UNTO SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVII, Issue 5, 4 August 1906, Page 21

UNTO SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN

Or. THE FLOWER OF THE PENINSULA

ALL "IGHTS RESERVED

By

Lily Froude

CHAPTER XIV. Xothinu w r Leaves. PE had gone, and she stood where he had left her. the dead leaves failing upon her anti around her unheeded, as she watched the trail of the boat- in the water. From a house across the river came the soft, sweet strains of "Robin Adair,” and above her head, in the willows. Valerie, could hear the twittering 01 the birds. But site heeded them not, nvr was she conscious that the sun was shining, and that all Nature was glad and joyous. Her own heart alone was sad. and out of aeeord with all around her. "He might have kissed me,” she said, “just once on my forehead, to show he cared : it wouldn't have been a great sin —at least, so far as I know it wouldn't. But he knows best : he has sued: clear judgment in these things, and he is so honourable. I wonder if it was because he is so honourable that he didn't kiss l ie. or because he did not care to. He didn't even ask me to write to him. After all. I don’t suppose he ever loved me— In- never told me so. anyway. What a prudent lover he always was. One w uld suppose that 1 was some adventuress, and that he was afraid of my prosecuting him for breach of promise of marriage, therefore never putting it ii my power. Of course. I'm thinking o> past- days, when he was considered n>y lover by some people, his mother included. Ah. well, to the pure, all is pure. But why' did he never confess his 1 e. if he had any. for me: and he expected me to confide my troubles to him before he had given me the right to do so Well, I am going to try to forget y ■ u. Lewis St. Mar.” I’oor girl, she did not know how imP -sible she would find it in the long, w trv struggle of the years to come, and lv-.v. in her solitude, her thoughts would revert more and more to her girlhood’s 1- e. Whether for weal or woe, Lewis S'. Mar would possess her heart until it Ci sed to beat. ‘ L-'pes. only dead hopes. Torn from the heart bv the storms of life: Ecpes. only dead hopes. Killed by sorrow and strife. V ithereu and chilled by the cold world’s frown, < rushed and torn and trampled down Lite forest leaves ’neath the winter’s sky, The hopes of our young life wither and die.” Valerie repeated these words to hers as she slowly turned away from the r r towards her own gate. She hail r • id the words somewhere, and thought tL---y suited her own sad life. All her h"j>es were dead, and she eould see no v iy out of her misery, but just to suffer on and liear her burden alone. Wl)en S' reached the gate she found the faithful companion of her many lonely walks v. iting for her. "Poor old Ponto! You love me. don’t you. doggie!” Ponto signified that he did by immediately responding to her caress in a vain endeavour to lick her bands and •»■■■. and behaving in a generally riot•u- manner. Valerie let herself in with ■<« latch key, and went straight to a

little foods that was entirely her own., where site sewed and painted anti dreamed of the past. It was understood that when in this room she was not to be disturbed, and the servant was forbidden to enter it. Valerie always cleaning it out herself. So, tn rowing herself down on a sofa, she quietly fainted away, and there she lay until found by her husband some twenty minutes later. He was holding a glass of water to her lips when she opened her eyes, and gave a wan smile: then she sat up and took the glass from his hand, and eagerly drank a portion. “What made you faint V’ “I—oh, it’s rather close, don’t you think so? I suppose there is a nor’-wes-ter coming up: they always unnerve me 80.” “I thought the heat agreed with you; you always said that it did. I saw St. Mar on the river as I came home. Has he teen here?*’ •‘Yes, I told you at breakfast that he would l*e up this morning to take me for a row. I waited for him on the river in our boat: he did not come in; I did not ask him.” “Why?” “Oh. 1 don’t know. Perhaps 1 felt he would not come in if I had asked him. He leaves Christchurch again in a couple of days.” “Does he? I suppose that was what made you faint. Was the leave-taking of a tender nature?” “Quite the contrary.” said Valerie, with dashing eyes. “Do you want to know what passed? I will tell you if you do.” “Oh. you need not unless you like; I never thought St. Mar a particularly affectionate individual.” “He may be affectionate to those who belong to him. but he never was particularly so to me.’’ Instead of answering. Mr. Day drew a chair up to the fire, which had burnt low. and planted his feet on the fender rail. He had a habit of doing this, even when there was no fire in the grate, and when the weather was warm. “F rank! ” “Well!” “I wish Lewis St. Mar had kissed me.” “And didn’t he ?” “No, he is too honourable.” “Too jolly void, you mean. I believe if you lost your good looks he wouldn’t care a fig for you.” “I have lost them. He told me I was thin, and he said when 1 frowned that I looked tnirty-six.’’ “Didn’t 1 say so? That’s why he did not ki"s you. and that’s the man you’ve thrown your heart away upon. Women are queer creatures. Fancy imputing to honour every cold-blooded thing he does. Can’t you see he does not love you. ami never did?’’ “Of course I can see it. I never said he loved me. and he never told me that he did. That is the reason 1 married you.” “I know; ami if I were you I’d try and cure myself of loving a man who was indifferent to me. You never were the sort nf girl to give your love unsought. What made you in this case?” “He used to come after me. and we used to go on the river and to dances together, and I thought he eared for me; I fancied a woman could tell, but I don’t now; I am sure 1 was mistaken, especi-

