lACK. A CHRISTMAS STORY.

Otago Witness, Issue 1674, 22 December 1883, Page 1

lACK.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

By FABIAN BELL.

Author of-" One Christmas Morn," " The Letter in Cypher," "After Long Yeats," &c, &o. .

Chapter I. In London. »W should you like to go to Australia, my dear ? ' cried Hubert Moatyn, • entering the general sitting-room at a somewhat unusual hour, upsetting hi his haste a pile of clean white linen .^jSj^se^ -j jUtB t received from the laundress, and making matters worse by his awkward endeavours to pick up and' refold the articles. 'Oh, bother the things ! they won't lie straight.' Mrs Mostyn quietly rose f four her neat, laid (down the shirt she was repairing, and deftly rearranged the linen ; then she sat down again and resumed her task. ( Well, my dear, what do you say to itr 'To what?' * To my proposition.' * I have heard no proposition.' * Oh, ourso it all— how cool you are ! You were not always such an icicle. Wbat has come to you, Ruby ? ' She lifted her eyes, and looked at him for a moment. There waa a world of reproach and aagui h in her quiet brown eyes., soft and pleading as those of a dumb, hunted animal that has no voice for its woe. Ho did not catch the look, nor would he have cared to interpret it had he done ao ; but Hinging ■ himself at full length on an old sofa, which creaked under his weight, he. cried impatiently : ' Do • put down that '-eternal atitching, and listen to me for a few minutes.' 'I can talk and work too.' Yet she laid down her sewing, crossed her hands lightly on her lap, and raised her eyes to his iluohed and restless face. ' What ia the matter 1 , Hubert — any fresh trouble ? ' 'How should you like to go to Australia ? ' was the inconsequent reply. ' To 1 Australia ! I don't know ; I've never thought about it. It is a long way off.' 'It ia a splendid country, they say. Such a climate, such crops— land to be had for tire asking.' h^ ' Not quite, 1 fancy.' ffr ' Well, for a mere Bong, then — a whole ©Btato, miles in circumfereiice, for less .than oue would give for a cottage and garden in an Knglish village. And then wbat a climate — no winter, no frost and enow. Kvory thing grows there. Stick a few seeds and cuttings into the ground, and yon have an orchard in no time.' 4 But you know nothing of country life'

' I hafc does not matter a bit ; I've always longed for it, and felt that it was the thing oi all others for which I was lioat euitod. I'm sick of town life and this eftefcw old country ; I long for something new. I've never had a fair chance here ; the men of business are so confoundedly sharp they never give an outbiUai* a chance. There of course it will be different. I shall take up land, and go and. live upon it and cultivate it. Every man h a farmer by nature ; that is a trade which docs not want any learning.' To thia startling statement Ruby made no reply, and her husband continued : * It does seem as if your uncle's legacy had come just at the nick of time. With that and what we could get for the f urni- ■ ture ' He looked round on the' six horsohair chairs, the Pembroke table, the other items — all more or less shabby, all worn with loug service and careful rubbipg—

and seemed to appraise them mentally ; then he pulled himself together on the slippery sofa, which was certainly not constructed for ease, and with an air of satisfaction continued :

' Well, they won't fetch much, perhaps, but it is always something — and we don't owe much.'

' We ovre nothing,' was the quick response. 'I pay ready money for everything. I would rather starve than run in debt.'

' Yes, yes, I know, it's deuced clft ver of you. I can't think how you manage it ; I wish I could.' 1 "Why/ Hubert, you don't mean to say that you are in debt again — after all your promises, all your oaths 1 '

Aid she preseed her slender hands togeoher, and set lipr lips tightly, to drive back the words which trembled on thorn.

'No, no, my dtar, it 13 nothing — only a p»und oi? two ; V,od I ahall bo able to paj it off nose wook- T did not mean to *;-•-: ion it; Ca 0. ,v. 1., V/I . a ui»ui caVt iii<B like a genlftimaT.:? .runout spend ing a few shillings now and then. I try to be as economical as J possibly can — I assure you I> do; all the other fellows would say so.'

' I am not likely to ask them.'

She took up her sewing and worked with fierce energy, so that the neudle 'clicked' as it flew through the stiff linen.

He looked restless, uneasy, ill-used,

* You needn't be so hard on a fellow, Ruby. Ido try to keep on the equare, but it's so deuced hard. London is full of temptations io a fellow like me. I can't go down a street without meeting someone I know.'

' I wish you would not swear.'

' I beg your pardon ; I did not moan to. It's a bad habit, I know. You must forgive me this time.'

' You know that it hurts me.'

*Well, 1 beg your pardon for the second time. Will that do 1 ' You are mighty particular to-day.''

.' How do you mean to pay the money that you owe 1 '

' Oh, that will be all right — never mind about that. 1 have plenty of friends who will give me a helping hand, if my wife won't.'

' I can't. You brought nothing home last pay-day, and I earn so little it scarcely finds us in the barest necessaries. ' •

' Well, I don't cost you much, at any rate. I have not been home to dinner for the last month.'

She sighed, and answered nothing. It was of no use to entreat, to protest, to insist ; she had tried all these methods a dozen times, and found them of no avail. There was safety in silence ; if she allowed herself to. speak she' knew that she should say more than she had intended, and should repent bitterly of her hasty, useless words.

He walked to the window, and looked out into the dreary London street — saw without perceiving — the shab by passers - by, the gutter children playing in the kennel, the stray doga hunting for garbage, the dingy sparrows fighting for crumbs— saw, and turned away in disgust.

' How I hate it all > How I wish I was in a new country, thousands of miles from this, with not a soul that had evor known me before within twenty leagues I ' i You would take your old self to the new country,' murmured Ruby ; but either he did not hear or did not heed.

He soon grew tired of looking out of window, and strolled back to the table at which his wife was sitting, working with nervous energy.

' Where are the children ? ' he asked. •?

A change came over her whole face — a change impossible to describe, but swift, beautiful, and complete — like the change wrought iv a landscape when the sun .flashes out from behind a cloud, and in one moment the water glitters and Bparjdes, the leaves become translucent,

the air palpitates, the sky grows intense, and the whole world of Nature seems to wake at once from a swoon like sleep.

• They are gone to tho Park,' she said. •' Jack begged to take Beryl. He said that it was beautiful there ; the trees were just budding, and the nowers were all in bloom. I thought it would do them good.' 'Of course it will. Why did not y m go?' She looked at the pile of linen, almost every article of which required a taw stitcbea, and aomo much more, and then at a little desk on which lay a number of photographs, colours, and brushes, aui said quietly : s ' I could not spare the time, and 1 knew Jack would be careful.'

' They are old enough to take cai*j of *hcmsel?cs > I should fcliink,' he aiibttc,. )d carelessly. ' Woll, Ruby, you have not ana wared my question yet— -How ehouid you like io go to Australia V ' i 1.?:.,1 _•.?:., you iv earnest V ' ♦" J 'Nevev Wi-^a more in -sarcot't m my 'f4o}\ I'm sick of this place ; there « nothing for a fellow to do. It's all chance, and luck, and favouritism ; a man ha.s no show unless he has friends at court. I'm' sure I've worked hard enough the last six months, and all to no purpose. Old Jones gave me notice to-day — talked of changes in the office and all that sort of thing, but I saw through it ; I've been served in that way too often. 1 suppose that he has a brother, or a cousin, or a friend that wants my place, and so I may walk. It's a confounded Bhame — that's what it is ! A fellow has no show at all unless he has some interest — someone to push him.' He had now worked himself up into a state of righteous indignation, and began to pace up and down the room with increasing vehemence. The momentary brightness passed out of her face, and it grew quite pale and still. Only her eyes seemed to live, and they were bent upon her work. She said nothing. ' Well, Ruby.' ' I am very sorry, Hubert. I thought you were settled at last.' She did not reproach him — what would have been the use? The mischief was done. He had lost his situation — how and why she guessed too well. ( You are not very sympathetic, I must confess.'

' 1 am sorry — very sorry.' ' I can't say I am j it was hateful work, not fit for a gentleman, and I'm glad enough to be rid of it.' ' I suppose you'll stay till the end of the quarter ? ' 'Hot I. When old Jones began to bluster and talk big, I just took up my hat and walked out. They'll never see mo again, you may take your oath of that. And really, when you come to think of it, it's all for the best : there is nothing now to prevent our starting for Melbourne in one of the first ships.'

'It is too sudden. You are taking it all too much for granted. I must know more about it before I consent to sacrifice my uncle's little legacy. He was the only person who ever gave us a helping hand. He is gone now, and he loft the money absolutely to me that I might spend it on the children's education. I cannot consent to divert it from ila purpose.'

' But they can be educated in Australia as well as here ; I believe there are splendid schools there, and free, too. And think how much better it will be for them and for all of us. What chances Jack will have. You know how overdone everything is here, but in that new, free country there is no position to which he might not aspire.'

' It is leaving a certainty, however poor, for an uncertainty. We can live here, and if Jack worka hard he may get on.'

' Yes, and drudge all tho beat yeara of hie life in an office for bread and cheese.

But there — it's of no use to argue with yon. You are a good woman, Ruby, but you cannot see an inch before your nose.'

He moved impatiently up and down the room, and taking out hi 3 pipe began to smoke.

She sat still, and thought. For her own part she hated London — had always hated it ; it was connected in her mind with all sorts of sad experiences, with meanness, squalor, and misery. She had lived in the country years before, and often her heart ached for the green fields and trees, the blue skies, the running streams ; but she had that instinctive dread of change, of any bold, new step, which seems the natural sequence of a narrow, troubled life, full of small cares and daily disappointments. On her heart the burden of life had fallen with crushing weight. He who should have lightened it for her had been her greatest trial, easing his own shoulders little by Kt&ie until tho whole burden had fallen iipu!?v hers, and she had borne it faithtully, even while the iron entered into her soul ; but in so bearing, the elasticity and hopefulness of youth had all passed away, a^d she had learned to dread 'every change, since nearly every change had proved a descent in that social ladder which is bo hard to climb, so easy to slide down.

The money, too, left her by her last relative and only friend, who in his efforts to befriend her children had placed this small sum absolutely in her hands — how could abe justify it to her conscience to divert it into any other channel, unless indeed she could see that it was really for their'benefit, and then his true intention Uiighb be complied with ? ( If only she could trust her husband, and beliave that he was actuated by any other motives than intense selfishness and a restless love of change. Too weak to light ; too cowardly to face the consequences of defeat ; grasping recklessly at any diversion, however heavily it might be mortgaged ; discounting bills upon the future, which he never dreamed of paying. All this she knew, and to it sho dared not shut her eyes. Time had been, years before, when she had made to herself a golden idol ; soon — not soon enough to ensure- her life's happiness, too soon for any chance of life's peace — she. had found out that its feet were of clay, and though she had. spent time and trouble in striving to regild them, she herself could no longer be deceived. She could not trust him ; she dared not trust him.

While she thought, and he fumed, a sudden noise disturbed the quiet house. The front door was thrown open ; happy, merry voices resounded in the narrow passage.

' Mamma ! mother ! whero are you ? Oh, we have enjoyed ourselves so much !' And they rushed to her side.

Two children of whom any parent might be proud. A little pale, perhaps, from the London smoke — rather slender from London life ; but withal handsome, wellformed, and healthy.

' Jack,' said hia father, f come here.'

'The boy obeyed. ' How old are you ? ' 'Fourteen, father.' ' Can you ride % ' ' No, father. I havo never had anything .to ride except Mary'a old broomstick, and I've been too big for that a long time,'

' When I was your age I could ride any sort of horse, bare-backed. I could leap a five-barred gate or a stiff bullfinch. How would you like that ? ' * I should like it very much/ and the bright brown eyes shone ; ' but ' • But there are better things than that in store for you; my son. What do you think of kangaroo and 'possum hunting, of driving half -wild cattle, of mustering and branding, of exploring new country, porhaps even finding a gold-miuo I ' ' Papa, you are joking ! ' 'Not I, my son. Plenty of boya

younger than you are doing all that, antSl on their own land, too. There ia no reason why you and I should not do the same.' ' Hubert ! ' cried the mother, a thrill of anguish in her voice. The boy heard it, and flew to her sido. ' I will never leave my mother ! ' ho cried.

' Who wants you to leave her, you young fool ? ' returned his father. *Of course, if we go she must come, and little Beryl, too.' And he lifted tho younger child on to his knee, and beguiled her with, stories of Colonial life, brilliant and impossible aa those of the 'Arabian Nights.'

