ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIII, Issue XII, 16 September 1899, Page 467

ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE.

(Published by Special Arrangement.)

By

Mary Angela Dickens.

Author of “ Prisoners of Silence,” “ Against the Tide,” “ Some Women’s Ways,” “ Cross Currents,” “A Mere Cypher,’ “Valiant Ignorance,” etc., etc.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

CHAPTERS I. & 11.—Mr Cecil Cochrane, an unlucky ne’er-do-well. visits his uncle, Mr Drummond, and asKs for pecuniary assistance, which is denied him. in the second chapter, Cecil’s par-tially-deformed sister, and an unsuccessful playwright, Andrew Hamer, who has produced a play which has turned out a failure, are Introduced. Hamer tells her he is about to leave the country for Paris, and possibly for St. Petersburgh. Cecil returns from his visit to his uncle. ® ® ® CHAPTER 111. A CYCLING CASUALTY. Rachel Cochrane finished her supper. It was but a scanty meal she made, and then she pushed the table to one side, so as to make more room near the window, and sat down in the chair that Andrew Hamer had occupied in the afternoon. It was still very hot; she was looking pale and tired, with dark circles round her eyes. There was an interval of silence, during which her brother smoked sullenly, and then Rachel Cochrane said abruptly: “What tone did he take? What was he like?” “He was like an old bear, as usual,” returned Cochrane. He flicked the ash from his cigar, as he spoke, with a womanly delicacy of touch which gave a peculiarly unpleasant effect to the viciousness of his expression. “If the day should ever come when I could give him a little lesson in manners. what a satisfaction it would be.” His sister's lips curled. “Not very likely,” she said. “No,” he responded. “Not very likely, but I should know how to do it.” “What reason did he give for refusing? The old one?” “He reminded me of the vast benefits he has bestowed upon us in the past. He looked upon himself, as usual, as a model of generosity. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see it from the same point of view.” His sister shot a comprehensive glance at the languid figure and sneering face upon the sofa, was quite in the natural order of events for Rachel Cochrane to detect in her brother the traits incidental to a vicious nature. Gratitude would have been as impossible in him as generosity, honour, or tenderness of heart. But the circumstances of her life had not been such as to make her think of him as peculiar in his moral constitution. Her mother, the only daughter of a country gentleman, had run away with her father, who was an actor in a fourth-rate position, with no advantages but his handsome face. Poverty, shifts of all kinds, debt, and difficulty, had been the atmosphere in which the son and daughter born of the marriage had breathed from babyhood. The seamy side of life, the seamy side of human nature, had presented itself, as it is too apt do under such circumstances, as the only aspect of existence. But there was a touch of contempt for her brother in Rachel’s eyes which contrasted oddly with the cynicism of her expression. “He kept us all for four years,” she said, briefly. “So he did not fail to tell me,” said Cochrane. “He would have put you in a position to do very well, if you would have behaved properly.” Cochrane’s brow darkened. “He would have put you in a position to do very well,” he returned. There was a delicate edge in his voice such as it always took when he was

saying what he knew would be unpleasant to the hearer. “You should have accepted his offer.”

She threw' herself back in her chair with a half laugh.

“I think not,” she said. “lave as a companion to one of his pious friends! Not his daughter. Oh. dear no. I wasn’t fit to associate with my beautifully brought up young cousin. But some serious minded old lady, who would have taken me as a charity; someone to whom he would have said, ‘My neice.poor thing—sad case, no education. no proper bringing up. Really, I can’t answer far her in any way, after the life she's led. But if you would take pity on her ’ Bah!” She had spoken with a wonderfully clever imitation of Mr Drummond’s tone and manner, and as her voice broke suddenly into a fierce ejaculation of scorn her brother turned his head and looked at her. “Confound it all!” he said. “Why aren’t you a few inches taller and twenty per cent, better looking? There isn't a woman on the stage could hold a candle to you if you only had a decent physique. It’s just our cursed luck.”

The strange passion which had shaken her as she spoke died out of Rachel Cochrane as suddenly as it had arisen. There was a pause, during which she sat curiously motionless, and then she said, in her usual manner:

“The main point, after all, is. that you haven’t got the money.” The tendency to recriminate seemed to have worn itself out between the brother and sister in those few vindictive retorts. They had lived together for nine years now; they were useful to one another in many ways, and up to a certain point they understood one another well. Just now, the chief financial interest of their lives—and the question of ways and means was the sordid centre of existence with both of them—had a common object.

A friend of Cochrane’s, a man of little better position than himself, had had the “confounded luck.” as Cochrane himself phrased it. to “get in” with a syndicate running a theatre for the winter season, and had been appointed managing director. This man had contrived to give a small engagement to Rachel Cochrane, whose lifelong connection with the theatrical world had given her a knowledge of stage technique, which was sometimes by favour, allowed to outweigh the disadvantages of her appearance. He also allowed Coehrane to hang about the theatre, not officially attached to the staff, but in a position to take advantage of those opportunities for “pickings” which are always to be found in an enterprise conducted on such principles. The fortunes of the season in question, therefore, meant a regular salary, small enough, certainly, to the sister, and unlimited possibilities to the brother. “Has Ffolliott made up his mind?” lie said. Ffolliott was the husband of the lending lady whom Andrew Hamer did not admire. He had a small share in the enterprise, but at the failure of the first production he had hinted ni a desire to withdraw his capital and retire. Tt was to2fi,ll the placeithuismade vacant, and offered to him in confidence by his friend Alfred Rastrick the manager, that Mr Cecil Cochrane had made his fruitless attempt to ger money from Mr Drummond. A stake in the theatre would have given him a voice in the management; and out of a voice in the management much might have developed.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s a dead secret,” she said. “Everybody was talking about it tonight. He goes out of the affair and Mrs Ffolliott refuses to play in Hamer's piece.” “Confound the old boy,” returned her brother. “It's a chance in a thousand, and it’ll go to somebody else. What's Rastrick going to do?” “Nobody knows,” she said. “They won’t find it so easy to get anybody to put their money into it without Clare Ffolliott. Andwho they’re to get in her place I can’t think. Rastrick’s gone off to Edinburgh to-night. It’s wrapped in the profoundesit mystery, but everybody knows that he’s gone to see a girl who is playing lead with Fisher’s company, and who is said to be a genius.” “Gone off to Edinburgh?” repeated Cochrane. “When’s he coming back?” She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.

“He ought to give me a berth as secretary,” said her brother. He had finished his cigar and was stroking his hair with a side-consciousness of selfadmiration. “They want a secretary and it would suit me better than nothing.”

“He won’t!” said Rachel, rising as she spoke. “He wanted that money, and he’ll be nasty because you haven’t got it. I’m going to bed, Cecil.”

“I’ll have a talk.with him when he comes home,” said Cochrane. “He must find me something.” Rachel took up her hat and went towards the door. With her hand on the latch she turned. “Did you see our beautiful and stupid cousin?” she said. Coehrane made a gesture of negation.

“I was not allowed that privilege,” he said. “But I gathered that our beautiful, etcetera, is shortly going to give us a cousin in law. I saw him. A gentleman of the curate persuasion, incapable of seeing an inch beyond his nose. I should have said, if he had not proved himself so discerning as to which side his bread is buttered.” “A curate?” she said, with a sneer. "Well. I should have thought, with so much beauty and goodness and money, s'hemight have done better than that. Good night.” And she disappeared forthwith.

The three days that followed were monotonously dreary in the Coehrane establishment. Affairs at the theatre were stationary; the manager was away and the company was flat and disorganised. The weather remained hot and oppressive, and Rachel’s temper was rendered captious thereby. Cecil. also, professed himself quite knocked up by the heat, and lounged away his time at bars in the neighbourhood of the theatre with companions of like tastes with himself, spending more of his sister’s earnings than usual on the strength of his assertion that Rastrick must certainly do something for him. On the third night a rumour circulated in the theatre that Rastrick had returned. But he did not put in an appearance, nor was there any news as to the success or failure of his journey.

“1 think we should all have heard of it. if he’d unearthed a star,” said Mrs Ffolliott, maliciously. “I'm afraid he’s had his journey for nothing." “You’ve given him too high a >'tnndard.” said Cecil Cochrane, to whom this remark was addressed, fie never lost an opportunity of making himself attractive to anyone who had succeeded in the game of life. “You shouldn't give a poor wretch the impossible task

of replacing you, and then ehaff him when he doesn’t succeed.”