ally as you say it was not honour prevented him kissing me.” “I feel sure of it. If a fellow wanted to kiss a girl lie eared for he’d do it—honour lie hanged.” “It wouldn’t prevent you. anyway. I suppose, and naturally you judge by yourself. I was thinking myself a while ago that I was getting a little tired of honour, my life is so barren of love, ami I feel so lonely.” “You had better ask St. Mar to elope with you. ami then you won’t be lonely, or are you too honourable ?’’ “How coarse you arc. and how I hate you. I cannot help being a woman, and having a woman’s nature. Men com-

plain of the 'New Woman.’ but sfcm tu forget that lheir sneer* ofteA turn a loving Iwart int<» that hideous creation, a mannish woman. They art) denied aifevtion by mvn. and are sco at for imssessing it themselves. Civd me about seven years to crush out my feelings, and after that you won’t have to complain that I am too aiTcvtioiiateu Love wants to i*v fed. and as i am in n€ danger of a surfeit of that sort of food, 1 will bo as hard as nails in scveai years.” and with a eeornful laugh Valerie left the room. She was smarting from his taunt, and felt very bitter towards men in general. She had l>een in the habit of discussing her feelings with

her husband, and he had never before shown himself so spiteful, knowing when he married her that her heart was given to another. She had told him everything, but he was only too glad to marry her on any terms, and she naturally .dt his taunt to be unjust to herself. Valerie had made many enemies because she could never dissemble; her nature was too straightforward, and if she disliked any one they soon discovered the fact from her inability to hide her feelings. Not that she was ever rude. On the contrary, she was scrupulously polite, and to those she liked her manner was free and confiding. CHAPTER XV. OS THE AvOX. Three o'clock found Valerie walking rapidly along the river bank, where presently she came to a clump of willows that had been her trysting place in days gone by. It was a lovely nook in a bend of the river, and old associations becoming too strong for her, she allowed vent to the bitterness and pain which filled her heart. ‘'Perhaps I shall never see him again,*’ she whispered to herself, “and if I do there is the old agony to endure all over again. Oh, Lewis, Lewis, why did you do it? Will a woman ever love you as I have loved you’ —and, God help me, as I do now, and ever shall. I have nothing in my life to live for, and nobody cares for me. If he had only told me once, just once, that he loved me, I could cheerfully have borne years of pain, and it would have helped me so in the battle of life, and would have sweetened its bitterness; but he never told me.” A boat slowly gliding into the alcove arrested Valerie's attention, causing her to sit up and peep through the branches to see if it were anyone she knew, and she immediately recognised the gentleman and the girl with whose boat she had collided that morning. She was wondering how- she could slip away without them seeing her, when these words fell on her ears: “Oh, please let me go back to my

Granddad; I do want to sec him ever so much, Bruce, an’ lie’ll lie so lonelynow without me. I'm all he has, too, 'eept Dodger, an’ Mary Ann.” < “Why-, my clear, 1 thought vou loved me.” “An’ I do: but 1 feel sick for Granddad. There’s no one to get his meals for him, an’ why can’t we go to him, for we was married, you said. An* you told me you’d take me back to Granddad, an’—an’ ” Here the girl’s voice broke, and tears trembled on her lashes as she • looked appealingly at her companion, who left his seat opposite, and, sitting down beside her, placed his arm around her waist and drew her head to his breast. “Have patience, my little wife, and try to content yourself awhile with me. U hy, it is only a month since you told me that you could not live without me. just after we were married, you know.” “I know, an’ it’s true; but I love Granddad, too, an’ I want to show him all my grand froeks what you gave me.” “Aimee, I will tell you what 1 will do. I will go to your grandfather and confess, and then come back and tell you all about it, and perhaps bring him back with me. Will that do, little one?” Aimee elapped her hands, and flung her arms around the man’s neck as she said: “Oh, yes, yes; an’ I’ll tell Granddad how good you are to me, an’ that you haven’t a wife in England at all, an’ we’ll all be so happy again.” A flush dyed the man's face as he said: “Are you not happy now, little one ? I thought you were.” And Valerie, from her seat on the bank, thought she had never beheld such a guileless and beautiful countenance as Aimee’s. The face was so childlike and trustful, and she wondered who she and her companion could be. “They must be strangers,” thought Valerie, “for I know every face almost in Christchurch,” and a sigh of envy escaped her as she rose to go. With a start the man heard it, and glanced up, and saw with surprise the same face that he had seen at Sumner. He knew she must have heard what he and Aimee had said, and, if so, would be in a position to

give information were inquiries to reach her ears regarding the girl. He -must stdp her at all risks, and entreat her silence: besides, he held her secret, and he meant to use it, or threaten to do so, if she did not promise silence. -Aimee. 1 wish to speak to that lady who was sitting up above there just now. You won’t be frightened, little one, will you? 1 won’t be long,” and, springing on to the bank, Sir Branden Langstone was soon at Valerie's side. "Pardon me, madam, but will you kindly tell me if you overheard a conversation in a laiat just now over yonder,” he said, pointing to the alcove. Valerie was so surprised that for the moment she remained silent, and the man went on: “I —that is, would you mind not mentioning having either seen the girl in the boat, or what was said?” "Certainly. But Ido not understand you. Is there anything wrong in the girl being with you? It would seem so, judging from your manner.” Instead of answering her questions, Sir Branden .said: “I might take this opportunity to tell you that I have seen you before, and—pardon me—overheard your outbreak of passionate scorn against your husband at Sumner about a month ago. One of your expressions was that you would like to have killed him at the altar. Am I correct ? IVe are evidently fated to overhear each other’s confidences.” and Sir Branden smiled, while Valerie's face paled, and she felt sick and faint with the shame that consumed her. What did he know, what had she said, for she felt instinctively that the man was bad to the core. His polished manner and handsome face did not deceive her as they did poor little' Aimee. But then she had lived in the world, and Aimee had not. Valerie was quick to read character, and invariably correct in her judgment. She did not err on the present occasion, and shivered a little as she half turned from the man at her side. Then she said, with an effort: “You—you are not a gentleman, sir, to have listened to a conversation not intended for your ears.” “You forget, madam, that I overheard in perhaps a less culpable manner

