THE NOVELIST,

Otago Witness, Volume 01, Issue 2123, 1 November 1894, Page 43

THE NOVELIST,

A STORY OF COMMONPLACE PEOPLE.

aloud at himself for his nervousness, bat it was a pitiful little ghost of a laugh ; and all the time, some how, there was an unacknowledged undercurrent of dim foreboding in his mind. He still felt rather shalwn, he said to himself ; he felt as if he were looking pale. It really had been a very nasty shock Indeed. About tbis time there was a knock at his door, and he said, " Come in." " Please, sir, there's a lady in the drawing room wißblrg to ccc yoa," "A lady V "Yea." "Who is it?" " I don't know, sir." " Ask her to come into my room." The next moment » tall, refined-looking lady entered— a gentlewoman unquestionably, as every word and gesture testified. And Bertie rose and looked into her eyes, and fancied that he had seen those eyes before somewhere; and then il flashed upon him that they were like his mother's I And he trembled inwardly, and began to feel as If it were all a ghastly dream.

Bat the lady only said quietly : "You do not know me; but you met my husband a few weeks ago. lam Mrs Davidson."

The words were an intense relief to him. He had then of oourse Imagined that her eyes were like his mother's. He had been brooding himself into a perfect fit of nervousness, and was ready to imagine anything. " Oh," he stammered in reply to the lady's speech. Then he glanced at her again. The eyes were like his mother's. There was no doubt about it ; It was not his imagination. Was the whole thing a nightmare? First Margaret's letter, and then his mother's eyes thrusting themselves upon him. He grew confused ; he changed colour and stammered ; and it was several seconds before he remembered his manners sufficiently to say : " Won't you sit down ? You have been very ill I hear. lam glad you are better." "Yes, I have been very ill," she replied, taking the chair he offered. TbeD it suddenly flashed upon him thai: she had come for the money owing to her husband. Of course 5 why had he been so absurdly nervous and upset by an accidental tesemblanoe to bis mother] Ho mast be

By KATE ADDISOM

[All Bights Resbbved.]

CHAPTER XVII. {Continued.') :E whole incident had given Ber-

tie a nasty shock, bat that was of course because he had b6en so foolish at first in supposing even for a moment that the letter could be of rectnt date. He had jumped to an unpleasant conclusion in a most ridiculous way. Then he tried to laugh

drifting into *eoond childhood. Bat she was looking at him very strangely ; and her eyes were wonderfully like his mother's.

"You know no doubt why I have been inquiring about you," he forced himself to say. " I owed your- husband money. I will give you a cheque for the amount."

He diew his cheque book from a drawer and took up a pen, whilst she exclaimed eagerly :

" Oh, that's not why I came."

She had not found it so easy as she bad expected to make herself known to him, and had seized on his slight acquaintanceship with her husband as a means of opening a conversation witb him.

11 That is not why I came," she went on. 11 You do not know ; you do not understand ; you do not know who I am."

The room was going round with him ; everything was slipping away from him ; it was all a horrid nightmare 1

He rose to his feet suddenly, throwing oat his hands as if to stave something off. He did not know what he was doing. He could see nothing except his mother's eyes — always his mother's eyes — looking at him. The next instant his hands were seized, and a voice fell on his ear, saying, " I am Margaret, Bertie ; don't you remember me ? "

He sank back, trembling, into hi* chair, and he could never remember how the next few moments passed. They sat talking together for more than an hour. During that time she told him of her visit to Burnley, her letter to her mother, and the reply to it. He also learnt from her many other particulars of her life and her plans for the future.

And she learned from him something that gave her con»iderable p»ln. She learnt that tbis charming young brother of hers was by no means ready to recognise and rejoice over the relationship between them. She discerned quickly enough that her sudden appearance was embarrassing him. She bad been looking forward to this meeting and to his joy and surprise at seeing her ; and her tender feeliDg for him was receiving a grievous blow from his reoeption of her. He made her realise anew how very much alone in the world she was.

And he, in the meantime, had recovered from his distress and confusion. Ho had indeed recovered very completely. For almost before be was aware of the way hia conversation was drifting he fonnd himself trying to discover what she knew and weighing the chances of her seeing his advertisement, and wondering whether it would by any means be possible to hide the fact of her having been found from Dorothy.

