wards make such a Delilah of herself as when she waylaid the one or two who, strolling out from the ball-room, thought to enter that sacred place-the little tent of flowers which Jim would have thought such an excellent place for "restering" in? "What am I doing," thought Fred Carbonel's wife to herself; "what am I doing? Something that Fred would call 'not quite O. K.' But oh, if it were Fred, should I stop to think if it were O. K. or not? Should I mind if it were right or wrong? Not I! Shouldn't I bless any one who gave me a chance? Of course I should. And even now, who knows what may come of it?"

Do we, any of us, know, when we put our hand to the fate of another, and stop or spur the wheels, what the result will be; or how far-spreading-making or marring how many lives?

"I was wrong to come-weak, cowardly, unmanly, what you will; but I could not help it, Mabel. I fought, and fought; but at last I failed."

As Charley Rowan speaks, he turns full towards the shrinking woman at his side, and shows her the splendid misery of his face.

A moment they are silent, motionless, staring each at the other-passion-pale, with craving, haggard eyes. The next, Mabel is in her lover's arms, and their lips meet, crushed together in a wild, despairing kiss.

"Oh, my little girl, my little girl," he says, sobbing, as he sways her to and fro, holding her as though his arms would never let her go, "must I lose you, must I give you up?"

The woman is always the first to recover herself on these occasions; and now, Mabel Graham is no exception to the rule. She lifts her head from its dear resting-place, presses her hand a moment to her eyes, and, rising from the low divan, where they two have been sitting, answers him.

"Yes," she says, "yes; there is no other way-no other way. No other right way. I dare say-nay, I am sure-it is wrong to see you here, like this; but do not be angry with yourself."

“I am a brute !" he mutters, watching her bitter pain: the slim hands wrung in agony together; the white, heaving breast ; the pleading, pitiful eyes.

"

Nay," she says, with a wan little smile, "I will not have you call yourself hard names. I really think that I am-glad. It will make things easier to have spoken to you to have-said-good-bye." "sound of violins fills all the air; the melody of the "New Waltz" rises and falls, and swells, and dies. It is as a voice speaking for these riven hearts, telling their story to the pitying night.

The moonlit

She keeps nothing from him; why, indeed, should she? Not even poor Polly's desolate cry, which has been such a help to her; and, by the supreme power of love, the man at last rises to the heights his dear love's little feet have already breasted. He sees that indeed there is "no other way." He spares her all bemoaning; he utters not one word of reproach against the Major-if he has "failed" a while ago, he succeeds gloriously now. He treads himself underfoot. He is noble, generous great and good.

Charley," says the girl, clinging to him now, for the parting moment has come, "he is so good to me-so goodthis must be the last, last time-good-bye; my love-my love

He takes her face in his two hands, and looks deep into her eyes, while tears burst from his own.

"My little sweetheart," he says, "my little sweetheart- -" and they kiss each other as those who say adieu for ever in this world.

"Now-go," she says, flinging up her arms in a supreme gesture of despair. And he goes.

There is the plash of oars. You can hear it very plainly, for the violins have ceased. The music is silent. It has died away, even the music out of Mabel's life, as she listens.

There is no breeze outside, no faintest stir upon the surface of the sea.

Yet a curtain trembles as though with the breath of the wind, and a shadow passes across the rampart.

NOT the faintest allusion was made by Selma during the days that followed to what Helen had said to her on the evening that followed the matinée. She was very grave and quiet, but she was not, apparently, distressing herself, and Helen did not approach the subject again until some ten days later.

She had followed Selma to her room then, one night on going up to bed, and had lingered hesitatingly over the fire with a hot colour in her cheeks. She and Humphrey had been dining at the Cornishes'-not an unusual circumstance by any means - but this occasion was endued by Helen in all unconsciousness with an indefinable air of mystery and excitement. She moved her foot on the fender, as she warmed it now at Selma's fire, with a great show of interest and attention which betrayed a nervousness singularly unlike her, and at last she said, in a voice which was even unnaturally and aggressively matter-offact:

"I've got something to tell you."

Selma was standing by the dressingtable, in her dressing-gown, with her back to Helen. She did not turn round, but she said quite steadily:

"I know what it is.'