than you displayed just now. I was asleep on the riot's,. and your voice awoke me while you—were you also asleep just now!" “No,” said Valerie, honestly. .“I was sitting there wheq your boat eaiue into the alcove, and I stayed to look,, unseen, at the lovely girl who was with you, and. of course, 1 heard what vqu both said.” - ; . . "I have your promise, then, ..to keep silence .as to what you have, sqen. and heard this afternoon in the boat?” Valerie bowed, little dreaming how soon she would be called upon to break her promise, and as she moved away Sir Branden gracefully, raised his hat and stood with the sun playing on his bare head, until she turned a bend in the river and was lost to sight. Then he hurried back to Aimee. CHAPTER XVI. IX THE CnUKCnTABD. Valerie Day was a passionate lover of Nature, and nothing pleased her better than to go to some seeluded spot where she eould dream and think of the past undisturbed by human sounds. On the present occasion, when she came to the lovely, picturesque little ehurch at Avonside, with its ivy-covered walls ami white tombstones dotted about on each side of the long, straight path, she opened the gate and walked in. Her footsteps fell silently on the wattle-barked path as she made her way to the church steps, where she sat down tired out with her long walk. After the lapse of a few minutes she noticed an old man moving amongst the gravestones, followed by a dog. Presently he caught sight of her, and came slowly towards her. “Excuse me, lady, but maybe ye live hereabouts,” he said, halting a few steps away. s “I live nearer New Brighton, but I know every step about here. Can I help you in any way ?” " ’ “ “Aweel, maybe ye can. I’ve lost a wee bit lassie, an’ I’ve, traced her this far, sae a poor, wee bit lambie, as inner-

gent — a babe. Maybe, mem, ye’ve seed the like about here" “I eould tell batter if you were to describe her to me,” said Valerie, as she turned pale and cold with apprehension. ••Weel, she had on an auld Tam-o’-shsnter cap and a tartan frock, an’ a pair of bonnie shoes wi’ straps across; an - her face is Sae fair, mem, wi* its wee curls round it like a pictur. Aye, Udv, but she’s a bonnie lass, and she’s ganged fra the auld man the noo. Did ye sec the like aboot here, lady!” ' -I have not seen a girl in the dress y.iu describe. Did she leave you of her own accord, or did she get lost?” •1 dinna just ken. lady. She went ta a school, and niver coomed back fra it. Jlavlx- she were enticed away, or maybe slie'jist wandered on and on.” -I am so very sorry for you. How long ago was it that she left you?” ■ About a month, but it is a year I'm feel in’ it to be, sae lonely I feel wi’out niv ain ewe lamb, fur that’s what she were to me, mem: but it ain't a David that's took ’er but a divil.” A tear glittered iu the rugged cheek of the old man, and he bent'forward on his stick. The dog looked up at his master, and Valerie thought that he, too, had tears in his eyes; then he whined piteously and crouched down again at his feet. •Aye. Dodger’s lonely, too, mem, an’ the auld man's no kempany fur him noo.” "Won’t you sit down?” and Valerie niade room for him beside- her. “You can then tell me all al>out your daughter.” "She’s me granddaughter, lady,” he said, as he sank down on the steps. The dog came over, too, and sniffed at Valerie's outstretched hand. Then, becoming convinced that she was a desirable acquaintance, he settled down at her feet and tried to lick her hand. Duncan Keith, for it was he, crossed his hands on the top of his stick, and leant his chin on them, as he fixed his gaze far into the distance. His white hair was longer than usual, and his trousers were frayed, and the soles of his boots were almost worn away. Valerie's heart stirred with pity, as she glanced at him, and her own sorrows appeared insignificant beside his. She was debating in her. own mind as to whether she should tell this poor, lonely man about the girl in the boat. She felt tlisfV to withhold l the information would be criminal, no matter what the consequences might be. But there was just a chance that his lost little girl was not the one she had seen. "Would you mind telling me your granddaughter’s name?” " "Aimee, mem, Aimee Keith.” "What a pretty name.” said Valerie, a- she moved uneasily in the effort to make up her mind, now that she was sure she could give the required information. "Aye, folks always say that.” "Might I inquire your name?” "O’ course, lady ; Keith’s my name.” "Mr. Keith, you said that a devil took your little Aimee. What do you mean? Has she been decoved awav, do vou think?” J "Aye, syro enough.” And, then. Duncan told Valerie his history up to the present. When he came to the selling of his little home on the Peninsula, his Voice broke and the tears fell fast, and Dodger went over to him and licked his withered hand. "An' now me wee bit hame up country’s goin’ to ruin, "fur I canna’ rest wi’out me little ain, an’ I blame mysel’, ks I forbid her talkin’ bout Die—the —” "Never mind, Mr. Keith. • -Do you know, I think I ean help you to find Aimee; in fact, this very afternoon I saw a lovely girl in a boat with a gentleman. and I overheard what they were saying, and they talked about their marriage, so do not grieve any more, for after all ’she' may be married—his wife in England ’may have-died. The gentle--man called, her, Aiinee,_and she asked him to take her home to her grandfather. and I heard him promise to go ,to him and confess. So you see, after ■ 11. I’ve been able to help you. How strange, is it not?” While she was speaking she had pushed back her hat, and for the first time [her faee was fully revealed to view. ’ ‘ Aye,-is it-possible? Is it .possible! ■’Where'eair I see my bairn? Quick, tell ;hie, lady, and ha’ pity on an auld man ■fur merey’s sake.” He had risen up, and now saw her Without the shade of her hat. Then he Reclaimed: “."Why, mem, I’ve seen ye twice afore to-day; aye, an' it wasna’ fur nothing tither that we’ve met in God's Acre. The 1-ord.sent me to comfort me Wi’ tidings o’ my Ivairn. Maybe ye ha*

troubles o’ yer ain; ye're young, lady, an’ I pray that ye will ha' yer heart's desire- God bless, comfort, and keep ye always. Now, come • an’ show me where to find my lassie, please.” "But, Mr. Keith, 1 do not know where they are now. It was quite on hour ago that I saw them, and they may lie miles away by this time. 1 think they were then on their way back to the sheds. That was the second time to-day that I saw them; the first time was about 11 this morning.” “I must be goin’ mysel’, then, for I canna’ waste precious time wi' gossiping, an' me little ain waiting me. Goodday ta ye, mem, and thank ye kindly fur a’ yer goodness tame." “I will eome with you to the boat sheds and inquire; perhaps we may yet be in time.” So down the path they went as fast as Duncan’s poor, tired feet would take him. Arrived at the sheds, Valerie inquired of the man who let out the boats whether Sir Branden and Aimee had returned, and was told that a gentleman and young lady answering to the description she gave had returned the boat about twenty minutes ago. “And,” added the man, "he was a proper sort of a gentleman, judging by the tip he gave me.” “Do you know which way they went?” “Well, I saw them get into a cab at the foot-bridge there, but I don’t know which road they took; anyway, they didn’t come this side o’ the river. Fancy the cab went straight down the Bell, but couldn’t be sure.” “Do you think five shilling would help your memory? Please, try and think which way they went; it is of vital importance,” said Valerie in great distress as she looked at Duncan’s staring eyes and haggard, disappointed face. She eould ill afford the money she had offered the man, but she was nothing if not generous, and she thought she eotthl deny herself something to make up for it. Poor Valerie had all her life laten denying herself something, and she often wondered if anybody would ever do the same for her sake. “Well, mem, perhaps my boy may know; I’ll just ask him if you’ll please to wait a minute. Willie, come here,” he shouted to a small boy -who was sitting on the rail of the bridge, and who immediately came in answer to his fa.tljer’s eall. “Which way did that gentleman and lady go that gave you sixpence?” ' "Down Chester-street, father” . said the boy. “Did you hear them say anything about where they were going?" “No, father; I didn't hear anything.” “I’m afraid, mam, that’s all I ean do for you.” “Thank you,” said Valerie, as she placed the money iu the man's hand and turned away. ’ “Come, Mr. Keith, don’t be so downhearted, for you are sure to find them. Indeed, they may now be on their way to see you, and will not find you at home.” “The scoundrel will nae eoom tame, lady, fur ye ken I told ye he was married in England afore he cam’ oot, and now,he’s stolen my bairn. Poor Wee lamb as thinks she’s married.” “Why do you not go at once to the police, Mr. Keith? And what a pity you did not go at first. Aimee might then have been safe, and none the worse if you had found her as soon as you missed her.” . “Aye, I can see that now. But I was on the track o’ them, an' thought I'd not bring my little ain into any police business. But now I’ll gang awa’, at once an’ gie them a* information.”, , “Mr. Keith, this is my address,”- said Valerie, placing a card in his hand. “ r hope you will come and see me and “ll me how you succeed. I also hope you will ‘ bring -Aimee with you when you come. And now. good-bye : I will . not detain you any. longer, for I know you are anxious to go.” .The old man’s hard, rough hand clasped the small, gloved one held out to him, as he tried to speak, but no words came; only two tears splashed down on their hands, and then Valerie hurried away for fear she should burst hrto tears. Looking back, she saw the old man slowly toiling along towards the city, his white hair blowing about his head, and his old overcoat flapping in the wind. CHAPTER XVII. Worn Out. A week later Valerie was writing letters in her little den just off the kitchen, when site.heard a jimiu tap.at the back door. Presently the servant came

to say that an okl man wished to #e> her. “He looks like a beggar, mem. Shall I send him away?” "No, no; ask him to come iu and sit down. I will be there in a minute; show him into the dining-room, Jane." “Yes, mem, but do you think the silver will be safe?” "Do as I tell you, Jane. The silver is all right. The old man is houcst; 1 know who lie is." When she had sealed her letters, Valerie went to the dining-room, and found, as she expected, Duncan Keith. "I’m so glad to see you. Mr. Keith; but where is Aimee?” And as she asked the question she noticed how much more pinched his,features were, and his appearance was that of a man who had tramped for many weary days in all weathers. She noticed, too, that his bare feet were showing through his boots. He saw her look of compassion, and tried to hide them under his chair. Then Valerie flushed scarlet, ami pretended she had not seen them, for tl e old man was proud, and Valero: urs terribly distressed at her apparent v.ant of delicacy, for to hurt tin* feelings of the poor she considered a crime. Hastily trying to cover her confusion, she went to the sideboard and poured out a glass of whisky and water, which she offered him. "There, now. drink that Mr. Keith, before you tell me anything. You’ve had a long walk. I am sure.’’ “Aye, lang, indeed, mem. An’ thank ye kindly. But ye asked me where Aimee was. Well, mem, she's just married, as ye said she might lie, an’ the auld man’s got. ta put up wi’ tne lonesomeness; so I'm just goin’ back hame the day. and cam’ ta let ye know all's well wi' Aimee afore I start.” “Oh, I am so glad for both your sakes. .Ind so Aimee is a lady now, Mr. KeiUi, is she? How nice! But where is she?” “Ganged ta Sydney, mem, day afore yesterday.” “So you saw them, and wished them good-bye, then?” “Aye, o’ course, mem.” “And did they go out to the Creek to see you?” “Na, na. I heard as they was stayin' at a hotel down Ferry road way, an' 1 ganged oot ta see ’em.” “And wasn’t Aimee glad to see you? l.cau fancy the dear little face lighting up with joy.” “Aye, elane daft wi’ joy.” “Did Sir Branden Langstone? tell you his wife was dead?” - “He did, mem.” “Do you know, Mr. Keith, I think it is wonderful that- Aimee has married a baronet—‘Little Lady Langstone.’ Well, she is lovely enough for anything or anybody.” « -■“Lovely as a' angel, an’ as pure, lady.” . Valerie thought that the old man's manner was abstracted and peculiar compared to what it. had been on her .first meeting with him. He set the glass on the table when he had drank his whisky, and his eyes closed. “Mr. Keith, I know you are tired, so just come to my little den and lie down for an hour, and then I will give you some lunch before yon go.” He did not appear to hear her, so she went quietly out of the room and closed the door. “Poor old man,” she said to herself: “I will leave him alone awhile; he is terribly cut up at the loss of his grandchild.” Valerie had not been seated long at her painting when she hear a noise in the dining-room, and, running in, she found Duncan on the floor, with his mouth twisted to one side. “Jane, come quickly,” she called. But Jane had heard the noise, and was already liesidc her. . “Run and ask Mr. Ash to come and help the old man on to the sofa; tell him your master is out, and only we two are. here.” . . When Jane returned with Mr. Ash, who was a giant of strength, being a famous boating man, their united efforts succeeded in placing the old man on the sofa, where he lay unconscious until the doctor came. “If I were you, Mrs. Day, I would send him at once to the hospital.” .’“I" think I will nurse him' myself, said Valerie softly. “I am just going into the city with the trap, and if you like I will bring the doctor back with me, and I’ll send the inrssns in to you. in case you want assistance.” '• ■ - “Oh, thank you so much; that will lie .quicker than if Jane were to go. And I will be glad if Mrs. Ash will come in, as I may require assistance if the old man comes to. ■ Jane i# not much help in sickness.”

“Well, I'll hurry off; but where are you going to put the man? You haven’t too much room as it is." “Oh, I’ll find a place; you know my ingenuity in contriving ways and means,” laughed Valerie. When Mr. Ash was gone Valerie sat down beside Duncan's inanimate form and took his wrinkled old hand into her young, warm ones, and chafed it gently. Iter experience in nursing was limited, and she hardly knew what to do. She wanted to help him, for her heart bled for his crushed and lonely life. Someone tapped at the door, and Valerie said, “Come in.” "Please, mem, that there dog what the old man brought is howling terrible to get in, and scratching all the paint off the door.” "Let him in. Jane; I intend to keep him until his poor old master is better, if indeed he ever will la - . The dog's name is Dodger." “Wot a name: that means a pick* pocket, don’t it, mem? 1 seen a play once called somethin' like that. ’ “I suppose you mean the ‘Artful Dodger' in ‘Oliver Twist.’ ” “I don't know no ‘Oliver Twist;* was ’e playin’ at the Royal? “Oh, don't worry me; go and let th# dog in.” But still the girl lingered. "Did you say, mein, the old man was to sleep ’ere? There ain't no bed, Is there ?” “Yes. he will stay here for a while, and you can sleep in the den. Mr. Keith will have your room.” “There ain’t no bed in the den.” “But there is a sofa, and you can make that comfortable for the present " “A sofy! I can’t sleep on no sofy; it ain't wide enough.” “Leave the room instantly, and let the dog in.” The girl went out, ami banged th# door after her. Presently tne dog was tearing up the mat at the door of the dining-room, and when Valetie let him in he flew to his master and whined piteously. Then, as though he understood how matters were, he lay down beside the sofa to guard its precious burden. “Poor Dodger, come here," said Valerie. “Poor doggie, how you miss them.” The dog looked at her in a friendly way, but did not attempt to move. “You poor thing, 1 don't believe you have had any 'food to day, or your mas ter either. His heart is broken, doggie, and his ewe lamb is gone, never to return as he has known her—never again.” She tried to entiee the dog to the . kitchen to feed him, but he only whined, t and lay with his eyes fixed on his master, and so she left them while she went to see about preparing the servant's room for Dunean. Meanwhile, in a shed at the back of the house, Jane was pouring her sep- J posed wrongs into her master's ears. ‘ He had returned earlier than usual, and she had drawn him into the shed. “Just fancy being turned out of my room fur an old beggar like that. Perhaps she'll put the dog in the. drawingroom. I won't sleep in that den fur nobody.” “I’ll take jolly good care you don’t get turned out of your room for any old beggar your mistress chooses to bring here. The idea! It’s preposterous? Hush! I think she’s-—here, let me hide —get into the house, girl, quick!” Jane ran with n shovel of coal, and just met- Valerie in time to stop her going into the shed; and for the present averted' an exposure. “I thought I hear someone talking to ' you?" . - -- “Oh, no, mem; I was repeatin’ some hymns to myself; amt I expect that’s wot you ’card.” went, in search of bis wife, whom he After a while Mr Day came in, and found in her bedroom ransacking his clothes to find clean socks ana linen for Dtincan. “What the mischief are yoit doing, Valerie, and who ' is that'old joker on the dining-room sofa?” She told him all she knew, and then added: “I suppose you don't mind letting me give him a change of linen; he is very poor?” “Of course I mind. 1 haven't too many clothes myself that I nnist chuck them at every beggar who comes along.”-.\ “Frank, do let me give him these? ; They are the very oldest I can find, and the poor old man has no one in th# " world now to care for his wants.” >. Mr. Day looked r.ireffilly over thw . clothes, and, finding them well worn and well mended, grudgingly gave his 6Hn•ent. “But, look here, Valerie, he’s not gd<

frig to stop here: we can't have the place tuned upside down for a beggar, and a perfect stranger, too.” “It won't turn the house upside down, and he won’t trouble you at all; he will have .lane's room, and ” ■•• lane's room ? And then she will leave, I suppose. ' It’s hard enough to get a girl to live this distance out of town without chasing her away when ahe suits so well.” ' lane will not be any loss to me if sh< does leave. She is too impertinent, and I was thinking only half an hour ago of giving her notice. ’ "Oh. take your own way, as usual, ami suffer for it afterwards. But I am determined that the man shall n<it stay here. It’s ridiculous. I’ll go over and ask Mr. Ash to lend me his trap to take th, old fellow to the hospital, a job I don't thank you for. either.” "Don’t trouble: Air. Ash has gone to tov n for a doctor; he went in the trap.” "By Jove! And who’s to pay for bringing a doctor all this distance from town ?” "1 certainly never thought of that. It is awkward. Oh. well, 1 suppose he hail better go to the hospital,” and Valerie sighed as she thought of this terrible want of money that was warping the best instincts of her nature. CHAPTER XVIII. Vai erie Leaves Christchurch. It was not before autumn had nearly merged into winter that Frank Day had persuaded his Wife to pay her longpromised visit to her sister in the North Island. There was a Hush of exeitement on her usually -pale cheeks as she bent forward in the cab and waved a last good-bye to the smiling old lady who stood at the gate, and who was already installed in the house to look after things during Valerie’s absence. She had made up her mind to have a good time, to throw care to the winds, and to try to forget her troubles if she could. "There, now, I think that is all the luggage, isn’t it, Vai F’ said Frank, as he erushed a dress basket under the seat and tried to make room for himself amidst portmanteaux, hat-boxes, ete. "Yes, 1 think that is all. There's room the other side: you’ll erush my basket if you sit there, Frank.” They drove down the New Brighton Toad into Worcestet-street, and when they reached the Stanmore road Valerie could not help exclaiming at its beauty. It looked so lovely with the sun glinting through the trees on to the dead leaves that lay thick on the ground, and the pretty bridge in the distance made a eharming picture. This road always looked lovely at that time of year, and Valerie caught a glimpse of it at its best. "Isn’t it lovely, Frank?” Valerie was quite vivacious now. "What do you mean? I don’t see anything particularly lovely about here.” "You are too late now; we’ve turned into Hereford-street, so the scene is lost to view.” "You seem in high spirits to-day; glad to be rid of me, 1 suppose.” "Don’t be so sarcastic, please. There is one thing. I never pretended to love you as you did me. You know very well you are very glad indeed to see the last of me for some time. I, at least, am no hypocrite, and feel sorry you should start this sort of thing on my last day. We may never meet again, you know.” “Oh, all right. I didn’t mean to start an argument. It’s grand weather for your trip.” "I think autumn the loveliest time of all the year. .Spring isn’t to be compared to it, in my opinion,” said Valerie. The cab drew up at the station, and Frank got out and assisted his wife to alight. lie directed a porter to take the luggage to tire train, whilst he went to the office for the tickets. The train was packed, as it always is on Thursdays, that being the day on which the 1 Ilion Company's boats leave Lyttelton for the North Island and Sydney. As the train passed through Heathcoat, Valerie thought she ha<l never .seen the valley look so lovely and green. It was an ideal autumn day, just tinged with frost, and the many passengers who were returning to Australia after spending the summer in New Zealand were giving expression to their regret at leaving so, perfect a climate. "You wouldn't be so enchanted with the climate of Auckland after spending a winter there, mam,” remarked on old gentleman to one of the Australian party. - -w- ■ - “Indeed! Why aof