In a little time he had, witb commendable clearness, considering that all the while he was taking part in a conversation, gone through a process of thought something like this :

Only three of his advertisements bad appeared in the papers of bis own colony, be* cause it was thought most unlikely that Margaret was there; and these throe had been inserted weeks ago when she was down with brain fever and quite incapable of readIng a newspaper. As it was "Margaret Langley" and not "Margaret Davidson" who was requested to make known her whereabouts, it was impossible that any acquaintance of hers, seeing the advertisement, would know for whom it was meant, more especially (as he had discovered during his conversation with her) hb all her acquaintances at the Deep Dell gold mine were of quite recent date. Taking into consideration all these facts, it seemed that the only chance of her seeing the advertisement lay in the possibility of her accidentally coming across and looking through an old newspaper, and this ohance was a very faint one.

She bad told him of her intention of returning to Burnley the following day, and of her hope of being able to make a livelihood there. She would have fonnd it hard to give a reaßon, even to herself, for choo»ing Burnley as .a place of residence; possibly affection for it, or old associations, or some such sentimental reason was at the bottom of her choice.

Now, in a very short time Bertie would have left Brookford, always supposing that letter that lay within bis view whilst he was talking were ever posted. Therefore if Margaret ever paid him a second visit it would not be at Brookford, so there was do ohance of any encounter between bar and Dorothy. Dorothy would certainly not hear of this visit, nor was It at all likely that she would make any discovery tending to the finding of Margaret. Before he had arrived at any decision about bis line of aotion there came another knock at his door.

He opened It. Margaret was so placed that she was not visible to the newcomer. It was Mrs Wood.

"Ann is going to the pott," she said. " Have you any letters 1" •« Oh 1 thanks, yes," he answered, gathering up those that were «n his table. Should be send it? The next moment would settle this difficult question for ever ; and it is a great temptation sometimes when an opportunity ocouri for us to decide irrevocably by one simple, easy little act » momentous question whose evenly- balanced pros and cons have been tormenting us. He pat all the letters into Mrs Wood's hand.

One of them slipped down on to the floor. He stoopad to pick it up— it was the one to his cousin.

" This one— l am— l am not quite sure," ha began hesitatingly, and holding it in his hand for a moment ; then he added suddenly, giving it to her, "Yes, let it go." Soon afterwards Margaret rose to depart, and aa she did so his eye fell on the cheque book and he remembered his debt to Jim Davidßon. Her mind was evidently fall of quite another subject, and she bad forgotten all about it. She was thinking that this charming young brother of hers had not once suggested that there should be any future meeting between them. How very unmistakable he had made it that she was an obtrusive and andesired fact in his existence. 80 far as any act of his went, when she once passed oat of his room he would never either see or hear of her again ! She was deeply hurt and intensely offended, and her pride caused her to regret having come to see him at all. She was glad that she was to leave Brookfield the following day, and that henceforward there was little enough ohance of their

