will be looking for us! Do be quick, Frank!" and, seizing his hand, she ran down the street.

“Did you think the shop was so far?" he asked, when they had gone a good distance.

159

The girl left the room, after casting a compassionate glance at the little ones.

"Lie down, both of you, on Nancy's bed, and have a sleep; but first let me take off your clothes, or yon

"No, no!" shrieked Louise; "we won't lie down here; we want to go home!"

But tears and resistance were of no use; she was obliged to submit. Little Frank screamed and struggled violently when his turn came, but all his efforts were equally unavailing. "Stay there, now, quietly," she said, pushing them down side by side on a straw pallet in the corner, and throwing over them her own tattered shawl. Then they observed her take from a peg an old cloak, and fling it round herself,

"I think we might, if we could find a kind-looking person, but they all seem in such a hurry-I suppose, to buy Christmas-boxes." At that moment a woman came up, and, stopping close to the children, said, "What are you crying for, my little dears?"

The words were kind, but the voice had a harsh sound. They turned, and glanced at her face. Something in the expression made Frank feel frightened; but Louise, glad of the opportunity, told how they had lost mamma, and then mentioning the number and street where they lived, begged to know how to get there.

"My poor little creatures!" said the woman, "you never could go all that way by yourselves. I'll bring you home."

Thankfully the children took her offered hands, and, drying their eyes, ran joyfully by her side thinking they would soon reach mamma, and all their troubles be at an end. But after turning many times from one dirty narrow lane into another, they found themselves among strange gloomy-looking houses, and were startled by loud angry voices, and words such as they had never before heard. Louise ventured to ask her conductor if this was the way home.

"Yes, of course it is."

"I'm so tired!" sobbed poor little Frank.

"Well, I'm going to take you into my house to rest for a while."

Louise's frock and muff, and hid them in its wide folds.

"The money is in our pockets; take care of it!' called out Frank.

"Never fear, I'll mind it!" and with these words she left the room.

As soon as her footsteps had died away on the staircase, both children started up and ran to the door; but their united efforts to open it were vain, for the key was turned outside. Shivering with cold, and crying bitterly, they crept back to the straw pallet, and rolled themselves in the thin old shawl.

"Frank," said his sister, "let us ask God to bring us back to mamma."

The simple prayer was soon made; and then, feeling sad and weary, they lay down again, and sobbed themselves to sleep. It was nearly dark when the key grated in the lock, and some one entered. The children started up suddenly, and for a moment could not remember where they were.

"Get up," said the girl Nancy. "I'm come to take you home."

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Louise, joyfully; " but where are our things? I can dress Frank and myself." 'Mother has not brought them back. She says if you cannot go without your fine clothes you must stay where you are."

"Oh no! take me to my own mamma."

"Well, come on quickly; you can have this to keep you warm;" and throwing the shawl over the heads

After a long and fast walk they came into a broader set of streets. Lamps glimmered here and there through the frosty fog, as one by one they came out, to light the crowds of busy people, still hurrying about.

"Mother said I was to go no further than this," whispered Nancy, when they arrived at the corner of one of the main streets. You'd better ask some one to show you the rest of the way. I'd like to have seen you safe home, but I daren't."

CHAPTER VI.-" WHERE IS SHE?"

VEN before gloomy November was fairly ushered in, its approach was heralded to London by three dense yellow fogs; and Basil Crawford lighted the gas in his dingy law-chambers with some satisfaction, for the atmosphere accorded with the state of his mind. Any extra brilliancy and buoyant sunshine he would have resented almost as a personal injury.

In

He was thoroughly dejected and cheerless. spite of his devotion to it, business had not lately used him well; he had had little or nothing to do, and prospects generally looked blank and black. At times he almost wished his business were one of active bodily labour-something in which he could work at all times, and which would be more satisfactory than having to wait till it came to him.

About a week before this time he had received an invitation from a friend in South Wales, to go and stay with him for the pleasures of shooting and fishing there; and although his first impulse had been to write and refuse it, he had until now delayed answering it, whilst he turned the invitation and its inducements over in his mind. When he had lighted the gas for the third morning's fog, his spirits felt somewhat brighter, and he had no sooner sat down before his leather-covered table than an impulse roused him. The result of this was he sent out

for a

"Bradshaw." Close under the gas he held it, and with a frown on his face, which was puckered up to enable him to understand its difficulties, he scanned page after page with some eagerness. He was right in his surmise. His idea had not been a bad one; he would, in consequence, write, and accept his Welsh friend's invitation, for "Bradshaw" revealed to him the possibility of reaching his place via Atherton.

He would not stay there, not even for one night; but he should like to pass an hour in the place, visit his godfather, and hear about mutual friends. It

was rather too hard that they should continue to keep him in the dark for so long as to those things he most wanted to know. It had always been a settled conviction of his, that "if you want a thing done you must do it yourself," and, in this present case, he felt very sure he should never be satisfied about his friends unless he went to Atherton and had a personal interview.

Four days later he descended from the train at the familiar little station.

The familiar garden-gates were soon in sight-for the Majendies' house was scarcely a mile from the station-they swung open so easily to the touch, and the gravelled drive was, as usual, in trim and perfect order.

