in the great scheme of humanity. She has simply fulfilled her mission to the best of her ability. She lives entirely in the Present. And since sunshine has come to her with the knowledge that she is beloved by the man she adores, she has felt herself the happiest of

women.

Clare is very different from Susie in all respects, but chiefly in that matter of irresponsibility. Clare is introspective. She pauses to reflect on most occasions; she watches the effect of her conduct on those about her, and always strives to act in accordance with their views; she has a perfect command of her temper; she is reserved, trustworthy, collected, and self-possess ed; she always looks ahead, and seeks to provide for the future.

When Susie stops to realise the full meaning of those hard words which Mr. Steele has hurled at her, her thoughts fly off at a tangent to Clare. O, if only this dreadfully serious man could talk to Clare instead of to her!

Clare also is serious and thoughtful and wise. She would not be taken aback by his grave manners, and she would at once comprehend the drift of his remarks.

'If

'I have not the least idea what it is you want me to do, Mr. Steele,' says poor Susie, leaning towards her interlocutor, wistful anxiety in her eyes, appealing distress in the broken tones of her voice. it is in my power to do anything which you know to be for the real good and happiness of my dear lord, tell it me, please, and I must try to obey, of course.'

"That is well spoken, indeed,' says Maurice, more touched by her simple acquiescence than he chooses to admit to himself, or to show her. 'I see you will at least listen to me while I put the matter before you as reasonably and briefly as I can.'

'Yes,' says Susie, strangely oppressed by something in his manner which, if she knew the word, she would describe as 'ominous.'

'Yes,' he answers, but his tone is not reassuring, 'I feel convinced, my dear young lady, that you have never calmly contemplated the terrible issues of the matter under consideration.'

'No, indeed,' says Susie. She speaks sadly, not pertly. 'I never could have found anything terrible in the prospect of waiting till it suits my dear lord to make me his wife. This he has promised to do, Mr. Steele, and I know he will never break his word.'

A bright flush of colour steals into her face, and a note of defiance sharpens her voice.

'I quite believe it,' says Maurice, relieved to find that his gentle companion is less inclined for tears than for wrath.

'If you hold him to it, there is no doubt he will fulfil his promise; but-have you ever thought of the consequences of such a rash act?'

'I don't think our marriage would be rash,' says Susie: 'we have had some little time to think about it already, and we are likely to have a year or two more before it can be managed.'

'It can never be managed,' says Maurice promptly. Never, that is, if you be the honest good girl I now believe you.'

'O sir!' says Susie, and the sigh is a sob this time. I don't know why you should speak so cruelly

to me.'

'I will tell you why, my dear child; it is only right that you should hear another opinion than Lord Kempton's on a subject of such vital importance to you both. There are two sides to every question. You know all he can have to say by heart.'

Susie instinctively lays her hand on her left side. The impulse may

be theatrical, but the action is pretty and touching.

Maurice clears his throat apologetically.

'The other and darker side of the question, which you do not know, is this: Lord Kempton will never obtain the consent of his parents to his marriage with one who socially is not his equal.

Do

you feel prepared to lead this young man, who is an only son, and the pride and joy of his parents, to oppose them, to outrage the tradition of their noble family, and to defy all that to them is of the gravest consequence? Can you, for one moment, imagine that you, no matter how devoted you prove yourself, could atone to Lord Kempton for the loss of his parents' approval, for the loss of his social status ? Do you, who are an intelligent woman, flatter yourself that your affection will reconcile him to the blighting of all his prospects, which at present are full of bright promise?'

'O, no one has ever, ever spoken to me in such a dreadful, dreadful way before!' cries Susie, in piteous appeal. She buries her face in her hands and weeps bitterly.

'Good God, Maurice! how dare you? What in the name of Heaven are you saying to this poor little lady? Susie, my darling, look up! What has happened? Tell metell me all!'

It is Lord Kempton who speaks. He looks furious, and his tone, except when he addresses Susie, is full of menace and indignation.

Susie looks up, dropping the shelter of her hands. Her eyes are full of tears; but a smile of welcome already dimples her cheeks.

'Don't blame Mr. Steele, my dear lord,' she says. 'He meant no harm. If we were acting I should say, "He's only cruel to be kind;" but as this is no time for play, I can only thank the gentle

man for trying to serve you. I know he is your true friend, and— and as far as I am able, I mean to deserve his-his esteem as well as yours.' She hesitated for a moment before she found the word she strongly emphasised, and as she pronounced it she looked straight into Mr. Steele's eyes. And suddenly, before either of the men have time to realise her intention, she has moved away, and a moment later is running swiftly up the stone steps that lead out of the Park.

