A Woman's Heart

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXII, Issue XIV, 8 April 1899, Page 438

A Woman's Heart

By

CHAPTER 1. It was pouring with rain. Not a gentle, soft, persuasive sort of rain, but a strong, heavy, steady downpour a very deluge ot water that massed itself into a sort of small river on each side of the roadway and washed the wood pavement as elean and surely as though a hose had been played upon it to effect this purpose. rhe lamps and the lights from the shops were reflected vividly on the glassy surface of the pavement . People hurried to and fro in a state of unpleasant moisture. Umbrellas were dripping; and those boots and shoes which had grovVn a little worn ami thin by very constant use were quickly transformed into a damp and inadequate protection against the penetrating wet. Despite the pouring rain. Fleet Street was as Fleet Street generally is full of business.

The carts ami vans and cabs and omnibuses followed one another in their usual fashion, and not even the discomfort and the dampness could affect the good-humoured, if somewhat rough, pleasantry in which the drivers of the various vehicles indulged. Everyone seemed resigned with characteristic phlegm to bear the disagreeables of the moment as easily as possible. and everyone was also actuated apparently by the desire to get through with their duties as fast as they could, and so eventually land themselves in a dry atmosphere, if not in luxurious comfort.

On the edge of the streaming pavement about the middle of Fleet Street a girl’s figure stood scarcely sheltered from the downpour by a very’ shakylooking umbrella. She caried a large brown paper parcel flat and square under her left arm, and her eyes went anxiously toward Ludgate Circus, watching the approach of every’ omnibus with a heart that was almost as wearv as her slender arm.

She had stood there quite twenty minutes, and had attracted more than one casual glance from the people who hurried past her, for Justina Seaton was something more than ordinarily pretty’—a fact that not even her shabby hat and still more shabby ulster could disguise.

The lights from a shop window behind her fell full upon her as she stood there, ami showed up her thin, pale face with its delicate rose-leaf-tinted skin, and its very large eyes of rarest blue. Her hair, which seemed to be of a great quantity, was coiled neatly under her hat, and her head was seen to be set unusually well on her shoulders. She had a slender, childlike air about her, although she was by no means short, and anyone watching her closely’ must have felt a pang of pity when sigh after sigh escaped her pretty lips as each monster omnibus rolled past her absolutely full and unable to offer her the shelter and conveyance she wanted so badly. ’That makes the sixteenth!' Justina said to herself, as another of these familiar ami convenient vehicles hailed in sight only to roll on callously indifferent to her anxiety and discomfort. ‘I wonder what 1 had better do? It is getting late. Rupert will wonder what has become of me. I would walk on to Charing Cross, but this manuscript is so dreadfully heavy. She sighed a little as she shifted the bulky parcel under her arm. ‘Of course. 1 could go outside.’ she mused on wearily, ’but—' and she shivered. She could face and stand much discomfort, ns indeed, poor child, she was obliged to almost every day of her life, but there were several things Justina feared and disliked. One of these was the mere thought of an illness. ’What would become of them if she were to be ill?’ And another was the proceeding of climbing up to the top of the heavy, swaying omnibus, and being conveyed to her destination on a slippery garden sent instead of being buried in a corner of the crowded inside. Justina knew it was extremely silly, but the fact remained that even whilst occupying a sent within the omnibus she was never free from n nervous sensation which all her many and oft ex-

MRS EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS.

eursions bad not been able to dispel. However, nerves were things which Justina Seaton must never encourage or permit. Nerves are for those lucky individuals who have time and place and opportunity in which to allow them fidl play. A working woman, a woman who, although barely more than a child, yet worked and struggled and laboured as hard as any of her fellow men, has no right to indulge in nerves, and consequently, whatever little fears and idiosyncrasies and likes and dislikes Justina might lay claim to, they were never allowed to obtrude themselves to the detriment of her day’s toil and her life's tasks.