But suave as he was with the leading lady, Cochrane was a bad tempered man when he went home that night without having seen the manager, and he was not in his pleasantest mood w'hen he went out next morning at almut twelve o'clock, to look for Rastrick in his office at the theatre.

The manager was alone, and a press of business did not seem to weigh upon him, for he was slowly and thoughtfully smoking a cigar. He was a thin, unhealthy looking man, with small, keen eyes and a weak mouth, shaded by a long, fair moustache. He looked up as Cochrane came into the room, and nodded cordially. "Hullo, my boy,” he said. “I was hoping you’d look in. Beastly close, isn’t it?” “Close enough for anything,” returned Cochrane, expansively throwing himself into a chair. “Awful weather for travelling. When did you get back?” "Oh. 1 travelled at night,” returned the other. "Always do if I can manage it. 1 got back yesterday morning. but 1 was dead beat; had to sleep it off. Only just got down here. As I said, I was expecting you to come in.” "Anything up?” returned the other. "Wretched house last night.” Both men had been speaking lengthily and with an air of excessive ease and disembarrassment, as though each wished to persuade the other that the interview contained on his side nothing more than an exchange of ideas on indifferent topics. But now the manager suddenly changed his tactics. He ignored Cochrane’s last words, and leaning back in his chair, said abruptly: "There’s a good deal up. There’ll be the closing of the theatre up before very long if we don’t have some luck. Mrs Ffolliott goes, for one

thing. Won’t stay for Hamer’s piece on anv terms.”

"Why not throw up Hamer’s piece?” suggested Cochrane. "Because we’ve nothing else,” was the answer, which contained a decided snarl. “And Ffolliott goes too, with his capital.” He paused, but Coehrane made no answer. He was leaning back in his ehair, swinging one foot as it rested on the other, and watching the movement with an air of profound interest).

"I hinted to you the other day.” went on Rastrick in a tone of forced amiability, “that I thought I could get you in Ffolliott’s place if you eould find a little money. Now’s your time, man! There are lots of fellows after the> chance, but you shall have it!”

"I'm glad to hear there are lots of fellows after it,” said Cochrane, coolly. “But I'm out of the running, Rastrick. I can't do it.” "Do you mean you can’t, or you won't?” said the other man, hotly. Coehrane lifted his eyes and fixed them on the man’s face. Effeminate as he looked there was a curious strength about that singularly unpleasant gaze of his. "Don't be a fool. Rastrick,” he said. "It isn’t worth while to gas with me! 1 know as well as you do that you'll find it very hard to get what you want from anyone else. A'nd you might know as well as I do that it would be worth my while to stand in with you if I’d got the money. But I haven't.”

“You said you could get it.” retorted the other man.

"I ought to have been able to get. it.’ sard Cochrane; “but I can’t, and that’s all about it.”

The manager rose angrily, and began to walk up and down the room. "It’s confoundedly odd. that's all 1 can say.” he said. “You shouldn’t have led me to believe you wanted Ffolliott’s place if you weren't sure of the money. Why. if I hadn’t been keeping it for yon I could hare ” . “Rot!” interrupted Coehrane, unceremoniously. “Look here, Rastrick, do you suppose I am standing out because I want to? Do you suppose I enjoy hanging about, doing odd

jobs? I'll tell you what it is. I've done your dirty work for next to nothing long enough. You must give me a berth."

The other man stopped ami stared at him with a short laugh. “Must. I?” he said. “1 don’t think so."

“How do you suppose I live?" asked Cochrane. His face had Hushed and his eyes looked dangerous. "Curse it all. you know what it is. hardly to be able to keep body and

soul together. You could give me a regular screw if you chose. It's time you did it.”

"That may be your opinion,” was the answer, "but it's not mine. I’ve put plenty of odds and ends in your waj since I earne here, and I've put you up to a first-rate thing in this matter of Ffolliott. If you can’t take advantage of it that's your affair. Anyway, you needn't hang about the place any more if you don’t think you’re properly paid for what you do.”

It was the vindictive turning of the cur who has a bone upon the cur who has not. And cur number two recognised of necessity that cur number one had the best of the position. Ceeil Cochrane rose. His very lips were white with fury. "You'll be sorry for this, dear boy,” he said. “It may be my turn yet. Anyhow, you can do your dirty work for yourself in the future. Ta-ta!” He walked out of the room and left the theatre with an easy air, somewhat belied by a vicious kick which he aimed at an unoffending cat.. He refreshed himself with a glass of whisky at a bar hard by. insinuating dark things meanwhile to a couple of men he met as to the probable speedy termination of the season at the theatre from which he had just come. And two or three hours later, when he had exhausted the possibilities of loafing with empty pockets, nobody having offered him dinner, he went to Charing Cross Station and took a train westward.