'Give me five minutes before you follow her, Kempton,' says Maurice, and he lays a detaining hand upon his friend's arm; but Kempton is impatient and irresolute. She is hysterical, poor child,' adds the ex-tutor warningly. 'Don't talk to her just now; you will regret it if you do. It is surely always best to avoid scenes in the street.'

Had such a plea been urged on Harold under similar circumstances, he would have inflicted condign punishment upon his wellmeaning counsellor. But Lord Kempton is always ready to observe les convenances; he by no means resents his friend's timely suggestion.

'Pause and consider "what the world will say!"' is an appeal which has as much weight with Lord Kempton as the personal interest of her lover would have with ingenuous Susie.

the theatre ?' asks Maurice Steele, when, after some delay, the stout landlady of the old house in Deanstreet condescends to answer his startling double-knock.

'I'm sure I don't know, sir,' says the woman, panting and eyeing the visitor with suspicion; but the gravity of his demeanour evidently reassures her. 'I'm very sorry I can't offer to go up for you and see; but my breath's so bad with the asthma I really couldn't climb all them steep stairs. The Delanes lives on the second floor; it's the door facing you, if you wouldn't mind going up; there's sure to be some one as 'll tell you there.'

'I must apologise for having troubled you at all,' says Maurice politely; of course I'll go by myself.'

He mounts the long narrow stairs, and applies his knuckles to the door indicated. It is immediately opened, and he stands aghast.

'Clare! Maud Muller! Merciful His breath is literally taken away by his intense surprise; and as she stands facing him, her colour and her self-possession both forsake her for a moment. I came to seek Miss Delane,' says Maurice, and to Clare his voice sounds harsh and cold.

'She has not returned from the theatre yet. Can I give her any message? she will soon be here.'

Nothing could have restored Clare's composure so quickly as the perception of Maurice Steele's apparent indignation.

'As I have now found you, Miss Redmond,' he says, with something like eagerness in his tone, 'I feel it to be my duty to speak plainly with you, for my brother's sake.'

'Clare, Clare! what it is? Who is the man that speaks to you?' Madame Delaine's voice comes shrilly from the other room.

Clare runs to her venerable friend's bedside.

It is his brother,' she whispers, vainly striving to control her excessive emotion. She is trembling visibly, and her face is very pale.

'That the good God be truly praised!' cries the old lady fervently; and she folds her hands, as though in prayer. 'Go quick, my daughter, and tell him all the truth

all, remember you; that is the right way to do, believe me.'

'I suppose you can give me ten minutes, Miss Redmond ?' asks Maurice; and, at a sign from her, he takes the chair opposite that into which she, faint and trembling, sinks.

After a moment's awkward hesitation,

You don't come to me from Mrs. Steele?' she asks.

'I come as no one's messenger,' says Maurice; 'indeed, I was fairly amazed when I saw you here. But as chance has led me to meet you, I cannot resist asking you your reason for so cruelly hiding yourself from Harold. He has been in terrible trouble about you.'

'It was not from him I hid myself, but from his mother, and-'

'I know,' says Maurice, looking graver than ever. I am acquainted with the difficulties you had to contend against in Hyde Park-place, and I think you were justified in leaving; but-pardon me for the suggestion-I also think, having right on your side, it was weak and foolish of you to run away clandestinely, as though you felt yourself to blame.'

'Mr. Steele,' says Clare, 'you said you intended to speak to me for your brother's sake. For his sake, and for his sake only, I also will speak to you without a shadow of reserve. I do not know what he thinks of me now, but there was a time when I had his entire confidence and his greatest considera

tion; and to that remembrance I owe a duty, which I shall best fulfil by telling you what my life has been since I fled from a house that could no longer be considered a home by me. I will not attempt to excuse what you condemn as weak and foolish; I will simply tell you all that happened to me at Mrs. Steele's, and—since.'

She does not tremble now; she looks steadily into Maurice's quiet attentive face, and with her right hand she clasps the ring which Harold once placed on her finger.

For ever is the thought in her mind; and thus fortified, she tells Maurice Steele the entire story of her adventures. Lightly, delicately, with maidenly discretion, she touches on the incidents of her intercourse with Percy Hetheringham. She blames herself for the misunderstanding that led to their sudden parting. She hints at the fact of his having 'cared' for her, but she absolves him from the slightest reproach.