A clock booming out half-past six decided the girl now. Full or not full, the next omnibus that came must be her fate for this particular journey. She had some way to go, and Rupert Seaton had a. particular objection to unpunctuality. Justina had promised to be home by seven, and home she woidd go, even at the cost of a long half-hour of nervous misery to herself, to say nothing of the cold and the wet, and the danger that might accrue from sitting exposed to the heavy and steady downpour. With a shiver that went through her most unconsciously, Justina hailed the approaching omnibus. The conductor gave her very little encouragement.

'Outside!’ he observed, laconically, and Justina replied, ‘Yes, outside,' in the same laconic fashion.

She climbed up the wet staircase and tumbled into the first of the chairs, conscious of the old nervous fear that always seized her at this proceeding, and yet of a great relief also, as the weight of the heavy pareel was transferred from her arm to the seat beside her.

The conductor climbed up after her and cast a glance at her of mingled admiration and sympathy. He opened her umbrella for her, and fastened the oilcloth wrapper securely about her. ‘A bit damp like, ain’t it?’ he said, cheerily, while he took her fare. ‘Not quite the sort of hevening one would choose for a picnic, say. I’ll put you inside first chance I get, Miss; it ain't fit for a dog to sit up here in this rain, that it ain’t.’

Justina gave him a smile, and then he vanished, and she sat shivering in her place as the omnibus veered and swayed and lumbered along in the way peculiar to omnibuses.

Down the wet Strand with its myriad of umbrellas, for all the world like a field of moving mushrooms, with the lights beginning to flare at the doors of the various theatres, and a warm, pleasant radiance surrounding the many cafes and restaurants, Justina was carried.

Her thoughts were busy ones. ‘lt won't take me long to make these alterations,’ she was saying to herself. T will begin to-night after 1 have made Rupert comfortable. I hope he has not been very lonely. I wish, for Rupert’s sake, that sometimes Aunt Margaret would remember our existence.’ Here Justina gave a little laugh, half-merry’, half-bitter. ‘I think 1 should not mind changing places with Aunt Margaret’s horses. 1 am sure, they are much better off than 1 am. I suppose Aunt Margaret would have a fit if she eould see me now. Fortunately’ there is no such likelihood. Even if there were, I don't think 1 should mind. How funny it is,' Justina said, thoughtfully, to herself; ‘how funny it is how quickly 1 have grown used to not minding. Only two years ago if any one had told me I should have stood for half an hour in that street in the pouring rain for the purpose of catching a Bayswater omnibus, 1 don't think I should have laughed; I think I

should have been too indignant; and yet here 1 am, you see, right on the top of the Bayswater omnibus, and getting slowly but surely soaked through!’ She cuddled herself a little more securely under the wrapper and gave an anxious glance at the parcel beside her to see that it was not getting wet also.

Charing Cross was reached in a few minutes. Justina’s champion, the conductor, was extremely aggrieved that there was not a vacancy inside to offer to her; but, by a really unusual circumstance, not one of the passengers alighted at this busy spot, and in consequence there was nothing for Justina to do but to sit quietly where she was.

‘Luck is against me to-day,’ she said, as this news was communicated to her. T did not expect to have all this extra work to do, nor did I expect 1 was going to get such a soaking when 1 started out this afternoon. Well, 1 suppose I must not grumble; things are hard now, but they will be better some day’ soon, and they might be much worse.’ Here the girl’s solitude was broken by the arrival of another outside passenger, a tall, well-built young man, in a thick, loose, and most comfortable ulster covering him from head to foot. He gave a casual glance at the girl as he sat down, and then he found himself looking a little harder, and then a sort of eagerness came into his bronzed, earnest face, and as the omnibus jolted on into the rain and darkness, he suddenly made a movement, and as he sat down on the seat immediately’ in front of Justina he spoke to her hurriedly—‘l am sure I cannot be mistaken,’ he said, in a tone that was full of warm pleasure, and yet had a touch of apology’ in it. ‘I could not make a mistake where your face is concerned. You are Justina North—little Justina North, whom I used to tease and play’ with at Stonedean, how many y’ears ago? You remember me. do you not? Please don't look so startled—don’t you remember your old friend Basil—the great, big-, clumsy Basil that you nick-named your bear, and used to lead about the old Vicarage gardens with a string?’ Justina’s beautiful eyes suddenly lost their somewhat frightened surprise, they gleamed now with recognition and with most sincere pleasure, and her lips were smiling as she put out her hand.

