' labour and waxo. Has he learned the lesson too P 1 hope so. During these yea.r9 he may have done < mucbj ,and I feel sure, whatever his difficulties may have been, that Bry-

!an Steele has conquered. Has he got on? Is he at the top of the tree? I’d give worlds to know. It seems a lifetime since we parted. Shall we ever meet | again? When I look at those poor liWe I vtthered forget-me-not®, I seem to hear ( hi® voice, meet his eyes, and long—yes. j positively long—to see bun once more. And he is—must be —in London. But, ala®!” and she sighed heavily, “it is such a big place, and our ways lie so far apart*. We are never likely to meet. He,knows nothing of all that has happened to me, and I have notvthe faintest. idea where he is beyond a vague recollection of what he said that afternoon, that he, was going to London to study law. As well look for a needle in a bundle of hay as— —. Well, Nan,” turning quickly round as the door opened. “there you are! How is father ?” Nan had just returned from a slow and trying walk w;ith Mr Carter. The * poor man bad partially recovered the use j of his limbs, and was now able, with | the help of the faithful woman’s sturdy arm, to crawl out into the sunshine for ! a few moment® every fine day. j “The masther’s well, Miss,” Nan an- j swered, cheerily. “He gets a bit strong- * er every day, I’m tliinkin’. But see, I asthore,” holding out a copy of ‘The ; Literary World,” “I thought you’d like ! to look *at this. The man in the news- j paper shop said it was just what you J wanted, and ho knows your wants bet- j ter nearly than Ido me®e>lf. See. I pointing to an advertisement. “I think j it would suit, you down to thw ground.” j “Not another situation, Nan, I hope,” the girl saiid, taking the paper from her hand. “I can’t waste any more time running after that sort of thing, remember, so don’t tempt me if it’s a situation.” “Well, it is, and it isn’t, alanna. But, j sure, read it for yourself.” j “So I will,” and- raising her voice, she read aloud:—-“Wanted, typist to do typewritling at lady’® own house. No offices. Liberal terms to quick and ao- j curate writer. Apply, in, person, at 15a, . Portman Square, any evening after ■ seven o’clock.’ ” j Irene smiled happily, and her eyes lit up with interest and excitement*. “It soutads most attractive. I do l write quickly and accurately,” she cried, gaily. “Nan, you’re an angel. If this (is as good a thing as I fancy, we’ll have a jolly Christmas, a biasing plum-pudding, and lot® of presents. And, I tell you what, father shall have some cigars. He hasn’t had any for a long time.” “And you want a new dress, Miss Irene. You do, indeed.” “Extravagant Nan! What an ideal I must wait for that. You shall have j one first.” Nan laughed softly. “Ooh! thin, sure, we’ll see about that*. But I wonder, alanna, what ‘liberal terms’ mean. Sure, maybe it’s only a Catchpenny after all.” Irene laughed .merrily. “Maybe. I won’t let my spirits go up too high, Nan, for tit’s awful to come down wtith a thud. But we’ll soon know all about it, for I’ll go to Portman Square tiffs very evening.” Anxious to create as good an impres- i siiom as possible in the house in Portman I Square, Irene dressed herself that evenj |ng*as carefully and- nicely as her very . limited wardrobe would allow. Her best costume, a dark grey tweed, originally made for her in the days when fortune smiled upon her, though somewhat oldfashioiied in make, was still fairly re- ! ) speotable,. and her .black velvet hat, rusty as it was, and lacking in style, looked really nice on her beautiful bright hair. A little old, lace at her throat and a pair of white washing gloves completed her toilette, and she smiled a smile of satisfaction as she glanced at her slim and graceful figure • in the glass.

“Not too shabby, and not too smart,” she remarked. “Just betwixt andl between. Oh! how Td have laughed at the idea of going out like this in the old days! I’d have .thought myself a perfect scarecrow, and now, on the whole, I’m rather pleased. ‘Other times, other manners/ as they say in France. I do hope this advertisement is not •a delusion. A good little sum of money just about Christmas-tlmo is invaluable/’

