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 says he wants it again for a few retouches, 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.

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.'

6

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 ought to have gone up,' whispered Mrs. Wardlaw to Nelly, or something has gone up that ought to have gone down. They're always doing it, bless ye.'

"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?'

6

6

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 alore 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?

that she has lost her father.'

And her mother too.

I know of course

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 XXVII.

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.'

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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 рара; 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 to discard both reason and charity. Indeed you are doing Mr. Pennicuick wrong.'

'You are speaking to one who knows him,' said her mother bitterly, and with a preoccupied air. Her head, heavy with thought, was leaning on her hand; she looked like one without a future, and whose weary brain, o'erladen with vain regrets, searches the past in vain for one bright spot whereon to linger. Nay, since you are so very hard upon Mr. Pennicuick, mamma, I must tell you something to his credit. He has made a certain offer-you will probably refuse it—but it is due to him that it should not be rejected ungraciously.'

'An offer? What sort of an offer? Has it anything to do with Raymond?'

'Nothing at all, mamma,' answered the girl firmly, though the red rose in her cheek. It is a proposition entirely of his own,

and I must say a generous one.'

'Generous? and from Ralph Pennicuick? that is impossible! We have good authority for believing that grapes do not grow on thorns, nor figs on thistles.'

Indeed, mamma, if I may say so, the same authority has taught us to impute no evil-and especially where only good can be intended. Mr. Pennicuick has offered-and I must add in a very delicate way-to allow us three hundred pounds a year.'

'What!' Mrs. Conway rose from her chair with a quickness of which her stout frame would have seemed incapable, and stared incredulously in her daughter's face.

"There was only one stipulation, mamma,' continued Nelly; 'that there should be " no thanks.”

'That means that he does not wish to see us,' said Mrs. Conway. 'So much we already know, dear mother; and indeed, if he is ill, as Raymond tells us, that is intelligible enough. The offer, however, is certainly a genuine one and must be suitably acknowledged. I am sorry I spoke of it just at present, but you seemed anxious that I should tell you all that passed.'

"Quite right, quite right, Nelly-and now let us talk of something else.'

There was very little talk, however, between them; Mrs. Conway's manner was thoughtful and abstracted, and she retired earlier than was her wont, on the plea of fatigue. She had not quitted her room the next morning when Nelly went into the town, and her surprise was great indeed on her return to find that her mother had left the house for London.

That livelong night no sleep had visited Mrs. Conway's pillow. She did not even attempt to sleep. It was only a portion of her life, so far as her mere existence was concerned. Her thoughts, her heart, her soul were fixed upon the Past; and not even upon her own Past. The question that presented itself again and again to her was, What had happened to her husband?

The offer of the allowance from Ralph Pennicuick had reawakened all her suspicions, all her fears-though without rekindling a single hope. What could have induced a man so mean-except where his own pleasures or vices were concerned-to have made such a proposal? That it was no tenderness for the memory of his friend, she felt well assured. It must be some miserable attempt at compensation-at neutralisation of the stings of conscience. The ghost of her dead husband seemed to stand beside her, whispering, Foul play, foul play.' Even the morning light had no power to exorcise it. The question that had importuned her when she lay down in her bed was reiterated still when she arose from it, What did in truth happen to my husband?' There was only one man in England-and as she imagined in the world-who could answer it for her; and that man was Ralph Pennicuick. To him therefore she resolved to go.

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Mrs. Conway, though she had so long been poor, was unaccustomed to the independent ways which are common among persons of scanty income. She was not used to travel, nor of late years to go indeed anywhere, alone. Even the short railway journey to Waterloo Station would under ordinary circumstances have been quite an ordeal to her, and it flurried her now notwithstanding the importance of the matter that occupied her thoughts. Then there was the cab from Waterloo to the Albany,' and when she got there the doubt as to how to enter that mysterious, though fashionable, establishment. All these things agitated the poor lady, as small things agitate the rest of us when we are ill and weak and helpless, and rendered her especially unfit for the interview on which she had set her mind.

A more unfit antagonist to deal with 'Steel' Pennicuick upon a matter in which it was necessary that he should hold his own,

could hardly be imagined. The widow, however, was not afraid of him. She was too full of suspicion and anger to feel fear. Dame Partlet, the hen, who has lost her mate and has suspicion that Reynard knows what has become of him, will flutter up against his sharp nose and glittering teeth with reckless importunity.

The Albany porter was rather puzzled by Mrs. Conway's appearance. He had general directions about the admission of ladies, none of which seemed quite to apply to her particular case. She was neither young nor pretty; she did not look like a dun, though, on the other hand, he was not sure that she was a lady; however, Mr. Pennicuick had a janitor of his own, and he left him to decide upon the advisability of admitting her to his master's presence.

'Letter X, mum, first floor,' was all he thought it necessary to say to her.

On arriving at Letter X, Mrs. Conway, had she been acquainted with the usages of the place, would have gone away and deferred her errand for a better opportunity, for the outer door was closed; but, not being aware that this meant 'not at home,' she used the knocker sharply, which at once produced Mr. Hatton.

'Mr. Pennicuick is not at home, Mrs. Conway,' said he blandly. 'That is not true,' said she (for the porter had told her otherwise), and I mean to see him.'

If this audacious visitor had been quite outside the oak,' perhaps the valet would have ventured to close it, even in her face;' but she had already crossed the threshold, and he could hardly push the poor lady out.

'Please to wait here, madam, one moment.'

It was his loyal intention to give his master the chance of flying to his bedroom, from whence escape was possible by another door, for he was a fox whose earth had more than one outlet; but the widow was too quick for him. Ere he could give his warning, Ralph Pennicuick caught sight of the woman's face which of all others he most feared to see glowering behind his valet's shoulder.

'Dear Mrs. Conway, this is most unexpected. Hatton, you may leave us,' added he quickly; for there was that in his visitor's eye which presaged a stormy scene, and a scene before a servant is unendurable.

He held out his hand, but the widow waved it away with an impatient gesture, nor would she even take the chair which he pushed forward for her accommodation; she stood with one shaking hand upon the back of it, and the other pointing at him, while her white lips strove to articulate in vain.

'You are angry with me, I perceive, Mrs. Conway,' said Penni

VOL. XXXIV. NO. CXXXIII.

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