‘Basil —Basil Fothergill—oh! I am very’ glad to see you again, very! Just fancy recognising me so easily! Why, it must be ten years almost since you left Stonedean—l was only eleven then, and quite a baby—and now I am grown up, and yet ’ ‘And yet—you look just the same, yes. just the same,’ Basil Fothergill said, earnestly; he was looking at her intently and with much admiration at her beautiful, delicate face.

‘I can almost imagine you are going to pnt the collar round my neck, and lead me growling through the gardens,’ he added.

Justina blushed and laughed. ‘Life is full of strange things,’ she said. ‘Certainly, I never imagined when you came up here a moment ago that your big, strong figure was in any’ way connected with my life, past, present, or future. The top of an omnibus, after all, has its uses, 1 see. I shall have a greater respect for it now than 1 have hitherto had.’

She was talking very quickly, but he saw her lips quiver and something like tears dim her glorious eyes. He conjectured, and conjectured rightly, that his sudden re-appearance had awakened memories of the past; memories that were, he feared, happier than the present realities. T am so glad to meet you again, little Justina—do you remember we boys used always to call you Miss Just?—for you were just and good, and sweet, and noble, even in those early childish days.’ He paused a moment. ‘How often I have thought of you- and of your dear old father— I ’

Justina looked at him, and her expression checked his words. ‘Daddy is dead. He died three years ago. I think you will be sorry, Basil, for you used to love him very dearly.’ Then some sudden instinct, of what exact nature she eould hardly have told, prompted Justina to go on speaking quickly. ‘Everything is all changed now. After daddy’s death

1 went for a little while to live with his brother—my uncle, Paul North — at Massingtree, and 1 was not very happy there. Aunt Margaret, my mother’s sister—oh! you must remember Aunt Margaret, Basil—she was abroad then, or perhaps I should have gone to her, but—’ Justina paused, ‘it did not matter very much, because 1 married a few months after 1 had been at Massingtree, and then it was all right, you know.’ ‘Married! You are married? My little child-friend Justina married! I can hardly believe it. How old you make me feel!’ Basil was conscious of a curious faint touch of disappointment. He was sitting with his arm leaning on the wet ledge of the garden seat gazing intently into that flower-like face under the umbrella. He seemed quite impervious to the discomfort of the pouring rain as he sat there, and Justina had absolutely forgotten to be nervous since he had come and spoken to her. ‘I hope you are very, very happy, little Just,’ he said, almost tenderly. ‘I am sure if anyone deserves to be happy in this rough, hard world, that person is you.’

And while he was saying this he had a dull sort of resentment for the man that could let so fair and frail a girl wander forth on such a day and battle with the inclemency of the weather in such a fashion.

J ustina answered him hurriedly. ‘I am quite happy, thank you, Basil, and I am also a very busy and important person, too. You must not call me “little” Justina any more, for 1 am a full-fledged novelist. I earn a lot—oh, a lot of money—by my work. \ou remember in those old days, Basil. how mysterious I used to be, and how you used to tease me when you found me shut up in Daddy’s study, scribbling down poems and stories on a 11 1 he scraps of paper 1 could fin d. That was my beginning, Basil, and though it was only done for fun in those days, it has, I think, been of great use to me since, when work has had to be done in definite and serious fashion. If you look-here,’ 1 she showed him a corner of her cherished and weighty brown parcel, ‘you will see the outside of a long serial which, after a little alteration and condensation, will appear in the pages of the “ — Journal,” and will achieve a most tremendous success.’

