THE STORYTELLER.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10825, 19 July 1913, Page 4

THE STORYTELLER.

THE WHITE ANGEL OF EL TABRA. (By SILAS K. HOOKING.) '.'Jkntlior of " Her Benny, ( Tho .Awakening of Anthony Weir,'* " A Bonnie Saxon," "Tno Conquering Will," "A Modem Pharisee," eto. [All Rights Rkbsrved,] CHAPTER XVI. Sophia reached London on a clear, Wd day early m February, and was met at Charing Cross by Mr leter [Pearson, ono of her trustees, and was driven away to her new home, -ft auaint, roomy old house overlooking ffiStead Heath. Mr Pearson ttas a retired solicitor, still m vigorous health, and likely, to live another twenty years. Sopme took him to her 'heart at once. He had a benevolent rather than a strong face, and a steady look in his clear, grey eyea that inspired confidence. 1 She was almost numb with cold when the crain drew up at tho platform. Mrs Radnor, who knew all about the ■vagaries of the English, climate, had Provided her with warm clothing; and m Paris, under Mary's guidance, sho had purchased a long fur coat; but Wo clothing, it seemed to her, was sufficient protection against such intense cold. She had never experienced anything like it before. Her teeth cbattereu as she walked out of the station to the motor-car waiting outside. No amount of cold, however, could quench her enthusiasm for England, bhe had iconic prepared to be pleased with everything and to tyiko everybody o |W heart. All the men were heroic, and all tho women saintly, and if tho country was not a paradise ot beauty it was something nearly approaching It It was a rather dangerous frame of mind to be in, and Mary Radnor had done her best during the journey jjoine to prepare her for a considerable amount of disillusion. Sophie, however, was very tenacious, of her ideals. Had she not seen ami I known Stanley Wendale and Dr Kaa- ! nor—both English—and were they not ! both handsome and brave and chivalrous f "While as for Mary no words could express her admiration; and if eho was a fair sample of what Englishwomen were as a whole then they could bo only a little lower than the angels. . i . t. i "My dear child," Mary eaid to her again, and again, "the safe course is to take nothing at its face-value until you have proved it. Things are not always what they seem. Walk warily, dear. ■ Suspend your judgment. I admit that the majority of Englishmen are upright and honourable, but there are a minority who are neither. Dont believe everything that men—especially young men—may say to you. Keep your eyes open as well as your eara> and don't give your Confidence too Mo£ I will be careful, of course," !Sophie would answer: "but I'm sure I shall like everybody, dear. Make top your mind to that. There are good and bad people in England aa everywhere else." ■ She was quit® satisfied, however, as she drove away in the motor-car, that Sir Pearson was to be trusted. Hor foster-father had trusted him and that in itself was a sufficient guarantee. She did not talk muoh during tho first mile or two of the journey. She I was too muoh interested in the streets * and crowds, and she had hardlv got ac!©Ußtomed as yet to seeing only "white [people all dressed in sombre grey or [block. The crowd waa not picturesque f aa la Cairo. There was a lack of colour land variety. Sbe massed the.brilliant I red of the fez and the vivid purple and (blue of the natives' flowing robes. Still. I she was in England ,* and when she got I'used to the sombre grevs and to the; I nipping cold, she would find everything Us delightful as she had piotured it. ( It was dark when she reached.Beeohitene, 80 she could see nothing of the j Heath. But the drawing-room into i whioh she was ushered was warm and j cosy, and a big flro was burning in an ! open grate, and a stout, motherlylooking woman oame towards her with . open arms and kissed her obtrusively. j Mrs Pearson had a broad face and l small, pale blue .eyes, .and an abundance of white hair, which was brushed up'from the forehead and curled round in a large circle on the top of her head.. Sho looked a Btrong, oapable woman,? and one who was accustomed to having her own way. Sophie felt small ,and insignificant. in her presence. She gave oiio the impression of filling the room to the exclusion of everything else. "Now, my dear, you must warm yourself before taking off your 'wraps/' said, in firm, decided 'tones, and sho' wheeled up an easy chair in front of tho fire. . "Oh, isn't this lovely 1' and Sophie pulled off her gloves ana spread out hor Lands before the blaze.