It was about half-past four when he set out for the few minutes’ walk that, lay between the station at which he left the train and his lodgings. and the September sun was getting low. Cochrane threaded his way through a few yards of crowded thoroughfare pre-occupied and savage in expression. He turned into a quiet road, and then again into the crescent in which the house stood. Mareshill Crescent was not a populous spot. It led nowhere in particular. although it was not far from a rather desirable neighbourhood. And it was one of those always dreary-looking places from which the greater number of the inhabitants, male and female, issue forth to work in the morning to return late in the evening, while those who remain are too heavily occupied indoors for much coming and going.

There was not a creature to be seen as Cochrane turned into the Crescent, but before he had gone many yards his eyes was caught by a somewhat unusual sight, a girl advancing towards him on a bicycle. The bicycle was a good one. The girl was well dressed and she rode well, though she was looking about her in a rather frightened and uncertain manner.

Cochrane had noticed these points, and was wondering if anything were to be gained by asking her if he could direct her when, about twentyyards form him. he saw the machine earelesssly guided -on a newlywatered road slip. The girl was thrown violently and lay still, with her bicycle on the top of her. Cochrane broke almost involuntarily into a rapid run. He reached the girl’s side in a moment, lifted the machine, and knelt down beside her. “I’m afraid you're hurt?” he said, suavely. She did not speak or move, and he leaned over her so that he could see her faee. The next moment he had drawn hack with a low ejaculation. Then he glanced furtively about him. There was nobody to be seen. Even the accident had' not attracted the notice of a single soul. The girl was lying at his very door. He ran up the steps with extraordinarily alert movements, opened the door with his latch-key. at the same time ringing the bell violently. Then he ran down again to the prostrate figure in the road as his landlady appeared in the distance and followed him out. “Make haste, Mrs. Simmons." he called, Thera's been an accident. This young lady—she was coming to see my sister —has had a fall and is stunned. No. I don’t think she’s much hurl. But I want to get her upstairs quickly that I may see. I’m a bit of a doctor, you know. Help me. will you?” He took the girl in his arms with a skill, born of his medical training. that needed little or no assistance from the woman. “Bring in the bicycle.” he said. As he reached the top of the stairs the. sitting-room door opened, and Itaehel appeared on the threshold.

Cecil Cochrane was panting heavily with his exertions. “What is it? What in the world has happened?” “Be quiet!” he said, in a low gasp. With a half glance over his shoulder at the advancing figure of the landlady, he said loudly: “It’s Miss Maynard. Rachel; thrown from her bicycle at the very door—stunned.”

He moved on into the room, his sister standing aside to let him pass, and he added:

“Will you fetch some water, please, Mrs. Simmons?”

He laid his burden on the sofa as he spoke, and as Mrs. Simmons dej Mir ted with a agitated, “Lor, deary me!” Rachel came up to him. She looked down at the unconscious face with an unreeognising stare of blank bewilderment.

“What do you mean. Cecil?” she said. “Who is it?”

Cecil Cochrane was still panting slightly. He was kneeling by the sofa with his hand on the girl's pulse. He lifted his head for an instant, and looked full at his sister. “It is our cousin Violet, my dear!” he said. CHAPTER IV. “I DON’T KNOW." "Then you’ll send the telegram off at once. Mrs. Simmons, please. My sister doesn’t feel easy about leaving her friend, you see.” It was nearly two hours later, and Cecil Cochrane and his landlady stood in the sitting-room with the door open. The room looked even more disorderly than usual. A basin of water and a sponge stood on the floor by the sofa, a bottle of smelling salts and a bottle of brandy stood on the table, and under the table lay a hat. which had evidently rolled there unobserved.

Cecil Cochrane was standing with his back to the light. He held a telegram form in his hand, and it contained the words, “Cannot come to-night. Raehel Cochrane,” and was addressed to the manager of the theatre. Mrs. Simmons took it with an alacrity which she was not wont to show in obeying the Cochranes’ behests. They were by no means unimpeachable lodgers. She was one of those women to whom a little excitement, particularly of a disastrous nature, is a godsend.

