and activity in recovered health; the cowardly dread of scorn, leading him not merely into the secular life, but into the gradual dropping of piety and devotion; the actual share he had taken in forbidden diversions; his attempts at plunder; his ill will to King Henry; and above all, the persecution of Esclairmonde, which he now regarded as sacrilegious; and he even told how he lay under a half engagement to Countess Jaqueline, to return alone to the court, and bear his part in the forcible marriage she projected!

He told all, with no extenuation; nay, rather with such outbursts of opprobrium on himself, that Dr. Bennet could hardly understand of what positive evils he had been guilty; and he ended by entreating that the almoner would at once hear his vow to become a Benedictine monk, ere—

But Dr. Bennet would not listen. He silenced the boy, by saying he had no more right to hear it than Malcolm as yet to make it. Nay, that inner dedication, for which Malcolm yearned as a sacred bond to his own will, the priest forbade. It was no moment to make such a promise in his present mood, when he did not know himself. If broken, he would only be adding sin to sin; nor was Malcolm, with all his errors fresh upon him, in any state to dedicate himself worthily. The errors― which in Ralf Percy, or in most other youths, might have seemed slight-were heavy stains on one who, like Malcolm, had erred, not thoughtlessly, but with a conscience of them all, in wilful abandonment of his higher principles. On these the chaplain mostly dwelt; on these he tried to direct Malcolm's repentance; and finding that the youth was in perpetual extremes of remorse, and that his abject submission was a sort of fresh form of wilfulness, almost passion at being forbidden to bind himself by the vow, he told him that the true token of repentance was steadiness and constancy; and that therefore his absolution must be deferred until he had thus shewn that his penitence was true and sincere-by perseverance, firstly in the devotions that the chaplain appointed for him, and secondly in meeting whatever temptations might be in store for him. Nay; the cruel chaplain absolutely forbade the white, excited, eager boy to spend half the night in chapel over the first division of these penitential psalms and prayers, but on his obedience sent him at once to his bed.

Malcolm could have torn his hair. Unabsolved! Still under the weight of sin; still unpledged; still on dangerous ground; still left to a secular life and that without Esclairmonde! Why had he not gone to a French Benedictine, who would have caught at his vow, and crowned his penitence with some magnificent satisfying asceticism?

Yet something in his heart, something in the Father's own authority, made him submit; and in a tumult of feeling, more wretched even than before his confession, he threw himself on his bed, expecting to charge the tossings of a miserable night on Dr. Bennet, and to creep down barefoot to the chapel in the early morning to begin his Misereres.

Instead of which, his first wakening was in broad daylight, by King

James standing over him. 'Malcolm,' he said, 'I have answered for you that you are discreet and trusty. A message of weight is to be placed in your hands. Come with me to the Duke of Bedford.'

Malcolm could only dress himself, and obediently follow to the chamber, where sat the Duke, his whole countenance looking as if the light of his life had gone out, but still steadfastly set to bear the heavy burthen that had been placed on his shoulders.

He called Malcolm to him, and showed him a ring, asking whether he knew it.

'The King's signet. King Harry's,' said Malcolm.

He was then reminded, how in the winter, when Henry had lost the ring, and after having caused another to be made at Paris, had found it in the finger of his gauntlet. Very few knew of the existence of this duplicate. Bedford himself was Bedford himself was not aware of it, till it had been mentioned by James and Lord Fitzhugh the chamberlain; and then search was made for it, without effect, so that it evidently had been left with the Queen. These private signets were of the utmost importance, far more so than even the autograph; for though signatures were just acquiring individuality enough to become the best authentication, yet up to this very reign, the seal was the only valid affirmation. Such signets were always destroyed on a prince's death; and it was of the utmost importance that the duplicate should not be left in Queen Catherine's hands, above all, while she was with her mother and her party, who were quite capable of affixing it to forgeries.

