a group of clever people talking together in a corner. I was introduced to Felicia's brothers. Of the two I like the youngest best, or rather I dislike him the least. He is a conceited youth, but then one can guess that his faults spring from exuberant boyish spirits, and the pleasant attitude which things in general assume for his point of view. He has a taste for literature and volunteered to give me a reading of his last composition.

"Have you promised to read Herbert's essay?' Felicia asked after it was all over. Mother, your pet will be sitting up all night dotting "i's" and pointing periods, and he will come down in the morning pale and sentimental, after a bath of eau-de-Cologne. But you and I will have had our breakfast before that, Ellen, and have gone to work.'

"And now am I anything the better for this fine visiting? I believe I will not go again as a guest to Onslow Square. I am vexed with myself to-day for wearing borrowed plumes, as I did last night. What have I to do with dressing, and dancing? How can a moth wear gilded wings?"

CHAPTER XXXVI

MASTER HERBERT

ELLEN found a difficulty in keeping that resolution not to go again as a guest to Onslow Square. Mrs. Rothwell had taken a fancy to her daughter's friend, and often sent up to the studio where the two girls sat with their books by the fire, to request that Miss Wilde would spend an hour downstairs after the lesson was over. Or Felicia had some new photographs of favourite pictures, or some pretty gems, or statuettes which she wished Ellen to see, so that as Ellen was, by nature, neither rigid nor ungracious, she often found herself gliding about in her black dress amongst the mirrors in that pleasant region of gold and amber, yclept the drawing-room. And, in this region such an exquisite taste enchanted the eye, such a soft soothing odour of warmth and comfort emanated from the glittering arcade of the hearth-place, that to Ellen the place soon grew deliciously familiar as might be the recurrence of a bewitching dream, And Felicia looked so fair and poetic in her pretty evening silks,

and Mrs. Rothwell was so sweet an example of a gentle highbred mother, that the mountain girl, keenly alive to the worship of beauty and refinement, often felt her hardy spirit lured away into a softer existence to be fed with dainty enjoyments while it stayed, but always to return hungry, in the end, to its own frugal home.

Master Herbert Rothwell very often found himself at home on these evenings,-very often indeed for a young gentleman of his genius and personal attractions.

His mother who visibly prized as her own soul every lock of his curly hair, and every glance of his saucy eyes, always smiled when his handsome face appeared amongst them, but Felicia invariably gave him a curt greeting. She would say :

"Herbert, you are a bore. We three women don't want you. Why have you not gone to your debating society? And Master Herbert would answer,—

“Do be quiet, Felicia. This is not the night; and if it were, I have got a headache,"

And then, he would leave off teasing his mother's poodle and, sauntering to the piano, begin to strum. And, byand-by, he would begin to play and sing, both of which he did well. And then he would coax Felicia to try over a new song for him; and then, presently, Miss Wilde would find herself called upon to quit her place by Mrs. Rothwell's side, and join the brother and sister at the piano.

"Yes, yes, mother," Master Herbert would cry, we all know that my respected sister is the cleverest young lady in existence : also that she is the dearest, sweetest, most peculiar creature on the face of the earth. We are all ready to swear it. You can tell Miss Wilde the rest some other day. Miss Wilde, do come over and see the frontispiece to this song-the most absurd thing you can possibly conceive!"

And Miss Wilde goes, accordingly, leaving the son kissing the tips of his mother's iewelled fingers, in the most filial manner imaginable. And mother makes a little sweet-tempered effort at reproof, and suffers her naughty boy to go back to his music. And then discussions arise; music, art, books. Ellen has long since given her opinion of the essay, and, in doing so, has unconsciously made the conceited youth stand, for once, slightly in awe of a young lady's judgment. And as they talk, Ellen,

who knows nothing of the world of which they speak, at first hangs back, and only strikes in a shy peculiar note now and again, rather than keep quite silent. But by-and-by she grows interested, some especially sensitive chord within her is touched, and responds. Shyness and reserve may stand aside now, for she has opened her lips and will speak. She will give forth some of the thoughts which were born and strengthened amongst mountains which the stars at this moment are crowning, which took their colour from the heather and the sun-mist, their breath from Atlantic breezes, and their form from the wreathings of clouds. She will speak in language which is not the ordinary language of drawing-rooms, especially from young-lady lips. She will make her friend Felicia cease that low modulation on the keys, to gaze at her with grave earnestness. And she will make the mother of her friend Felicia sit forward upon her couch and listen to how this mountan-girl can talk, with a strain of that clear subtle vibration in her voice which one sometimes hears in impassioned singing.