" You feol cold, no doubt,, coming from a hot country, and ours is a treacherous climate. But you'll got used to it, as we all do." " Oh, yes. I don't think I shall mind the cold a bit."

"'And you must try and feel perfectly at home. We are all friends here, you know and we are delighted to liaveyou. " Thank you so much. I hope you ■will not find me very much in the way." "In the .Way 1 Why ; bless yon, thero is, room enough in this house for half a dozen girls. We have four of our own, but they are all man-led now and have homes of their own, and our only son David is abroad. So you see you axe quite a godsend to us. " Oh, thank you so much for saying; that. I was afraid I might be a bit or a nuisance." Oh, no, nothing of the sort. We . Want you to be a fifth daughter, as it —one of ourselves, you know I am sure we shall get on well together." " I hope so indeed. I wouldn't like to be a trouble to anybody." ' During this conversation Mr Pearson i had stood on the hearthrug, with his elbow on a corner of the mantelpiece. Ho did not attempt to interpose a •word, but he kept his eyes steadily fixed oil Sophie's face. He was not a man of many words, particularly at home—perhaps he thought the more. Just now he was thinking particularly hard.

When his wife had gone upstairs to show Sophie to her room ho dropped Into on easy chair and, placing the tips of his fingers together, stared into the fire. His reflections did not seem altogether happy, and after a while he muttered to himself "I wonder 1" nnd a frown gathered on his face. When Sophie lay down in her warm bed that night she tried to sorb out her impressions. She hacl come prepared to like everybody, and sho was a little bit troubled because she could not honestly say that she liked Mrß Pearson. For why she could not for the life of her explain. Thero had been 110 lack of warmth in her welcome—llo lack of friendliness in her conversation. Moreover, she bad done everything possible to- make her comfortable and at home. Her bedroom

SHORT AND SERIAL,

was a perfect little bower of luxury and good taste, and as far as sho could sco nil her wants hud been anticipated before her arrival. On tho other hand, Mr , Pearson had been anything but pushing in his welcome. His words had boon few and simple, and during tho evening lio had left his wifo_ to do nearly all tho talking: and yet-, in spito of_ all this, sho liked him immensely. His clear prey oyes soothed her and comforted her, and his rare smilo was like a benediction.

Sho fell asleep at length, and dreamt that sho was sitting in tho shade ot' E aim-trees with Stanley Wendalo by er side, and in tho distance tfero tho yellow, scorched hills of the desort. 'And in hor dream ho talked to licr in low, earnest tones of a futuro when they would always bo together. What that future was, or how they could bo always together, was not explained, hut that did not trouble hor in tno least. It was quito sufficient to know that they were not to be separated—for separation from him meant heartache and sadness, while to bo with him constantly meant unbroken satisfaction. The dream was still fresh in her mind when she awoke in the early morning, and sho lay for a long time thinking it over. It was tho ono drawback to her coming to England that ho did not como with her. Ho had become so completely a part of her lifo that she felt incomplete without him. It was not until ho said good-bye to her, and sho saw him hurry down the gangway and disappear,in the crowd, that she realised how much sho had depended upon him.—how eagerly sho had waited each evening for his coming. During that month nt Cairo ho had seemed hut a small portion of hor life; her thoughts had been engrossed with so many other things—shopping and dressmaking and sight-seeing and reading—that thero seemed little room for anything else. But no sooner had he vanished from her sight than*she became aware that these things were nothing but tho froth upon tho surfacethat the deeps of hor life wero untouched by them. Tho first night on board sho cried herself to sleep. It was very foolish, sho knew, but sho could not help it. Her heart felt so desolato and empty, and but for the fact that she was going to England—the land of her dreams—sho would have wanted to turn round and go back again. Sho regained her cheerfulness as tho days went by, but tho empty place in her heart remained, and sho sometimes wondered if she would Over bo quite happy slgain. And now, as sho lay awake thinking of her dream, a sense of unutterable loneliness stole over her. She had nothing to complain of in tho welcome she had received ; but she missed tho dear mother of tho convent. She missed Mary Radnor, the most beautiful woman she had ever met; and ohl she missed Stanley Wendale—missed him more than any words could express. In face of her loneliness her dream seemed a mookery. She had no real hope that she would ever see him again. During all tho timo they had been together ho had never spcikon of any future meeting. _ His good-bye had seemed final ana irrerocablo. His manner all the way through had been like one who saw his duty clearly and was determined to do it, and, having dono it, had put it out of his thoughts and out of his life.