‘I shall read it religiously every word,’ he answered lightly' though somehow his heart did not feel light as he listened to her words and looked into her delicate face. 'lf I may not call you little Just any more, you must enlighten me as to the proper title 1 must give you,’ he said, abruptly, after a slight pause.

‘My name is Seaton —Justina Seaton,’ she hurriedly answered him. T —1 think you must remember my husband, Basil. You were not gone when Rupert arrived at Stonedean, were you ?’ ‘Rupert Seaton! You have married Rupert Seaton!’ The words came frorii him in an exclamation of intense surprise, and of something else, too—a something which, in that same instinctive way, Justina had apprehended even without being conscious of her apprehension. The man sitting before her made quick haste to smooth away any faint disagreeable emotion that'his “astonishment might have aroused in her mind.

‘Why, you are a couple of babies,’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course I remember Rupert. He was the last new boy before 1 left. A pretty, delicatelooking chap. As weak with his fists as any girl, but cleverer than all the rest of us with his brains. He must have been about fourteen then, I suppose, so he is not very much more than a boy now.’

‘Don’t insult my husband’s age, please,’ Justina “cried, in a mock serious manner, and at this moment the omnibus had landed them at Oxford Circus.

Basil took her umbrella from her. ‘You must get down from this,’ he said, with a touch of authority that

was by no means displeasing to her. ‘Another ten minutes and 1 don’t believe you will have a dry shred on your back. Give me that precious manuscript. Weugh! What a weight for your little hands. Now, hold on tight. I am going to use my privileges as one of your oldest friends and get you to your home as soon as possible.’ Justina found herself obeying him. ‘But—l am taking up your time,’ she remonstrated, as they alighted from the omnibus, and he hailed a tidy-looking four-wheeler. ‘1 have nothing whatever to do—l am a free individual with as much money and time as any one person can want. Now. Justina, get in — this will be better than a hansom. Where shall I tell him to drive?’ She gave him the address, a distant road in Bayswater, and in another moment they were trundling along in slow but sure fashion.

Justina bent a little forward as they went. "Won’t you tell me something of yourself. Basil? My history is all told—you know all there is to know. I should like to hear what you have done all these years.’ He roused himself from his thoughts. ‘lf I were to try and tell you all T have done and all I have seen. 1 should keep you listening all night.’ he answered her abruptly: ‘the present will be sufficient therefore. Three years ago my Uncle William died, was killed by a fall out hunting, and, of course. 1 have inherited his title and estates, and— * ‘So you are now Sir Basil Fothergill,’ the girl said, and she gave her pretty little laugh. ‘What a grand person! and to think T once called you my big bear! You do not live in town, I am sure. Basil —you always hated the London streets, I remember.’

‘My home is in the country. You will have to come and see it, Justina —it is a pretty place, and my sister Molly keeps house for me. 1 have all sorts of wonderful curiosities and many valuable possessions that I have brought back from my journeys round the world, but—among all my treasures, two certain little pictures, which were given to me by my childfriend at Stonedean, ten years ago. now rank highest and best. I suppose 1 am very conservative,’ Basil Fothergill said with a little laugh, ‘but 1 always like the old things best, and although I am a rich man now, and the world has nothing but smiles to give me, I always look back on the days I spent under your father’s care, Justina. as to the sweetest and happiest time of my life.’

The girl did not answer him immediately, and as they passed under a strong light he saw that- the tears

were blinding and choking her. There was a long silence between them. ‘l—l always cry when I think very vividly of the past. 1 can't get used to the loss of my daddy, even yet.' she said, breaking the silence at last in a hurried, eager voice, as though she must explain away any misunderstanding. Be did not misunderstand her; he knew as well as though she had spoken it in words that for her the past was the only time of happiness she had ever known, and that her present lot contained about as much heartmisery and disappointment and weariness as could go to the life of any one woman. CHAPTER IT. Basil Fothergill did not enter Mrs Seaton’s humble home. She invited him to do so, of course, but he pleaded an excuse. Although he hud called himself a free person, he wns not so

in the absolute full sense of the word, for he remembered now he hail promised to dine with a friend at the Bachelor’s Club, ami he must hasten back at once to dress and keep the appointment. ‘But I will come to-morrow afternoon and have a cup of tea if you will let me.’ he said, as he held her hand.