Bedford, James, and Fitzhugh, were all required at Vincennes; the two latter at the lying in state in the chapel. Most of the other trusty nobles had repaired to the army; and indeed, Bedford, aware of the terrible jealousies that were sure to break out in the headless realm, did not choose to place a charge that might hereafter prove invidious in the hands of any Englishman, or to extend the secret any further than could be helped; since who could tell what suspicion might not thus be cast on any paper sealed by Henry?

In his perplexity, James had suggested young Malcolm, who had assisted in the search for the lost ring, and been witness to its discovery; and whom he could easily send as bearer of his condolences to the widowed Queen; who had indeed the entrée of the palace, but had no political standing, was neither French nor English, and had shewn himself discreet enough with other secrets to deserve confidence.

Bedford caught at the proposal. And Malcolm now received orders to take horse, with a sufficient escort, and hasten at once to Paris, where he should try if possible to obtain the ring from the Queen herself; but if he could not speak to her in private, he might apply to Sir Lewis Robsart. No other person was to be informed of the real object of his mission; and he was to get back to Vincennes as soon as possible.

Neither prince could understand the scared distressed looks with

which Malcolm listened to commands, shewing so much confidence in a youth of his years. They encouraged him by assurances, that Sir Lewis Robsart-who had a curious kind of authority, half fatherly, half nurselike, over the Queen-would manage all for him. And King James, provoked by his reluctance, began, as they left Bedford's chamber, to chide him for ungraciousness in the time of distress, and insensibility to the honour conferred on him.

'Nay, nay,' disclaimed Malcolm, almost ready to weep; 'but I have a whole world of penance-'

'Penance

Plague on the boy's perverseness! What penance is so good as obedience?' said James, much displeased. 'Sir, Sir,' panted Malcolm, ''tis not only that. Could anyone but be sent in my stead? My returning alone is what Madame of Hainault bade-for-for some scheme on-'

His voice was choked, and his face was burning.

'Is the lad gone daft?' cried James, in great anger. 'If Madame of Hainault were so lost to decorum as to hatch such schemes at such a moment, I trow you are neither puppet nor fool in her hands, for her to do what she will with. I'll have no more fooling!'

Malcolm could only obey.

In the brief space, while the horses were preparing, and he had to equip and take food, he sped in search of Dr. Bennet; hoping, he knew not what, from his interference, or trusting, at any rate, to explain his own sudden absence.

But looking into the chapel, he recognized the chaplain as one of the leading priests in one of the lengthiest of Masses, which was just commencing. It was impossible to wait for the conclusion. He could but kneel down, find himself too much hurried and confused to recollect any prayer, then dash back again to don his riding-gear, before King James should miss him, and be angered again.

'Unabsolved-unvowed!' he thought.

Sent off thither against my will. Whatever may fall out, it is no fault of mine!'

(To be continued.)

CAMPANELLA.

CHAPTER XII.

THE time drew near when Nella was to make her public appearance; not in a little school-room, before an audience half of whom were already known to her, but before a chosen assembly of music-loving Londoners, in a hall which was the prettiest in all London. To say this, however, is still not to say much in its praise.

Monsieur Mallet held a concert once a year, at which all the best

musicians in England appeared. All Monsieur's pupils and well-wishers used to buy tickets. His most valuable patroness was Her Grace the Duchess of Ventnor, a very great lady indeed, who had at one time learned singing of Monsieur Mallet. Nella used to hear the Duchess's name often enough while the concert was still in the distance: would she come this year, or would she forget the concert altogether, as she had done once? If she came, how many tickets would she take? These were questions which troubled Monsieur, and indeed, on the whole, he was rather restless and ill-tempered at this time. Madame was always calm, however; Nella thought she was like a great mild cow, quite contented with a little grass and sunshine. Before long, her husband became good-tempered again also; for on one happy day, he announced to his wife that Her Grace had sent for a dozen guinea tickets, and from that time affairs looked well for the concert, which promised to surpass all which had gone before it.