Sho did not know why. Perhaps he did not like her. Perhaps ho was glad to have her off his hands. Perhaps But at this point her reflections wero interrupted by the entrance of one of the maids with a cup of coffee (she had not yet acquired the habit of drinking tea), and two or three slices of bread ana butter.

"You are good," Sophie said, in her frank, girlish way, which brought a blush of pleasure to the maid's cneeks. "Oh, no, miss/' was the quick reply; "but it's bitter cold this morning. I'll have the fire lighted in a few minutes. Brekfas 5 is at nine." and she proceeded to draw the curtains and then to sweep up the hearth. Sophie sipped her coffee and watched the maid at her worE. It was delightfully pleasant to be waited on in this way, and so deliciously Restful after her journeyings by land and sea. She lay longer than she intended—the bed was so comfortable and the room so cosy—with the result she was late for breakfast. She began to apologise, but Mrs Pearson out her short with an ostentatious kiss. _ "Not a word, dearie. Yon were very tired, I know, and had a right to lie "in bed as long as you liked. Now com© 'and pet breakfast. I hope we have something that will tempt your appetite." Mr Pearson greeted her with a simple good-morning and a pleasant smile. The contrast was remarkable, and yet for some unexplained reason her heart went out to tno man and not to the woman. She fancied she would have liked Mrs Pearson better if she had been les3 fussy and demonstrative. After breakfast Mr Pearson took her for a motor run into the country, and after lunch she went with Mrs Pearson into Oxford Street and Regent Street shopping. Then for the first tirao she realised tlin.'fc London was not only a city of wealth, but aJ city of poverty also. Riches and rags jostled each other in the same street. Half-starved children looked up wonderingly at over-fed dames and shivering women pined for food in sight of plenty. , t , Sophie made no purchases that day. She put all the money she had into the hands of the hungry children, and was frowned upon by Mrs Pearson, who saw her doing it. "It's a mistake, my dear,'' Mrs Pearson said unctuously on their way home. "Indiscriminate charity is a curse." During the next few days she was taken round' to see the sights of London. After which, in the language of Mrs Pearson, she "settled down"— that is, she did needlework and a little dusting, and made afternoon calls, and listened to a good deal of small talk and gossip, and occasionally went to some place of entertainment in the evening. By the end of a fortnight she. had conic* to the conclusion that life might bo just as dull, and' uneventful ana purposeless as in tho heart of tho Libyan desert. So she suggested to Mr Pearson that it was tune she began to do something. " Yes," ho questioned, with a grave smile. ""What would you like to do?" " Well, improve my mind in the first place," she answered promptly. "I would like to read, to understand, to get to know something about everything, to study music, and pictures, and. science, to master tho grammar of my mother tongue. Oh! you don't know how ignorant I am." "Splendid 1 !" ho ejaculated. "We'll begin at once.- You shall read law and history, and political economy with me, and I will get in Miss Livesey to toach you music and M. Du Crot to tench you singing, and my friend Barton—your other trustee —shall recommend a courso of general reading. Oh! we will have great times together," and for tho first time sho heard him laugh. For tho next three months she had no reason to complain of the dulness or monotony of life. Every day, and almost every hour, was crowded with inteVest. And then th« unexpected' happened. CHAPTEETxYir. Tho unexpected was tho return of David from South Africa. Sophie was sitting in a corner of the couch one afternoon, intent on a book, when a little cry from Mrs Pearson caused her to look up and she siiw a tall, rather good-looking young man enter tho

room with an air of supremo nonchalance and unconcern. Mrs Pearson sprang to her feet and rushed to meet him. Oh, David, my darling!" she gasped; and he caught, her m his arms and kissed her, first on one cheek and then on tho other.

"Surprised to sco mo—eh, mater?" he lauchod. " Oil, well, hero I am, and jolly glad to bo 6afo home again." "But, my darling boy, why did you not write or wire that you wore coming?" Mrs Pearson whimpered. " "What would have been tho user" he said gaily. " You know what a fidget you are, and you would havo been worrying yourself into fiddlestrings " "But we should havo been prepared with a welcome," sho sobbed; and now oven your bedroom ia not ready." "As if that mattered," ho laughed, gaily. "I could sleep oil tho floor, ir it camo to that—it would not bo the first timo."