Jack, standing by his mother, tried to tell of all he had seen in the Park j bub hia young imagination was fired — his father's words rang in hia ears. What boy can resist the thought of a country life, horses to ride, wild beasts to hunt, adventures of all kinds,? The match was laid to the train. His mother saw it when sho went to bid him good-night, and encountered hia wide-open eyes, bright, excited, and eager. ' Mamma, I Ju.vp- Dean thinking of the kangaroos.' h^'aid. *V/hat fun to ae© them jump f' And, oh ! if I could only find a, goK'-mine, or even one big nugget, how delightful it would be ! You would never have to work any more. I would buy you a lovely houise, and a servant, and everything nice, and we would be so happy — so happy ! ' in vain she tried to show him the reverse of the picture. The immortal hopefulness of youth, which re-creates the world anew for every succeeding generation, was against her. Day-dreams wild and impossible, ridiculous in their folly, sublime in their unselfishness, filled tha boy's mind ; even little Beryl caught the infection. The mother could not long resist them. Reluctantly and with many misgivings, fbaring she knew not what, over-anxious after long trouble, she gave her consent, and then became e^ger and indefatigable m her preparations. . Six months later the Mostyn family were on their way to Melbourne. Chapter 11. In Melbourne. Melbourne was not in those daya wha* it i 3 now — the orderly capital of tho Southern Hemisphere. It was, in part at leasi., a town of .canvas, of miserable shanties, of mud and dirt, of exorbitant prices without comfort, of rush and hurry, of wild excitement ; for the goldfever had just broken out, and tho wholo Colony had gone mad. There was no one to meet the emigrants or to advise thorn. Tho few letters of introduction they brought were uaeleßs, fur the men to whom tiiey were addressed could not be found. Some had gone to the diggings, others had been borne down in the rush, and were stranded in some out-of-the-way spot. The airy gilded castles toppled and fell. It was Chriatmas Eve when the Mostyna landed in the new country. What a Christmas ! — hot, arid, breathless. The air seemed to blow from a furnace ; never had they felt anything like it in the old home. London in August is bad enough, but even thero there are comparatively cool spots. The lofty brick houses shut out somo of the heal — one side of tho street is shady ; but from the pitiless glare of the canvas town there was no shelter — oa one side or other of the white walla the sun always beat, and hia rays seemed nearly vertical. At every step the dust flew up in clouds ; thousands of flies, and gnats, and other insect abominations filled the air, buzzed in the ears, fed on the ' new chums ' so liberally offered for their refreshment, blackened their furniture, and defiled their food. It was a disenchantment sudden, complete, and terriblo. Hubort Mostyn, as was to bo expected, succumbed entirely ; and, forgetting that

the scheme was hia own, began to curse his ill-fortune, and to upbraid his wife for not having made further inquiries before she allowed them to start on such an ill-omened expedition, and, had such a course been possible, he would willingly have returned to the Home Country in the very ship which had brought them out. But such a course was not possible. The expenses of pasaage, of outfit, of the thousand and- one so-called necessaries, which more frequently than not prove mere encumbrances—all these had brought their finances very low : a state of things which he had hitherto declared unimportant, as he should immediately ' take up land, buy a few cattle, which by natural increase would soon stook it,' &c., <&c. He had taken it for granted that Melbourne was in the centre of a pastoral district, and that a few hours' ride or "walk would take him to alluvial meadows where the rich grass stood ankle- deep, and which were free to him or any man. How different was the reality ! A canvas tent, eight feet square, hired at an exorbitant figure ; clouds of dust, and insects equalling the plagues of Egypt, and a thermometer which stood at 110 degrees in the shade, and no country available for settlement within many days' march. It was not perhaps wonderful that his castle collapsed in a moment, and left him helpless, limp as a wet rag. Ruby was the patient wife and mother she had ever been, but her very patience had in it an element of hopelessness. Life had been so sad to her, she had ceased to expect anything very bright or pleasant. Except for the children she had "wellnigh ceased to hope. Her husband would never be any different — the fibres of his nature could not be strung up to a higher pitch ; but for the children all things were possible, and for them she lived and struggled, and fought her daily fight and endured her daily martyrdom. There are some women so constituted that from the first day of their liveß to the last, they live, and move, and have their being in some life other than their own : parent, brother, friend, lover, husband, or child absorb and draw into their own these selfless characters. Strangers wonder at the affection thus lavished, often on unworthy objects, forgetting that all love is in accordance with the nature of the person loving, not of the one loved. Ruby worked patiently in her new sphere, bore her troubles "without complaint, never reproached her husband, or joined in his abuse of the country, the climate, and the inhabitants.

But it was Jack who kept heart and courage in the little party. Before they left England he had been a child, and now all at once he seemed to have developed into a man. The long voyage — far longer and more tedious win those days than it is now — had in a n&aner wrought the ohange, making him helpful an d selfreliant beyond his years. He had proved himself an excellent sailor ; and when his mother's busy hands were helpless, and her head ached so that she could not lift it from the pillow, he had nursed her tenderly, and had dressed, and fed, and amused his little sister. Then first the mother began to lean upon her child ; hia strong young arm supported her, his steady hand held her cup, his clear young voice read her to sleep, while his father smoked on deck or played cards in the cabin. Closer and closer grew the tie between mother and son. And the boy was a child no longer ; light-hearted, merry, frolicsome aa ever, a depth of earnestness lay beneath the gay aurface. The only son of his mother,' he became at once her support, her friend, her protector. Young aa he was, he had a noble character-r-staunch, brave, loyal ; and this is not strange, for if we could only see it, the boy is ever ' the father of the man.' Education and circumstances may do much to develop or soften certain peculiarities ; a violent temper may learn self-control, a timid nature may force itaelf to be heroic, the mental faculties may be trained, the physical ones developed ; but the true never becomes false, or the false true. A mean boy is a mean man, a selfish boy is a selfish man, and a brave and loyal heart may beat as truly under the child's frock as under the toga. So Jack began to find his place in the world. A few hours in Melbourne showed him conclusively that all his bright daydreams must be put aside, at any rate for the present ; that the spirited horses, the kangaroo-hunting, the merry, busy country life, were as far out of his reach as they had ever been ; that all his energies must be devoted to finding some employment In which he could help his mother, and perhaps add his mite to the family finances. To this end he made light of their troubles, declared that a tent was the cosiest place in the world to sleep in, and that in that climate no person required shelter except at night. 'Wait until you have seen it rain,' said one of the older arrivals. He advised everyone to rub their faces with salt, for then the gnats would not bite them, and declared that a mosquito hunt waa every bit as exciting as the chase of larger game. He brought wood and water for his mother, and made her purchases at a better market than that afforded by the hawkers of Canvas Town. And all the time he was trying to learn something of that strange country which had proved so different to his expectations, and find out whether there was not somewhere in it — a niche — which he, boy as he was, could manage to fill.

On New Year's Day Hubert Mostyn lounged into town, cursing his ill-luck and all men aud things which had con-

duoed to it. In the evening he returned to his wife in a state of wild excitement, primed with diggers' stories of the El Dorado of the interior.

'There is nothing to be done in this cursed hole,' he said. 'I'm off to the diggings to-morrow. Jack can come with me, and I suppose you and Beryl catj manage for yourselves. We've got a fei\ pounds left. I must have some of it foi tools, and the rest will keep you com fortably until I can send you down some more.'

'Could not we go with you?' murmured Ruby faintly ; while Jack, stealing to her side, put his hand in hera. 'Of course not,' cried Mostyn impatiently. ' There ib no place in the world where women are a greater nuisance than at the 'diggings. No, you must stay here for a time. I am sure to make money, and if it is at all a decent place I'll send for you.'

' How are you going 1 '

' Oh, I've made acquaintance with tw< or three jolly fellows ; they've got a dray and horses and all the right sort of tools, and they'll take me in a3 a partner if I pay my share.' < And what will that be?' ' Oh, only twenty-five pounds — it's a grand chance ; it ought to have been fifty, but they want another mate, and they don't want to lose any more time, We are to start at daybreak to-morrow.' 'Twenty -five pounds,' aaid Ruby slowly. 'It is nearly half of all that we have left, living here is bo terribly expensive.', 1 { Oh, well, you'll soon have plenty more. I've seen such nuggets to-day — large as hens' eggs, and they say they're common as pebbles up there. 1 11 be a rich man yet, and you shall ride in the j finest carriage in Melbourne. Hq,w hot it is ! I think there's a storm brewiug. How glad I shall be to get out of thin wretched hole ! Give me a few pounds ; I must go and buy some things. Got your traps ready, J ack ; there will be no time to look them up in the morning.'

' Father,' said the boy quietly, ' I think I would rather not go with you ; I would rather stay in Melbourne with my mother and Beryl.' His father stared at him incredulously. His mother clasped almost convulsively the hand which lay in hers.

' Well, you are a bigger fool than I thought you,' was the former's contemptuous remark. *I thought you would have been more of a man than to tie yourself to your mother's apron- string. I thought my son had more "go " in him.'

The hot indignant blood mounted to the boy's forehead, and could be seen even through his bronzed skin. ' I am not a coward, father ; but I do not think that we ought both to go away and leave the mother. I think I shall be able to get something to do here — indeed, I have had a situation offered me to-day, and I was just going to tell mother about it when you came in. It's not very much, of course, but it's a beginning ; and if she likes me to take it, we might perhaps get a lodging in the town, and that would be better than staying here.'

'Indeed it would,' aaid Beryl. ' I should like to feel myself in a house once more.'

Jack shook his head ; he had seen the kind ©f * house ' in which they might hope to be located, and it had not charmed him.

' And what ia this grand billet ? ' said Mostyn, with a sneer.

Jack hesitated. He knew his father's pride and prejudice — the pride which feels itself disgraced by service, the prejudice which looks on trade with scorn. He hesitated, but only for a moment, for deep in his heart lay the immortal truth that true nobility consists not in what a man does, but what he is ; and, toasing back his brave young head, he said boldly : ' It is only a situation in a shop, father — to serve customers and carry parcels. I saw a paper in the window ; Went in and applied for it. There waa no one in the shop but the master. He said all his assistants had left him. He wanted an experienced man, with a knowledge of bookkeeping, and I knew nothing ; but he said he would give me a trial, and I am to go to-morrow, if you consent. I am to have a pound a week, and more if I remain.'

' And for that paltry pittance you will lose a splendid ohance. But no ! I will never consent to see my only son a coun-ter-jumper.' Again the boy coloured and his lip quivered. * Mother ! ' he said appealingly.

And Ruby bent her head upon hia shoulder and wept. It seemed th 6 deathblow of her hopes. She, too, had her pride, nobler, purer, and more unselfish, but scarcely less mistaken than that of her husband. She had planned out a great future for her boy. He was to be well educated, to enter ono of the learned professions, to become a famous mini. And now all these hopes were dashed to the ground, and she saw him, while still a lad, cheerfully girding up his 'loins to enter the arena as a servant of the servants.

' Oh, Jack ! I had hoped better things for you,' she murmured.

' Don't say that, dear mother,' he cried 'This is just a beginning — the lowest rung of the ladder ; but I shall mount up, never fear. Plenty of great men have begun by sweeping a shop, and I don't think that I shall be expected to do that ; and even if I have to do it, I shall not feel that it disgraces me. 1 She looked into Jus brave bright face,

and knew that he spoke the truth, but still she hesitated.

' Would m>t you rather accompany your father, Jack ? There will be excitement aod adventure, and even if the life should oe hard, you will iind it pleasanter than serving in a hot shop through all the long summer days. Go with your father,, my boy. Beryl and I will remain here uutil your return, laden with gold.'

Bat his resolution was not to bo shaken.

' i would rather remain here,' he said ateadilv.

* Let him alone,' said the father impatiently, forgetting hia previous prohibition. 'If he's such a fool as to throw away a good chance, he's not worth arguing with. Besides, I expect he's better down here ; a boy like that would not be of much good among men at the camp. Any way it's of no use to take him if he does not want to come. I dare «say he'll find something better than coun t r-j umping to do down here, for all thf men who are good for anything are oft to the goldfielda.'

' If so many are gone, would it not be a good plan for you to remain? You might have the chance of getting a good appointment.'

' Perhaps you would like me to go into a shop ? ' he said scornfully.

' No, no ; I was ocly thinking that, if so many men had gone away, there must be good situations vacant. How nice it would be if you could get something permanent.'