meeting, even accidentally. She wanted to get away from his presence, to try to forges her mistake in having made herself known to him. As for Bertie, his conscience smotd him when she talked of earning a livelihood. He, too, would be glad when she left him, and he could forget her visit and all that she had been saying. But she would not) have to work long. She should have every penny of her money, with interest as well; in a year er two. In the meantime there was the cheque— he could not let her go | without that ; he would have felt too miserably mean and greedy afterwards. •• You have forgotten this," he said. " I will make it out for the amount owing to you." She shrank from taking it. She knew she could not claim it, and she was not then iri the state of mind to accept anything from her brother which she could not claim. Moreover, it occurred to her that he might think it was for this she had come. It wag the thought that he might suspect her of mercenary motives that had prevented hep from approaohing the subject of her mother's will, or of his own monetary position. But Bertie could not let her go without the cheque. For his own psaoe ot mind she must take it. He was growing to regard it as a sort of conscience money, and be felt very like a brute when he saw her hesitation in accepting it, " You must have it, Margaret," he said impulsively. " I could not rest if you did not take it.*Finally he persuaded her. " After all I am silly to be so surprised," she mused sadly the following day. "He is young and bright and happy; 1 am poor and middle-aged and sad." She stooped forward and looked into the mirror above the mantelpiece. Her facs had aged greatly. It was true that she wad middle-aged now, though only a few week* previously she had been young. " And, mother ? " said Jim, continuing a conversation that had been flagging for the last minute or two. " Yep, dear boy." " When will you ever see him again 1 " "Who?" " Uncle Bertie." She sat down and drew her son towards her and said Impressively : " Jim, try to forget that I ever told you I was going to see him. I shall never see him •gain, and you will never see him." A fortnight afterwards she was comfortably established at the Burnley cottage, and Tom Oarew was HviDg with her. She had been rather incautious, she reflected, in having let him know that she was Mrs Langloy's daughter; but in the first moment ot the Bgitatioa of hearing of her mother's death it had been impossible to think of what word* she was using. However, he had promised to keep silence on the Bubjeot, and bho trusted him absolutely. He was keeping silence on another subject too about which she little guessed that be was not ignorant. He bad not mentioned to anyone what her real name wan. If she did not choose that people should know her affairs she had every right to keep them secret. Ha himself often preferred to do so, and he could strongly sympathise with suoh desire in another. She was far too thorough a gentlewoman, too guileless, too dignified for birr to imagine for a moment that she wished to hide her name for any evil reason. A little time after her arrival at Burnley Tom Oarew the elder paid him a visit. Even to him his son only told such facts concerning Margaret as were generally known. Ha had chosen to establish her at his cottage, he said, because by so doing he secured for himself a more satisfactory home than he could in any other way get, and he also took care of his property. There was plenty of room for one or two other boarders, and Margaret; was quite at liberty to have as many as she chose, in fact he wished her to do so. " You might advise any friend of yours who happens to be coming over to stay ab Burnley," he said. "It would be a capital place for anyone coming over for a change ; she is a good housekeeper, knows how to make people comfortable, and then the place is so quiet, atd pretty too." " Yeß, I will do so," said Tom the elder. " If you were going to stay longer bera yourself, I'd advise you to come." " I should certainly, but of oourse it would not be worth while this vieit." "No, not as you're bent on going tomorrow." " Must get back, Tom ; must get back, or el«e I should rather stay." " Well, if you must, you must, I suppose. Next time yon come, come and stay at; the cottage — you and Elsie, too, if you bring her with you. By the way, how is Elsie 1 " "Not very well— she's a delioate little thing." " What's the matter with her ? " "Oh, nothing much, nothing particular. She has never seemed to me to be quite the same since we were in Brookford." " Not so well, you mean ? " " Well, no— l didn't quite mean that ; but she seems changed — altered somehow — £ can't quite tell how. Oh, I suppose it's the way of girls. By the bye, Tom, I suppose this widow of yours isn't very young ? " "Oh no— quite middle-aged, I should think ; though I'm not much judge of age, certainly. Why, you were thinking of the proprieties ? " "Yes." Tom laughed. "Oh l that's all right. She's quite old enough for me to board with her without people chattering." " You're apt to be a bit careless in such matters," said the father. "Oh 1 I'm sure this is all right. Besides, she'll soon be having other boarders as well as me— at least I hope so." But the autumn wore away, and the winter came, and still Tom was her only boarder. Chapter XVIII. " Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel." Soon after Margaret's visit to Bertie, he and his cousin Gilbert Graves began work together in Melbourne. At first, of course, everything went swlmmiDgly; for many weeks Bertie was delighted with his change of occupation, and became the most punctual and energetic of men. Tbere seemed to be no ohance of any hitch between him and Gilbert. Gilbert treated him civilly, and even pleasantly, and certainly could have

found no fault with him. But to himsfclf, when Bertie's back was turned, b;e used to grin, and wonder how long It would all last. He thought he understood his cousin pretty well by this time—*' a denced deal better than he understands himself," he reflected-" and he decided that he would give him three months at the outside before he should begin to show symptoms of relapsing Into bis old habits of laziness and slovenliness. " You look very well, Bertie— better than yon did before you left," Dorothy remarked dating his first visit to her. *»I am very well. I believe lam better, Porothy ; the life suits me batter. It may eeem selfish, or perhaps frivolous, to you, bat there is no doubt that some people need a certain amount of excitement ; and lam one of them." ♦'And what excitements do you get 2" she Hiked, feeling at the same time how exoeelively uncomplimentary to herself hit last remark wat. ' " Theatres, cards, billiardp," he said lightly. *' And how does yoar work get on i " * Splendidly, All the better for my Jtfe <pgt of the office teeing brighter and more " V And your cousin?" *Qb I he's been awfully nloe to me, 1 ' 0 You get on together better, then 1 " "f» Muoh better. I begin to wonder now how St was that we usedn't to bit it. And yoa know," be added, his eyes brightening as he fooke, "It's awfully jolly to have more xfloney— there's no denying that," - A shadow passed across Dorothy's face at the mention of money, and Bertie thought he could guess its cause. He was lust going to harry on with some more remarks to turn the conversation from a direction that might j prove unpleasant, but Dorothy was too quick for him. " And, Bertie," she brokg in, "no word of your Bister yet i" He shook his head. '■It is a great trouble to me," she said « It shouldn't be, Dorothy ; you shouldn't lot It be. Really, if there is any responsibility in the matter, It's mine, not yours." " Not altogether. Yoa forget that I also promised." " Still it is my sister and my mother, and I have the management of the money." " That's true, of courue ; but I could not make a promise to a dying woman without feeling afterwards that a great deal of responsibility rested on my own shoulders until it was oanled out."

Her earnest, almost solemn, way of speaking made him feel very nnoomfortable. " How strange he looked," Dorothy thought afterwards, "when I spoke of Margaret. And why does he never, never speak of our being married 1" But this last subject did riot trouble her muoh, as she was not herself at all anxious to hurry on their marriage. The first oauße of antagonism between Bertie and Gilbert happened to be one entirely disconnected with office matters, but, although it had much influenoa in, altering their state of feeling towards eaoh other, it Iras a cause that for a long time was hidden bom Bertie and quite unsuspected by him. It happened thus : Saturday afternoon was a universal half holiday, and one Saturday afternoon Bertie, finding nothing more exciting to do, went to an afternoon concert in a room in Collins street. He reproaohed himself somewhat for not spending tbe time in a visit to porothy, but for some reason or other he did Hot feel inclined just then for a long conversation with Dorothy— did not feel "np to it " Wai tbe preoise phrase he used in bis own mind when thinking of the matter. So he went to this concert instead. Bat trie maslo was of too strictly classical a kind for his taste, and after the first hour or so he began to meditate departure. Bertie considered himself fond of musio ; he enjoyed a good comic song ; he even appreciated a sentimental ballad, and the bright airs from an opera bouffe affected him pleasurably; also he found a good Italian opera rather eniertainicg, but that was partly because of the

concomitants— the acting, the dresses, and all

the other stage accessories. But he never dreamt of going to hear an oratorio, and as to Instrumental music of a really high, classical standard, he never sucoeeded In grasping its meaning at all.

A trio of Haydn's had been performed, and Qven the tuneful and bewitchingly bright * r Gripßy Rondo" had failed to please him. The ooncert was a " slow " affair altogether, fmd he would, he thought, go off and try to ppend the rest of the afternoon in some more exhilarating way.

He half turned round to see if he oould make his escape without appearing very Noticeable; but in that moment he caught light of a face a few seats behind him that iplpped his intention in the bud. He resumed his old position, facing, the platform again, and hoped that hi* movement had not Seemed like what it really was — a suddenly Abandoned desire' of leaving the oonoert jfoom. Just then he was deeply flushed. He fsoold feel the blood rising hotly to oheek and brow, and wondered whether anyone else iould notice his change of colour. A sort of ieat. too, in the region of bis chest and }cart oppressed him, ai if an internal fire tad been kindled there, and he could feel the mls.es Of his temples throbbing. He must rait now till the oonoert came to an end, le could not faoe the face behind him, and fee did not want to be recognised by its Then he began to wonder whether he already had been recognised and whether he jntfght not even now be watched from behind. tfhen be felt certain that he was being ') ratched, and that he had been recognised. $ was an uncomfortable feeling, and protaoed a sort of self-conscioasneßs in the back I his bead and neck, if such a sensation as elf-oonioloasneiß can be said to be localised n this way. Then he thought he would look ' Dund again to see if the face was still there, fad then he decided not to do this in case . b should be turned his way, and his eyes and beother eyes should meet. He did not hear any more of the mn&ic, find only realised that "God save the Qaeen " was being played when the general nit ot the people preparing to depart aroused

Then he wondered whether the face behind had began to move yet, and whether, U be turned round, he wonld run any risk M Its owner seeing him. He hoped he would iMißt without her weioi hixAjta thftA&xi

eeoond ht hoped she would eefe b|rd, wd & ■ort of scare cook possession of him lest she should fail to do io. At last, when he did turn, she was not there, and he perceived a head of dark, wavy hair surmonnted by aploturesquehat down near the doof , He was glad she was gone— it was a relief, he thought; but the thought had hardly arisen when he found himself deeply disappointed. The head of wavy hair with the piotnrwqae hat (and he was sore it had been here) had vanished, and he realised that a doll blank had taken the plaoe of a pleasurable and dangerous exoitement. It was with this sett.se of dull disappointment swamping all other emotions that he finally proceeded to move down towards the door. "Not all the shops, Unole Tom—the chemists' will be open." He heard tbe words distinctly, and he knew the voloe perfectly. He was just emerging Into the street now, and the owner of the voice undoubtedly formed one of a little group of people to his left. He stepped aside to the right, and then hesitated, the opening of an umbrella afford- ; ing him a sufficient pretext for doing so. He heard a man's voloe saying, " Can't I do It for you, Blflie 1 " and the reply, " No, really, thankß ; I'll go myself; but I won't be late home."

He began to walk away ; he knew he ought to hurry, but he did not ; he moved slowly, very slowly. He took some credit to himself, however, . that he did not wait altogether or turn round and walk paßt the cluster of people whence the voice proceeded. He walked so slowly that everyone passing his way left him behind ; and he felt a sort of excitement In watching them appear in front of him, and wondering who each one would turn out to be. Presently a touoh— a very light toaoh— on his coat aleeve made him start and look round. He knew itl There was the face, the

dainty lips, the bright cheeks, and luminous eyes brimming over with pleasure at seeing him again— all prettier, far prettier, than he had ever remembered them.

11 Mr Langley I " " Miss Wright 1" Bertie was very much confused, a fact by no means thrown away upon Elsie, who was aooußtomed to look out for signs of the way her presence affected people. They began to walk slowly together, without speaking and without looking at each other.

They turned into Elizabeth street. Presently she asked abruptly i " Are yoa glad to see me ? " "Of course. You know I am." ••One likes to bear that sort of thing expressed." "Well, then, you have heard it expressed. Are you satisfied?"

He was going to try very hard not to allow their talk to go boyond the limits of the impersonal Into the region of sentimentalism. But Elsie's oompanions rarely found themselves able to confine their oonversation to impersonal topios. "By no means," she answered decidedly. " You are not satisfied when I say I am glad to see you 1 " he asked with an uneasy, nervous little laugh. "Certainly not." " What more do you want 1 " " Do you waat nothing more ? " " Why, what should I want i " " Have you no wish to ask me a similar question ?n? n f< Whether yow'are glad to see me 1 " " Precisely." "No. You might say • No,' aud I should not enjoy the snub." " And snpposing I said • Yes ' 1 " " Yoa see I have to ran the other chance, too," he answered, trying hard to speak in a natural, half-joking way, and knowing all the time that bis voice and manner were strained and unnatural.

He would not, he would not be led into making pretty speeches to her ; be mould not say things oharged with personal feeling ; he would thrust all that sort of thing back and strangle the breath oat of it 1 He would go on answering her words in a spirit of half banter, refusing to recognise their mutual past as any tie which could bind them together in the present.

But it wa» so hard ! And all the time he was so very conscious of the existence of that mutual past of theirs. That last soene In the moonlight at the garden gate at Brookford — could be ignore it? Could he pretend to forget it? Ever since he had caught sight of her face in the conoert room the mental vision of it had been before him. He recalled her face as it had appeared to him then with the moonlight on it, and he remembered her "Good-bye"— the tone of voloe in which it was spoken, the sweetness, the subtleness of it 1 And his own act — his bending tow&rds her and kissing her on the impulse of the moment 1 Could he meet her now as if nothing had ever passed between them except the ordinary intercourse of two casual acquaintances?

" And the pleasure of hearing me say • Yes ' wouldn't be worth your running the rißk of a snub i " she asked. " No," he said abruptly. " You're not going to ask me if I'm pleased to see you, then ? "

" Perhaps you don't really carp whether I am or not ? "

" Oh, I'd rather you were, of course ; but I don't suppose the matter is one of any vital importance to me." Again he tried to speak lightly and to laugh the subject out ; and again he felt that his wilful ignoring of all that had previously passed between them must break down if she persisted in trying to force their talk into channels of sentiment.

11 Ob," she said in a cold, vindictive voice ; " you're rather a brute, you know ! "

" I beg your pardon," he said impulsively. "For what Ifl1 fl "For being a brute."