"Sarah, she shall take it at once, Mr. Cochrane. Pore young lady, it would never do for Miss Cochrane to leave her: not after the shock she’s had. There’s no telling what might happen, as I always say. I’m sure I’m thankful to hear she has come round as well as she has.”

"She’s doing splendidly, thanks,” answered Cochrane. “You can let us have dinner as soon as possible, please. Mrs. Simmons.” "Yes, sir,” said Mrs, Simmons again. “And the young lady, will she take dinner with you, sir?”

Cecil Cochrane stroke his chin reflectively, with his eyes fixed upon his landlady. “1 think not, on the whole,” he said. “A little Bovril by and by would be the best thing for her. She’s feeling a little faint and uncomfortable still. She’ll stay with us to-night, by the bye.” “Which it’s only natural she should feel herself shook, sir,” responded Mrs. Simmons. She hesitated a moment, and then glancing down at the paper in her hand, she said: “ The young lady’s friends, sir—if I might take the liberty of reminding you. If Sarah could take the telegram to hease their minds at the same time as she takes this, it would save her a journey like.” Ceeil Cochrane smiled blandly. “ It would, Mrs Simmons,” he said: “ you’re quite right. But Miss Maynard’s friends will not be anxious: and a telegram would only alarm them unnecessarily.” Mrs Simmons sniffed. She would have liked the sending off of a startling telegram. “ As you think best, sir, of course.” she said huffily. “ Well, I’d better be sending Sarah off with this ’ere. then.’ Cecil Cochrane waited till Mrs Simmon's heavy footfall could l>e heard descending into the lower regions, then he slipped softly across the narrow passage, opened the door facing the sittting-room door, and shut it quickly behind him.

The room was Rachel Cochrane’s liedroom. It was darkened as much as might be, a shawl having been

pinned up to supplement the curtain and keep the least ray of light from falling on the bed. The bed stood with its head against a wall at right angles with the window, and Cecil Cochrane went towards it. Rachel was standing on the other side. She looked up as her brother came in, but she did not say anything, nor did he speak to her.

On the bed, between the brother and sister, lay the girl who had been thrown from her bicycle—the girl who had sat with the clergyman in the garden—Violet Drummond. Her eyes were closed and there were dark, purplish marks under them. Her face was quite white and absolutely unconscious. There was no sign of life about her except her heavy breathing. Cecil Cochrane bent over her, felt her pulse, and touched her forehead. Then in a deft, professional way he raised her eyelids and examined her eyes, his sister watching him closely all the time. He drew himself up. and stood looking thoughtfully down at the unconscious girl: and Rachel said abruptly and in a low voice: “ There's no change at all.” “ No,” he answered. “ Not yet.” “ What are you going to do ?” “ Nothing.” Rachel’s brow contracted. “You’d better be careful,” she said. “ I’ve not a notion what’s in your head. But I think you’ll be a fool if you don’t send for a doctor. Suppose she dies ?” •. “ She won’t die,” returned Ceeil. coolly. “At least, not yet.” Rachel’s lips parted sharply. But the retort she was about to utter was checked. A low and mysterious knock, which was Mrs Simmons' tribute to illness, fell upon the door. Cecil turned hastily and went towards it. He opened it slightly. “ Your dinner’s up, sir,” she said, in a loud whisper. “ The young lady feeling any better, sir ?" “ Thank you, Mrs Simmons, much better,” he answered. “ There’s a little cut on her forehead that I am just plastering up. But we shall eome to dinner directly.” He shut the door again, and at the same moment a sharp exclamation came from Rachel.

“Ceeil,” she said, “come here !” He was at the bedside in a moment, asking no question, but giving all his attention to his patient. The girl had moved for the first time. The heavy insensibility of her face was relaxed, and one hand was feebly moving over the counterpane. Rachel did not speak after that one ejaculation. She, too, stood looking down, watching with an almost fascinated expression as the life came slowly back to the face on the pillow. There were a few seconds during which they remained thus, and consciousness seemed to creep slowly from feature to feature. Then the girl opened her eyes. She opened them full on Cochrane and lay looking blankly up at him. He did not move or speak for a moment; then he said, in carefully modulated tones: “ You feel better, now ?” She turned her head away from him with a feeble movement of instinctive dislike, and so turning, her eyes fell upon Rachel. She stretched out her hand.

“My head aches,” she said, indistinctly. “ I want to go to sleep.”

She turned over on her side, rested her cheek on her hand, and in another moment she was sleeping like a tired child, breathing softly and regularly. Rachel drew a long breath and looked across at her brother. He studied the sleeping face for a moment longer, and then he, too. lifted his head. He made a sign to his sister to follow him quietly, and moved noiselessly out of the room opening and shutting the door with the utmost caution.

“ She must sleep now,” he said. “ I am going to tell Mrs Simmons to keep the place quiet.” When he returned to the sittingroom. Rachel had thrown herself into an easy chair, totally ignoring the waiting dinner. She looked paler than usual, and her eyes were hard. Cecil drew a chair to the table and took the cover off the dish.

“ Why don’t you come to dinner ?” he said. “We are only about a couple of hours late !” She rose mechanically and seated herself opposite him. “ Will she be all right ?” she said. “You’ve run a frightful risk.” “ She’ll be all right till she wakes up,” he responded. “ What she’ll’ be like then remains to be seen. A little shaky, I should say.” “ How did it happen ?” “ Side-slip,” responded Cochrane, laconically. “ She must have struck her head against the pavement.” Rachel leaned back in her chair. “ But how in the world do you suppose she came to be riding in London ? And alone, too. A pet lamb like that !” she said. “ Who knows ?” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. “ It’s the unexpected that happens. Anyhow, it was uncommonly accommodating of her to throw herself off just at our door.” Rachel pushed away her plate, and rested her elbows on the table, propping her chin moodily on her hands. “I see you think so.” she said. “I suppose you think there’s something to be got out of it ? But why you should have taken so much unnecessary trouble, telling a paek of lies to Mrs Simmons, and running the risk of doing without a doctor. I haven’t the slightest idea.” Cochrane helped himself deliberately from the dish before him. “No definite reason!” he said. “I do not want Mrs Simmons on in this scene, therefore it was obviously necessary to take definite possession of my find at once ; and it’s as well to keep your cards to yourself till you know what they are worth. I don’t care about having another fellow to share the credit of restoring the young lady to her father. I couldn’t have kept a doctor out without a few more lies to Mrs Simmons.” Rachel rose and turned away to the window. “ It seems to me it’s time you took steps to restore her to her father !” she said, with a brusque sneer. “if it’s to be done to-night. It’s eight o’clock. I suppose I’d better see if I can find a London address of any kind in her pocket.” “ Don’t trouble.” returned her brother. “ It’s not to be done to-night. I wasn’t allowed to see my eousin the other day. We don’t know who the young lady is until she wakes up and tells us.”

“ How do you know her if you did not see her ?” said Rachel, turning suddenly.

•‘I said I was not allowed to see her,” he answered. “ I did see her, as it happened, but it was accidental, and nobody was aware of the fact. By the way, if there is an' address in her pocket you’d better destroy it. The old boy must do without his pet lamb for one night. 1 always wanted to give him a lesson in manners.” She turned away, and began to drum impatiently on the windowledge. But she made no protest. At last she said :

“ How long will she sleep ?” ‘ Lord knows !” he answered, reaching carelessly for his cigarette case. *• Twelve hours —twenty-four hours |>erhaps. You’ll have to manage as best you can in there. She mustn’t be left too long alone, in ease she should awake and be frightened.”

But Violet Drummond's awakening was not a frightened one. Rachel had passed an uneasy night. She made no attempt to get into bed ; but the mere presence of the sleeping figure there seemed to oppress ami jar upon her indescribably. She sat through the long night hours, staring fixedly before her for the most part, her brows drawn together, her mouth set into a bitter line. Every now and then she would rise and go to the bed. to stand there looking with fierce contemptuous eyes at the beautiful face that seemed to grow only gentler and more childish as sleep wrapped it more and more closely. It was only towards morning that Raehel herself fell asleep. She slept heavily for two hours, and she wakened with a start and a sense that someone was looking at her. She rose hurriedly and turned instinctively towards the bed. And she found herself confronted with the quiet gaze of a pair of large, simple blue eyes. Violet Drummond was awake.

Raehel was so astonished and so taken aback that for the moment no word came to her. It was the girl in bed who broke the silence.