Nella was to play; it was a great honour for such a little girl, but her music deserved the honour. She played very beautifully. She had practised music by day, and dreamed music by night, until she had succeeded at last in winning the warm love and admiration of her eccentric little master, who was prouder of her than he had ever been of any other pupil. He used to tramp up and down the room while she played, in a frenzy of delight, beating time, and crying under his breath, 'Capital! Charming! Bravissima!!' All this praise did not make Nella vain, however, for she was a genius; that is to say, she could see far away into the heights and depths of her art; and all that she did, however good it seemed to others, she knew to be very very poor beside the perfect music which she heard with an inner ear. There is a lovely picture of St. Cecilia, with a holy, happy, upraised face, listening to angels singing. You do not suppose that, after having heard those angels, St. Cecilia could ever be vain of the sweet sounds she drew from her own organ. Other people thought them perfect perhaps, but she knew them to be only poor blind gropings after the perfect music. For that lives in Heaven.

Nella's piece was learned-she was not to play her own thoughts now-and the great day came. There is not much to tell about it. When evening drew near, Nella went to her room to put on her black silk frock. Madame, who liked fine clothes, retired to make herself gorgeous in maize-coloured satin. She had wanted sorely to buy a new white dress for Nella, but Monsieur said 'No.' He did not grudge the money, he had another reason: She looks smaller in black,' he said to his wife, and more melancholy and interesting; I will not let you spoil her with your fineries.' He had brought home, a day or two before the concert, a jet chain and a great jet cross, for Nella to wear on her neck, because that too looked interesting. So now they drove to the music hall in a hired fly-four of them; Monsieur, rather nervous and excitable; Madame, with her fat white-kidded hands lying loose and

placid on her lap; a young-lady singer, who lived next door to the Mallets, and Nella.

Nella knew well enough that this was a great and anxious night for her, yet she did not feel afraid. Before leaving her room, she had cast a look on the picture of the Saviour embracing the little ones, and kneeling down, she had said, 'Dear Lord Jesus, Who wast so kind to children, help me, who am only a little child, to be brave to-night, and to play well.' Perhaps this was the reason why she was so calm. They reached the hall early-half an hour before the music would begin-for Monsieur and Madame wished to be on the spot, ready to shake hands with their friends as they should come in. They waited in a draughty room, not half so cosy as Mrs. Lester's parlour, the last 'green-room' in Nella's experience. Monsieur soon went to wait in the lobby for Her Grace the Duchess, whom he would lead to her place as a sign of respect. When someone said, 'The Duchess has come,' Nella peeped round a corner to see the great lady. She was tall and handsome, and rather young, and very splendidly dressed, and she was looking very graciously, with that kind graciousness which sits well only on high-born people, on the singing-master, whose back, which was towards Nella, seemed wonderfully deferential. French backs have

more expression than some English faces.

At last it was little Nella's turn to mount the platform before all the people. There was a flutter at her heart as she dropped her curtsey, but the tones of her violin soothed her. Not the old violin, but a beautiful costly new one, of which she was very proud; though it was her old five-shilling friend to which she still told all her secrets as it lay on her pillow at night. She played now very well indeed. Mr. Mansworth, who listened at first with very anxious sparkling eyes, soon began to nod and wave his hand to the time, and cried at the close 'Brava!' as loudly as though Nella were not his pupil. She looked quite as small and as interesting with her black cross and dark entreating eyes as even Monsieur Mallet could desire. He poured out his French raptures over her as he led her down from the platform among loud applause; and afterwards, in a ten minutes rest which was given to both performers and listeners, he went about in the hall, talking to his friends and pupils with such an earnest melancholy look, that some strangers fancied the best singer must have been taken ill. But he was only telling Campanella's sad little history to people who had not heard it from him already. The Duchess knew it well enough-he had taken care to interest her in his poor little speculation; she knew all about the mother, with her fine voice which had broken, the storm, the wreck, the fishing village, the wicked smuggler with whom Nella had lived there.

She had nearly forgotten it, however, until the tiny figure appeared before her and made such sweet music, looking after the music with deep eyes which saw nothing else. Then she kept her glass to her own