'And slave away from morning to night for days, and weeks, and months, and years, for leas than I might get in a few hours, No, thank you, lam not such a fool, I did not come from England to put my nose to the grindstone. I've had enough of drudgery in the Old Country ; I'm going to do something better for myself out here, lm off tomorrow morning, and you won't see mw Hgain until I can fill your pockets with gold, and then you'll be glad enough to give me a welcome, and wipe off old scores ; and Master Jackanapes here will wish that he had been man enough to ga with me. Now give me some money, and I'll be off.' . She gave it him without remonstrance, knowing that all words would have been useless. She felt that she ought to be thankful that he was about to leave the town, for he had already made many undeairable acquaintances, who drew him into fool'sh expenses, which he had not the strength of mind to resist. She had but vague ideas of diggings townships, their temptations and dissipations, and fancied that he could- have neither time nor opportunity there to spend money even ifc, he succeeded in making it. All tljPWViture was dark. One ray of light al(>n© illumined the dread obscurity : JacSc had refused to leave her. The babe at whose birth her life had gone down to the very gates of the grave, whom she had borne at her breast, for whose sake she had counted no toil wearisome, whom she had nursed, and taught, arid prayed, and cared for - he loved her ; he had refused to leave^ her. The knowledge was balm to her sore heart ; all other troubles seemed to grow dim in the light of this one great mercy, iet she hesitated to accept the sacrifice. ' I hink it well over, my boy, before you decide,' she said tenderly. ' You may perhaps repent.' ' I shall aot repent,' said Jack. Chapter 111. Jacks finds employment, and his father finds gold. More than two years passed away, for — Bo the day weary, be the day long, At length it ringeth to eveu-song. The intense heat of summer had twice given place to the cooler days of autumn. Mrs Mostvn and her children were no longer in Canvas Town, but in a pleasant little cottage on the outskirts of the city. It was only a tiny place, but it was new, and neat, and clean, and after their first [ Colonial experiences it appeared to them quite a commodious and charming residence. Beryl was particularly delighted with it, and was never tired of arranging and re- arranging .their very limited belongings to the best advantage. To her I the sweeping and dusting, setting of tables and washing-up, were delightful mysteries hitherto reserved for grown-up people, which were quite as amusing and. far more satisfactory than doll-house-keeping. It is probable that Ruby found the unaccustomed toil more fatiguing, but she never complained ; so long as the children were well and happy no mere personal detail seemed to affect her in any way. Jack was the mainspring of the household ; in some mysterious way he had become the pivot on which all the rest seemtd to revolve. His sturdy, ringing step, his firm, cloar voice, weva as sun shine in a dark place, bringing light and life ; his daily departure was a daily eclipse, hia return aB gladly welcomed as the rising of each day's sun. His work soemed to be a pleasure to him, and he threw himself into it with great energy, doing his utmost to please and serve his employer. If he ever thought of his shattered aircaßtles — if he ever regretted the bright dreams of country life, the ideal squatter's life, full of action and adventure — if he ever looked at his fine young limbs, growing day by day more stalwart and firmly knit, and felt that they were put to ignoble uses in measuring yards of ribbon or carrying parcelshe never allowed the feeling to appear, nor could he be induced to acknowledge it in any way. At first his mother had shed many tears

at the fancied degradation, but he had wiped away her tears and laughed at her •vld- world prejudices. ' Dear mother,' he said, 'I can assure you that I am not at all an object of pity. [ like my work, it ia so amusing. You can't think what queer people come to our shop sometimes, and what airs and graces they give themselves : and it is always the Bhoddy nobility — who have sprung up, like mushrooms, in a single night — who are the most difficult to please. You should Jiave seen a woman who came to our placelately — so short, ao stout, oo red in the face, and ao short of breath. She brought up alongside the wharf — I mean the counter — and dropping into a seat, as if she could not support herself another moment, said : " Young man, I'll trouble you to show me that merry antic in the winder. I want the riches fc thing as I can get to wear at my Sally's wedding." "A 'merry antic,' ma'am !" I echoed, wondering whether a sailor's h rnpipe or o,n Irish jig would do, when Air Collins pushed me on one side and laid before her a piece of moire* antique ! '

Ruby laughed, and Jack, satisfied with the effect that he had produced, set out ior the shop, whistling the air of the last comic song.

Kuby took ,up her needlework, and stitclied away with a will. The semiartistic employment — that of tinting photographs — by which she had earned a small but certain ie/come in London, had, entirely failed in MeAkmrne, then passing through a transition period, in which nothing but bare necessaries and foolish luxuries were in requisition. She had therefore taken the only employment that offered — had proved herself a skilful needlewoman, and was thankful to find the work much better paid than at Home. Thus, owing to her efforts and Jack's, they were able to live in respectability and comfort without trenching ou their small capital, which she religiously preserved in case of any illness or trouble.

la the meantime where was the husband and father, who should have been the bread dinner of this little family? Only a few letters had been received from him — one written immediately on his arrival at the diggings, fall of enthusiasm at the prospect before him, the success of the pioneers, the richness ot the claims, the absolute certainty that mey should all make their fortunes in no time, and return to England millionaires. The second letter was the complete antithesis of the first. The life was unendurable, the work harder than a navvj's — ' and all for what 1 a crust of bread, and rag 3.' The diggings were all a humbug, the claims had been ' salted.' the prospectors were scoundrels ; as so^ii as he could scrape t < hejnoney v together ho should return to ' Melbourne, and try street-sweeping or some kindred occupation. It was just like his luck ! Whatever he did or whatever he touched was aure to fail ; he was born to ill luok Other men c >uld find nuggets and seams of gold, but he could turn up nothing better than dirt not worth washing — and so on, and so on.

l >n receipt of this letter Ruby had daily looked for her husband's return, but he had not come. He had written again, saying he was about to try his luck else where, and gradually the thought of him had receded from her immediate horizon. She knew enough of him to be aure that it he were really in want he would make his way to her, or apply to her for assist auce ; and as he did neither, she thought that the life was not so disagreeable to him as he represented, aud that iv all probability he had found congtnial companions aud employment, and permitted herself to forget some of her past troubles, and to live in a present of which Jack was at once the hope and the realisation of hope.

A considerable time had thus elapsed since the receipt of the last letter, and a great change had taken place in Hubert Mostyn's position and opinions. The new goldfields had turned out to be extraordinarily rich. The fortunate diggers who had taken up the first and best claims were on the way to satisfy their wildest hopes. Of course some were more fortunate than others ; and in spite of all his railings against Fortune — in spite of his inherent laziness, and other defects natural or acquired — Hubert Mostyn was one of these. Shortly after the date of the letter already quoted he quarrelled with his mates, and partly in anger, partly in a kind of reckless despair, he took up another claim which had been abandoned, and in a few weeks took from it the largest nugget which had been seen on the ground. The news spread like wildfire, the fortunate digger was surrounded by anadmiring group, and every inch of ground in the vicinity was immediately pounced upon. Then Hubert worked with a fiery energy Buch as he had never before displayed. A spirit of greed seemed to take possession of him. ■ arly and late he worked — morning, 'noon, and night, week-daya and Sunday*. He told himself that he was working for his wife and children ; but it was not true. He was no longer hia own master ; the terrible passion for gold— -the love of money for its own sake — had taken hold of him, and in hia vitiated, unhealthy state he could not fight against it. Gold, gold, gojd— the glittering yellow treasure, in itself so worthless save as means to an end ; stamped by man with an arbitrary value, but in itself not more beautiful than the tinsel^ which delights a child, and not half so beautiful as the commonest wayside flower — had become to him as a god. He thought of it by day, and dreamed of it by night. Once or twice he intended to write and tell his wife of

hia good fortune, but he could not spare the time ; every m .menfc which was not devoted to the increase of hia store app«ared to him to be wasted. He grudged even the necessary intervals for food and sleep, and reduced them- as much as possible. At last his claim waa exhausted j he tried one or two others, but they proved of little value, and paoking up the remainder of hi 3 gold-dust, the greater part of which was in the safe keeping of the Bank, he returned with a party of fortunate diggers to Melbourne, with the avowed intention of spending in reckless dissipation the fruit of long months of toil. No phase of the goldfever is more striking than this. Men" work like giants, fever-driven, to. make their ' pile,' and then scatter it broadcast with an utter abandon to which, no words can do justice. The reokless expenditure of a sailor is proverbial, but the wildest midshipman is economical compared with the average diggor, who as a rule does not know how to make his money fly fast enough.

Ruby, sitting quietly at her needlework, was startled by the sound of wheels and the prancing of spiriced horses, and still more amazod to Bee a dashing equipage drawn up at her door, where the butcher and the baker were the ordinary visitors. She hastened to open it that she might correct the suppqsed mistake, and was amazed to find herself in her husband's arms. 'I told you you should ride in the finest carriage in Melbourne,' he said. ( Put on your bonnet and come with me.' 'Now?', 'Yes. Why not?' 'I scarcely know. It is so sudden. I don't understand. What doea it all mean ? When did you come back ? ' ' It means that I've made my fortune-— it was hard enough work, I can tell you — and now I mean to enjoy it. I came back late last night, and it has taken me all the morning to find you out. What a wretched, out-of-the-way hole this is, to be sure.' 'We think it a charming spot/ she answered, with a faint smile. ' There is no accounting for taste ; I'll see if I can't find something better tomorrow. In the meantime I have jnot been idle. I remembered the carriage I promised you. There it ia. ' Come and try it.' • v She looked at the -elegant barouche, and then at her worn dress aad shabby bonnet. ' These are all I have,' she said. * I think they would look a little incongruous.' He acknowledged the juatice 6i the remark. t ' However, we will soon remedy that,' he said. 'Go to. the best shops, and order what you want ; I give you carte blanche/ 'Not to-day,' she said decidedly* ' Send the carriage away, arid come in — all the neighbours are staring — and tell me what you have been doing. Have you really made any money ? ' * I have been working like a nigger,' he said, after having reluctantly obeyed her wish and dismissed his team. ' You always said that I could not or would not work ; now you will see foivyourself that you were wrong. I've worked like a ni<{ger, and now I mean to live like a priuce. I've made my " pile,"and I've come to you and the children to help me spend it. But you don't give me a very warm welcome, I must say.' ( I am so surprised — so startled,' she answered faintly. ' When you wrote last you were not succeeding.' • . * Oh, that's a long time ago. The luck changed soon after, and has been on my side ever since. Here ! look at this nugget as a specimen ; I thought of having it set as a brooch for you. I've hundreds more.'

She touched the glittering fragment with respect. In a moment she had pictured to herself a dozen uses to which she could put this and other like precious morsels : an easier life for Jack, a piano and masters for Beryl, a larger and handsomer house — perhaps a return to the dear Old Country, which would always be ' Home ' to her.

She mentioned some, of these Schemes to him. He agreed with indifference to all save the last.

' Not if I know it,' he said. ' There is plenty of fun to be got in Melbourne, and I mean to enjoy myself here. A long voyage is detestable. If one had a yacht of one's own now, it might be endurable, with a few choice companions, plenty of champagne, and half-a-dozen packs of cards — and even so I think, that euchre is better 01* terra firma. Of course Jack must leave that confounded store, and live like a gentleman.'

But Jack had an fcpinion of his own on that point, as on most others. When father and son met that night, Ruby's sensitive nature, responsive like an -s<3olian harp to the faintest breath, vibrated with the preaage of coming eviJ. The two were opposite in thtir natures as the magnetic poles, and had a like repellent effect on each other. When Jack was a child this difference had been less apparent — partly decause the boy had scaroely known his own mind, and partly because he had been trained to respect ' the powers that be.' But the last few years had made a great change in both. To the rapid development of Colonial life had been added, in Jack's case, a sens© of responsibility aa being hia mother's only supporter and chief breadwinner of the family. These had quickened the growth of the inherent manliness and loyalty of the boy's nature, and it was no longer possible to him to yield a tacit

consent to that which his soul abhorred. Neither had the paat years left themselves without a witness in the character and manners of the elder Mostyn : the former had grown lower as the ideal fell, and the latter were visibly coarser and more repellent. •Of ''course you cant return to that <cursed low place again 1 To-morrow you will come with your mother and Beryl ; -we will drive round the best parts of the city, and look for a house.' 'I hope you will enjoy yourselves, but you must excuse me,' said Jack firmly. * I am ■willing to leave the store, since you desire ,it ; but I cannot do so at a moment's notice, or put Mr Collins to great inconvenience. He has always been kind and considerate to me, and I should wish to treat him in the same manner.' Hubert Mostyn gave vent to a string of oatha anathematising his son and his son's employer. He probably did not mean a quarter of what he said, but the mother and daughter cowered and turned pale, while Jack's face grew strangely stern and immovable. < Dear papa,' cried Beryl, ' pray, pray do not speak like that — it frightens mo ! ' He gave her a startled look, murmured some words of apology, took up his hat, and went out.

"When he returned home, at about three o'clock on the following morning, he was iv'sL maudlin condition, and entreated 14*^, With tears,, to forgive him, to be kind to him, and to love him as of yore. She had much difficulty in getting him quietly to bed, congratulating herself on the mistaken supposition that her children were asleep. Had she, however, looked into Jack's room, aud beheld his knitted brow and set lipa, she would have known that the bitterness of death was at hand. . Chapter IV. A melancholy Christmia. Again it was Christmas-time — the |ifth Christmas that the Mostyns had passed in the Colony. It found them in much outward prosperity, occupying a handsome, well-fur-nished house, provided with carriage and riding horses, liveried servants, and many other luxuries of doubtful utility. Bub their peace was gone. Ruby, who had been so content iv the four-roomed cottage, looking and feeling both proud and happy, was strangely altered for the worse. She had grown pale and thin, with the air and manner of an habitual invalid worn by present suffering and apprehensive for the future. ' Fear at her heart, as at a cup, the lifeblood seemed to sip.'

Hubert Mostyn waa a confirmed gambler and an occasional drunkard, alternating between fits of mad debauch and the lowest depths of purposeless repentance. * All those faults which in times of trouble and poverty had been to a certain extent repressed and held in abeyance were now rampant, aud held their ovray -without let or hindrance

Jack, too, waa changed. He had refused to comply with his father's wishes, and lead an idle life ; but he had leit the shop, and a position had been obtained for him in one of the leading banks, where he was already becoming noticed for his business ability and attention to his duties. But he was changed. He no longer left his home with reluctance, and returned' to it with all speed ; it had grown hateful to him, and he never remained in it a moment longer than he could avoid. But for the fear of grieving his mother, and adding still more to her burdens, he would certainly have left it and < taken lodgings elsewhere. His father's manner of life and hia father's associates were alike abhorrent to him ; and while his mother daily thanked God that this was so, she trembled lest there should come a collision between the two. So great was the unspoken sympathy between mother and son that Jack knew this, though of course she had never hinted it, and he had determined, however difficult it might be, to spare her at least this pain. But the constant selfxeatraiut thus engendered seemed to have changed his. disposition completely; his sunny, buoyant temper had departed, and he h*i| grown gloomy, taciturn, and sarcastic, 1^ Beryl alone of the little family seemed unchanged. She spent most of her time at school, and when at home her mother contrived to keep many painful details from her sight, so that she alone seemed to derive pleasure from their outward prosperity.