"You recognise the fact that you are, then 1 " she asked. 11 Yes" he said humbly. 11 And why 1 " "It seemed to me better," he began, and stopped. He really meant to tell hex about Dorothy, and yet to ooold neye/ bring him. Kit W PQ ttu

" Yes 1 "

a "It seemed to yon better i Yes, lam le listening." " It seemed to me better "" — ~ ot « Better that we should not have met at all, X perhaps, you mean 1 h li " Perhaps." *" " Yet you said yoa were glad to see me 1 " 2 "I was glad." } f " All the time thinking it better we ehould le not meet 1 Beautifully consistent! Please <j explain." m "I oan't, 1 a . "Why?* "loantl— tbatfaa!]." j. "Well, if what yoa say is true— if yon ;e really do think it better we should not meet, Q why did you go on walking with me ? Why do you go on walking with me now ? Why don't you go now— at once?— lt's very 9 easy." She spoke angrily, and they walked on in ff silence for some seconds. They were going X np Bourke street now. Presently she turned c round and looked at him, c « Hallo, are yon still there ? I thought yoa were going ? " n "I did not say so," he answered lamely. I- " Well, I say so, then," she replied hotly. c "Good-bye, Mr Langley; I prefer to finish ,t my journey alone." ', She stopped and offered him her hand. c "I will go with you to the top of the street," he said oonfusedly. t " No, you won't. I'd rather not." ', " Yes, I will— please— I — I have something I, particular to say." i- " I don't believe it." c "It is true— indeed it is ! I will prove it, - really, if you will let me come with you. I will begin saying it at once." j "Begin, then," she replied, moving on t again ; " and mind that you get, through i with it by the time we are at the top of j the street, as we shall certainly part company then." l " Very well. What I want to say is this : I i very much want you not to be angry with me," he said earnestly. s "Is that all ? " she icoffed. s " No, that is not all ; there is something j else." 3 " Yes ? " " I have seemed to be very rude to you — to. be a brute, as you said. Try to believe that I do not like being rude and ber ing a brute to you." j "Kindly give me yonr reason then for > being ao." "Ah I that I cannot do. I want you to try to believe that I had a reason without my giving it. Do— do please try," he pleaded. " You are asking me a very hard thing — ■ to accept your rudeness and pardon it without any explanation." " I know I am ; but I must ask you this hard thing. I can't explain." "Why?" " I can only tell you that I can't. Will you pardon me 1 " " So that you may have a chance of being rude again as soon aB you please, I suppose 1 " «i No — no indeed," he exclaimed earnestly ; " not that at all. Forgive me this time, and i I will never again be rude." "We are now at the top of the street," i she said irrelevantly, " and yon are to go. As to forgiving you— l will think about it" < 11 Let me come with you a little farther. 1 Whioh way do you go? Through the i gardens?" " Yes ; but you are not coming with me." i " Why ? It isn't right for you to go alone 1 at this time." 1 "Oh I that's all nonsense. It's broad day- 1 light at present. Besides lam used enough s to it. I have a music lesson at G 's, in i Collins street, at 5 o'clock every Monday and Thursday, and I always walk home alone t afterwards." t 11 Do you 1 " i " Yes. Good-bye." 1 " Mayn't I come 1 " 1 "Not a step farther. When I see yon next time I will tell yon whether I have for- < given you." s She was gone. In an instant it seemed « to him she was on the other eide of the a street. t "There's evidently another girl in the b case," she refleoted as she hurried on to- b wards the Fitzroy Gardens — " very evidently I another girl in the case. I wonder who it is, and I wonder whether he'B engaged to her, I and I wonder — I wonder fifty things I Well, another girl in the case only makes it more exciting of course Hallo !— there he is 1 I've only just esoaped a oollision ! " The laßt reflection was caused by the sudden appearance of Gilbert Grares's ungainly figure before her, and the next instant she was shaking hands with him. tl " I hope you're in a better temper to-day," tl she said. "Better temper 1 What was the matter " with my temper last time we met 1 " "It did not strike me as being particularly 5 amiable." ' fi " I think you have forgotten, Miss Wright, ~, that it was you who first showed signs of un- n amiability," he said stiffly. " Did I ? Then I suppose it was because ai you provoked me." w "I so often seem to provoke you," here- ci marked, rather huffily at the Bame time hi thinking how she did always mb him up the °^ wrong way. "Yes, you do— when I don't begin by &{ provoking you," she replied. fc 11 It is a matter greatly to be deplored," he ir said ia an awkward, heavy sort of way. oi « What is 1 " a] " Our failure to get on peaoeably together." " You think so, do you ? Now I don't agree jo with you a bit. I think it's rather amnsing." R "Oh ! Really, Miss Wright, you— you try to n< offend me I think." pj " I try to offend yoa 7 Why, yon don't W mean to say you're going to be offended now 1 sc Whatever have I said now to annoy you 1 " oi " What else can you mean when you tell me that you're amused by our quarrelling ? " or "Aren T t you then?" a "You misunderstand me entirely— en- th tirely I " he said hotly. "It seems to me that U you regard our whole— our whole acquain- Oi tanceahip as a joke. I have hoped that it 90 might end in something very different from a N: joke." •' What have you hoped it might end in. cc then?" 6 f B " 1 do not care to talk about it now, in " ] your present mood/ g< i> Ysgy well, ioflt a* you P)fi«V_ she f&ld gx