All was still and quiet. The doctor was out on his rounds; Mrs. Majendie was taking her usual afterluncheon nap ere she went out for her daily drive, and there were no signs of Gwendoline visible, at any rate from the front of the house. When he had rung the bell, the above information was tendered him by the servant who appeared, and to whom he was well known. Miss Gwendoline was at home, and then he put the question, "Where is she?"

But this apparently was difficult to answer, and information was obtained from another domestic, to the effect that about ten minutes before she had been seen leaving the drawing-room for the garden, where she would probably be found,

Basil Crawford wished for no further assistance; he announced his intention of finding her unaided, and, passing rapidly through the drawing-room without disturbing Mrs. Majendie as she lay asleep on the blue sofa, he went out into the garden, and crossed the lawn. The dead and fallen leaves were carefully swept up, and the oppression of damp autumn and coming winter was comparatively little felt in this healthful sloping garden.

There she was! No second glance was needed to assure him of that fact, the only wonder was that, after his first sight of her, and involuntary movement in her direction, he did not follow it up, but remained

where he had stopped as he came out of the dense shrubbery.

She was not alone, and the two figures he saw would, to any eyes gifted with sufficiently artistic perceptions and feelings, have composed a pretty picture. But to Basil Crawford it was as ugly a picture as he could have seen.

On the sunny side of the kitchen-garden, and bordering a narrow lane which led to a common, Dr. Majendie had built a good substantial wall, partly to train his fruit-trees on, and partly to protect his apples and gooseberries from agile boys with greedy fingers. Basil Crawford distinguished a man on horseback, and a horse's head above the garden wall; the figure was turned from him, but he recognised Claude Egerton at once-his make, and his fair hair, and his light tweeds, were unmistakable, as unmistakable to him as the profile of that other figure, which had advanced close under the wall, and near as possible to the figure on horseback.

Claude Egerton rose in his stirrups, and, bending low over the wall, he handed down a fanciful little basket, which, as far as Basil Crawford could see, contained a blooming mass of rich and rare hothouse flowers in luscious confusion.

The autumn afternoon sun fell warmly on the group and the red wall, and Gwendoline's golden head was uncovered; her pale grey dress, in its straight hanging lines, fell about her as she stood with arms stretched up to receive the blooming fragrant gift, the sunshine playing merrily on the red wall, and on the golden head, and making shadows in the folds of the pale grey dress.

At length she held the basket lower, and he let go of it. He would probably be going soon now, and it occurred to Basil Crawford that his position was an unpleasant one. He would return by the shrubbery to the house, for he could stand there no longer, and it would be a pity to disturb that garden

scene.

He turned once more to look at them ere he disappeared. Claude Egerton was still bending over the wall, eagerly speaking to her, and her face, instead of being upturned, was bent over the flower-basket, and the sun was shining as brightly as if it were a spring day.

So this was where she was. He retraced his steps very leisurely, saying to himself, with bitterness, "This is how the absent are always forgotten; when we return unawares, we learn how we are valued." Once more in the drawing-room, he found Mrs. Majendie still asleep. He would wait a short time for Gwendoline, stay half an hour or so, and hurry on his way.

He had waited perhaps five minutes by the gilt mantelpiece clock, when his ire increased against Gwendoline, not only for keeping him waiting, but for the cause of that delay, till an idea shot through his mind of going, and leaving but a verbal message

163

that he had been. They would, he knew, be more than astonished at his giving them such a brief and unexpected visit, and he had some sort of feeling that their surprise would be a sort of punishment to them for the way in which they were treating him. He determined to stay three more minutes by the clock, and then, if Gwendoline had not made her appearance by that time, he would wait no longer.

This new idea so gained on his favour that he barely waited till the allotted time was up, when he rose, and softly stole from the room. In the hall he drew out his card-case, and, in a somewhat spiteful manner, threw down three cards on the table, to testify that he desired to make a morning call on each, and to pay his respects to all three of them. He then took up his hat, and gently opened and closed the hall-door, and, with bitter feelings in his mind, he walked back along the drive. In all the numbers and numbers of times he had left that familiar house he had never done so feeling towards its inhabitants as he now felt towards them. He knew they would be hurt at his mode of treating them, but he had a feeling that they deserved this slight. Poor fellow! in his unreasonable proceeding he was not unlike the man in the fable, who cut off his nose to spite his face.

He felt rather guilty when he shut the gate behind him, and was once more descending the hill to the station; but when he had recalled the picture in the garden, he felt justified in his behaviour.

There was a short cut to the station, and he was just leaving Atherton main street for this narrow walk when he heard his name pronounced. He looked hastily round, and perceived Bessie Vernon close behind him. She looked greatly astonished and pleased, and, half doubtfully, he stopped and shook hands with her.

"When did you come, Mr. Crawford ?" she inquired.

“Oh-oh, I only called in passing; I have not come to stay."

"And are you going away directly? Did you see them all up at Birdshill?"

"No, I was unfortunate enough not to see them." "Dear me! What will they say?"

Basil Crawford began to feel uncomfortable, and to wish that he had been a moment earlier, and so missed this eager friendly young lady.

I am sure Mrs. Majendie was at home," she continued.

"Yes, but she was asleep, and I did not like to wake her."

"Oh for shame, Mr. Crawford! that was not true friendliness at all. Was Gwendoline not in f She told me yesterday that she should sit indoors all the afternoon, and finish something she wished to do

herself to her dress for to-morrow."