• 'How jolly it is to have a carriage of one's own ! ' she cried, throwing herself back luxuriously on the rich cushions. ' I remember how I used to hate to trudge along in all the heat and dust, and .how I envied those who rolled paat us in 'their barouches and victorias. I wonder whether everyone ia envying us now ! '

Mra Hostyn sighed. In he? fate there was so little to envy that the suggestion seemed a Tiiockery. It was Christmas Eve. In thai wealthy house there were few preparations to make for the coming festival, and these were all left to the servants, who were well up to their work, aud did not care to be interfered with.

Hubert Mostyn was spending the evening with some choice spirits ; Beryl had gone to a juvenile party ; Jack and his mother were alone.

For Borne little time they had sat quietly without exchanging a word. Around them were all the signs and evidences of wealth— a beautiful, wellappointed room, full of those little

luxuries and conveniences which in themselves seem small, yet serve as the hall-mark of taste aud refinement.

Ruby waa very weary. She leaned back on her couch. Her cheeks were wan and wasted, so that her dark eyelashes, resting on them, formed a painful contrast. Jack became suddenly conscious of the change which a few months had wrought.

{ Little mother, ' he said tenderly, ' you are ill.' 1 No, no, dear,' shs answered, immediately rousing herself with an effort — • not ill ; only tired.'

'It seema to me that you are always tired now.'

' I think I am. The climate tries me, it is so hot. Oh how I long for the cool fresh breezes of the Home Country, this continual glare and brightness is so painful ! '

'Should you not like to go back to England 1 '

' Indeed I should, but nothing will induce your father to go, and this morning he told me that he could not go. Jack ! ' — with a sudden startled glance around, as if she supected that the very furniture had eyes and ears—' Jack,! do you think it is true that he is really in difficulties, and that this money, which came to us so suddenly, like fairy gold, will vanish as quickly 1 ' The young man knitted his brows and leaned forward, resting hia chin in the hollow of his hand. Truth to toll, it waa not the first time that the suspicion had been presented to him. No ona who had watched Hubert Mostyn's career of mad extravagance and folly could doubt; that it would prove of short duration. However large might be the sum that he had amassed, only the purse of Fortunatus himaelf could remain unaffected by such demands.

Melbourne was full of parallel cases. Successful diggers and speculators were legion. Occasionally such men invested their money carefully, and lived prosperously on the proceeds ; but in the majority of instances the successful goldseekers did not know how to spend their gains fast enough in wild debauch and promiscuous treating, in every kind of reckless extravagance and folly. They strove to prove that that which had been lightly obtained waa little appreciated. So long as it lasted anyone might have it. Men threw handf uls of gold into the street for boys to scramble for ; offered five pounds to anyone who would run his head against a wall ; treated strangers to unlimited drinks; covered coarae hands and necks with costly jewellery ; drank and gambled ; cursed and fought. Society waa in a state. of chaos. Men risen from the dregs of the people lorded it in high places. Money, and money alone, seemed the standard by which all thinga were judged. The domestic relations were upset ; separation and divorce were common ; children broke loose from the authority of their parents ; each one ' did what was right in hia own eyea,' without onca reflecting that ' for all these things they would have to give an account.' Jack saw it all, and marked the reckless gambling in shares, and mines, and land, and every kind of property. He knew that many supposed wealthy meu were trembling on the verge of bankruptcy. His father might be one of the number ; he had reasons for thinking it possible, even probable.

His mother's question was a difficult one to answer.,, Longfellow's quaint translation from Logau rang in his ears : Whereunto is money good ? He who hath it not wants hardihood, He who hath it hath much trouble and care, Bo who once has had it hath despair. Would that be the' case with her 1 He thought not, he hoped not, and yet He never answered that question ; it was answered for him in another form.

. The door of the room in which they were sitting was thrown suddenly open, and a woman entered, unannounced

Ruby waa startled ; Jack sprang to his feet.

The newcomer, who was splendidly but vulgarly dressed in rich garments, loaded with jewellery, came quickly forward, and exclaimed :

' Don't you know me, Mrs Mostyn ? ' Ruby looked doubtfully at her for a moment, and then recognised an old shipmate — a steerage passenger to whom she had rendered a few little neighbourly kindnesses on the voyage out, whom she had met once or twice in Canvaa Town, and then completely lost sight of. 'Mrs Dunn! Is it you? I am very pleased to see you. ' ' There ! I knowed it. I knowed you would not be too proud to speak to aa old shipmate, though you do drive in your carriage. I've money, too— -plenty of it, but it's of no use to me ; I wish it was all buried down a«ain at the bottom of the earth, and there it might lie for me. My man's made a pile of money, and he likes me to dress fine-— but, bless you ! it's nothing but a nuisance to mo. I've alwayß done my own work, and I oan't abear the cheeky way 3 oi' these Colonial gala, who know how to do everything better than you do yourself. But there ! how I do run on, to be sure — it's the pleasure of seeing an old acquaintance like ; and yet, goodness knows, I don't know how 1 could feel pleased even for a moment. You remember my two boys 1 '

'Indeed I do — two handsome, manly little fellows.'

'They are ill— very ill, the doctor says.' And the woman's faca suddenly changed and fell, and two big toars rolled slowly down her cheeks, '

' I aro Viiry, very sorry,' returned Ruby, and there could be no nmlakin-{ the accents of true sympathy. 'Can I do anything for you — puchaps you came here to a3k met'

' yea, I did. I know what a clever nurse you ara — better than a doctor, and what a lot of good you did me when 1 was sick aboard. And when, I saw you drive past this afternoon it curie upon me all in a flash, " I'll ask her to come i and soo the boya." But now I don't scarcely liko to ask you, you're looking ao peaky yourself.' 'Oh, I will willingly come with. you, but I fear I ahall not be able to do uiuca. What is the matter with the boys ? ' ' The doctor said it was sorno kind of a fever — f can't mind the name — something to do with gas.' ' Gastric fever, perhaps ? ' * Yes, that's j nat it, — how clever you must be ! He says they'vo brought it on theiraelves by too much fruit, and sweota, and cakes, and auch-like, and he says I should not ought to have Ist them have ifc. But, dear heart alive ! how could I help it ? When the father made his "pile" he would hava ua live genteel. He bought mo these clothes and things, and he took the boys away from the Government school and sauc them to a private gentleman, and then they had s:> many holidays and ao much pocket money that they made themselves sick — like boys will, you know, even th® best. And they used to be good boys — the besh boys in tha world — in the old days, when we had to work hard for our " tucker, ' and I wish in my hearb that the old days were back again.' ' Poor mother ! ' said Ruby, putting on her shawl and bonnet, for which ahe had Bent. 'I am ready now. Jack vi ill walk with vs — I suppose you live somewhere near — and then go on and fetch his sister, who haa gone to a party. 3 'Aud ia that your Jack?' cried Mrs Dunn, turning towards him. 'My word ! what a fine fallow he has grown. And to think that my boys should be so ill, and your boy so strong and well — it seem 3 strange now, doesft't it 1 ' It is always co. One is taken and another left by Him whose ways are inscrutable. Ruby benl her head in speechless humility. ' Little mother,' whispered Jack, bending to arrange her shawl, ' are you wise to go? The disease may be infectious, and you are not strong.' ' Don't hinder me, my darling — there ia so little that 1 can do.' I And he opposed her no more, thinking perhaps that the experience of others' | sorrows would divert her thoughts from her own. I . The night which followed was one that could never be forgotten. The poor lads were worse ; they suffered tortures, and in their anguish shrieked aloud for help, which none could give. ' Mother ! mother ! ' they cried, as if she who had hitherto been an earthly providence could help them still. Their father, unable to endure the sound, had rushed from the house, and was striving to drown his remorse at the nearest bar ; she, because ' she was a woman and a mother, never flinched once, but applied the prescribed remedies with unshaking hand. Late in the night the doctor came' again. He was a stern old man, an army 'surgeon who had seen service, and who prided himself on never deceiving his patients or their relatives. Wiien he looked at the boys he shook his head and turned away. * I can do no more.' * Oh, doctor, do not go ! I have plenty of money ; I will pay anything — only do not leave them, toureiy, surely you can do something more. I will give you anything you like to a3k — only save my boys !' ' My good woman,' he said impatiently, ' you are talking nonsense. All the money in the world cannot buy one human life. Kneel to God ; do not kneel to me. I cannot stay. lam wanted in a dozen places, where I may be able to do some good ; here I can do none.' sls there then no hope % ' said Ruby, following him to the door, while poor Mrs Dunn shrank back as from a blow. ' I do not say that. " While there is life there is hope," ' he began. She checked him. 'Tf 11 me your real opinion ; I will break it to their mother.' 'They wont live twenty-four hours. The elder is the stronger of the two ; I thought until to-night that ho might pull through, but this return of violent pain is a fatal symptom. I expect she has been giving them something to eat, against my ordera. Look you, madam, this luat for gold and mad self-indulgence in the spending of it have put more work into the doctors' hands and cost more lives than any battle of modern times. If those boya' father had remained an industrious, hard-working maa, they would no doubt havo grown up into hearty, healthy men. It-ia a clear case of Buicide or homicide, which you pleaso, and it ia not the only one by many. The goldfever has carried off more patients than "Yellow Jack" himself.' ' Will you come again in the morning?' ' Yes, if I can be of any use.' But ere the morning dawned Mary Dunn was childless. The Christmas Day which followed was a particularly dreary one. In looking back afterwards, it seemed to Ruby Mostyn that the troubles which had, been hanging over her for many a year began .on that day to draw thicker and closer

around, presaging the tempest which was near at hand, the crowning anguish of her life.

All through the short, hot, palpitating night she had watched by the dying boys, whom she could remember so bright aud full of promise. Her heart had ached for their sufferings, so that she was uluvst thankful when these were ended. • But the mother's anguish had been terrible, a^ also the violence of her unrestrained grfef, which in its abandon and rebellion against the will of Heaven had been most painful to witness and impossible to soothe.

Worn with the fatigue and excitement of tho nii»ht, grieving much for the childless mother aud for the two fine boys whoso young lives had held the promise of so much that wa3 noble and good, Ruby Moatyn walked slowly through the deserted stceeta. She hud sent J «ck home hours before, telling him that her stay was uncertain, and n>w she felt the need of his strong yuuucf arm.

Jhlarly as the hour was the heat wag inter>3», and the silence of the city seemed strange and oppressive. In London at that time the streets would have boen a'ive with people preparing for the early markets ; carts of fruits aud of vegetables would have scented the air ; vendors of milk, cresses, rolls, and many other siutvl traders would havo givon animation to the seeurt ; servants would have boe'n seen taking down shuttcra or whitening door steps. In Paris or Brussels the scene would have been sbill more lively, for in most of the cities of the old World the poor and lower middle class avo early risers, giving a' long day's work for a small day's pay, and tho ekrut hours' system is not dreamed of. But at the time of which I write the Melbourne people were not early risers, being doubtless of the opinion of the wise man who thought that ' the worm was a . fool to get up so early.' And to Ruby Mostyn, walking alone through the silent; city, the deserted streets became peopled with phantom travellers. Those whom she had known long years before, and, who were dead or forgotten, seemed to meet her at every turn. Some of these smiled and greeted her, and others — and these were the ones who had been nearest and dearest to her — frowned and looked away, as if for some reason they were unwilling to recognise her. Thi3 troubled her. * What foolish fancies,' she said. ' Surely I am ill.' Then from a distant steeple rang out a full, joyous peal, and in a moment she remembered that it was Christmas Day. On a first impulse Bhe longed to silence the bells ; they seemed like a mockery of tho sad scene which she had just left. Thou wiser and wider thoughts came to her heart of the meaning of those bells — of the fii^i coming of the Christ-child, whose birth more than eighteen hundred years before had broken the thraldom of Death aud opened the gates of eternal life. ' Unto us a child .is born, unto us a bou ia given,' and the great anthem seemed to peal through the clear vault of quivering ether, and to echo through the silent streets of the sleeping city. The air around her grew clearer ; the hopes which had grown far off and faint, became near aud sure.

At this -moment loud voices in coarae song aud jest broke upon the stillness which the bells had not disturbed, but only intensified. It was impossible to mistake the meaning of those sounds : half-tipsy revellers returning from some midnight gaiety, ripe for mischief of any kind.

Ruby shrank nervously back, looking for some spot where she might hide until ttiey had passed, bub before she could do this they were upon her.

What happened during the next few minutes she could never exactly tell. Probably her shrinking fear attracted, notice, and called down the very thing which she dreaded. The young men surrounded her, talking and laughing loudly, and offering to escort her home. She screamed. One of the band turned sharply towards her.

She recognised her husband.

It was a terrible moment. But the instincts of a gentleman, though dormant, were not altogether dead hi Hubert Mostyn. He strode forward, and putting her arm in his drew her from the crowd, saying quietly :

c Xou have made a mistake, gentlemen. This lady is my wife. Allow me to tako her home.'