lightly. " Next time we meet, perhaps my mood may be more to your liking." " Next time 1 If there is a next time," he said, greatly offended. " Yes, if there is a next time, of coarse. There won't be one on Monday, though, for my music days are changed now to Tuesdays and Fridays. But please don't trouble to oome on either day unless you like." " Unless I like I You know I like. If only you would say sometimes that you like I Look here," he exclaimed, forming a sudden resolution, "do you or do yoa not care to see me 7 Let me have a plain, straightforward answer now, at once. If you do not care I will never see you again. I promise it."

The wordß were spoken determinedly, and sounded far too like a threat to please Elsie. She perceived, however, that he really did mean what he said, and in his present mood would not endure being trifled with. She looked up into his ugly face, that seemed now to be uglier evtn than usual, with the vindictive expression in the eyes, and the lines of the mouth set hard, and she thought what a very unattractive man he was.

Then she stopped, gave him her hand, said : " Good-bye ; you musn't come any further. Ido care," and ran off from him.

" Nevertheless, my friend," she added to herself afterwards, " I can't have you coming up to the scratch too soon. No visits to Uncle Tom just at present 1 And you are getting much more unmanageable than I care about."

After that meeting between Elsie and Bertie the latter's visits to Brookford became more infrequent.

Dorothy observed the fact, of course. She also observed the further fact that as the winter drew on Bertie's appearance was not improving. When she spoke to him ou this subjtict he usually answered more or less vaguely. "Oh 1 want of sleep, that's all. Up late the last night or two."

Gradually she began to suspect that he was falling into habits more dissipated than ebe would have liked. As time wore on and spring approached he began to lose the fresh, boyish look that had once been so charming, and to oge more rapidly than the lapse of a few months could legitimately account for. As she saw him at such long intervals it was easy to note these changes.

But there was another change that, though she was very conscious of it, she recognised as vague and difficult to be defined. It seemed to her that he was growing less frank, les3 candid, and she received the impression that he hid from her many facts of his life whioh he imagined she would not approve of. She felt her influence over him rapidly lessening, and this troubled her.

When she asked him how business progressed he usually replied more or less indirectly ; and indeed there was an unsatisfactory indireotness in all his answers to her questions about his life at this time. Certainly her anxiety about him was very great, and she began to wish that he had never left Brookford or — that he had never come there at all 1 This last wish, however, was not acknowledged. It was always swiftly strangled before it was properly formed, so that if it existed at all Dorothy had not yet arrived at the point of owning it/n existence.

And Bertie ? All through that autumn he continued to see Elsie regularly. He told himself it was fate, and that he couldn't help it ; that it was useless to fight against fate 1 And sometimes he had fits of remorse ; and wished im potently that he had never gone to the fancy-dress ball at Brookford, and that he had never kissed Elsie in the moonlight at the garden gate. That act was bringing about such altogether unforeseen results. And the future 1 He dared not look into it.

So we often find to-day full of the consequences born of yesterday's act, and know that these in their turn will increase and multiply and confront us to-morrow, until, lookiDg on into the coming years, we see no limit to the chain of their generation 1

And one day as he and Elsie strolled up Collins street together Gilbert Graves caught sight of them. And his eyes took on the ugly, vindictive look, and his lips hardened, and he declared to himself that that should not go on ; he was damned if it should ; he had the means to prevent it in bis own hands, and he would use them ; and his cousin Bertie was a miserable, sneaking scoundrel 1

And from that time he began to hate Bertie more cordially.

(To he continued.)