" Oh, but it is good to see your dear face once more!" and sho gave him another resounding kiss. Meanwhile Mr Pearson, hearing voices, had come to the door, and now stood a picture of mute surprise and misery. Sophie, looking across at him, wondered that he did not rush to embrace his son, wondered at the grey, distressful look _ that swept over his face, wondored if ho wero incapable of any deep emotion. Even if tho son wero a prodigal—and he certainly did not look like one; he was well clothed, well fed and in high good humour—surely tho father should havo rushed to welcome him home. Tho current of her reflections was broken by Mrs Pearson saying, with a little gasp, " Here is your father, David."

Tho young man turned round and faced his father. " Glad to see you, pater," he said, in a breezy, nonchalant tone. And you look jolly well, too. Been having a good time, I expect." " Wo havo been having a very quiet and peaceful timo," was tho slow answer. "But what brings you back in this sudden and unexpected manner?" "Fever, my dear pater; or, rather* tho fever drove me back. Beastly rough, don't ybu think soP Was doing so well, too "

"You don't look as if the fever had h'urt you much," Mr Pearson said, dryly. ''Perhaps not, but you should have seen mo when I started. I can tell you that malarial fever is the very—well, to put it mildly, it is not a thing one would readily choose. Three or four attacks one may endure, but when you get your tenth dose—well, it is not beer and skittles, I can tell you." "My dear boy, I wonder you are alive," Mrs Pearson whimpered. " And you never told us in your letters." " What was the uso of making you miserable, mother?" he said, with a flue air of magnanimity. " Ono has to take things as they come and make the best of them."

" And you have been really very ill, my boy?" "Within an aco of kingdom oome. At least, so the doctor said. I told him I didn't bolieve him. But he swore blue streaks at me, and, told mo if I wasn't out of the country in a fortnight I should bo a_ goner. There you have the situation in a nutshell," and he looked knowingly into his mother's eyes.

"My darling boy, how you must have suffered! eho piped. And she stroked the sleeve of his coat tenderly. " Oh, well, I suppose we all have to suffer more or less; but who minds when it is over? It's all in the day's work, you see. But whom have we here? And he turned suddenly and looked at Sophie. ''Pardon me, David. The joy of seeing you drove everything out of my head. This is our ward—shall I say —Miss Wilmot-Henderson. Your father wrote to vou about her, so did I " "Oh yes, I think I remember. But I was in for a dose of the jim-jams at the time. Please introduce me, mother."

" Sophie, my dear," purred Mrs Pearson, " this is our son David." "Pleased to meet you." and he bowed gracefully. _ "I'm afraid I've upset things a bit," and he laughed in a gay, boyish fashion. '' It must be very nice to be home again," sho ventured, timidly. She hardly knew what to say. There were elements in tho situation that puzzled her. Mr Pearson still stood in tho doorway, silent and perturbed. She noticed that ,he had not yet shaken hands with his son. Mrs Pearson appeared to be self-conscious and ill-at-easo. Her natural assentiveness seemed for the moment to have forsaken her. She was moving warily and tentatively, as if feeling her way. David was the only one who appeared quite at his ease, but whether his confidence was real or assumed she was by no meaus sure.

"Nicel" he ejaculated, with a gay laugh. " Well, yes. There's no denying that home is tho best place in the world. But all the same, don't you know, one rather resents having all one's plans frustrated and one's hopes blown to the winds." He spoke with such an air of sincerity, and ho looked so handsome, that she could not help sympathising with him.

"Yes, I can understand that," she said, frankly, and she seized the opportunity of slipping out of the room. What passed between tho trio afterwards sho had no means of knowing, neither, had she anv desire to probe domestic secrets. If there were any skeleton in the cupboard she hoped it would be kept under lock and key. Looking at the matter from an unprejudiced point of view, it seemed to her that David would bo a distinct gain to the family circle. He was breezy,

cheerful, good-humoured, and, to all appearances, imperturbable. Ho would introduce tho clement of gaiety .which had been lacking. For tho last three months sho had boon studying hard and continuously—partly i'roin a passionato desire to improve her mind and partly to koop herself from brooding.