With a light step Irene passed along through the streets. The shops wero gaily lit up, and although it was almost

closing-time for even the smaller ones, they were crowded with customers, and round their brightly decorated windows numbers of women stood gazing admiringly at the pretty things so +astefu'!y displayed'. “I declare the shops do look attractive by electric light,” Irene told herself pausing in front of a draper’s window. “A busy woman like me so seldom has a moment to gaze upon them at this hour that they seem quite a novelty, and please accordingly. I ” “Oh! he’s quite the cleverest man at the Bar these times,” one lady said to another, just at her elbow. “Mv husband says Bryan Steele will go far.” At the sound of that name Irene flushed and grew pale again, then pressed as close to the speaker as she dared, hoping to hear something more about this man, whose well-being interested ' her so deeply. j “His speech was splencKd,” rejoined I the second lady, a little absently, her l eyes' upon a big picture hat. “He’s j sure to be Lord Chancellor before i,e ! dies. But do look at that, Mary. { Wouldn’t it suit Muriel nicely ? 1 wish j I could afford to buy it for her.” J “Nonsense! It’s much too good for a j chiild of that age. But, as I was saying ; about Bryan Steele ” | “Oh! ye®, I know. But come along, ; I must get home.” And she hurried off j down the street*, followed by her friend, j “So ho is getting on,” thought Irene, | her face lit up with pleasure. “Well, |I am glad. Oh! I’d love to have heard j hlis speech. Bryan Steele Lord Chancellor! Fancy ! That is certainly more than I ever imagined possible. Still, that honour cannot fall upon him just yet. She said before he dies, and ho can’t he more than thirty-seven. Ohl” I clasping her hands, “what a pity LonI don is so big! Now, in Canterbury I’d have been sure to meet him, whilst here there isn’t the slightest chance of such : a tilling. But I too must hurry on. If i I am a second late someone else may have ; already slipped in and got this work !' that I am longing for.”

Upon presenting herself at the house in Portman Square, Irene was shown into a large, handsomely-fhrnished library, its walls lined with books in rich and costly bindings. The elderly Jhutler politely placed a chair near the fire, and invited her to sit down. “I have orders not to send anvooe away who called about that advertisement',” he remarked, in a low subdued voice. “But I’m afraid ; cud! be kept waiting, Miss, as my mis're.is has gone up to dr’eto for dinner. She te expecting company, and went to her room a l.ttle earlier than usual.”

“I don’t mind waiting at all.-—'Put perhaps I’d better go, and call again to-morrow,” Irene said, -omewuat nervously. “I—l thought, by the advertisement, that this was the best tune.” “And you thought right, Mis®. Mrs Pinewood would like to see* you this evening. If you will kindly srfc down, she Will look in and speak to you on her way to the drawing-room, and lie opened the door and glided softly av.ay. With a little sigh of consentment, Irene sank into: a big, comfortable armchair, and put her toes to the fire. “A pleasant room, and a mom showing the good taste and wealth of its owner j” she thought, glancing mu mi. “I wonder who and what Mrs Pinewood may be? A fashionable novelist. I should say, or, more probably, a> well-dowered lady with a hobby for writing. She must do it . only for amusement, one would think. * Living in a house like this she must be wealthy.” A handsome bronze dock upon the chimneypiece ticked loudly and regularly, and ohiimed the quarters in sweet, bell-like tones.

Half an hour, then threenjuarmris, passed, but still Mr® Pinewood did not appear.

“The lady’s dressing takes a goodly time,” Irene murmured, a little restlessly." “hi an wliill think I am lost. HoiV still the house is!” sitting up in her chair. “But if they are all as soft-foot-ed and soft-spoken as the butler, it could not be anything but silent. I wonder if they have forgotten me? I shouldn’t be surprised. In all probability' the company has arrived, and Mrs Pinewood is gaily entertadnling her guests, blissfully forgetful of the poor, weary typist in the library. I hardly know what to