They fell back on either side, abashod, and suffered their prey to escapo.

The husband and wife walked home in silence.

For the first time in hia life he felt so utterly ashamed of himself that he could not take refuge in the voluble excuses of self -justification which generally flowed so freely from his tongue. The sudden shock had completely sobered him — nay, more, it had in a seuao photographed his character, so that for once in hia life lie was enabled to ace himself aa ii' ha had been another person. Tho sight was not pleasing. After all his experience of life, hia many failures, hia olruggles, and what he was pleased to call his great success, the result was not satifactory. He had made money ; he had a fine houao, and servants, and luxuries of all sorts ; but that waa all. He had not made a, position for himaelf ; he had not won. the esteem and respect of his fellow-citizens, or the love and regard of his own household. His wife and he had drifted miles apart ; his children, for all that he knew of their inner lives aud characters, might have been dwellers in another planet. These thoughts were all hateful to him,

and yet he could not drive them away, for as often as he tried to do so they returaed in another form, and persisted in forcing themselves on hia attention. At last they goaded Men into a kind of defiance. To despise himself was a- new sensation, and a particularly hateful one, r,nd he fought det-perately against it. She oaid nothing, and her very silence provoked him.

*' "WMl,' he said al last, ' why don't you apeak 1 I suppos i you are going to give me a rowing ? You may as well Ist me have it at once.'

If she bad only known it, he was nearer at that moment to a true repentance than he had ever been before, and in spite of his aggressive worda he was really ashamed of himnelf ; but he had no intuition to tell her this, or to show her that the moment had come when a hand stretched out to the sinner xuight help him tv risB to a higher level. She only knew that her life had been one long torture, of which this raau had' been the cause ; that ha was a bad man, a bad husband, a bad father ; that her many previous efforts to soften his heart and change his life had boen useless ; that, so far as she coxild judge, his character was ever tending downwards instead of upwards, aud that her feeble handa were powerless to stay the current ;— therefore it seemed to her that further resistance, further effort, would be useless. * I have nothing to say.' she answered wearily. '1 am tired. Let me go home. 3 ' Certainly. I w n't detain you.' Ha tool# her to the door, and turned away. ' are you not coming in 1 ' she said feebly. ' No. You have nothing to say to me, and I'm pretty well sick of my life. I must; have something to amuse me — something to make me forget.' And he strode rapidly away. Jack met her in the passage. ' Little mother,' he said, ' what a long time you have been. I was jusfc coming to look for you. How are the Dunn boys ? ' ' They are dead ! ' she said, and burst into a passion of weeping. Chapter IV. The Great Bank Robbery. With the New Year a piece of good fortune came to Jack. He was promoted to a higher position in the Bank — to a position of greater trust ; and he was naturally proud of his success, and his mother was even more delighted. This was, however, the one ray of light which made the surrounding darkness more intense. Since his brief repentance on Christmas morning Hubert Mostyn seemed to have sunk into still lower depths, from which he made no effort to rise. The craving for stimulants and excitement' grew with what it fed on. He was rarely at home, and when he rested or slept he must have taken the repose elsewhere ; but looking into the haggard face and wild eyes, one was tempted to believe that he had * murdered sleep.' There could no longer be any doubt that he gambled. The only question was the extent to which he was involved and had involved his wife and children. Both Jack and his mother felt certain that a crisis was near, and that the crisis would probably be ruin ; but they looked forward to it with very different eyes — hers, world-worn and tired, craving only for rest and peace ; his, full o£ youth's ardent fervour, eager to take the value of all good things, life and woalth, health and position ; she, ready to resign all, if her dear ones were spared to her ; he, wild with indignation at the folly which imperilled that which seemed to him very precious. Things were in this position when Jack returning home from the office at a late hour excused himself by saying that the manager, having visited one of the branch banks, had been detained until lat© ; that all the clerks had left but himself and one other ; that they had remained to assist in putting away the gold. 'Twenty-four great bars, mother. I wish you had seen it ; it quite made one's mouth water. The stroug-room is full of bullion ; most of it will be sent to Englaud by the next mail. I should think Mr Dysarb will be glad when ifc is gone ; it is a great responsibility to have ho much money in the Bank.' 'But I suppose it is taken great care of?' . fOh yes, of course it's safe enough ; bed I shall ba glad when the boxes are put on board tho Jno, and the captain gives me his receipt.' ' What have you got to do with it '1 ' ' Oh, I suppose * shall have to take •them on board; &nd in the meantime 1 have the key of the safe, where the other keys are kept. There aro two ; Mr Dyaarfc has one, and I have the other. Someone must keep it who i 3 on the spot, and he h often away at the branch banks, and to-day h& has given it to me. It is an honour, and also a great responsibility. Look al ihu precious iittld thing. 5 He hold it'ouc to her, mid then fastened - it for security to hia watch-chain. A momont later he rose to arrange the curtain, and saw his father smoking a cigar on the verandah, lie had believed that hia mother and he were alone, or he would not have spoken so freely, and he felt a momentary uneasiness at tho thought that his words had been overheard. He looked quickly and questioningly into the elder man's face, and then, only half reassured, made some casual remark about the weather aud returned to his place. Shortly after the Ino came into port.

-and it was pretty generally known that •on her return Home sha would take a •considerable amount of gold from the Bank. That was on the 10th of February « on the 14th Jack lost the key of the, safe.

'It is the most extraordinary thing in ihe world, mother,' he said. ' You remember my showing it to you, and putting it on my watch-chain? Well, it's cgone. I'm certain it wa3 there when I -wound up my watch last night, and this •xnorniwg it had disappered. I have been 'hunting in every direction, and cannot tfin<& it ; and I dare not stay a moment longer, or I Bhall be late for the office. Perhaps you will have a look for it when I'm gone. I don't see how it can have fallen off my chain, but of course it h just possible.'

She promised to do her best, and he hastened away, very much distressed at the loss of a thing so important, and which he had looked on as a sacred trust.

On his return home to dinner, however, •the key was restored to him. His mother bad found it on the floor of his bedroom -^' Near the door ; I wonder you did not see it.'

'I looked everywhere, and even felt all over the carpet on my hands and knees, but I must have missed it somehow. However, I am very thankful to have it again. Fortunately Mr Dysart ■was in the office all day, and it was not required.' Two d«.ys later— on the 16th of Feb-ruary—-a terrible thing happened ; the Sank was robbed !

It was the most mysterious affair 1 posBible.

On the preceding evening everything had been left perfectly safe. The manager had himself locked up the strongroom, thinking witfe much satisfaction as he did bo that the Ino would soon be ready for sea, and had deposited the keys, ledgers, &c, in the fire-proof safe of which he and Jack Mostyn had duplicate fceys. On the morning of the 16th, when Mr Dysart visited the safe, the lock appeared to have been tampered with. At first the key would not turn at all, and when he drew it out a small piece of wax was found adhering to it ; on a second trial it turned with difficulty. The other keys lay just where they had been placed on the previous night. Mr Dysart took the one belonging to the strong-room, and hastened thither.

His apprehensions were but too surely fulfilled.

The bullion had been packed in two iron-bound boxes, ready for conveyance to th«!» Ino.

The boxeß were empty — the gold had ! "Who were the robbers ? When, where, and how had they effected an entrance 1 These were questions which on the first shock of the discovery it was impossible to answer, and which did not grow more easy of solution as time went on.

Mr Dysart lived on the premises. Be was a bachelor, and his domestic affairs were managed by an elderly housekeeper "of irreproachable antecedents. Neither this woman nor her master had heard any suspicious noise on the night in question, nor had a large and fierce retrieve, who slept at his master's door, shown any signs of uneasiness. True, it had been a wild and equally night, rain had fallen heavily at intervals, and the wild gusts had shrieked and moaned and filled the air with Btrange unearthly noises. In the midst of this war of the elements it would have been difficult to detect any unusual sound : and though human ears might have been thus deceived, canine instincts are supposed to be more acute, And the dog had made no sign. -

On a careful examination of the Bank buildings, it appeared that a small window on the ground-floor had been forced open. This led into a pantry, and had always been deemed too small to be dangerous ; it was not therefore protected by bars, like the front windows, but had simply been secured in the usual way by a metal catch. This , catch Mrs Groves had herself fastened early tn the evening, because the wind caused it to rattle : this she declared most emphatically. But this casement had been found wide open on the morning of the 16th, the tipper pane broken, and the catch gone. The natural presumption therefore was that the robber (who must have been unusually slender) had entered by this window ; had forced back the bolt of the door leading into the Bank, which bolt was of ordinary construction, and would readily yield to a skeleton key ; had then opened the door of the safe, abstracted the key of the strong-room, and helped himself to its contents. # This, though the only theory which offered itself, was full of difficulties. First, the absence of noise in. entering the house and proceeding through it ; which ,was the more noticeable, as from the amount of gold taken it seemed certain that more than one man had been engaged in the robbery, or that he had made more than one trip. Second, the window waa too small to admit entrance or egress to any but a boy ; and if the window had been opened as a blind, by what other means could the thief have entered, leaving no sign ? These two difficulties lay on the surface, and presented themselves in such a manner as to challenge investigation. But nothing came of it. The closest scrutiny revealed no other means of entrance ; every other door and window in tho placo waß found in the morning aa it had ,been left at night — clouoly locked, bolted, or barred. The case was shrouded in mystery. A

daring and feuccesßful robbery had been committed, and not a trace remained t?hich could in any way point out the perpetrator.

Of course the police were communicated with, and the Superintendent himself was soon on the spot He examined the house carefully, looked at the broken window, which seemed too small to admit any but a- child, and declared himself fairly puzzled.

' The window opens on the garden,' he said. ' There was rain last night, and the soil must be wet. Has anyone looked to see if there are any footprints ? '

No one had done so. He trent himself.

Under tho window was a small flowerbed, sparsely filled and nicely raked over. Two footprints were distinctly visible in the soft earth. Sergeant Knowlea took the exact measure of these, afid congratulated himself on his sagacity. He returned to the house and continued hin investigations, looking long and curiously at the lock of the iron safe, the morsel of wax, and the key. 'Is this the only key 1 ' he asked. ' No. Mr John Mostyn, my clerk, possesses a duplicate, which he Baya has never been out of his poaaeasion, night or day.' 'Vv hich 1b Mr, Mostyn ? ' . 1 Thia is.'

The Inspector turned ahd looked keenly at Jack, and at the same moment a recollection like & lightning flash crossed the young fellow's mind, and he remembered bis temporary loss of the all-important key. He was just about to step forward and mention this fact, when some feeling which he could not define held him back, and he was silent.

Knowles marked the slight movement, the hesitation, the reserve j and a sudden light seemed to break upon him. He turned away", and by a look requested the manager to follow him.

' Tell me something about each of your clerks,' he said. And then — 'Who is young Mostyn 1 ' ' Son of* Hubert Mostyn, the successful digger.' ' , ' The gambler, blackleg, and roue, you Bhpnld say,' returned the other. t#t But surely he is a rich man 1 '

' He was,' was the significant reply.

Then Mr Dysart began to praise Jack — his steadiness, his industry, his business abilities — and the policeman listened in silence, making only one remark :

' He is his father's son. '

And the manager's eulogies grow less warm, and that cold strange fear crept into his heart, which once aroused could never again be entirely stilled, however ! earnestly he strove to silence it,. ' You don't suspect him — you cannot j suspect him ! ' he cried ; ' I would as soon suspect myself.' I ' I intend to watch him,' was the significant reply. *In the meantime we had better be very quiet, for at present we can do nothing. The plunder is so large, and in itaelf so heavy, that the robber or robbers will find some difficulty in diHpoaing of it. Before many days pass over we shall probably obtain some clue ; in the meantime say nothing, and watch.' .Many daysj however, passed away, and no further facts came to light. The Ino sailed out of port without her golden freight, and the mysterious Bank robbery ceased to occupy the first place in public interest. About this time, though the exact date was difficult to fix, a blight seemed to fall on Jack Mostyn's life, and hia whole appearance and manner underwent a j change. He grew nervous, would atari at a sound, and change colour like a girl if suddenly addressed. His bold, bright eye no longer faced every speaker with fearless confidence ; sometimes it had a far-away look of painful questioning, more frequently it was fixed sadly on the ground. His manner was restless and preoccupied — the manner of one who expects some calamity which he cannot avert, and the thought of which fills him with dread. Watching this change in his <young clerk — seeing day by day these signs of secret grief or remorse — Mr Dysart's suspicions, which had lain for a time dormant, were again aroused. It would be impossible to say how painful these suspicions were to him. He had liked and respected tho young man, and had trusted him implicitly. It is never pleasant to find one's estimate of another mistaken — to discover that a man is very much better or very much worse than we had given him the credit for being ; it is a kind of shock to one's self-esteem as proving the fallibility of all human opinions ; and for this reason, if for no other, the manager was reluc tant to admit a doubt concerning Jack'B honesty to enter his mind. . But how could he account for the change which had fallen on the young man, except by thinking that he had in aome way — directly .or indirectly, by actual compli city or a guilty knowledge — been concerned in the robbery ? The thought was a painful one, and he did his best to drive it away, but it would not go. There was no shadow of proof. The fact that Jack possessed the means of access to the safe was in itself almost tantamount' to a proof of his innocence, for it was to the highest degree improbable that he should attempt and carry out such a daring scheme and yet remain to court discovery. If he had taken the money, surely he would want to go somowhere and spend it. Bui Jack spent uofching. The so-called amusements of I young men were nofc at all to hie taste.

