valuable in my eyes than the things John buys at the London sales, painted by the greatest masters. What do I care about a tall street, and a straight stream, without a tree to be seen near

it

She means my Canalettis,' groaned her husband; 'I've got 1,500l. worth of 'em-go on.'

"I say, what do I care about those hideous pictures of out-ofthe-way places, by a foreigneering artist, compared with these bright sketches of scenes that I know, by a hand that I love? I protest, Nelly, that these half-dozen little pictures of yours give me a greater pleasure than all the grand collection that we have got at home. And since this is so, why shouldn't John make me a present of the whole of them? They will give me more satisfaction than any diamond ring he can buy me, and will not cost half the price.'

Upon this there commenced a Dutch auction of the works in question; Mr. Wardlaw or his wife proposing some preposterous bid, and Nelly insisting on a much smaller and more reasonable figure.

'I don't want 'em home just now, my dear Nelly,' said Mrs. Wardlaw, when the purchases had been completed; I must make room for 'em as I can.'

What you are thinking of, dear Mrs. Wardlaw, is that the absence of the sketches would leave my walls bare.'

6

'No, no,' cried the old merchant, of course you keep 'em. When I buy a pictur at the Royal Academy, do you think I get it home at once: not a bit of it, it's not the custom of the trade. And when I do get it home, do you think I keep it? Certainly not. I have to loan my picture to the artist who painted it. He

6

says he wants it again for a few 'touches,' which means perhaps to take a copy of it for somebody else; what he calls a "replica"; if it was in any other line of business than the Fine Arts, I should call it a fraud.-Hullo, what's the matter?'

It was the little maid with a telegram, which Nelly took from her with a white face.

6

It is for you, Mr. Wardlaw, thank heaven,' faltered she; 'they have sent it on from your house. My nerves are unstrung; and telegrams have been so fatal of late, that I almost feared some bad news about dear mamma.'

That is not like you to be so nervous, my darling,' said Mrs. Wardlaw soothingly. It is but five o'clock, and it is only natural that your mother, who feels the heat so much, should defer her return till the cool of the day. Besides, she left word she might be late. If I was to be frightened by every telegram that comes to John-I hope it isn't about those tambourines, by the by.'

Mr. Wardlaw had glanced his eye over the telegram, and then crumpled it up in his pocket. He now walked to the window and looked out, so that his back was turned to the two ladies.

'Something has gone down that whispered Mrs. Wardlaw to Nelly, up that ought to have gone down. bless ye.'

ought to have gone up,' or something has gone They're always doing it,

'I think we had better be going,' said Mr. Wardlaw, still keeping his face averted. The change from kindly banter to gravity in his tone was very marked.

'You can go, of course, John, but I shall stay with Nelly till her mamma comes back. I am sure she will be glad of company.'

'Very good,' said Mr. Wardlaw slowly. Can I have a word with my wife, Nelly, before I go?'

'Then it is the tambourines,' murmured Mrs. Wardlaw; he has found out he has but one gross instead of two.' Nelly had passed into the next room, and closed the door, leaving her visitors alone together.

'Oh wife, wife! this is a dreadful business,' said Mr. Wardlaw hoarsely. That poor girl yonder is an orphan.'

'Good heavens, what do you mean, John? I know of course that she has lost her father.'

And her mother too. This message comes from Raymond Pennicuick. "Mrs. Conway has fallen down dead in a fit of apoplexy while at my father's rooms in the Albany. Your wife will go to Nelly at once, I know."

CHAPTER III.

FACE TO FACE.

NELLY never knew that it was owing to her own words that her mother had undertaken that visit to London which had ended so disastrously. After Raymond's departure on the preceding day, and when Mrs. Conway had somewhat recovered from her passionate despair, she had pressed her daughter for every detail of his conversation. 'Was she sure,' she asked, 'that he was himself convinced from his father's manner that the dead man had left no word of farewell: or was he only dutifully repeating Mr. Pennicuick's words without faith in their veracity?'

'I think Raymond believes, mamma, that there was no especial message from dear papa.'

And you,' put in her mother quickly, 'what do you think?' 'I don't know what to think,' answered Nelly sadly; it was very unlike dear papa; he was not accustomed to use vague terms in expressing his affection; and as a dying man, he would, one would imagine, have sent some particular message.'

'You think he would have forgiven your mother?' said Mrs. Conway slowly.

'Oh, indeed, dear mamma, I was not thinking of that; at such an awful time, it is probable that his mind never dwelt on

the unhappy estrangement between you. He must have wished to die in love and peace with all, and above all with you.'

"That is what I am trying to believe, Nelly. The shortest time, it is said, is sufficient for man to reconcile himself with his Maker. I read a verse once over some one's grave:

Between the stirrup and the ground

Mercy I sought, mercy I found;

and surely even a less time should suffice for reconciliation between man and wife.'

'It should indeed, dear mother, and no doubt it was so. What I am most surprised at in poor papa's silence is that he should have said nothing of the circumstances that led to his cruel punishment; I should have thought he would have commissioned Mr. Pennicuick to explain them; to my mind they need explanation.' 'And to mine,' answered Mrs. Conway hoarsely.

'It was so contrary to dear papa's character,' continued Nelly, preferring to dwell even on so sad a topic rather than on the more distressing one of the alienation between her parents, 'to commit any outrage upon people's feelings, let them be who they might; not to mention the risk he must have been conscious of incurring; and he was not one to run foolish risks.'

Your

Ralph

'Not of that sort,' answered her mother thoughtfully. good sense goes all the way with my own convictions. Pennicuick is lying to us-that is certain. He has some selfish reason, some wicked motive, for keeping us in the dark.'

'Nay, nay, dear mamma, I can no longer follow you,' remonstrated Nelly. What possible motive can Mr. Pennicuick have in depriving us of the melancholy satisfaction of hearing the last of my poor father? Because we are miserable, we have no right