do. It is stupid, and may spoil everything to seem too impatient, and yet—” Suddenly a clear, manly voice in the hall broke the dead stillness and sent the blood surging to Irene’s brain. “How like!” she gasped, starting to her feet. “Oh! but I’m dreaming'. Why should he he here ? It is nonsense. Because of what those ladies said in the street*, my mind is full of him, and I’m ready to think any man’s voice—especially any nioo voice—like his. But I—■ lam really too silly. After all these years, how could I remember?” And with a nervous laugh she dropped into* her chair again. Then she heard the man speak once more, hiis word® this time being distinctly audible. “Yes, I’ll see the young lady with pleasure, Brown. Your mistress need not hurry. I know exactly what she want® hi every way.” Irene leaped from her chair, the colour coming and going in her cheeks, her eyes shining with excitement. “The voice of Bryan Steele 1 It must be.” She clasped and unclasped her hands. “Ohl 1 could not be mistaken. This is wonderful. Is he changed? Willi :he know, recognlise me? I doubt* it.” She glanced at her rejection in the glass over the mantelpiece. “I am not like the Irene he once knew. lam no longer' young, no longer pretty; I am sad-faced and worn. A few years ago I ” The door opened l , and a tall, broadshouldered man in evening dress, his brown hair slightly silvered about the temples, hi® earnest, clever face, and dark grey eyes full of kindly interest*, entered the room, and stepped quickly across the floor to the fireplace,' where the young girl stood’ awaiting him, trembling and pale a® marble. . “I regret to say that my oouslin, Mis Pinewood, is still engaged,” he began, gently, “so she has asked me to speak to you about the work she wants you to do for her.” Irene raised her head and looked at him. a sad, wan little smile flitting over her white face. “Mr Steele,” she said, in a low, broken voice, “you. have forgotten me; but I feel sure I am not mistaken, even after all these years.” And she held out a trembling hand.

“Miss Carter! You?” his eye* meeting hers with a flash of joyful recognition. “Oh! where have you been?” clasping her hand. “What have youi been doing since last we met. ?” “Where have I been? What have I been doing?” Irene gave a little sob, and, withdrawing her hand, sank down upon a chair. “1 have been in a poor London lodging, Mr- Steele, struggling to live. You heard of our trouble®, I suppose?—of my father’s failure in business, of the. cruel stroke that loft him helpless and all but penniless?” ‘Yes,; I heard, and was full of grief and sympathy” —he spoke with deep emotion —“for I knew how terrible, the whole thing would be for you. I tried; hard to get news of you: questioned everyone I could think of in my anxiety to discover your whereabouts. But you had disappeared as completely as though the ground had opened and swallowed you. The people in Canterbury seemed to have no* idea, or, if they had, would not tell me, where you had gone. I guessed you were in London, but in such a wilderness ’tis hard to find anyone. You might*, surely have allowed some of your old friends to know where you were.”

“ Some did —a few. But we changed our rooms often, and it was best to be forgotten.” Then she sighed. “You have suffered, Miss Carter,” said Bryan Steele, his voice shaking a little. ; “You look frail and worn. But ’tis no •j wonder. You were always accustomed! to so much luxury and happiness“Ye.s, I have suffered, but, wnh a sudden bright look, and raising her beautiful eyes, all shining with teal's, to tip face, “I have learnt much, and I have not always been, unhappy. You used to think me very foolish and frivolous in the old days, Mr Steele, but ” The colour leaped into his face, and! his strong, clear-out mouth trembled visibly. |: “I think you frivolous? Good 'heavens, no,” be cried. “Your bright, S happy spirit and merry ways were to jme a revelation. I had always lived jjwitlr sad and. serious women. .When I

met filled me with delight and r? '<•■■■ ■"■■■"'■■ <f du'r-meetings were short and few,’ the girl said, feeling shy and embarrassed by his unexpected words of appreciation of her former self, “and—anc? I am greatly changed since then, I as sure*you, Mr Steele.” ? “Outwardly, yes. A little suffering ■* and ( sprrovf' must always ‘leave,-jhgm *marks. But no one ohanges complete-

ly. A sweet nature remains sweet. With changed- circumstances and happier surroundings, the bright spirit rises up aind asserts itself once more. I know —