’Not to-morrow—the day after,’ Justina had answered. She explained further that on the morrow she must sit hard at this work in order to get it ready for the printers. ‘You see. I must keep up my character for being an important person,’ she said, laughingly.

‘Well, don’t work too hard. You don’t look as if you were made of iron. Give my regards to your husband. I wonder if he would care to come and lunch with me to-morrow. Look, here is my address. Mrs Seaton, and if Rupert can and will come, T shall be delighted to see him.’

They parted with another hand clasp, and he lingered till the door had closed on that slender form with its lovely pathetic face. ’To say it will be a delight for me to see Rupert Seaton is to say about the biggest lie I can think of,' Fothergill mused grimly to himself as he reentered the four-wheeler and was driven back to the West End. •Poor, poor child poor, sweet little Justina—in all my thoughts of her and what has been happening to her. 1 never dreamed of so ill a fate as this. Thank heaven our paths have crossed again. By what happy chance, I wonder. did I suddenly determine to climb that omnibus to-night? That is a question not very easily ansewerd. It must have been a species of magnetic attraction. I suppose. for certainly otherwise I can give no account of my nations. Yes. T am glad to see the child once again, nnd vet ’ lie folded his arms and sat back in the

rumbling vehicle, his brows overcast and contracted.

•Rupert Seaton!’ he said to himself. •Rupert, whom we other chaps used to call the cur. the sneak, the white-liv-ered coward. Looking back now, 1 can renienilier how we all hated him! There was something strangely offensive about him. Yet he used to be a favourite" with strangers, he was such a handsome chap—and what a hypocrite. what a liar! The dear old governor never knew how to deal with Seaton. The boy’s cunning and innate vice was something too subtle and deep for Richard North’s clear, pure, noble spirit to understand. It is a puzzle to me how Richard North’s child has ever permitted herself and her young life to be linked to such a creature. There must be some verygood reason for the mistake she has committed. Although I have onlyseen her for these few moments, I can gather only too well that Justina has

realised she has made a mistake, and the knowledge must be ‘sitter to her indeed. How lovely she Ims grown, and how fragile—to think of her struggling with her feeble strength to make a living in this hard world! He moved uneasily in his place. ‘Women have no right to work. It is like Seaton to allow his young wife to slave and toil in the way she evidently does. I wish I could just pack up her belongings with my own band and carry her down with me when I go back to Croome. Molly would be enchanted with her. and we would soon paint some roses on those pale cheeks. She wants looking after. What could her people have been about to let her ruin her young life as she has done? For the matter of that, what are they about now to let her work herself to an early grave, as she most assuredly will. Poor old Richard North! How his heart would have ached to have seen his darling, his baby, his little