As far as he was able, he conscientiously helped me,' she says. 'I went to him every day, and stood as his model; he paid me liberally for my services, and-he respected me. If, for a moment, he forgot the consideration he owed me, the fault must have been mine; I deserved the unpleasant consequences. But as soon as I realised that my position had become a dangerous one, I went away; and, most fortunately, I found a peaceful and happy home with Madame Delaine, who has given me shelter and protection ever since. Now, all that is left of my intercourse with Mr. Hetheringham is a grateful remembrance of his unfailing kindness, and of the excellent lessons he gave me in painting. Beyond this there is nothing, neither reproach nor regret, and this I am truly glad to assure you. Do you believe me, Mr. Steele ?'

VOL. XXVII.

She rises and stands before him ; her hands are clasped; her eyes meet his in wistful appeal.

'When I was very angry with you, Miss Redmond, and angry with my poor brother too, for what I considered his blind faith in you, I remonstrated with him vigorously, and I told him that I believed real love could not exist without respect.'

I know that well,' says Clare quietly.

'Allow me now to assure you, most solemnly,' says Maurice, 'that I consider my brother's love, and his trust in you, are fully justified.'

He moves towards her and offers her his hand, with an amount of ceremony which embarrasses Clare far more than his verbal concession has done. She is about to make some reply, when Susie appears at the door of the sitting-room.

'O' she says, stopping short on. the threshold, and looking at Mr. Steele with strangely-troubled eyes,. 'I had no idea any visitor was here.'

'I came to see you, Miss Delane,' says Maurice; 'but Fate has led me to find an old and long-lost friend beneath your roof.'

Susie is so completely preoccupied by the overwhelming nature of her own affairs, that she has little thought for speculation left. Yesterday, the fact of finding Clare in conversation with the man who bears the obnoxious name of Steele would have perplexed and amazed her; but to-day

'Clare knows about Lord Kempton, and all I hoped and believed,' she says; 'perhaps you have already told her your view of the affair, Mr. Steele ?'

Something in her poor little friend's sad face arrests Clare's attention. 'Mr. Steele has not mentioned your name, Susie,' she says. 'You are in trouble, child; what has happened?'

M

'I have acted on Mr. Steele's advice, and done what I believe is right and best for my dear-for the only son of the Earl of Fermanagh, I mean. I have just told his lordship that-O Clare! it was hard; but I have done it now. It is all over. Everything is finished between us. I have given Lord Kempton up. I don't suppose I shall ever, ever see him again!' Her voice is choked and broken by wild sobs. She flings her arms about her friend's neck, and hides her tear-stained face. 'O, it was awfully, awfully hard, Clare,' she cries; but I think in the end it will be best for him. He was always too grand for me, you know, and of course I could not risk his losing his right place among the proud swells and all that, just for me. I'm not worth any such sacrifice. I'm neither beautiful and grand, nor clever and learned, like you. It would have been different if I had been, of course. And though he is good and kind and generous, and has behaved most faithful and noble, too, in every way, he knows very well that I'm not the right kind of girl to be received among his people. They'd scorn me, and, what's worse, they'd rile him. He has promised to go abroad for a year, as the Earl his father wishes him to do. Of course the old gentleman wants his son to forget me; and he will too, though he says he will be sure to come back for me some day; but I know different. Anyway, it's finished now.' Then, with an odd attempt at a smile, Have I proved my self worth your good opinion, Mr. Steele?' she adds, turning towards him anxiously.

He takes both her small dimpled hands into his. You and Clare have taught me a grand lesson to-day,' he says solemnly; and then, I must take you to Portsmouth to-morrow, Clare. There

We

are few trains on Sunday. shall have to start early. Will you be ready for me when I call for you?'

'I am safe and in peace here,' says Clare steadily. Harold will know where to find me now. I shall never run away or have to hide myself from any one again, I hope. I have waited so long for him that it will not seem hard to wait a while longer. Indeed nothing can be hard since I have been able to tell you all the truth, Mr. Steele; but pray do not insist upon my going to Portsmouth. Harold would be the last to wish me to do so. He will not misunderstand my patience. Believe me, it is best for me to stay here.' She speaks very quietly, and there is an air of decision about her which Maurice finds admirable.

'I have no doubt you are perfectly right,' he says, and I am content to abide by your decision. You are likely to know wilful Hal and his ways far better than I do.' As he speaks that rare smile lights up his face which is so pleasant to see. The girls, who are watching him, brighten under its genial influence.

'So you had another interview with Kempton after I had spoken to him?' he asks, turning to Susie, on his way to the door.

'He came to fetch me from the Kaleidoscope for the last time,' says Susie. She does not think fit to inform her grave interlocutor that Mr. Hoax has this day told her her services will shortly be dispensed with.

'I gave you fair warning some weeks ago, little Delane,' the manager has said to her only a few hours since. 'I gave you the straight tip then, but you haven't thought fit to act according. Girls that worrit and fret aren't no manner of use in my theatre. I pay them for being lively and spry.