But these talkative moments of Ellen's always come to an abrupt conclusion. She pauses, and finds every one still and attentive, or, perhaps, meets the gaze of Herbert's handsome brown eyes, which have changed their expression since she began to speak, and at once she retreats into silence, And perhaps Felicia, although not usually fond of dance music, dashes headlong in a spirited waltz, crying presently,

"By-the-way, Herbert, how is the pretty Miss Simprington ? How indefatigably you and she danced that waltz the other night!"

Then, perhaps, Herbert turns unaccountably cross, and says he has not seen the pretty Miss Simprington for a month. And then he tries to pick up the broken thread of the conversation, but to no purpose. And, by-and-by, Ellen effects her escape and goes home, vowing in her heart that she will never go into the amber drawing-room again. But these vows are not easily kept.

Meanwhile, troubles are accumulating in the attic. That awful terror of the empty purse is growing before her eyes night and day. She rejected the doctor's last kind offer of assistance, and now can she write and beg?

"I know he has scanty means," she says. "I know that to

help me he must deprive himself of some comfort, or rob the There are more wretched creatures in Would to God I had the patience of His

poor whom he assists. the world than I am. poor!"

One evening Ellen comes home weary in body and sick in heart. She has been working arduously in the National Gallery for many days. She has not been to the school. She has seen no friend's face for a week. The last Spanish lesson was omitted at Felicia's request,-that young lady having been obliged to go to some party with her mother. Sitting in the gallery among the works of her dead heroes, Ellen could have been happy, only for that gnawing fear. But the fear is there, and also that feeling of loneliness amounting to desolation, which, when it comes, makes all the world blank and flat.

She returns home late, and in her dusky attic there is a foreign odour of sweetness. What is it? She feels vaguely with her hand over the table and her fingers touch flowers. She lights her lamp in haste, and discovers a rare bouquet and a tiny note. The flowers are delicious; rich and exhilarating. She inhales a deep breath laden with their scent. She presses her cheek against their softness. They are sweet friends, they are blessed visitants, they are very, very welcome at this lonely moment. It was kind to send them; it was good to send them; who could have done it? Ah, the note!

The note contains merely an anonymous copy of amatory verses. They are not very first-class poetry, but they have been written in earnest. They are tender and passionate, and delicate, as though the writer were rather fearful of offending than hopeful of pleasing. Something in them touches Ellen, for a tear flashes up in her eye; but she folds them again at once and lays them down upon the table. And then there is a long spell of quietness, while the lamp standing there looks steadfastly at three objects-the three objects it sees in the room-Ellen, the note and the bouquet. The note lies there, a dejected little thing, as if humbled at having been thrown away so quickly, the flowers blush, eloquent of their cause, and Ellen sits in front of both, and with a strange crimson flush on one cheek, a tremulous wreathing about her lips, and a wounded, moistened, surcharged look in her eyes. The shadows stand still in the corners all round about, and wonder what will

come of it. By-and-by she takes the note, and holds it over the lamp, and burns it without a second reading. And then she takes the flowers and places them tenderly in water. "I will not have any more," she says, " and so I will be careful of you.'' It She takes them in her hand and throws open the window. is a mild night. She places the glass upon the sill outside. "You may stay there," she says, as the gift of a friend, not He is a kind lad who sent you! as the offering of a lover. And then she closes the window, and goes into her bedroom to take off her hat.

Next evening is Spanish evening, and after the lesson is over, Felicia essays to coax her friend to the drawingroom. Some clever people are coming, people whom Ellen will like. She must come, she shall not say no. Why will she not come ? Miss Rothwell wishes to have her own way as usual. Miss Wilde is equally firm.

"Listen to me, Felicia," Ellen says, turning quickly round "Your brother has sent me a fine bunch upon her friend. of flowers, and copy of gallant verses in his very best handwriting. I dare say it is a most usual and proper thing to do, but you see I am not a young lady of the world, and I don't appreciate these things. Will you kindly explain this to him, and tell him I had rather he did not do it again? And, if you please, I should like to go straight home to-night."

Felicia allows her to follow her own will without further protest. Ellen goes home, and the clever people come and go, knowing nothing about her.

"Herbert," says Miss Rothwell, tapping at her brother's door late on this night. "I want to speak to you if you have not gone to bed."

Mr. Herbert Rothwell has not gone to bed. It would be an insult to that young gentleman's genius to suppose that he could go to bed at the same hour with ordinary people. He is attired in a handsome dressing-gown, and upon his table a desk lies open, heaped with papers. It is his wont to give his pen much exercise of nights, before seeking repose from that vulgar thing called sleep.

"Herbert," Miss Rothwell says, closing the door, "my friend, Miss Wilde, tells me that you have sent her some rhyming rubbish, and a bouquet of flowers. Is it true?"

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