His father's conduct had given him a horror of every kind of dissipation, and hn fleemed to date for no pleasures but such aa wfero quiet arid inexpensive. A lung rido into the country, a day's shoot*ing or tishing', a new book, were Ilia chief pleasures How was it possible to auapecb such a mail t and, again, how waa it possible to avoid suspecting him when his own manner was so peculiar 1 Tims Mr Dysart meditated and argued, and hia behaviour grew cold fend estranged. King of his littlo 'court, his employes were not long In traming their conduct on hia, And thus, without knowing exactly how or why, a* dark shadow, impalpable but impenetrably, fell between Jack Mostyn and his fellow-clerks. In vain he struggled against it with a frantic desperation, refusing to see their coldness, to understand their hints, to point their innuen^os — in vain, in vain. Suspicion like a deadly serpent had thrown iis coila around him, and he could not set himself free. No accusation wa.% made, nothing overt i was said, and yefc he felt himsulf set on ouo side—- a social pariah. And he could do nothing. He could not reseiit the unspoken insults, he could not challenge an explanation ; ho coujld not call them out one by one, beginning with the manager himself, and oppeal to the God of Battles to decide in favour of the right. Be crmld do nothing. There was a young boy in the Bank whose duty it was to sweep and run messages. Up to this time Jack had never taken notice of him except to give him a nod or a kindly ' good morning.' Now, to his astonishment, he found this boy lingering near him, eager to run a message for htm or to render him some little service ; and once when he was going home the lad turned in the same direction, and after a little hesitation came to his .side and said :

' Don't you be down-hearted, Mr Moßtyn, sir ; take courage, and live it down.'

Jack was strangely touched. The sympathy of this poor child showed him more plainly than anything else had done the depth to which he had fallen. He spoke some few kind words and hastened on.

' Live it down. ' The advice was good, but could he possibly follow it ? Sometimes he resolved to do so ; at others he was ready to fly away and hide himself in the uttermost parts of the earth. ' Live it down.' For his mother's sake he would endeavor to do so, to save her the pang which must rend her heart if she should learn his true position, and to save her from this knowledge had now becoma the most earnest purpose of hia heart.

In pursuance of this design he was gay and merry in his home, and wore a mask, which, however, her loving eyes found little difficulty in penetrating. Something was amiss with him she plainly saw, and was not surprised, for the mysterious robbery exercised her mind, as it did that of the general public.

'My boy,' she said, ' I know you are worried and anxious ; don't try to hide it from me. I wish tlie thief could be detected ; I should like to see him punished.'

'Don't say that, mother,' cried Jack quickly. ' Leave him to God and his own conscience ; that will be punishment enough '

' Perhaps so ; but for all your' sakes I think it would be a satisfaction if he could be brought to justice. By the way, Inspector Knovvles was here to day. Whr>.t. a mic<\ yen'-lemanly man be ia.'

'What did he want?' cried Jack ab rus'tly.

' Oh, T dnn'fc know ; he talked of one thiny and another. He apked me whether you evor found your key after you lost it that time.'

' Tie. a°k«d you that, did he ? And you told him ?'

' Oh, I told him that it was o*)ly mislaid for a few hours ; that I found it my-telf almost directly after you went. What is the matter, Jack ? He asked me, and I could not help answering him. Have I dona wrong V

' No, no ; never mind, little mother,' he answered, trying to control his emotion, for he had grown white to the lips. 'But if tho meddlesome rascal comes again, tell him that you know nothing — nothing. How daro he try to implicate you 1 ' ' Implicate mo ! How could he do that % I don't understand what yo» mean, dear.'

Jutat then Hubert' Mostyn sauntered

in. ' Well, Jack, you are home early tonight. How are things going at the Bauk 1 The thief not yet dropped on ? Our Melbourne police are like the rest of their species : mighty slow when there is any real work to be done.'

'I don't think they are slow. They are working in the dark, and keeping their own counsel. The guilty man, whoever he may be, has little chance of escape.'

* There I differ from you entirely. I bet you a level fiver that he gpts clear off with hia booty, and leaves the whole posse of police to kick their heels and swear Is the Bank going to offer a reward ? ' 'I believe so.'

' Trouble wasted,' was the philosophical answer. * Men don't turn informers in thia country ; it does not nay. Mother, will you order me some dinner ? I want to be off again.' Mrs Mostyn left the room.

Jack sat down opposite hia father, tho table botwoen them. Leaning his hoad on hia hand, and looking down, he aald slowly :

• I won't take your bet. I fancy the police are on the right track;' ' Not they ; they haven'L got the wit to see an inch before their noses. There goes the fir&t dinner boll, and I can't say I'm sorry, for I've got the deuce of anappetite. My speca. have been a little more successful lajtely, and 1 find that that; has a fine effect on the appetite, ■lint you coming to dinner t ' * No, thank you ; 1 dined in tho middle of the day. '

'On a biiicuit and a glass of sherry. Ah, well, in my time young men were not so abstemious, and I can't see that the present generation abe any better — a d— — d set bf p'harasaical hypocrites.'

Jack bit his lip, and clenched the hand which lay upon his knee, but he was eilent.

Hiß mother appeared and urged him to ymi them.

' 1 cannot — do not ask me ; I must return to tlie ofQc'e.'

He kisßod her tenderly and went out, but he did not proceed in the direction •if the Bank, but wandered off through quiet suburban streets uutil he reached the open country. There he walked on and on, like one in a dream who tries to escape purduit, but cannot.

Suddenly ho paused ab the gate of a pretty villa. He knew the house and its inmates well, but he had not. intended to seek it on that particular occasion, and he felt in no mood to enter ; but he bent over the gate for a few moments, and breathed the aweat odour of the nightscented flowers. The. flutter of a white dress appeared on the verandah, and a young girl came slowly down the gardenwalk. Jack did not go to meet her. He drew back and hid himself in the shadow of the overhanging gum-trees. The girl came down the terraces and the steps. She laid her clasped hands upon the gate, and rested her round white chin upon them. The soft warm air crept round her like a caress. She looked down the dusty road, gleaming white in the twilight ; she marked the lights of the distant city, shining with starry brilliancy in the clear luminous darkness. Leaning and looking thus — not expecting anyone, and yet always hoping he might come — her thoughts flew to one whom as yet she scarcely recognised as her lover, and all unconsciously her lips syllabled his name : ' Jack ! ' He heard, but did not hasten to her side — nay, he drew further back behind the screen of bushes. The eyes that he fixed upon her were full of the anguish of an eternal farewell. Perhaps she was conscious of their gaze, and by that mysterious process which the soul of one bo often exercises over the soul of another knew that he was near her and jn pain, for she stretched out her hands and whispered : ' I know that he wants me. Let me go.' But he made no Bign. And soon afterwards someone called from the house : 'Edith!' And she turned and walked slowly back. Then Jack emerged from tho shadow. ' Good-night and good-bye, my dar ling,' he murmured hoarsely. ' I shall never willingly see you again.' Then, as he retraced his stops and struck across the open country : 4 How glad I am that I never told her how much I loved her. She likes me a little, I think, but she will soon forget mo. It is not for such as Ito dream of love or marriaye. I must Have my mother if 1 can ; if not — if I cannoi shield her, if she should ever learn the truth — it will surely kill her.' So he walked through the night, hour after hour. It wivs only when the day began to dawn that he sought his home, and exhauatod mind and body sank into a dreamless sleep. Chapter V. Suspicions. Jack's position in the Bank did not mend ;it rather grew worse. The wordless suspicion and tacit avoidance seemed to increase aud grow more marked, but nothing was said openly at which he could fairly take offence and for which he could demand an explanation. To excuse himself would have been to accuse himself, and this he keenly felt ; and although his position was at times almost unendurable, yet, for his mother's sake as well as his own, he knew that it was his , duty to endeavour to remain and live it down — that flight would be cowardice unworthy of a man and a Christian. It was a time ot great trial. Probably no onf> who has not made a somewhat analogous experience can enter into it. All tlie previous troubles of Jack's life seemed small in comparison, and the different forms of poverty and privation with which he had been early acquainted faded into utter nothingxiesß when compared with his present life. Probably the total absence of sympathy was one of its most painful features. The faithful heart which until then had echoed every pain and pleasure, had joyed in hiß joy, and sorrowed in his sorrow, was of necessity excluded from a share in this ; and though it might be some compensation to think that he was able thus to save her, the absence of sympathy and feeling of intense loneliness wore hard to endure. For the first timo he realised the awful truth which oach must learn : that in the supreme momenta of life overy man stands alone, and, like Jacob of old, wrestles with the angel. Happy he who

has courage to say with the Patriarch, ' I will not let thee go eicept thou blesa me'

Inspector Knowles had not failed to inform Mr Dyaart of the facts concerning the loss of Jack's key, which he ,hati[ learned from Mrs Mostynj but neither of them could extract mubh infornlatibn from that f«ct. ' Tho only suspicious thing about it is the fact that he did not mention his loss at the time, or even when the subject was named in his hearing, and I told you that the key had never been out of hid keeping.' 'It was his conduct at that moment which first aroused my suspicions. He plainly had something to conceal, and your words took him by surprise.' 'Perhaps it was only that he feared reproof for his carelessness in mislaying the key?', * I think not. Believe me, there is a mystery about that key, if we could only penetrate it. I certainly shall not let the matter rest until I learn something more of this yonng man's antecedents and general cotiduC'.' ' I re«lly think you are suspecting him without cause. I have always fqund him the steadiest and most reliable of my clerks.' Some time later the Inspector said : ' Well, Mr Dyßart, I have found out a | few curious little facts since I saw you last concerning your model younef\ mam' 'Do you mean Jack Mostyn ij^uter Iposed the manager. • Knowlea nodded. * Yes, I do. I find upon inquiry that he spends whole nights away from home, going no one knows where, and returning at all sorts of hours. Furthermore, I find that on the very night of the tobbeiy he was absent, and did not return home until the small hours of the morning, when he seemed much exhausted, his boots and clothes being covered with mud. You will remember that it was a wild and stormy nisjht, scarcely the occasion that a young man would chose for a country walk, or, indeed, would be likely to face the weather at all, except for some important object.' ' How did you find this out V 'Curiously enough, in the odd way tb at things do occasionally come to the surface. Mrs Mostyn's housemaid is related to my wife. She is a superior young woman, and has been well edu* cated, and it geema that she keeps a diary. One evening she brought it out for our amusement, and among other entries I found this one, which I got my wife to copy : — "Feb. 16th. Last night was very wild and stormy. Yet, in spite of all, Mr Jack Mostyn waa out from ten o'clock till five or six in the morning. I can't think what takes him out like that. Master was out, too, and he came home the worse for liquor just as I was taking down the dining-room shutters. Mr Jack was sober enough, but he looked very tired, and his clothes were stained with olay. They had some wordß, but I could not tell what about. Master went to bed, but Mr Jack had a bath, and sat in the library until breakfast time. Later in the day we heard thero had been a robbery at the Bank."' Mr Dyaart held out his hand for the extract, which he read and re-read. ' Thia is very serious,' he said- ' In itself it dors nor. amount to much,' said the Inspector, with an important air, as he refolded the paper ; ' but coupled with other circumstances it is almost enough to justify U3 in applying for a warrant for the young man's arrest.' Dysart started. 4 Pray be careful,' he said. 'Itis a terrible thing to throw a taint of suspicion on a young man just entering life. I think we ought to know more before we I take any action. It would be an awful thing to bring a false accusation against anyone.' * Yea, yes, of course. But the directors are in a great state of infad. Two of them were urging me only yesterday to do something. They say that eight months have passed since the, robbery, and that nothing has been done ; that .the precedent is a dangerous one. In short, I can see plainly that they suspect me of indifference to their interests.' 'But it would not mend matters to acouao an innocent man.' jr ' 1 am not so sure of that ; ft£p]ght lead matters to a crisis, and bring out further evidence.' * No magistrate would oonvict. * ' Well, we must try and find out more, for I believe we are on the right track. In the meantime you can cross-examine him a little as to his doings on that particular occasion.' ' I can do that if you like, and I believe the answers will be so satisfactory that your suspicions will be at an end.' 1 Perhaps ;we shall see. I had better go into this inner room, and you will .be able to speak to him more freely.' Jack was sent for. On his entrance he cask a keen look round the room, noted the open door, and had little difficulty in recoguising the strongly-defined shadow of the policeman, who had seated himself inadvertently in the full rays of ,the sun. Jack's lip curled a little, and he was immediately on his guard. , ' You sent for me, sir ? ' 'Yes, Mr Mostyn. I wanted to ask you a question, and I trust you will answer it in the spirit in which it is put, and so save yourself and me much further trouble. Where were you on the night of tho lGth of February last 1 ' 'At home, in my bod,' answered Jack promptly. 'I was very tired, went to jjed early, and slept like a top.'