Just, as 1 saw her to-night, meagrely dressed, worn and white, and with a weariness and a hopelessness that hurts me to remember! By Heaven!’ Sir Basil said as the cab stopped finally before his hotel, ‘1 almost hope ItujMTt Seaton may not accept my invitation to-morrow; 1 fear I may say a few plain truths to him which will not be pleasant for him to hear!’ Justina's first act on entering her home was to rid herself as quickly as possible of her wet garments. She was actuated in this for two reasons; one was that she should not take the slightest atmosphere of discomfort into her husband's presence, and the other was that she might remove from her face all signs of her tears and agitation. Her heart was l>eating a little nervously while she changed her frock and brushed her hair. The unexpected meeting with one who had formed part of those old dear dead days of her childhood had opened up a wound that was only superficially healed at the best of times, and revived a yearning pain which the thought of her beloved vanished father, of the loss she had sustained in his death, made so very poignant. Iler toilette was completed at last, and running lightly down the stairs she entered the sitting-room. A young man in an elaborate and costly looking smoking suit was sitting by the fire; he was reading a paper-backed French novel, and he did not even trouble to glance round as his wife came in. Urged, she could hardly have told by what exact emotion, Justina went softly- up to him, and stooping she pressed a light kiss on his brow. He gave a shrug of his shoulders at this, and then closing his book, looked upwards with half a sneer. ‘You are wonderfully affectionate all at once,’ he remarked in a cool and drawlingly even sort of voice. Justina flushed hotly all over her lovely face. ‘I am very late, Rupert, T am afraid, but really it is almost a miracle 1 got home at all—the rain was terrible.' ‘You came in a cab. I perceived,’ Seaton said, languidly. ‘Consequently T conclude you have brought home some money.’ Justina answered him hurriedly: ‘I came in a cab it is true, but unfortunately T did not get my cheque; there is some extra work necessary to the serial before I can be paid.’ Mr Seaton shrugged his shoulders again.

‘After all the amount of stuff you have written for these people, justina, you must be more than ordinarily stupid that you never can hit on the proper thing right away.’ Justina’s flush had faded into pallor again.

‘We are all liable to mistakes sometimes,’ she said, gently, ‘and I suppose I am not very clever since I make so many.’ ‘Well!’ Rupert- Seaton observed to this, as be bent forward and stirre i the fire sharply, ‘you are cleverer than I gave you credit for. With all my brains I cannot manage to get a cab to carry me for nothing. Do you mind ringing that bell? It is about time I had something to eat; con sidering how delicate I am. it is little less than cruel to keep me waiting all these hours for my dinner. Oh! 1 know what you are going to say- why did I wait? Well.' with a laugh that was not very agreeable. ‘I prefer to starve rather than face your reproaches, which are none the less strong because they are not put into words.' Justina paused, hesitating as to whether she would speak or not. but a xvearx heart-ache forced her to keep silence.

The dinner was brought in. and the so-called invalid was waited upon hand and foot by the graceful, beautiful girl whose misfortune it was to call herself his wife.

The usual unlovely appurtenances and surroundings of a lodging-house xx ere softened and graced by Justina in some marvellous xvuy. However poor they might be. however hard the pathway of life xvas. there was always a prettiness, and n neatness, and a cleanliness put about Rupert Seaton; a state of affairs which he accepted with no pretence of surprise or gratitude, though, indeed, he might have given of both bountifully

to the young wife who did so much foi- him. After he had discussed the simple yet most appetising dishes presented to him in a manner that had not much relationship to delicacy or illness. Mr Seaton rested back in his chair and lit a cigar. nd now for the mystery of the cab.’ he said, and his curious coloured eyes took an expression which was always objectionable to his wife. Jt was an expression full of cunning, of a sly evilness (though this was not quite comprehensible to Justina, it is true) that could hardly be described in simple words. ‘There is no mystery,’ she said, very coldly, and then in the same proud, dignified way she told him all the’ had happened. ‘Fothergill—Basil Fothergill! I remember him well, a great big clumsy brute of a chap, with a head about as w'joden as they are made. So he has come into a titie, has he, and got heaps of tin. Well, it is always that sort of fool who has the luck in this world.’ Rupert Seaton made this comment while he smoked his cigar luxuriously. He was a singularly handsome man, though his delicacy of complexion and soft fair hair gave him a touch of effeminacy which would not be attractive to all. His hands were faultless —smooth, xvhite, slender, like a woman’s; he had a very well-bred air, but poor Justina had long ago discovered how far this air assimilated with his manners. He was of not particularly aristocratic birth, though his father, a poor struggling clergyman, had been able to boast of remote connections with the great Seaton family. For quite a year after their marnage Rupert had managed to convince his wife of the truth of his delicate health, to win her pity and stimulate her desire to work and guard him from all hardships; but of late Justina had grown to feel assured that her husband’s constitution and general health w’ere far, far stronger than what she had imagined or that which she possessed herself. ft was only another touch of bitterness to the heavy load she already carried, and went still further to emphasize the weakness and the folly of the miserable mistake she had made in leaving her uncle’s home, uncomfortable as it was, for the life she had to lead as Rupert Seaton's wife. No living soul but herself ever knew how she had allowed herself to do this thing; and looking back now, with her wisdom increased and her character sharpened, Justina herself condemned the sentiment of sympathy and the desire to help a suffering fellow-creature, which had been the real true reasons of her hasty and early marriage, as being paltry and insufficient.