She no longer missed Stanley Wendalo; but his . long and unbroken silence wounded her. She wondered what sho had done to offend him. On no other hypothesis could sho explain his utter indifferenco to her welfare. Ho had been so kind, so chivalrous, so solicitous about her well-being. Ho had done so much more for her than was absolutely necessary; had taken such pains to securo her comfort and save her from worry; had shown his solicitude up to tho moment of saying good-bye, and then had suddenly dropped her. It was incomprehensible. She worried herself for hours in trying to remember anything sho had over paid or dono that would bo likely to offend him; but sho could think of nothing. And vet thero must bo something, sho tofd herself. Ho would not act as ho waa doing without a reason. Mary Randor, who had returned to Cairo after a month in England, wroto to her regularly, and sometimes tho doctor found time to send her a cheery letter; but he whoso friendship sho desired moro than anything elso in tho world remained silent. If sho could only seo mm for ton minutes and talk things over sho would bo satisfied. She was suro sho could straighten things out. Sho would apologise, if necessary. And if ho chose to bo still offended sho would at least know the roason.

But be was not the bind of man to cherish a grievance. Ho was too big and magnanimous for that. A word would bo sufficient, and his hps would smile again. She would pive all she possessed for one of his smiles. So sho welcomed _ work—hard, and continuous —because it saved her from brooding. When sho could forget Stanley w'ondale sho was happy. I'or tho same reason she was inclined now to welcome David Pearson. Ho would keep tho houso lively. Ho would introduce fresh topics of conversation. He would be like a breeze sweeping through the stagnant air. When the tea-gong sounded and she descended to the drawing-room, sho found that the atmospheric disturbances had subsided. The domestic sky was comparatively clear again. David and liis father were seated almost close to each other, engaged m earnest conversation. Mrs Pearson was seated behind the tea-tray, her large face wreathed in smiles, and her small bluo eyes sparkling with satisfaction. . David rose when Sophie entered tho room, and bowed politely, after which he passed her tea and bread ana butter; but he did not attempt to get into conversation with her. To all appearances she did not interest liirn.

So the day passed, and the next, and many days after that: _ but David made no advances in Sophie's direction. He was polite when sno was in the room; but he never attempted to talk to her when there was anyone else with whom ho could carry on a conversation. His father watched him with a puzzled expression in his clear grey eves, as though he suspected_ some deep-laid scheme. It was not like David to be Indifferent to the charms of a pretty §irl. He was not built that way. If ophie had been plain, or gauche, or ignorant, or elderly, there mgiht be some excuse; but' she was the very opposite. She was' so pretty, so winning, so intelligent, that any man, whatever his age—unless he were a confirmed woman-hater—would want to talk to her. Mr Pearson placed the tips of his fingers together again and looked out of the window, and again he said to himself, "I wontjer." Had he been fully in his wife's confidence ho would not havo wondered at all; ho would have known. Mrs Pearson, however, was not in the habit of consulting her husband in relation to her doings. She flattered herself that she was a strong-minded woman, and that she knew a good deal more about the ordinary affairs of the world than ho did.

He was no doubt a good lawyer; she admitted that quite frankly. In all legal matters he was an expert, but, liko every other clover man { lie had his limitations. To begin with, he did not know how to bring up sons. Ho was altogether too particular, too insistent on small points of honour, too completely wedded to old-fashioned ways. Most of Mr Pearson's neighbours, it should be said, took an opposite view. , They were of opinion, judging by results, that he was much too lenient, that he ought to have held the reins with a firmer hand, and put his foot down much more firmly and frequently than he did. Mrs Pearson, had no more respect for the judgment of hpr neighbours in such matters than she had ror her husband's. Men were nearly all alike, especially middle-aged and elderly men. They were hide-bound and inelastic. They lived in a past generation, they lacked adaptability, they were unable to move v with the times.

That was tho trouble with Mr Pearson. All his idea 9as to conduct belonged to an earlier time. He wanted to bring up his own son as ho himself had been brought up. Ho attached the same meaning to the words honour and honesty and truthfulness and sobriety and chastity as had been attached to them when lie was_ a young man, and he nad never realised that while he was standing still the world had been moving forward—that standards had changed and values had been modified.

Mrs Pearson prided herself that she was quite abreast of tho times, and that she took a much # more _ broad and generous view of tilings in general than did her husband.