I feel that, Miss Carter. Very soon, please Cod, you will bo as light-hearted and gay as you used to be.” “Things will have to change, then, ;in an alirost impossible way,” she replied, with a nervous little laugh and a bright blush, “before that could happen to me. But now,” quickly, “id like to know, please, about this post of typewriter, i work —i think I may say so without fear and in all hone-sty—-well and with considerable spaed. \Yill Sirs Pinewood engage me, do you think?”. “Yes, "yes, of course she will. And I am sure, she will like you immensely. She is a little peculiar at times, but a better-hearted woman than Laura Pinewood never existed. She married! late in life a rich old man, who died leaving her most of l£a wealth, and ” Irene’s eyes twinkled merrily, and something of her old gay manner came back to her as she said, laughingly, “It is more important that Mrs Pfnewood should know something about me and xny capabilities than that I should know her private history. I have not come to take up her character, but to hear what she wishes me to do, and what terms she is willing to offer, me for my work. The advertisement said ‘terms liberal,’ but I do not quite know what that may mean.” “My cousin has an idea for a play. Her writing is very illegible, and so she must have it typed, and not knowing how to work the machine herself, end being too lazy to learn, she wishes to engage someone to- type from her dictation. Her thoughts do not travel fast, so the play will take a long time to wxlite. Till it is finished she hopes you will come m every evening and work with her from five till seven. She will be glad to pay you two guineas a week. It is not much for you, but ” “Not much?” Irene cried, eager is princely. Ido hope I may write well enough to please her." : “I am sure you will, and now,, Miss Carter, when may I see your father? I’d like very much to meet him.” “Come any time you lihe; but, oh! Mr Steele,” and her' eyes filled with tears, “you wli.ll find him changed. Poor father! He can walk and talk a little, but he’s a wreck. Few would' recognise him now. This,” laying a card upon the table, “is our address. I—l am glad to have met you once more, and gladder,,” and here her voice became a little tremulous, “to hear that you have got, oil, and that you are likely to win still higher honours in your profession.” He drew a deep breath, reddened a little, and looked at her,* his earnest eyes full of a great and tender longing. “I have got on, and hope, please God, to get on still bettor. But there is one thing far above honours still wanting in my life that I crave for with all my soul. Miss Carter, but which I often fear may never, never be mine.” Irene gave him a quick glance of surprise, and with a sweet simile said, gently, “You must not he too ambitious, and. above ail v you must not forget the lesson you told.me long ago you were going to learn, ‘ ‘to labour and to wait.’ Do that, and this thing you desire so ardently may yet be yours. Good-nllght, Mr Steele.”

Ho caught her hand and held it tightly within liia own. “X w ill- may I see you home?” he said, eagerly. “It is late, the streets are dark ” Irene laughed gaily. - “That is nothing to me now. I am very independent, I assure you, and go out as often in the dark as in the daylight. No, no: you must not come. Mrs . Pinewood will want you at dinner. You must mot spoil her party. Pray tell ‘ her that I shall arrive punctually, if I may, at five o’clock to-morrow. And without giving him tune to reply, she 'hurried from the room. Ho started forward as though to follow her but paused abruptly as he heard - -the hall door shut, and knew that she was gone. V “Mrs Plinewood is waiting your presence in the drawing-room, Sir,” said Brown, upon the threshold. Ihe guests have all arrived, and dinner is ready to be : served.” ' “Coining, Brown, coming,” he cried. Then passing his hand across his brow, he murmured low- . “Youth’s for an boon/ . Beauty’s a flower, But love is the jewel that wins the yrorld.” . , • . V . • : triy ; tv. [ Full of anxiety, 3SPan watched the : clock. Irene’s long absence alarmed her, and she,; felt a strong desire to put bn her bonhetVand cloak and go off to f' xnan Square' to look for her. Bub duty, to her master kept her pinned to her oost. He was ‘in bed and asleep, and in

all probability would not awake for some hours. But, sleeping or not, they never left him alone, and so the faithful old servant could only sit and pray that no harm might coma to hert dear young mistress.

“Oohono! but it’s henself’s the long time corning’. Sure, I’m full of fear,” 'she murmured. “In these crowded streets there’s no knowin’ -”

A light step on the stairs brought the colour to her face, a smile to her lips, and springing up, she ran forward, and with a cry of joy throw open the door. “Sure, ; 't’s you that’s welcome as the flowers in summer. Och! alanna machree, but it’s tireu —dead beat you must be.”

,‘Tired)* Dead beatr Nod one bit of it.- I've had 1 a delightful evening.” Nan looked at the girl in astonishment’--. There was something unusual about her, something that remanded her of the bright, happy Irene of days gone by. There was a hght ill her lovely eyes, a colour,.'in her cheeks, and a radiant expression about her whole countenance that filled the faithful old servant with wander and delight. “That same’s good news, Miss, dear,” she cried. “Sure, thin, I suppose the lady’s nice and kind.” Irene’s silvery laugh rang out- through the room as, taking off her hat, she tossed it on a chair.