"

"You know 1" exclaimed Helen, almost as much surprised as she was relieved.

PRICE TWOPENCE.

"Why, how can you? I nearly told you when you went out to the theatre tonight, but I thought I would wait!"

"You did tell me all the same! I-you told me two days ago!"

Helen, who had spent the last two days in strenuous efforts to keep from her sister's knowledge the fact of which her own mind was full-the fact that Roger was actually in London-could only gaze at her in blank astonishment. Then speculation, which could profit her nothing, gave place in her mind to the practical question before her, and she said:

"I don't know what you mean, dear; but it doesn't matter. I'm very glad you do know as it hasn't worried you.' There was a moment's pause, and then she went on: "He-he's looking very well, Selma. We had a little talk, and he wanted to know-what you said. I said I thought he had better come here, and I said I would talk to you, and write to him.” "Yes!"

Selma's back was still towards her sister, but Helen was more than satisfied

she was astonished and delighted-at the quiet, unmoved voice which answered her. She instantly decided to ignore the fact that any alternative lay open to Selma, and went on almost easily.

"The best thing will be for him to come here to tea one afternoon say on Wednesday. I've thought it over carefully, and that seems to me better than lunch or dinner on Sunday. Shall I write and tell him Wednesday, Selma, dear?"

Selma turned round and faced her sister quietly, her face pale and composed. "Yes," she said, in the same steady voice, "yes, Helen, tell him Wednesday.

She turned away again as she spoke,

VOL. VI.-THIRD SERIES.

133

and standing before the glass began to unfasten her dark, wavy hair.

Wednesday morning, when it came, seemed to Helen unusually lengthy. She had suffered a good deal in a small way from the difficulties which were always arising from the estrangement between Selma and the Cornishes, and she was proportionately pleased and excited at the prospect of a reconciliation; she was at the same time quite aware that the first meeting between Selma and Roger must necessarily be attended by considerable awkwardness, and she was heartily anxious to have it over.

Selma herself was rather paler than usual, and there was a steady set about her lips which was new to them, and gave her face an added firmness which was very fine. She spent the morning just as she always did, practising and reading in her own room; and she was there practising again at four o'clock, having left Helen secretly marvelling at her calmness.

Half an hour later Helen was still alone in her drawing-room. She had done everything that was possible in the way of arranging and rearranging the room; in her excitement she had in several instances done the same thing two or three times over. Her little tea-table was more than ready, there was absolutely nothing else that she could do, and she was longing for some one to "take off her attention," as she thought, when the door opened, and Selma came quietly into the room. "It is colder this afternoon, I think," she remarked, and seated herself in a low chair at the end of the room farthest from the door. Before Helen could think of anything sufficiently light to be a suitable reply, there was a ring at the front door bell-a ring which caused Helen to start violently, and drop many stitches of the knitting with which she had been composing her mind, but which had no effect whatever upon Selma, and a minute later Helen had risen hastily, and was shaking hands with Roger Cornish.

"I am so glad to see you here," she said, cheerily.

"Thank you," he answered, and then he turned to Selma.

Only a few seconds had passed since the door opened to admit him, but in those seconds Selma had turned from pale to crimson, and from crimson to deathly white. For an instant Helen, glancing at her as Roger turned to her, thought with a horrified sense that there was no ac

counting for her and that she was going to faint; then she seemed to collect her faculties with a terrible effort of selfcommand, and held out her hand to him.

"I hope you are well," he said, simply, though his face had flushed to the roots of his hair, and he was far too fully occupied with the awkwardness of the moment to notice that the hand he touched for such a mere second of time was as sold as ice.

"Quite well, thank you."

She sat down again, and Helen, with a delighted sense that the worst was over, threw herself briskly into the breach.

'Humphrey will be down directly," she said. "He is very busy with his Academy picture, and the light has been so bad lately that when there is any he will hardly stir. I'm so glad you have come, Roger, to get him away now. He has had such a long day's work."

"He looks well, I think," said Roger. "Not so well as he did a month ago, does he, Selma?"

"Not quite. He is so anxious.”

That Selma's voice as she answered should be rather low and forced, seemed to Helen not unnatural, and the latter, turning again to Roger, and thinking that if his absence was to be ignored, conversation would be impossible, went on:

"How do you think them all looking at home? Auntie looks well, doesn't she?"