If Peter Pearson had only regarded their son from hor point or view, all would havo been well; _ but with the natural stupidity of a middle-aged man he" had refused to do so. Hence David had been the sore point between them for many years. Nothing could induce her husband to seo that what was called profligacy when he_ was a young man was something quito venial in tho present generation, and that conduct which ho denounced vehemently as dishonourablo and disgraceful was nothing more than an exhibition of youthful playfulness and. high spirits. Hence David—"poor dear," to quoto his mother—was a perpetual storm-centre and the unwitting cause of much unpleasantness between husband and wife.

So as time went on tho inevitable happened. Mrs Pearson not only took sides with David against her husband, but sho developed a gift of casuistry that no one imagined she possessed.

David—tho dear innocent—-was to bo protected from his father. His faults —which were only excesses of virtue—wero to be hidden at all costs from tho paternal eyes. But if, as it frequently happened, these virtuous excesses became too dazzling to be hidden any longer under a bushel, then tho truth was to bo so manipulated and glossed —the light was to be so toned down by clever and quito innocent inventions—that the parental wrath would bo reduced to a minimum.

Under those protecting screens David's excesses of virtue developed rapidly, till by the timo he was twentythree they had becomo so abnormal that ho came to the conclusion—and even his mother _ agreed with him—that ho was wasting his great gifts in England. So he decided to go to South Africa that he might shed their dazzling light upon the darkness of that great Continent. The reason why he returned co unexpectedly has yet to told. CHAPTER XVITT. David did not find South Africa all that ho had hoped and expected. There were too many of his own sort there already, bunco his peculiar gifts did not shine with the brilliance that ho had anticipated. Now ar.d then ho had a streak of luck : but such occasions were all Loo rare. If he could havo settled

clown to work he might have dons fairly well; but lie did not believe in work —only fools worked, and the wiso men reaped the harvest. Tho millionaires of South Africa wejfo not millionaires because they worked themselves, but because they exploited tho labour of other people. David had no intention of being exploited by anybody; his idea was to exploit other people, and occasionally in a small way ho managed to do this. But, unfortunately, there were too many .people with far more experience than he had who were engaged in similar undertakings. Also he discovered that there was a great lack of confidence in South Africa. Newcovors were not accepted at their face value, and well-dressed, well-educated young men vrho manifested an nntipatny to work were regarded with unreasonable suspicion. This militated against any immediate or striking success. One morning, when he was feeling very blue and depressed, he got a letter from his mother. He had had a very narrow squeak the previous evening of being deprived of nis liberty for a considerable timo, and his nerves had not quite recovered from tho shock. "I shall have to be more careful," he was saying to himself. "The whisky got the better of my caution. I was a fool to bo so daring, and now I shall havo to clear out of this place and seek my fortune somewhere else " In the midst of these reflections his mother's letter was handed to him, and his face brightened at once. The first thing on which his eye rested was a remittance, and when ho read tho amount ho gave a low and prolonged whistle. "By thunder! I'm still in luck," ho I'aughcd, " but tho old lady must surely have had a fortune loft her," and he glanced at the figures again to make sure he had not been mistaken. Then, with another laugh, he carcfullv folded tho paper and put it in his KocKct-book, after which ho proceeded > read tho letter. Beforo he got to tho bottom of the first page he gave another prolonged whistle, then his face took on a more serious expression. rh© letter was as follows:

"My Darling David, —.1 havo had an inspiration. If I were of tho superstitious sort I should believe it was direct fromi heaven; but as I am a. clearheaded woman, as you know, it. must havo flown out of my active brain. " Your father and I have already spoken of Miss Wilnipt-Henderson, who is staying with us. Your father is one of her trustees, you know—that's way she is here—and she is heiress to _ a considerable fortune. Now, the inspiration came to mo in this form : ' Why should not David enjoy this fortune?' and it kept repeating itself over and over again. " Now, David, don't laugh. She is neither old nor ugly nor ignorant. On the contrary, she is young—scarcely twenty—decidedly good-looking, and as bright as a new pin. At present she is studying hard—all sorts of_ abstruse subjects—and sJie has a decided gift for music. M. Du Grot says her voico is quite wonderful. ; " What I want you to do is to come home at once and marry her. For that purpose I enclose quite sufficient to pay your passage, and a little to spare. But not a word to your father. He must never know—must not oven havo a suspicion. If he know I had sent for you, or guessed what was in my mind, I believe ho would send tho girl-back to Egypt at once. " There need not bo the least difficulty. Tho girl is clever, but absolutely unsophisticated, and as ignorant of the world as a goose. She bolievos tho best of everybody, and world take you on trust without asking a single question, I have kept all young men out of her way fo fa-, and intend to do so until you come bono. I want you to bo first in tho field, for in a caso like this it is the first comer who ivins.

" I need hardly point out that if you miss this chance you may never have another like it; and then what will becomo of you when I'm gone, I tremble to think. It's not a bit of good hoping you will get something more from your father, for ho has quite ma-do up his mind, and nothing on earth will move him. Ho bays you have had more than your share already and what ho leaves will bo equally divided between the four girls. " I am sorry to fay that 1 diall not be able to do much more for vow, for vou havo already had the Tittle I've boon able to save- If, however, take my advico in this, you vili _ co independent of me and everybody (i s <'. She is really a charming girl, and so unworldly that to win her w;ll he as easv as "falling downstairs. " Don't write, but if you think well of my proposal como homo at once. lon will bo able to invent s.une lend of excuse. You are quite clover enough for that. And when you get home don't be precipitate. Your father is naturally suspicious, aJid if yon begin by making much of the girl he may ' smoll a rat,' as they say, and then he will just spoil everything. Ho lias such antiquated notions about honour and chivalry, and all that kind of thing. But you know tiim, and will know how to act. If ho can bo made to believe that you havo turned over a new leaf the battle is won. And, seriously, 1113- darling boy, I do think it is quite time you settled down. You have surely sown quite enough wild oats. I have defended you, as you know, against your lather, but, after all, there is something to bo said for his point of view. 1 know boys will bo boys, and it is not to be <?:; peered that young men will bo saints. Still, there ought to be a

limit, and it is hard for me in my old .age to bo deprived of your presence. " Excuse me, my darling David, saying this to you; but I love you. You are my only boy, and I desire nothing, in the world so much as your happiness and prosperity. I have sometimes wondered since you went away whether " But no, a mother's love surely cannot lead her wrong. I have done my best for you. I have looked forward to tho day when, the exuberances of youth having spent themselves, you would settle down to some great achievement, and prove to the world and to your father that I was right. " Now, David darling, your _ great chance has come. I feel it in my blood. I shall wait with growing impatience for your return.—-Your loving and devoted Mother." The latter part of the letter appeared to displease David very much. He frowned a good deal and spat angrily into the fireplace. " The old lady needn't have preached," he muttered to himself, as he got out a cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. " She knows how I hat© being preached at. And what's the good of it? Who was evor a penny the better for their moral homilies?" Then ho turned to tho first part of the letter and read it a second timo. That appeared to please' him much better. Anything that would offer a chance of improving his fortunes was worth considering. The idea of matrimony was not altogether to his taste. He believed in freedom, and to be tied to one woman all the days of his life was a heavy price to pay even for a, fortune. Still, it was not easy in this perverse world to get something for nothing. The question was, was the fortune worth the price? That required some thinking out. One or two things appeared quite clear. In the first place, neither he nor anyone elso could got on without money. In the second place,_ he had practically got to the end. of his tether as far as remittances were concerned, and, in the third place, he would have to clear out of Jo'burg beforo it got too hot for him. And the South African people were so suspicions, so lacking m faith in the goodness of human nature, that it was difficult to make headway anywhere. Beforo the d'ay was out he had settled the matter. He would go home at once and lay siege to the young lady's heart. Ho would settle down a3 a married man, and spend her money. A man with plenty of money could always have a good time in London, and some of his old pals would be delighted to see him back again. Having come to that conclusion, he lost no time in starting on tho journey. Two days after his return his mother managed to get a little private conversation with him. "Well, David, my boy, what d'o you think of her?" was her first eager question. " Stunnin'," was the laconio but somewhat indifferent answer. "You think she is pretty, don't you?" " Don't think anything about it. She's a real corker as far as looks are concerned." . _ " Don't use 6lang, David. It isn t at all becoming. It isn't, really, especially when you aje talking about a lady." li She doesn't liear,_ so what does it matter? However, if it will please you better, I will describe her as a bit of all right." t " And you think my plan is a good one? I am really anxious that you should think well of it." " I think it is first rate, mater. I do really. I only hope tho young lady will not turn up her nose at mo." " I don't think she will do that if you only play your cards well. That is what I want to speak to you about particularly. I admit that between your father and Sophie you have a somewhat difficult tasiv, but not difficult—not the least difficult if you only mind your P's and Q's." "I've started well, haven't I?" ho asked abruptly. " Excellentlv, my boy. Nothing could bo better. I am sure you have already made a good impression, xou see she admires a manly man. A man who lias courage and daring, and yet never boasts about it. xou know' the thing. Pretends to bo a good deal of a coward, and all that, and does orodigious things unconsciously. " You leave that to me, mother. 1 can work that little trick as well as anybody," and he laughed confidently. "But yon will havo to be very careful, dear, you do net overdo it. Sho may be unsophisticated and quite ignorant of the world, but she has ail her wits about her." , "You need not tell mo that, < ho. answered. 11 -My own impression is she knows a great deal more than you think. My great fear is she'll seo through me.' "No David —you need not. fear that. Girls never can see through young men. You've only to bo polite and gentlemanly and' reasonably indiixer-

"Indifferent?" "For the first week or two, my boy. Let her think you aro not in the least interested in her, and her curiosity will bo piqued. Girls like to bo noticed above all things, and when a, man doesn't notico them they, try to make him do so. Oh, I've been a girl myself, and I know. You just go on recounting your adventures to me—shell be listening sharp enough—but dou t tnkc any notice of her for a whilo. Later on vou'll hud her asking you questions. 'Then will be your time to movo slowly - -very slowly, You catch

women as you catch trout, by dropping tho bait and then pullmg it away again." " But bow long is the ge-rno to go onP" bo questioned apprehensively. " You know, it will be impossible to keep up this pretence of copy-book virtue for more than a few weeks." " Don't talk nonsense, David 1 ! A thing that is worth anything at all is worth waiting for. Besides, do you really want to go to the bad?" " Go to tho bad? Of course I don't want to go to the bud I I've never gono to the bad yet, have I? But I can't pose as a churchwarden for ever and over." l< My dear David, it is lime you

settled down as a steady, respectable citizen, and this will enable you t< do so—get you into tho habit of it, a! it were." " Habit bev—r~" But she cut him short peremptorily " Don't use bad language before xn'e David. You will have to learn to <3is cjpline yourself. It's very likely youi last chance, and if you let it slip whai in tho world is to become of youP" "I liato what you call discipline l'| ho ejaculated impatiently. "Very likely you do, but that's al the more reason why you should prac tiso it; and, what is more, you'll no win Sophie without it. She_ is not. tli' sort to be carried off by forco; bu

langle before her eyes the virtues of trength and honour and chivalry, and he's yours." " You moan that I've got to do somehing. heroic that she can see with her iwn oyesP You might as well ask me o chuck the job riglitoff." " Really, David, you are very lensel" she replied, a little impaiently. " That you will have omething is certain. You «aiVt hang ,bout here all day long—that would ie fatal. She believes in a man who loea something and does something rorthy." "I've dona heaps," he laughed, ynically. ' " She tiiay believe that, but don t 'OU see the illusion has to be kept up. fou must go into the city every day, ,rid. until you are married, you must eally settle down to work." "Settle down to work?" ho exlaimed, in horror. "You really must, David. ather is still very suspicious. You 11 lave to make him believe that you ve urned over a new leaf." "Oh, heavens 1" "he groaned. " It's worth the effort, my boy. Any nan who is not a coward would gladly ndure twico ns much for such a rise." , , i. t. "It isn't the work merely, he ;roaued —'"think of the strain." "What strain?" she demanded. "Why, the strain of behaving like , church elder for six. months, periaps; and you told me it would be aa asy as falling downstairs." "Really, David, you talk, like an hdisciplined boyl I shall begin to hink- " \

"No, please—don't preach," he inorrupted, putting out his hands as r to ward off something. "I'd rather all downstairs than listen to a sermon, hit let us return to the subject again o-mrirrow. I've really had as njuch as can digest to-day." (To be continued.)