“I never saw her, Nan,” she said gaily. “She was too busy dressing to come near me.”

“Never saw her?” Nan threw up her hands. “Och, tliin, alanna machree, how are you so gay, and you after havin’ tnat long walk for nothin’.”

“Not quite for nothing, Nan. Oh! fai from it. I think I ,am correct in stating that I start work to-morrow evening. The aours will be from five to seven. The work will be light, and the terms extremely liberal, Nan. I’ll be roiling in wealth this Christmas.” “See that, now. Well, that’s splenuid. Did she send you that message inrough, a servant, not knowing who you were?”

Irene laughed again, and hor cheeks grew bright as a rose. “No, Nan, but a cousin of this lady, who knew us long ago, Mr Bryan Steele, brought me the message. He was very kind, and is coming to see my father.” Nan looked sharply at her young mistress.

“Bryan Steele, of Canterbury? The clever son of the doctor’s widow up Harbendon way? Sure, ’twas great things was expected of him, alanna maohree, but the poor mother died scon after he went to London, and I never heard whether he d-d weil or ill.” “He has clone well, Nan, splendidly. He’s a barrister, Nan, and they'say he’ll be Lord Chancellor before ho dies.”

“See that, now! Widows’ sons, I’ve heard, always do the best, an’, indeed,” with a well-pleased smile, “I’m right glad you met him to-night. It’s always pleasant to mebt a friend.” “Yes, so it is—always pleasant to meet a friend, murmured Irene, dreamily. “But London is a big place, barristers are busy men, and so, after all, I don’t suppose I’ll see much of Mr Bryan Steele. Nan,” and! picking up her hat, she passed on into her own little bedroom.

The following afternoon Irene arrived at Portman Square punctually at five o’clock. Mrs Pinewood, a tall, graceful woman, with a kindly, gracious manner, received her in the library. The curtains were drawn a bright fire burned cheerily in the grate, and a dainty tea-table stood ready, and most invitingly arranged, in a luxurious cosy corner close to the fireplace. Coming in out of the oold air, the handsome, comfortable room seemed particularly delightful to Irene, and Avith a sudden pain at her heart, she remembered the shabby, sordid-look-ing parlour, with its badly-fitting window and scanty curtains, where she had just left her poor invalid father. 'The dear dad I” she thought. “How I’d lowe to see him in a room like this again, with every comfort, round him!. “I hope you’ll be patient with me Miss Carter,” Mrs Pinewood said, handing her a cup of tea, “and not expect me to give out my thoughts too quickly. I am not accustomed bo dictating them, and I am sure to be very slow.’’ Irene smiled, and promised shyly to be extremely patient. Then, having finished her tea, she rose up, and, going to the table, began to get ready the -typeAvriter.

“Oh! we’ll not begin yet,” Mrs Pinowood cried, draAving the girl gently back to a ootsy chair by the fire; “at least,not the writing part. I .want to talk the whole thing over "with; you first. So please sit down, and Pll give you a sketch of the plot.”

Mrs Finewood’s voice ,was low and monotonous, the story of her play seemed at first neither startling nor exciting, and as Irene leant back in the luxurious seat beside the fire, a feeling of droAvsdness stole over her, and although she heard all that was said, she did so in a dreamy and unreal fashion. “I’ve pub you to sleep, Miss Carter, I do believe?” Mrs Finewood cried, laughingly, after a while, a tinge of disappointment in her tone. “I’m afraid my play is, after all, but a dull affair dot really worth writing-” “No no.” Irene sait> up hurriedly, and passed tor hand across her brow. ■'Prav toreiTO me for toms suoh a bad listener; but the. fi» to m warm, the chair so comfortable, that I lost myself

just for a moment. I’ll sit' here.” Sire moved on to a straight-backed, upright seat near the table. “So pray go> on.” “Most penitential!” laughed Mrs Finewood. ' “You must be feeling tired after your day’s work, Miss Garter. I’d rather see you drowsy and uninterested than stiff and uncomfortable.” “I’m neither one nor the other,” Irene answered, galily. “Only mere businesslike, and as I ought 'to be. Too muoh luxury is fair from desirable. Mrs Finewood.”

Mrs Pineweod smiled, drew her chair nearer to Irene’s side, and plunged once more into the various intricacies of her Plot. .!* Very soon Irene became really 'interested. The heroine's troubles and difficulties were somewhat like her own. She made a brave straggle, and was, of course, victorious and triumphant in tho end.

“It is oharming, Mi’s Pinewood,” the girl said, softly, Avhen that lady’s voice had died aivay into silence. “I am longing to see it on paper. Shall Ave begin?” and she seated herself in readiness before the typewriter. “The first thing to think about now is the name.” Mrs Pinewood clasped her hands round her knees and gazed thoughtfully into the burning embers. “I don’t agree Avith Shakespeare when he says, ‘What’s in a name?’ To iny mlinid, a good name is important in a play, as in everything else. Till I find one, I shall do nothing.” And staring hard into the coals, as though seeking for inspiration to their gliOAving depths, she relapsed into silence. Smiling and amused, Irene sat watching, wondering when this -important paint AVould be decided and her work would begin. As they sat thus, the room* wrapped in silence, a quick stop crossed the hall, the door Avas pushed gently open, and Bryan Steele, his eyes shining with suppressed laughter, stood upon the threshold.

“The muse is not Avorking, Laura,” he said, softly, approaching his oouslin on tiptoe, and laying his hand upon her shoulder. “Better rest a while and “Bryan, you! Well, this is nice ” she answered, springing to her feet. I am so glad to see you, for I m dull—oh . so dull- I don’t know what Miss Cartel thinks of me.” He smiled pleasantly, and turning to the young girl, held out Ms hand. “Miss Carter will make every allowance possible; I am sure. She knows the many difficulties of work, and the great patience it requires.” “Indeed I do.” Irene’s sweofc eyes

met his. “W© must all ‘learn to labour and to Avait.’ I have proved that.”

“And I,” and he held her hand a second longer than was really necessary, “have tided hard to do so too. Like Laura, I find it hard 1 ; for some things harder than others.”

“But them you always conquer in the end.” laughed Mrs Finewood. “If I Avere as sure of success as you are, Bryan, I’d labour and Avait without a murmur! But Tin a butterfly, and my ideas as a playwright are very orude.” “I would! not hear your enemies say so/’ he said, bowing loav, a Winkle in his eyes, “so patience, Laura, and by dint of perseverance and Miss Carter’s valuable help, you’ll surely produce at least a readable play.” She tossed her head. “I want to see it acted, please. Nothing less will satisfy me, so don’t discourage me, Bryan.” “Nothing is farther from my thoughts,” he answered cheerily, “and, to show you. the interest I take-in your work, I promise to look to every afternoon as soon aa the Courts rise to' see how it gets on.” She looked up at him AVitli a quick glance of inquiry, then eyed Irene surreptitiously. “How quite too aAvfully sweet of you!” she exclaimed Avith a short laugh. “Then I trust you will stay for dinner this evening, and let us talk over plot and title in a comfortable, friendly way together.” “I have an engagement, Laura,” he said, quickly, “and I am not dressed. No dear, I cannot stay to-night.” She made a little grimace, and moving away from him, searched hurriedly amongst some papers at the* end of 'the table. “Miss Carter,” she said, handing tna girl a closely written and painfully illegible manuscript, “will you be good enough to oopy this for me? I should like to see how your typewriting looks. Irene took the MS. from her hand. Then, smiling, glanced at the clock. “It is just seven, and I must go, Mia yPtopvvood,” she answered, shyly, yet with some determination. I piomised not to be late to-night, but I Avail take this with me, and bring it back finished to-morrow. I have done no work thin afternoon, and am glad to be able to make up in some way for lost time.” And rising from her ohair, she began to put on her gloves. “Very well.” Mrs PinoAvood was evidently pleased to see her depart. “That will do nicely. I’ll expect you* at five sharp to-morrow afternoon, so I wlish you good-niglit, Miss Carter.” “Good-night. Mrs Pinowood.” Irene

bant bar beautiful bead in a stately manner, than turning a/way from the table, held out her hand to Bryan StOG I !©* V i '" .' “I wiU not,say good-bye just yet Miss Carterhe, saidy. smiling, “but will wait ' home with you, if I may. I am anxious'' to ;; renew-J . imiy, acquaintance wlilth your father.” “And he will be glad to meet yqu* He» has -not forgotten you,” said Irene, as she ihoved'towards the doof. ' ■ “Then I may come?” he asked, in a low,, eager voice.. “Oh! yes. You are very kind,” she replied; a little shyly, and with .rising colour. *■■ . : *

“Wait Bryan,” Mrs Pinewood cried, jis he walked away from her. “I cannot, allow you to goi off in such a hnrry. I have many, things to say to you. 5 ’ “Another time, dear couslin,” he said, gaily, and pressing her hand in a brotherly way. as he spoke. “I ani going to see Miss Carter home. I knew her and- her father a little, as I' told ypu last night; in the old Canterbury days, so you will not wonder that I ami glad to meet them hoith again.” She looked straight into his eyes. “No; and I think I understand what you mean, Bryan.” 4I X think you do. X am most anxious that you should. Good-alight, Lsaura.” And he followed Irene out of the room. Mrs Pinewood stood for a moment', gazing after him. Then, as the halldoor shut, she sank down upon' a big, luxurious sofa, and with a deep, longdrawn sigh glanced round her. “I am to he envied,” she exclaimed. ‘‘May people think So, and yet—and y&t- ——but there’s no use in sighing for the impossible. I have sense enough to see that. In his position, with such a brilliant future before him, a wealthy wife, with a knowledge of the world and 1 its ways, would have been tjie thing fior Bryan Steele.” She paused for a moment, gazing dreamily into the fire. “But if he thinks differently, andl prefers a poor, unknown. girl for her pretty face; well, he must. And Ida hope he may he happy,” she added, with a smot-h ©red sob. * * * "go the play is finished?” Bryan Steele said one ddy, a little regretfully. “It has not taken so very long, after all, Miss Carter.” . .. Irene smiled, and looked up into his face with a comical smile. “Two months exactly,- for this is Christmas Eve. It could not go on for ever, Mr Steele.” “No, I suppose net. . Audi its really better than, I. expected, but we —at least, Ir-sbail miss our pleasant meetings in that cosy library, and our quiet walks when your work was done.” *“Ye3; they were pleasant., and, thanks to All’s Pinewood’s generosity, her work has been a real blessing to me .and my father. See bow nice I have been able to make this little sitting-room, Mr Steele,”-she said, with a proud glance around her. He raised bis head and looked round. The room was shabby and poorly furnished, but thanks to Irene’s taste and Nam’s careful attention, it was both pretty and comfortable. The new tapes- ' try curtafcns were’bright and warm. Mr Carter's chair, near the fire, big and easy. A couple of gay cushions covered the deficiencies of the old hair-cloth couch, whilst the Christmas decorations of holly, and ivy, with a pleasing and judicious mixture of mistletoe, gave it a cheery, cosy look in the not too searching light of the December day . ../ You have.worked wonders since my jfirst visit Here. The place is immensely improved.” His eyes wandered hack to Irene... “But it is not a room —a home worthy of you, Miss Carter.' 1 ' Irene crimsoned to her hair, and turning away with a little laugh, she said, “it is very nice. lam accustomed to it now, and am thankful to, have it. I-have done very well on the whole, Mr Steele. Don’t you think so ?” “Yes; your patience and) perseverance are admirable, but —- —” “Everyone cannot be so brillianstly successful as you have been. A poor typist could not hope Oh I” she stammered, growing .suddenly nervous and ill at ease, “you have so much.” Then, pausing abruptly,-she turned away from* him, and covered her face with Jier ’hands.. ‘T have much, thank God, yes.” He looked down at her with a sudden determination! in his “But I want more. ■ I am a successful- main, have risen' in my profession in a way that far exceeds all my dreams and expectations. Yet I am- not satisfied.. There is onething I covet—long for——” 1 “ ‘Hearn to labour and to wait,’ ” the girl said, softly. “Thrit was the motto you gave me. It has helped me ” “Irene” —he caught her hand 1 , convulgjYe]y_‘vl have laboured and I have waited. I. have won much, but there is something far above honours that crave for—the jewel thaic- wins the world! —love. Oh! my darling, will you give me that treasure? Will you crown, my > life—he my wife ?” •;.' ”' l: , “Yes; I love you.” The words were a mere whisper, but softly as they were spoken, they reached! ;' Bryan’s oars and heart. r"~ “My believed, I have all I care forHOW.” he murmured, and drawing her into his arms, he pressed his lips to fees*