**Oh. incessant rain and gales, the wind is awful, especially the equinoctial gales.” “Dear me!” responded a stout lady with a lisp. “How dreadful!” “Yes,” continued the old gentleman, ‘T remember one Sunday morning when I went to- church 1 found it lying on its side.” “Good gracious! But that surely isn’t a usual occurrence.” “Oh, yes, it is. Anyway, If the churches don’t blow over now the houses do—it's all the same. Why. man. didn’t 1 see a man in a sentry box in the early days carried over half a mile in the air; but that was in a whirlwind, and the man wasn’t at all hurt. You see, he was doubtless used to it. But here we are entering the longest tunnel in the colony, one and three-quarter miles, mam.” "Really! So we are! Well, lam glad that we did not spend last winter at Auckland, as we had intended doing. After all. we are safer in Australia, although it is so hot in summer; but nobody ean deny that the winters are perfect.” “Quite true, madam; I’ve been in Sydney, and ” “What do you think of our harbour?’.’ interrupted an unsophisticated young lady who had taken her first trip abroad under the wing of the stout lady. Everybody who had been to Sydney had heard that question before, and they smiled with amusement as they awaited the old gentleman’s reply. “The harbour. Miss * Let me see—well. I don't think it's as pretty as the Auckland Harbour, do you?” "You don’t mean that, surely,” returned the girl, indignantly. “Why, next to Rio, it's the most beautiful in the world—everybody says so.” “In that ease my opinion can’t amount to much, so I hope you will excuse my want of taste.” "Shut up. Juliet: everybody is laughing at you,” said the girl's brother, as he noticed the smiles of amusement on the passengers’ faces. His sister blushed, and turned to the window to hide her confusion. By this time the train had emerged from the tunnel, and everybody began to gather up their pareels, flowers, etc., preparatory to leaving the train, which drew up close to the wharves. The Tarawera, with her red funnel, was conspicuous not far off, and, after seeing the luggage on to a trolley, Frank and Valerie Day made their way over to her. There was the usual bustle and crowd of visitors seeing their friends off, but no one whom the l?ays knew was amongst them. After Frank had stowed his wife’s luggage away under her berth, they both returned to the deek. "I hope somebody nice will occupy the other berth in my cabin.” said Valerie. “I was unfortunate in that respect when I went to Dunedin.” “It’s to be hoped so. They appear to he a decent lot of passengers this trip: hut then one ean never tell who will get on at Wellington and the other ports. Do you intend going ashore at Napier and Gisborne?” “It will depend on the weather, principally.” "Well, old girl, there’s only ten minutes left, so I’ll say good-bye and get on to the wharf again. Shall I get your rug for you first, or will you go to your cabin now?” ■‘Oh. I’ll stop on deek as long as I feel well. I will have too much of my cabin soon. Well, good-bye, Frank, and -—and I hope to see you soon again.” "Good-bye, Vai, and a pleasant trip.” The last bell had run, and all the visitors were back on the wharf again, and as the Tarawera moved slowly from her moorings quite a battery of repartee was exchanged la-tween those on shore and those on the departing steamer. And the last thing Frank Day saw was the stout lady who had been a fellow passenger in the train speaking to his wife. When there was nothing more to see. and the land was almost lost to view. Valerie went to her eabin. and found that the stout lady was already in bed in the other berth. \ alerie smiled as she sail!. “Are you and I to be companions, madam ?” “It looks like if, my dear. My name is Mrs. Truebody. I saw yours on your luggage. I always like to know who I am travelling with.” “You are quite right, although I am afraid you would not learn much from my luggage. I generally feel nervous myself; oner I had a barmaid in my cabin, and she was not always sober.” “That’s bad. Did you go in to dinner? I did not; I had a bit here.” “No, I stayed on deck and had a few biscuits and a cup of hot water.” “Ah, you are a bad sailor, I can see.”