As he spoke so rudely now of the man she felt was worthy of the highest admiration and respect, a little colour stole into her cheeks. Her husband watched her with some amusement.

'I shall go to lunch most certainly,’ he said as she remained silent. ‘A little decent food will not come amiss; and besides, as Fothergill is such an old friend of yours, he ought to be good for at least a hundred.’ Justina sprang to her feet. ■Rupert!’ she exclaimed. Pride and pain choked her for a moment, but she recovered herself quickly. ‘Look,’ she said hurriedly, fiercely almost, ‘if -if you dare do this thing 1 swear to you 1 will leave you at once—yes, at once. 1 xvill work for you and slave my fingers to the bone to keep you in idleness and luxury, but I xvill not support such an indignity ns this. Do not think I am speaking idly. Rupert. I am capable of proving howtrue my words are if you put me to the test.’ Seaton looked at her peevishly. ’Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t make such a fuss. Keep your pride to yourself. Much good may it do to you. I am going out. Give me some money. Aynesworth was here to-day. He invited me to a supper party, and. by gad. I’m jolly glad I accepted. A man has luck to escape such a home and from such a wife as you. If we have more scenes like this. Justina.’ I tell you frankly I shall end it before you, for 1 am about sick of the airs and graces you give yourself, and I should not care how soon I saw the lust of you.’

Justina made no answer. She knew the full value of this most unmauly speech. It had been made to her too often. She simply pushed her purse across the table to him and then began preparing a clear space in which to sit and commence her labour of correcting and condensing her manuscript. Her heart was a little more sore tonight than usual. Perhaps she was chilled by her long exposure to the rain. Perhaps contrast, that remembrance of that other man brought so vividly, had something to do with it. She only knew she felt weary and sorrow-stricken, and she had scarcely the energy to face the task that must be done unless they xvere to suffer the humiliation not only of starvation but of dishonour. as money due for their living must be paid, and paid soon. She sat down, pen in hand, while her husband went upstairs to finish bis toliet for the evening. He glanced in on his way out. There was very little of the invalid or of the pauper either in his appearance.

‘Ta-ta,’ he said, lightly. ‘I don’t know what time I shall be in, bnt I don’t suppose you will alarm yourself. At anyrate you will know I am enjoying myself and that I am spending the evening your confounded temper has spoiled here in the society of right good company.’ He glanced at his handsome reflection in the glass, and then, having instructed the maid of the house to whistle a hansom, he sauntered out, and Justina was left to her work and her reflections. She heard him drive away without moving. ‘The society of blackguards and thieves,’ she said, scornfully, and then the bitterness broke. ‘Oh, Daddy! Oh. my Daddy! If you were only here to help me now. If only I had you for comfort—for a gleam of happiness. It is all so terrible, Daddy dear, and I have no wish except to be with you, dear—to be at rest and to learn the meaning of true forgetfulness.’ (To be continued.)

Marvellous economy is practised by the poor of Italy in looking after the wants of the inner man. Coffee grounds from the wealthy man’s kitchen are dried ami resold to the poor. In a similar way oil is twice and sometimes three times used, the drippings after each successive frying Ixeing gathered from the pan and sold to the poor.