"She looks capital," he answered, heartily, as though the first awkwardness and constraint were slightly wearing off. 'Younger than she did, it seems to me. They are all looking well."

"Elsie has grown, hasn't she?" "Grown!" he replied, "grown doesn't express it in the least! She's like another child."

He turned to Selma, as though to include her in the conversation, and then suddenly and obviously remembered that she had seen none of his family since he went away.

There was an instant's painful pause, broken, to Helen's intense relief, by the opening of the door and the appearance of Humphrey.

"Well, old fellow!" was his characteristically laconic greeting as he shook hands warmly with his brother; and then he took up a position in front of the fire to wait until Helen should have finished pouring out the tea, to which soothing

occupation she had hurriedly applied herself, and went on, lightly and conversationally, with a quick perception of the constraint of the situation which his entrance had broken up :

"I've just been having a terrific encounter with Smith, Helen."

"Oh, Humphrey, you haven't lost him!" she exclaimed, thankfully seizing upon so safe and impersonal a topic. "Smith is a most useful model, Roger, with the face of a perfect saint. Unfortunately, his disposition is anything but saintly, and he was much offended the other day when he arrived in a state of placid intoxication, and Humphrey refused to let him sit or to pay him. What has happened, Humphrey ?"

"I reduced him to a state of abject humility," said Humphrey, handing Selma her cup of tea, but not looking directly at her. "I'm immensely proud of myself, I assure you. I had no idea I was so eloquent. But then the fellow is such a capital model, and self-interest is inspiring," he finished, with a laugh.

"How is the picture getting on?" asked Roger, whose embarrassment was disappearing rapidly.

"It will be finished, I hope," answered Humphrey, with a most unusual readiness to speak of his work. "The light has been terribly against us all, of course." "It is beautiful," said Helen, proudly. "Isn't it, Selma ?

Helen, busy with the teapot, did not look at Selma as she spoke; but Humphrey, who was silently offering her some breadand-butter, was necessarily looking down at her, and as she lifted her face suddenly, as though startled by the pause, and painfully conscious that something was expected of her without having heard the words she must answer, he met her eyes. It was only for a second, but what he saw made him go on, quickly:

"Selma thinks a great deal too well of it. She's not a judge-the subject caught her fancy. Nell!" breaking off with an exclamation, "that lamp flares. Excuse me, Selma."

He moved quickly before her, and, standing so as to hide her from the rest of the room, turned down the lamp, moving it as he did so, so that a deep shadow fell on her face.

he was as a rule, could talk as well as most men when he chose, and on this occasion he certainly did choose. He kept the talk mainly on topics on which he and Roger had naturally more to say than women would have, and nobody noticed that Selma did not speak a single word.

Roger, by this time perfectly easy and unconstrained, had just finished a most practical exposition of the American views on a burning international trading question, to which Humphrey had listened with an air of the deepest interest, when he finally rose to go.

"Good-bye, Helen," he said; "I've never told you what a jolly little house this looks."

"I'm so glad you like it, Roger. We must take you over it next time you come. Give them my love at home."

There was a hardly perceptible pause, and then Roger took an envelope from his pocket, and turning to Selma, said, in a simple, straightforward way, though he had flushed hotly again:

"I've brought a note from my mother." She took it from him as he offered it to

her.

"Thank you," she said.
"Good-bye."

She gave him her hand, and Humphrey saw that her lips moved, as though they formed the conventional response; but no words were audible.

"Roger might see the dining-room on his way out," he suggested. "We're rather proud of the oak, old boy. Come and do the honours, Nell."

They went out of the drawing-room, all three together; and when Helen returned, a few minutes later, the room was

empty.

Helen hesitated a few minutes, went half-way up to Selma's room, and then stopped.

"I won't go up to her," she decided. "Poor dear! she would rather be left alone."

But Helen's determination to let her sister have her way, and to leave her alone, was not proof against the sight of Selma's face when she came down, half an hour later, to her early dinner-it was perfectly white and set, with dark shadows round the eyes, the eyes themselves were hollow and sunken, and Helen took her incontinently into her arms, and exclaimed: