"Now, my dear Mr. Wayre, be advised by me. I am a tried friend, and I can assure you I sympathise with your position a great deal more than you might suppose. Be content. Surely I am my daughter's only guardian and counsellor in such an important matter as her settlement for life. Take her answer-at least her wishes-from me."

"I will not take them from the lips of any one but Miss Blenheim," said Wayre with resolution. His hand dropped from the door to his side.

"Now, my dear Mr. Wayre, this is very foolish. I did not expect this from a man of your very gentlemanly feelings. Poor Milly has committed herself. Much is due to you; and I can assure you she feels it keenly. But be generous; indeed, she cannot see you."

"Mrs. Blenheim, yesterday your daughter and I spoke face to face; we entered into the most solemn compact that can bind man and woman, except the ceremony which should follow it,-a compact which Miss Blenheim entered into in person. She can surely retract in person.

You must excuse me if I take her wishes from no other lips but hers." "Would a letter satisfy you?"

"An interview is due to me."

"My daughter was under a mistake."

"I never misled her," said Wayre, growing firmer every moment. "Not to-day, Mr. Wayre. If you insist, come in a day or so. I cannot have my daughter placed in so painful and false a position; don't you see, Mr. Wayre? The mistake was not exactly a graceful one. I should not really blame you if you were to accuse her of—a—even a mercenary view."

"I promise you not to reproach her. There shall not be the slightest approach to a scene. I will confine myself to the simple point-her wishes on the subject."

Mrs. Blenheim seemed very much embarrassed. Her embarrassment quickly changed to anger. We have depicted the lady's character in vain, if the reader should expect any loftiness or naughty pride to mingle in her anger. She grew pale, and said with a saucy smile, looking Mr. Wayre full in the face:

"You shall not see my daughter, Mr. Wayre! Do not imagine I wish to turn you out of the house, or treat you with any incivility; I should be very sorry; but you shall not see Miss Blenheim."

At this crisis the door opened, and in walked Milly.

"Mr. Wayre," she said, "I did not know you were here."

He looked at her in estrangement; in point of fact was so unmannerly as not to hold out his hand. There stood Mrs. Blenheim and the gentleman, cold and mute as milestones, whilst Milly looked briskly from one to the other, with her spirited little smile.

“I hope mamma and you have not quarrelled," she said. was no need of that."

"There

"I asked to see you, Miss Blenheim, and your mother did not think it right that I should."

VOL. XIV.

T

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Wayre," said the heartless Milly, lightly. She hated a scene of any kind, and felt herself surprised into one of great absurdity.

"I understand from your mother," said Mr. Wayre, with a very sickly cheer, "that you were under the impression when you accepted me that I could offer you an establishment-that I possessed certain property."

"I was under that impression, I confess, Mr. Wayre,” said Milly, with a placid daring.

Miss Milly Blenheim has hitherto shown in rather a favourable light; but the heartless flippancy of her bearing during this crucial exhibition of character must for ever forfeit our advocacy and my reader's respect.

"Then," said John Wayre, with an impressive generosity, "I here release you from your ill-advised engagement, freely and for ever."

"Most honourably said!" exclaimed Mrs. Blenheim. "Mr. Wayre, I respect you for your gentlemanly conduct from my heart."

"Is this your only reason for releasing me?" said Milly, looking down, we should hope with some sense of shame, not for her conduct, because that was but worldly-wise, but for the unkind levity with which she had hailed the occasion for it.

"I could have no other, Miss Blenheim," he said slowly, opening the door to depart, and looking at her with reproach.

"There surely need be no other," said Mrs. Blenheim warmly, holding out her hand to give him a most gracious congé. But Milly held out her two hands to him, with a pair of lovely moistening eyes.

"Then I will not accept your release!" she said with heartiness, and much to our astonishment. "This is the very reason that would make me regret it; your noble conduct towards your sister assures me that you could make me happy."

At this pretty speech, which we have only heard equalled in the tag of a genteel comedy, Mr. Wayre, who was holding her hands, shook them very heartily. He was taken so completely by surprise, as indeed are we, that he did not find his tongue for some high-wrought moments, during which he saw as in a vision.

When he had summoned his wits from the ceiling, surbase, and carpet, whither they had scattered, he murmured something to this effect: that he was grateful to the occasion which supplied such a test of her nobleness. Wasn't that a pretty speech also? And so here they stood, bandying compliments at one another precisely like the last scene of a polite comedy.

Meantime Mrs. Blenheim, being the only one with whom sensible folk can sympathise at such a crisis, found herself reduced to a cipher. It was quite obvious she had done all she could for the present. She mildly remarked that she was afraid both lady and gentleman would live to repent their folly; that she would confess it was very much her

own fault, and that she hoped Mr. Wayre would understand distinctly that she had not the slightest objection to the engagement, except that arising from common prudence; that of course the happiness of her child was her dearest object in life. She then gave Mr. Wayre her hand with some civility, and said, with her old saucy smile, that she supposed it was unnecessary to ask him to stay-for she saw he intended to press his triumph.

"You must not be offended with mamma," said Milly; "she did not know what I meant to do, or what I felt. Mamma and I had long talks about it, when I was unsettled, you know; but when I had once made up my mind, I held my tongue. Now let's all be friends."

And so I suppose they were all friends forthwith. In concluding this chapter, I may observe that I had almost rather Milly had acted like a flirt than a fool.

CHAPTER XVIII.

JACK'S TRADE.

It is about eight o'clock in the evening, and we beg to introduce the reader at once into a chamber in the Temple,-** Brick Court. It is very comfortably prepared for our reception, and illuminated with a brisk fire. A good fire in the evening stands for wife and children in a bachelor's rooms-it dances for joy like a rosy child, but never tears your books or screams through your dreams like a young express steamengine. It murmurs pleasant nothings to you, very comforting and genial, like a bright young wife; but its cherry-coloured velvet dress does not trench upon your private purse; a few pence will rig-out her wardrobe, spencer, black lace, muslin veil, and all; her conversation never rises to shrillness; and when you don't want her company she goes out. On one side the fireplace is a little supper laid out on a sidetable, consisting of a dish of opened oysters, remote enough from the fire not to lose their flavour and edge, and a bottle with a tinfoiled neck, proclaiming a sparkling wine. Who can be expected? Is Pylades coming to pay Orestes a visit, that he is to be treated like a prince, and fed upon such delicate fare? Upon a small round-table before the hearth is a tea-service; on the hob is a copper tea-kettle, beginning to sing; and two large photograph-albums are open at hand. Pylades must have primitive tastes, indeed; a black bottle of good Irish, and a bunch of pipes, would be more to the purpose if Pylades calls himself a man. Were we in another locality we should be inclined to expect an incursion of ladies; but in chambers, and within the venerable courts of the Temple, such a fear is surely illusory. We could hardly blame our lady readers, however, if they began to experience vague tremors of decorum and hesitation whether they should tarry the event or fly.

But let us reflect; let us reassure ourselves. These are sober law

chambers; solemn law-books look down on us in all the majesty of calfleather; Ms. lies yonder on the open desk, and is strewn around it; further, we are, as aforesaid, within the sacred precincts of the Temple.

Our lady readers are aware that, as in the days of the ancient order, so in those of the modern Templars, foot of lady, with certain guarded exceptions, never intrudes within their precincts; that the chambers. of Themis are monastic in their purity; and that a crinoline upon King's-Bench Walk would strike with horror any son of the gown; shutters would be closed; blinds drawn down; the Inner and Middle Temple would groan through crypt and vault; the bones of the old Templars would rattle in their coffins.

For the only exceptions to this rule we refer all doubters to the words of the black-letter statute made and provided: "Certain women pelept laundresses, selected as hereinafter writ, who may wait upon the Templars, shall be females of a truculent and forbidding countenance, of a froward spirit, and shall not be more youthful than sixty. They may take unto themselves to their use and comfort, as merces and honorarium, not more than a third of the tea, coffee, and any reviving cordial to be found in the chest or wallet of said Templar. So shall he be mortified and kept in wholesome remembrance of the poverty enjoined upon his order."

Since the days of Coeur-de-Lion, we learn, indeed, nursery-maids are admitted to the gardens; but under sharp restrictions, as may be seen further by reference to the black-letter rule. “Little maids with infants upon their arms, having duly submitted their characters to the Magister Templi and whole body of benchers sitting, who shall jealously examine them as to their opinions, antecedents, and the antecedents of the infants, may, on approval, be admitted, by order, to the pleasaunce, pursuant to notice at the gate; and it shall be becoming in any Templar to scrutinise such little maids with severe regards as he exercises himself in the pleasaunce; so by vigilance may he be preserved from the perils of womankind, which hem us in around to insnare us."

Having thus banished our scruples and soothed our sense of decorum, we may at once observe Mr. Wayre at his toilette in the next room. He is attired with that scrupulous neatness, we must confess, which gentlemen feel to be due to the presence of ladies. That happy dishabille, which is the privilege of a bachelor holding a levée in his chambers, is certainly not enjoyed by Mr. Wayre to-night; and the slight start of pleasure with which he greets that loud ring of the bell still seems to feed our irrational suspicions. Perhaps our lady readers had better break off here and proceed to the next chapter.

The Templar crossed the two rooms hastily, opened the door, and ushered in a tall wiry gentleman in spectacles, who greeted him with a harsh high voice. This, then, is Pylades.

"I've just called to ask a favour. Eh, engaged to-night?" "Well, I am expecting friends," said Wayre.

"By George, so I see; and dainty ones!" cried the stranger, with a shriek of laughter. "Well, old boy, I shan't be angry I'm not asked." "Well, Rawson, what can I do for you?" said Wayre, slightly repulsing the freedom of his friend by his serious address.

"You have seen a work of mine advertised, eh? Perhaps you've read it ?"

"What is the name ?" asked Wayre honestly.

66

Oh, you have not seen it. Odd, that; it has been pretty well advertised in your paper,-a novel called Everard Clayton. I want you to give it a notice. Come, now, you are a countryman of mine; you I know you can do it."

must not refuse me.

Wayre was sorry, but considered himself quite powerless. He explained that the books he reviewed were not selected by him, and so forth; but Mr. Rawson would not accept the excuse. He asked rather warmly what was the use of friends. His publishers, he said, could not secure him any very serviceable notices. The Times, he asserted, -on what authority we know not,-would only review one on assured success, or a protégé. What the deuce was the good of friends?

Mr. Wayre seemed moved; and again professing his utter want of influence, suggested to Mr. Rawson to bring his book down to the office of the Review and leave it, when he, J. Wayre, would call betimes upon the editor, with whom he had some business, and ask for the work. With this understanding between them, Wayre got rid of the intruder civilly, but not before the latter had cast another sly look at the little supper, and wished his countryman joy of his dainty company.

John Wayre closed the door upon his visitor with satisfaction, and then surveyed the room wistfully. He laid the photograph-album in a conspicuous position, stirred the fire, put the kettle on, trimmed the paraffin-lamp, and distributed some bright-covered books effectively upon the central table. Scarcely had he time to make these little arrangements, all pointing significantly towards our late suspicions, when there came a spasmodic little ring to the bell, followed by a tapping such as might proceed from a parasol, or some such diablerie.

He went hastily to the door, and, just as the treble chimes of an organ answer to the pressure of the keys, so, as he opened the doors, came the music of ladies' voices. Shade of Jacques de Molay! a kiss!

“Shun feminine kisses!" says the black-letter; "ye shall not kiss spinster or widow, aunt, sister, or mother ;" and here is this renegade Wayre kissing his betrothed.

Milly had come with her aunt to pay him a long-promised visit to his chambers. It may not have been discreet; it was not exactly comme il faut; but betrothed people are beyond the pale of convention, and do many a thing not quite lawful with impunity. Miss Brown was, moreover, the very genius of preserved respectability. She might marshal a host of young spinsters through the four colleges, heading them with mild dignity; and they would pass through the ordeal like a snowdrift.