fftf, and we 80011 b* fr* the Pfr.it«; it’s a horrid bit to cross.” "Oh, you must not alarm me, for this is my first trip on this eoast; I Mine from Melbourne via the Bluff.” "You are doing the round trip, then! I hope you have enjoyed it.” . "Oh, very mueh; and we have been on Lake Wakatipu. Dear me, what a country yours is, to be sure. I never dreamed *of sueh wild and romantic scenery; it is very awe inspiring. Have you any idea when we will get into AVellington, Mrs. Day?” •‘lot me see, we should get in about ■even in the morning; it generally takes from twelve to fourteen hours. Some of the Company’s boats are quicker than others, you know, and that is a consideration when one is siek.” A snore was the only answer, and Valerie, feeling glad to escape further conversation, crept into her berth, feeling very siek as the vessel began to pitch. ' CHAPTER XIX. The Hermit. The wind had risen within the last hour, and during the night blew a hurricane, and towards morning the passengers had a bad time of It crossing Cook Strait. Valerie lay white and still, until she heard somebody say in a weak voice: “Oh, Mrs. Truebody, I am sure I am dying.” Raising herself on her elbow, she saw by the passage light tcj same girl who had spoken to the old gentleman in the train about the Sydney Harour. "Oh, don’t be afraid,” said Valerie, kindly, “we will soon be in now. Lie down on the couch over there; I think your friend is asleep.” “Asleep, in this awful sea!” Then the girl fell on the cabin floor, too ill to move, and Valerie was too ill to help her, ami thought she was as well there as anywhere while the ship was pitching 80. At six o’clock the stewardess came with the coffee, and the news that they would be in port about half-past seven. Nobody, however, wanted any coffee, Mrs. Truebody being still asleep. “Well,” said that lady, half an hour later, how are you this' morning, Mrs. Day? Not siek, I hope,’’ and as she spoke she bent over her berth to look out of the port hole. “Goodness, what is that on the floor? Why, Juliet, my love, now did you get there ?” There was no answer from anybody, and she climbed down from her berth to investigate. “My poor child, let me help you on to the couch,” and with motherly tenderness she raised the girl a little, and, Boeing she was too ill to move, placed a cushion beneath her head, and covered her with a rug. Mrs. Truebody was one of those women who are indispensable on board ehip. Never sick herself, she was tenderly solicitous for those who were. Dressing quickly and panting with exertion, whilst the vessel flung her from one side of the cabin to the other, she was soon ready io assist Valerie and her young friend Juliet. “You poor little woman, how white you are! Do you think you will try and get up? I really believe the vessel is steadier than it was, and so it ought to be, for there’s the land in sight.” “I will not rise until we get to port. I feel too light-headed, and will just lie quiet, thank you.” At 7.30 the ship was alongside the wharf, and by 8.30 Valerie, Mrs. Truebody, and Juliet, were breakfasting at the Empire Hotel. After reaching the Empire City of New Zealand, the two younger ladies soon recovered from their sea-sickness, and were well enough to drive round the city and out to Island Bay to see the Hermit. Everybody’ said that they must see the Hermit, so they went, and found a pale, blue-eyed, redhaired, inoffensive individual who lived in a eave, and whom they’ found reading a Bible. Afterwards they heard that the landlord of a hotel not far off paid the Hermit to live there, as a means of increasing his business. "My poor man,” observed Mrs. Truebody, “why do you choose to live here ? Are you not afraid of getting rheumatism in this damp cave?” The mna rose and offered his visitors the only seat the cave could boast of, a box-turned on its end. "I do get rheumafism, but as the lonely life suits me I put up with 'it, madam.” After that he would only answer fn monosyllables, and although quite courteous. he gave the ladies to understand that they were invading his home; -eo

they took the hint and left, after a few general remarks. "Do you believe he was crossed in love, as that waiter told us this morning at breakfast?” asked Mrs. Truebody of Valerie as they drove back to the city. “Well, he looks melancholy enough for anything, and it’s as likely as not to be true. Anyway, there’s more romance in that view of the case, and there is not much romance in life nowadays.” “Why, my dear, you are young to talk so. I am sure, now, you and your young husband are dying to see each other again, although it is not twentyfour hours since you saw one another, and if that is not romance, what is it?” “I dare say you are right,” said Valerie, trying to look as though she were the happiest wife in New Zealand. In reality, site was dreading the time when she would have to return to her husband. “You can’t deceive me, my dear. I was young myself, once, and I married the one I loved. But he died years ago, and although I have had offers in plenty I still remain true to him. And I am sure you would lie the same, although it is to be hoped you will be long spared to each other.” “Thank you for your kind wishes, Mrs. Truebody. Who would have thought when I saw you and Miss Gore in the train yesterday’ that we would be driving about Wellington together today. I seem to have known you both for years; but where is your brother, Miss Gore ?” “He preferred walking about the town with the rest of our party. Some of them, I believe,- have friends to eall upon, but Mrs. Truebody and I are not so fortunate in that respect, or perhaps I should say unfortunate, as we have had sueh a pleasant time together ” “Isn’t this the town where the wind is always blowing. Mrs. Day? 1 don’t think I like Wellington as well as Dunedin and Christchurch—l absolutely detested Lyttelton. You must not mind my criticisms, for I shall give you plenty’ before we part. I think you said you were going to Auckland?” “Yes,” said Valerie, replying to Mrs. Truebody’s last question, “and I intend to stay there three months if all goes well. Have you any friends there, if I may ask?” ’ ‘’Well, I have a cousin who went to Auckland when quite a boy, and if I eould only find him I should like to stay there a bit; but I have not the remotest idea whether he is alive or dead. If living, he must lie quite an old man now.” The three ladies went back to the steamer to sleep, although most of the passengers spent the night on shore, and joined the vessel again just before sailing the next day. The gangway was just about to be drawn up when an old gentleman came briskly down the quay and got on board just in time to save himself from being left behind. “Why, that’s the same old gentleman who snubbed Juliet in the train, and told us those dreadful things about Auckland. By the way, are tney true, Mrs. Day?” “In the main they are. My sister often gives us accounts of a like nature. That gentleman must have been a passenger from Lyttelton; I did not notice him on board. Did you ?” “No. He must have kept in his eabin or the smoking-room.” That evening at dinner Mrs. Truebody found herself placed next to the old gentleman. “Ah, madam, here you are again. I hope you are continuing to enjoy yourself. And did you manage to keep your head-gear on at Wellington yesterday? It’s always blowing like that, you know, or so I have always found it.” “It was windy, certainly, but to-day was not so bad. I don’t care for W<4lington, and am all impatience to see your wonderful Auckland. I wonder, now, if you ever hear of a Mr. Bourne?” “I have, madam.” “Dear me! But perhaps it is not my Leslie Bourne. He would be about sixty-eight now.” “May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking, madam?” “Certainly. Mrs. Truebody is my name.” “And once Trixie Garth ?” “Why. yes. But how did you know my maiden name?” “Because I am Leslie Bourne,” “Good Heavens! Is it possible? How extraordinary I But, come away up on deck and talk it out. You my long lost eoiisin! Well, well, fact certainly is stranger than fiction after all.” (Te be continued.)