Mr Dysart was staggered, as well he might be. He was about to dismiss Jack without further remark, when he suddenly remembered that he had given the wrong date. ' And where were you on the previous night— that of the 15th of February V Jack hesitated. . ' • *Itis a long time ago ; you can scarcely expect me to remember.' * Can I assist your memory ? It waa the night when the Bank was robbed, and it seems to me only right that each of us should give an account of his actions during those few hours. For my own part, I am quite willing to account for every moment ; I presume you are ready to do the Hame.' The moment which Jack had been long expecting had come at last. He was prePa «I believe, sir*' he answered, firmly but respectfully, « that it is an axiom of English law that no roan shall be asked to criminate himself. Mr Rnowles should know that, and he should not have allowed you to put this question in his presence.' The manager was taken aback. * Then you will not answer it ? ' « I must decline to do so.' 'You are aware of the interpretation which may be put on your silence. 1 ' * I am, and it grieves me much ; but I cannot t^e any other course. You have always ***n very kind to me, Mr Dysart, and I am sorry that we should have to part like tluV ' What do you mean 1 ' * I imagined, sir, that you would wish me to leave the Bank at once 1 ' * No, Mostyn, no — that is the last thing that I desire. I have known you and trusted you for a long time, and I cannot and will not suspect you now. Stay where you are ; keep your own secret, if you have one, but set your whole mind to work to discover this secret which affects us all Strive to find out and bring to justice the author of this robbery, our common enemy.' With an impulse of generosity due to Jack's noble bearing, the manager seemed to forget all his previous half-formed .suspicions, and held out his hand. ' 1 think, sir, it would be better for me to leave the Bank. I have felt it for some time. There has been a feeling against me I cannot tell how it has arisen ; now you also suspect me.' 1 1 do not.' ' Pardon me, you did a few minutes since, and you will do it again. It will be best for us to part now. You will ■ , always know where to find me, I shall not leave Melbourne ;' he .bowed and quitted the office. In this interview Jack had certainly had. the best of it, and yet his heart sank like lead when he found himself on his way home. Had all his resolutions, all his determinations, to endure anything rather than leave his situation, ended like this ? He despised himself for his cowardice and want of patience, the very thing that he had declared to himself again and again that he would not do, he had done ; and nothing' now remained but to accept the new position, and make .the best of it. He had pretty well gauged the Inspec tor's character, and he was certain that 'before long a warrant would be out for his apprehension on suspicion of being concerned in the famous bank robbery, and it behoved him to make all possible p'rsparation for meeting it, and also to prepare hia mother, so that the blow might not fall upon her with crushing force, He thought he could manage this by making light of his possible danger. He did not know how soon the blow might fall ; it would perhapa be better to speak to her at once. She was alone in the drawing-room when he entered, and looked up with some surprise to see him at such an unusual hour. ' What is ifc, dear ? have you got a holiday?'. * Yea, mother, make the most of it and. of me ;' he sat down on the ottoman at her feet, and rested his head against her knee as he had so often done when a child and a boy at school. She put her hand with a caressing lingering t'cfc^i upon his head. 'My dsOsPg, the heart of ray life. I think you have been a little strange to me lately, at least I have fancied thai there was a cloud between us. This should not be ; you must trust me entirely. Do you riot know that I sympathise with you now as fully as I did when you were a little child, and I knew every thought and aspiration of your heart ? • Trust me now, my darling, or at least believe that I love you.' ' ♦Mother,' he said in a broken voice, 'you have been the angel of my life. If over I have been tempted to do wrong, the thought of you has restrained me— no mean, or false, or cruel action could live in the crucible, of your love. If I have held bacit my hand from evil, it has been for your sake, if I have striven to keep myself pure, it has been out of respect for you ; all women have been sacred to me* because my mother is a woman.' 'Jack ! J»ck !' she cried, with sudden prescience of evil, 'it is strange of you to Bpeak like this, some trouble is at hand, and you fear for me, but you need not do that my son ; I am strong, very strong.' 'Is it ao, little mother ? Well then, whn lever comes, you will not doubfc me?' ! ' Never.' ! ' Even though I cannot explain anything, and the clouds look very black around.' i

i ' That would make no difference to me. If it wero possible for all the world to be against you, I slxo.uld be oa your aide, how could it be otherwise 1 Yon are always my Jack, ray baby, my noble boy, my brave true-hearted son.' ' But if I had committed a crime V ' I should not believe it,' ''if I confessed it V ' Then I should forgive you, and weary heaven with prayers until I obtained your pardon.' When he told her the crime of which h<i was sußpected, she listened without a word, only she drew his head upon her breast, and folded her slender arms round him as, if she would fain make a shield between him and all ill. He told her the suspicious circumstances connected with hia. absence on that night, but he did not tell her where he had been, and she did not ask him — perfect love, such as hers, has no room for doubt. ' I will tell you no more, little mother,' he said, ' you must trust me, and what is more, you must not try to find out my secret ; it will be fatal to me.' ' I will not,' and she bent forward and kissed his brow. * You will be happier now that you have told me all.' * Indeed I am. I have not felt so much at rest for a long time ; I should have told you before, but I thought it would hurt you too much.' She smiled a little. ' I told you that I was strong,' and in his presence she never faltered, resolved to give him peace, if her own heart were stifled in the effort, for her own life and her own peace counted as nothing when weighed in the balance against his. 'As one whom his mother comforteth,' so he rested in her love, and for a while at least, his troubled spirit was at rest. A week later Jack Mostyn was arrested on suspicion of complicity in the great bank robbery, committed for trial, and thrown into prison. Chapter VI. Through Deep WAtsra. Then people's tongues were loosened, and they began to talk ; interest in the great bank robbery had partially died out, owing to the fact that the whole affair seemed buried in mystery, and that no action had been taken which tended to throw any light upon it, but now that one of the clerks had been arrested on suspicion, public interest woke up, and at every breakfast-table, in every office, or boudoir, on 'change, and in the street, the question of Jack's guilt or innocence was freely ducuased. The fact that, he was well known, that his father belonged to the plutocracy of the city ; thai his mother's carriages and horses wero the most coveted in select circles ; that, all the men in a certain set admired his young sister, and wondered what fortune she would have ; while he himself had been viewed with favour by many feminine eyes ; — all these circumstances gave a zest to the talk, and a piquancy to the scandal, such as had not been known in Melbourne for some time. It was not at all a common case, though unfortunately the crime waa common enough. There were many opinions, diverging like the radii of a circle, some opposite as the poles, many altogether untenable, others simply ridiculous. On the whole the women believed in his innocence and the men in his guilt. All his friends made a point of calling on Mrs Mostyn 'to see how she bore it,' and as a rule she conducted herself with great self-command and heroism, and did not betray her anguish any more than a Red Indian would have done, for she knew that her confidence and faith in her son's innocence would carry weight, as indeed it did. 'She could not behave like that if she did not know that ho would be all right. ' Such was the general opinion. Once indeed she broke down for a minute, and that was when Edith Arkwright went to visit her. This young girl was the motherless daughter of an old friend of Mrs Mostyn's, who had been resident in Melbourne for some years, thus a considerable intimacy had naturally grown up between the two families, although Mrs Mostyn and Miss Arkwright, Edith's aunfe and chaperon, had little in common. )ut the girl herself was a special favourite. She was a simple, modest, maidenly English lady, of a type rarely met with in the Colonies, and unfortunately not now so universal in the Home country as it once was. A girl who had been, well, but not sh.owily educated, who could play with feeling and skill, but did not aspire to a performance a la Kettin, who drew tastefully in water-colour without styling herself an artist, who 'had read much of the literature of her own country, and waa not ignorant of the best foreign authors ; who could enjoy and understand the conversation of clever men, and put m an appropriate word here and there ; a, girl who did not talk slang, and insist upon being ' heard on every occasion ; who did not think herself cleverer than her mother, and * more knowing ' than her brothers, who did not boast of a knowledge of forbidden subjects ; and dress so tha 1 every rain in the street turned round to look after her. In short, Edith Arkwright waa a lady, and when that is uaid there is little more to be added. Mrs Mostyn wss much attached to her and was pleased to' think that she and Jack should be attracted to each other, as she saw clearly was the cane, although Edith herself, was as y6t perfectly unconscious, and would have flown to her

covert like a startled hare if the idea had been suggested to hor ; but the love of a nobie heart which grows slowly in prosperous times, ripens like tropical fruit in the furnace heat of affliction, the very fire which destroys the counterfeit passion of a weak nature, forcing into premature perfection the rich fruit of a stronger one;

When Edith heard that Jack was in prison, her one thought was to fly to Mrs Mosfcyn'a side, not so much to comfort her in trouble aa to share in her oonviction of Jack's perfect innocence and triumphant release.

Miss Arkwright made some objection to this plan, which J< dith for once overruled, obtaining a reluctant permission to drive in and see her friend. She chose the twilight hour, when more formal guests would have departed, and taking nd vantage of the old intimacy entered the drawing room at once.

Ruby was reclining on a sofa, exhausted after the sustained effort of receiving many guests, and maintaining in their presence an unruffled demeanour, which she was far from feeling ; now she waa resting, mind and body were alike relaxed ; aud ' tears, of which she was unconscious, stole silently down her cheeks.

Edith crept to her side, and kneeling down, threw both her anna around her neck.

For a while neither spoke, there waa comfort, and a sympathy deeper than words in the clinging touch of the loving hands. At length the mother whispered —

' Ycu have heard.'

'Yes, and I could hardly believe it. Of course he is innocent ; but it waa a shameful thing to suapect him. 1 wonder they dare do it. How soon will he ba released V

' fr'ot till after the trial, I think ; per•hapa not then '•

' What do you mean.'

'My dear child, I think I ought to tell you, if I do not some one else will, and that will hurt you more. There ia some mystery in this. I know that he is innocent, and that he could clear himself if he would, but he will not, and what is, more, he has forbidden me to take any steps to clear up the mystery. 'Do you think that he is shielding some one'?'

' Sometimes I think so, and again I am all at sea, for it is impossible to believe him implicated in such a crime oven by a guilty knowledge.'

' Certainly that is quite impossible,' said Kdith decidedly, ' but is it not conceivable that ho suspects some one, and yet ia not certain, aud dreads to have his suspicions confirmed?'

'It seema barely possible. Why should he give his life for that of a stranger V ']t would be like him,' said Ediih aoftly, ' lie is capable of any noble deed. ' ' Then you are not ashamed to own him as your friend V 'No indeed, I am proud to own him for my friend,' und the fair face flushed, and the soft eyes deepened and brightened. 'Has he been much at your house lately V 1 No, not for a long time ; I thought he had been 100 busy and troubled about this' business ; we have scarcely seen him for months. Papa asked him to come out once or twice, and he came, but did not stay long ; he seemed to me anxious aud troubled.' ' Was he at your house on the night of the 15th February V ' 1 ennnot remember ; he was there rather often at that time, but I cannot be certain of the dates. I will try to find out.' They talked a little longer, and then Edith went away, promising to return soon. ' You have done me good, dear child. Will you not send a message to comfort him too V Edith hesitated, her maiden pride was half frightened. * Tell him that I know ho is innocent, and that I trust him always,' she answered. < 1 think that will please him best ;' then she | went. As she left the room, Hubert Mostyn entered, he had been absent from homo for some days, ' on busin«sa' bo he said. Be strode up to his wife's couch. ' Ruby,' He said, ' where is Jack V IHeia in prison ' she answered faintly, and was quite unprepared for his sudden flash of passion. 'So they told me, but I would not believe them. How dared they accuse him, our Jack, who is honest and true, and open as the day 1 I wish I had been here, but there — its jusb my luck, some time ago all my affairs were rui»ed, going to the dogs, but lately I have been more fortunate, and made some lucky specs. And now what's the good, my only son is in prison, and will be pointed at as a yaol-bird for the rest of his life.' The mother shivered, and grew even paler than before. • He is inoLcent,' she said. 'Of course he is. But how the deuce did he manage to get himself into such a scrape ? that is what I Bhould like to know; with all my faults, I've contrived to keep out ot quod ; I've never brought that disgrace on you.' Almost against her will she thought of I^ord Meldourne's words, ' that a man may be the meanest wretch unhung, and yet keep free from the clutches of the law,'

'Jack has not disgraced me,' she said quietly. ' Well, I don't know what you think about it, most people would be of a different opinion. But there ! it's of no use talking to women, you are just a bundie of prejudices, nothing more. One man may steal a horse, while another may not look over the hedge. Where is Beryl, is she gone to prison too V ' She is at Garoopna, with the Butlers, they came to fetch her a fortnight ago ; she was to stay three months. I suppose she will return when she hears the news ; but 1 wrote to Mra Butler to keep it from hor as long as she .could, it would only make the child miserable, she could do nothing.' 'We can none of us do much ; but J'il go and engago the sharpest lawyer in town to-morrow.' ' I have seen Mr Austin..' ' Bah ! he's no good ; he'll draw you out a mortgage or a bill, but he ia no use in criminal cases. I'll get some one else much better, leave that to me ;' he sat down, and began to play with the pieces of cardboard on the table. ' You have had visitors i see.' 'Yes, a perfect levee, one after the other, the whole afternoon.' ' " Come to spy out the weakness of the land " I suppose. I hope you did not satisfy them.' 'No, I think I was brave, I tried to be.' ' I bet you mystified them all. ' Well, well, keep up your spirits, we'll turn the tables before long.' His tone was more sympatheic than his words. Could it be possible that after years of estrangement, a common sorrow was drawing them nearer together at last 1 1 Hubert,' she said nervously, ' you do care for the boy, do you not V ( Do you think lam quite a brute Vhe answered, stooping to kiss her ere he left the room. In the gathering darkness she could not see his face, but the cheek which touched her's for a moment, had a a suspicious moisture upon it. * Strange are the uses of adversity.' Chapter VII. Cleared. The time appointed for the trial drew on. Jack had of course been liberated on bail after some slight delay caused by the oppoaition of the police, who appeared to think that there was a danger of his forfeiting his bail. Once the trial had been postponed on the application of the prosecution to obtain further evidence; this occurring jiiEt before the holidays, the case had "of necessity been adjourned until after the New Year. • It was a dreary time, one that may bo more easily imagined than described. Hubert Mostyn showed a feverish, restless anxiety concerning his son's defence, engaged the best lawyers, but was not satisfied to leave the case in their hands, and so was for ever running in and out of their offices with advice, suggestions, or inquiry, until he tired their patience and temper to the utmost. Jack was strangely quiet and reserved, kept in his own room, where he refused to see any one except his mother, and did not allow even her to. refer to his trial in any way. To the lawyers he was courteous but reserved, giving them no information, and appearing to take only a distant and languid interest in his own case. His manner puzzled them, as well it might, and they coud not at all decide whether it betokened guilt or innocence. But the faith of the two women who loved him was never for a moment shaken, and they believed that by some means or other, even at the very last, his innocence would be made clear ; that he should suffer, being guiltless never troubled them, for they deemed it impossible. Edith often came to visit her friend, but Jack would not see her. 'It is better not, mother, ' he said in answer to her entreaties, and Edith understood him. Beryl was still in tha ccuatry enjoying herself very much, and utterly unsuspicious of all the home troubles. Again it was Christmas Eve. The morning had been intensely hot, and towards evening clouds began to gather, and pilo thomselvoa up one above the other in thick black masses. Long before night it was quite dark, the heat was suffocating, not a breath of air could be felt, the pulses of Nature seemed sus pended in expectation of the storm that was coming. At last it came with a blinding flash and a peal of thunder so near, loud and reverberating;, that it seemed to shake the city to its very foundations. Jack sprang to hi 3 feet. Preoccupied with hia own thoughts, he had scarcely noticed the gathering storm, but he know his mother's fear of a temp, s , and at once hastened to seek her. He found her in the drawing-room with a white dread on her face. She motioned him to her side. ' I am glad you have come,' she whispered. ' I was going to you ; don't leav** me till it ia over.' 'Of course nob ;' he sat down beside her and took her hand caressingly in his, then added, in a matter-of-tact man- | ncr, 'it will do a great deal of good, j the air has been most oppressive all I day.' Another blinding flash lighted up every corner of the room. Mra Moatyn shrap^visibly, and clasped her squ'b arjp • to leave her would have been ♦'mpoßaible indeed he never dreamed. of doing so, the

violent storm would [surely keep all visitors at a distance.

Hubert Mostyn came into the room, saw the mother and son together,, and. after a word or two, withdrew ; he was nervous and excited, and seemed unable to rest in any place, or in any position. By degrees the storm spent itself, and a violent tropical rain set in, which seemed to come from the sky in sheets rather than drops. The low -lying parts of the town were soon flooded, and in Elizabeth Btreet the roadway became a river, and traffic was entirely stopped.

Mr Mostyn's house was situated on rising ground, ao there waa no .fear of sudden inundation. Jack opened one of the windows, sheltered by a verandah, and lot in a rush of dear pure air, more invigorating than any tonic.

'There!' he cried, 'ia not that delicious ? The storm has brought us something after all, it is weeks since we have had a breath of air like that.' A servant entered with lights, which he

placed on a distant table.

The rain continued to fall in torrents, and the noise was deafening. Mrs Mostyn shivered. ' Please shut that window Jack — I feel cold.'

He obeyed her, and returned 1 to her side.

Then the door opened, and a gentleman entered unannounced. Ifc was Mr Dysart. Jack rose to his feet, and was about to leave the room.

The manager stopped hiui. 'Do not go,' he cried, ' I have braved this terrible storm because I could not let you pass another night, and that Christmas night too, under the blight of a false accusation, and because I wished to be the first to congratulate you. lam ashamed of my own blindness, my own stupidity, I ought to have known better, and indeed I did in my own heart, though I suffered my opinion to be overruled, but that, ia no excuse, and I can only hope that you will accept my apology and hearty congratulations.' Jack stared. ' What do you mean V ' I mean that the true culprit has been discovered.'

Jack took a step forward, and laid his hand on the speaker's lips. ' Hush ! hush,' he cried, ' for mercy's sake hush, don't you see my mother. '

'Of course I 'do,' returned the other amazed, as well he might be, and struggling hard with the detaiuing hand, ' Of course I see her, and there is no one who can appreciate my news better than she can. Is it not ao Mrs Mostyn V ' If you mean that Jack ia innocent, I knew that always ; but lam glad that other people should know it too.'

' Everyone shall know it in the morning from one end of the town to another," ho answered triumphantly. Again Jack strove to stop his worda. * Mr Dysart, I emplora you, spare my mother,' ,

' Have you gone mad Jack Mostyn $ I declare I cannot understand you. I biing you the best news in the world, and you will not listen to me, or even allow me to speak. You have not only borne, but courted, suspicion ; and what can be your motive ? What can you have in common with such a scoundrel aa Groves V

' Groves !' uttered Jack, falling back a atep and looking at the speaker with, blank amazement.

' Yes, U*oves, my housekeepers wretched convict son, ' of whose very existence I waa ignorant until to-day. How did you come to know him V

' Groves,' repeated Jack like one in a dream. ' Did he do it ? Nc, no, your are mistaken ; it waa not he who. did it.'

' Indeed he did — he confessed it in my presence not two hours ago. He is in tie hospital, dying from internal injuries received in a street accident last week. Today the surgeon told him that his case was hopeless, and he expressed a desire to see a magistrate, having a confessioa to make. I was dining with the magistrate — who is an old friend of mme — when the message came. He asked me to go with him and act as his clerk, and I went. Mrs Groves was sitting by the bed. I knew that some relative of hers waa ill in the hospital, but of course I did not know who it waa, or what I waa going to hear. Then he told hia atory, how he had been a shame and. a disgrace to his relations all hia life, chosing the evil and leaving the good-. That he had been transported, that hia father had died partly of shame at hia son's conduct, that his mother had followed hfm out, and tried again and again to reclaim him, but in vain — that he had left her, and she thought him dead. He returned to find her in my service, and she concealed hia existence, for which one can hardly blame her. In one of his visits to he^ he heard about the gold in the strong, room, and resolved to obtain poBP' dßa i on of it. By force or fraud he induced her to steal the key for an hour or Bo# j never missed it. He took ne impression ia wax. Ho told ua a>\ t he details of the robbery. It waa &\'i very simple, he did not get m through the window, but. forced it to divert suspicion. The dog, did not bar because it knew him well,. so kp "Tit no difficulty in making off with *k? **,ooty. The strangest part is, that he- " A not carry it away t j some foreigu country ; but he was afraid, he thoughthe should certainly be discovered, and hewas haunted with the fear that the police were on his track. He buried the greater

part, and only took a little away ; ho had returned in search of the remainder when Nemesis overtook him ; he was kuocked down in Swanson atreet, driven over, and 30 frightfully injured that recovery was impossible, and so he confessed all.'

During this long recital, -Jack had" listened without a word.

His mother rose and filing her arms around hia neck.

'Oh my davling, my diirliug/ sho cried.

Mr Dysavfe looked ai them with much feeling, 'Ah ! that is. as it should be,' he said, ' skake hands, my boy, and tell me that you bear me no ill will for my suspicions, I ought to have known you better — but must oonfess that appearances were against you. However, 1 suppose that all is well that ends well, and it will bo especially well for us if the police succeed in recovering the greater part of the gold, as there seems every hope of their doing. Now I will say good night, and I suppose I may add " a merry Christmas/ and with much tact the manager withdrew, for ho saw clearly that they were in no naood for conversation.'

For some moments, when thus alone, there was complete silence between mother and son, their feoliuge, were too deep for utterance, and indeed no words were needed, a clinging hand-clasp spoke from soul to soul, and each was lifted up in mute thanksgiving. At length Mrs Mostyn said, ' What do you know of thia raau Groves ?'

' Nothing, mother, I never knew there was such a person.'

' But surely you have been trying to shield him.' ' Oh not him.' ' Who then ?' Jack did not answer. ♦ I think I know. You suspected your father.

' JtLow did you find that out V •*.It came into my mind like a flash when* tried to stopJMr Dysart. But tell me what gave you the idea, I can't see any reason for it.' ' Many things, each in itself a trifle, yet making together a considerable, aggregate. One s?as, that just before the robbery he seemed in embarassed circumstances, and since then he has been much better off. Then he was always crossqueitioning me about the gold, where it was kept, &c. ; when I lost the key, I could not help thinking that it had been taken off my chain while I slept, and afterwards thrown into the room again, but of course all that was a mistake, and just shows how deceptive circumstantial evidence is.'

' Was that all V

' No, there were many other things. The footmarks under the window were the exact measure of his, and indeed my own — r (I did not know before that our feet were exactly of a size) — Knowlea made a great point of the footprints. I temember<now, that ' Mrs Grooves aßked me to give her an old pair of boots of mine which were lying about the bank. No doubfe they were worn by her son, accidentally or to divert suspicion. Again I knew that my father had been out on the night of the robbery 5 I saw him return, his words and manner were very strange. All these trifles, " light as air," ; seemed to mo to point only in one 1 direction.' ( Why did you not ask V ( I could not, the very doubt; would have been an insult.' ' And so you have borne taunts, picit?na an d insults without one effort at self-defence V ' How could I justify myself at ma expense f—- he is my father.' * Would th,at he was worthy of such a son.' * I echo that wish with all my heart,' and Hubert Mostyn stepped out of the inner drawing room, whence he had heard all. ' Yes, Euby, for weeko past a change has been creeping over me. Until Jack was in tro\ible, I never knew how .dear he was to me. I watched his noble bearing with admiration ; for I knew that he was •shielding some one at his own expense (though 1 never dreamed that that some one was myself), and now that I know the truth, I feel indeed unworthy, but from this day forth I shall endeavour, with God's help, to lead a new and better life. My boy has made a great sacrifice for me, he shall find that I am not un- • grateful.' He held out his ha,nd, Jack clasped it in both his own. The compact so sealed jyas Bolemn as an oath. threw her arms round her hu3band > neck. Ofteti: as he had deceived, cruelly as he had neglected her, she had still faith enough leffc jo hope for better things, to forgive his faults, and to give him once again a place in feer faithful tender heart. Oh if it might only be that this was the one repentant sinna? over, whom the angels in heaven rejoiced. He was much moved. *C«ra you really forgive me?' he Baid, " I will make no promises, they have been itoo oftea broken, but time will m prove that this is a true repentance.' ' Amer,' eh.& breathed, and laid her head upon his breast for the first time for many daya. Then a pleasant voice sounded outside 4he door, ' May I come in, dear Mrs Moufcyh 1 I saw by the lights that you were ,up, tuough it is very late. I have been to a . party in the town, and now I am afraid to go home, for the coachman Bays the aiver is flooded, and that it would not be «&fe to try and cross it. I came to ask

you tako me in for the night,' Saying this, Edith Arkwright entered. She was a little astonished to see the father, mother, and son together, apparently on good terms, but with tho traces of strong emotion visible on each face, fox- they had had no timo to assume the mask which society demauda from all of us.

Mr,i Mostyn welcomed her cordially, but wan glad to escape for a few momenta uuder the pretonoa of ordering a room to bo prepared. Mr Aloatyu speedily followed her.

Jack and Edith were alone.

The strong emotion of the past few hours had had a strong intoxicating effect upon him, it seemed no longer possible to speak or act in a quiet conventional manner.

He- took both her hands in his, and looked into her eyes.

' You have come at a happy moment/ he said ; 'the cruel suspicion has been removed from me, the guilty man has confessed. lam free.'

'I here was no mistaking the happy light which floated all over her face. ' I am so glad, but I always knew that it would be so.' He bent and kissed her lipa. She blushed and drew back.

' Oh, you should not do that.' ' Will you not give me the right 1 For mouths I have avoided you because I dared not see you, I could not be silent, and it would have been a shame to apeak. Now, all that is changed, I can hold up my head and look the whole world in the face, no man has the right to throw a stone at me. Edith can you learn to love me f

' I love you already/ she said simply, but I thiuk I love your mother even more than I love you.' ' Aud she ldves you too ; I am half inclined to be jealous.' ' There is no need, for she loves you with a perfect love ' ' I know it. God bless her/ he said in a reverent tone, ' she will not lose a son, but gain a daughter.' And aa they stood thus, planning their future life, loving and beloved, yet not forgetting those that were ever nearest and dearest to them; the storm died jaway, the rain ceaßed to fall, the myriad stars shone out, the Southern Croßs conspicuous amongst all. Then through the clear pure air the church bells suddenly rang out their glad chimes,

Peace on earth, and good will to men. A Merry Christmas and a Happy

.New Year to All.