“ I should like to get up,” she said, placidly.

Rachel’s self-command seldom deserted her for more than an instant. She was a little surprised at the other’s composure, but she came up to the bed and said quietly : “ Have you been awake long ?"

“I don’t know. A little while,” was the answer. “ I want to get up. I should like some breakfast.”

“ Do you feel quite well this morning ?” The girl looker! puzzled. “ Yes.” she said. “ Whv shouldn’t I ?”

“You had an accident,” said Rachel. There was something very hard and unsympathetic both about her tone and about the keen glanee with which she was watching the girl. “ Don't you remember ? You fell off your bicycle.”

The girl wrinkled her forehead. “ I don’t know what you mean," she said. “ I am quite well.”

“ I’m very glad you're quite well,” said Rachel. “ But yon mustn't get up just at this moment. Wait till I come back.”

She spoke decisively, and the girl sank back again on her pillow with a submissive sigh. Rachel went out of the room. She went to her brother’s door and knocked.

" Get up, Cecil,” she said, peremptorily. “ Get dressed. Be quick.” She waited impatiently in the sit-ting-room during the few minutes that elapsed before her brother came to her, and then she began to speak at once. “ She’s awake. Cecil.” she said. “ but she doesn’t remember anything about the accident. She doesn't even seem to realise that she’s in a. strange place and has never seen me before. She wants to get up and have breakfast.”

" A quick flash of intelligence passed across Cochrane's face, leaving it unusually keen and alert.

“ What have you told her ?” be said.

“Only that she fell off her bicycle and hurt herself. She doesn’t seem to know anything about it.” Cochrane moved towards the l>edroom door.

“ Go in first.” he said. “ Tell her I’m your brother amt a doctor. Be very careful what you say, and follow my lead.”

She obeyed him with a quick movement of her eyebrows. They went into the room together, and she walked up to the bed. “I’ve brought my brother to see you,” she said. “He's a doctor and he’ll be able to tell you if you mayget up.” The blue eyes turned to meet Cecil Cochrane and a faint eloud came over them as they rested on him. Then she held out her hand with the gesture of a well-behaved school girl. “How do you do?" she said. “1 don’t quite know what this ladymeans. I am quite well.” "I am delighted to hear it.” said Cochrane, coming up to her. “You had a nasty little knock last night. Suppose I feel your pulse?” He felt her pulse, looked at her eyes again, and made sundry other observations. she shrinking slightly from his touch. Then he said: “Yes. I think there's not much amiss. And you'd like to get up, would you? And have your breakfast? What time do you have breakfast as a rule?”

She looked at him vaguely ami shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. "And what would you like to do afterwards?" he asked. There was a silence. Then she turned her eyes wistfully from him to Rachel. But Rachel made no response.

"I don't know,” said the girlish voice again, uncertainly. Rachel looked across at her brother, and their eves met. He drew out a

chair and sat down by the bed. He was watching its occu|Hint intently. “Oh, well, that doesn't very much matter,” he said. “Something will turn up, no doubt. By the bye. my sister hasn't introduced us. Will you tell me your name?” She looked at him with a kind of puzzled fear growing in her eyes. Her lips began to tremble. “My name,” she said, "my name?" “Yes,” he answered. “They call me Cecil Cochrane. What do they call you ?” Iler whole face was quivering now, and she gazed at him helplessly. “I don’t know,” she faltered at last. Then she turned again to Raehel and clung to her convulsively. “Oh, does it matter?” she said. There was no touch of tenderness in Rachel's manner. She unloosed the dinging hands quickly and laid the girl back on her pillow as she said, in an odd, hard tone, “No, no; of course it doesn't matter. Don't cry.” Cochrane had risen suddenly aml crossed the room to the dressing table. He now returned to the bedside. He carried a little miniature case which had fallen from the girl’s pocket on the evening before. He opened it and looked at its contents—two pictures, one of Violet Drummond's father, and one of her lover. He held them out towards the girl. “Don't mind about your name,” he said. “I’ll tell you that presently. You can't tell me who these are, of course ?” There, was a tone of easy conviction in his voice which seemed to reassure her. She took the ease in one hand, still clinging to Rachel with the other, and looked at the pictures intently. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said, giving the ease Ivack to Cochrane. “I’ve never seen either of them.” (To be continued.)