cases every year in which men and women are murdered, and of which nothing is known. I would undertake to kill you with a poison of which no trace should ever be discovered, to stab you in a vital part, so that you should die instantly, and there should scarcely be a drop of blood to tell where you had been hit. My dear Mr. Vane, I am horrifying you with my professional talk. You look positively unnerved." "Not at all," stammered Philip Vane. "I am intensely interested. Pray continue. You were saying that "

"Not another word to-day," said the doctor, rising. "I must run off; I must, indeed. I shall see you to-morrow, when I look in to talk to Delabole. Now, adieu." He shook hands politely, but formally, with the general manager, and took his departure.

And Mr. Philip Vane remained for an hour motionless, passive, and chewing the cud of the reflections which Doctor Asprey's words had aroused in his mind.

The next day Mr. Delabole arrived at the office. The very sight of him inspired the clerks, and such of the public as were doing business in the outer office, with hope and comfort. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed with health, his manner jaunty. His diamond rings blazed as he waved his fat, white, little hand in courteous acknowledgment of his subordinates' greeting. The hall-porter essayed to precede him, but Mr. Delabole was much too quick for the plethoric functionary, and made his own way into the general manager's room, into which he passed, after a sharp decisive rap.

Philip Vane was seated at his desk, up to his elbows in an accumulated mass of paper. The sight seemed to afford Mr. Delabole some amusement, as he burst into a low but very hearty laugh at once.

"Hallo!" said Vane, looking up from his work, "it is you, is it; the prodigal returned? Glad you seem amused. You would have found it anything but a laughing matter if you had been here. It has been all very fine for you, spending your substance in riotous living, but deuced hard lines for us who have had to champ away at these husks," pointing to the papers, "which the swine refused to swallow.'

"How charmingly scriptural and poetic is the dear boy in his illustrations," murmured Mr. Delabole. "Yes, Philip, I have returned!"

"Not before it was time," growled Mr. Vane.

"Exactly, but not after; in the very nick."

"I am glad you think so," said Vane, gloomily. "But you were not beforehand, you will at least acknowledge, when you have read this." And he handed a note across the table.

"Naseby-resigns directorship, no longer qualified-has sold shares. I was aware of this; I received this news by telegram the night before last. Hence my letter to you of yesterday-my return to-day."

"Oh! then you do feel it of importance. I am glad to think you are impressed with the facts. From the first blush of your manner you appeared to me determined to carry everything off with a high hand.”

66

My dear friend Vane, I am always impressible by facts, and what you mean by carrying off matters with a high hand, is simply that I keep my wits about me, and am not downcast by trifles."

"The rats are leaving the sinking ship," said Vane, sententiously, pointing to the letter.

"A very inapt illustration," retorted Delabole. "In the first place, the ship is not sinking; in the second, this particular rat was hunted out of it through a mistake of the officer left in charge."

"You are alluding to me ?" asked Philip Vane, flushing with rage.

"I am alluding to you, my dear Philip," replied Delabole, quietly," and to no one else. Naseby came here for certain information. He is a wealthy but pompous little man; you ignored his wealth, and insulted his pomposity by your-pardon me, my dear Philip, I have not the advantages of your education, and can find no other word for it-by your misplaced 'cheek;' he retired in dudgeon, and threw up the whole concern.”

"That's his version of the case, and

your utmost, but I confess I am not able to second that admirable proposition. I have already twice postponed my marriage for your convenience, and I was only awaiting your return to fix an immediate day, and arrange for absenting myself from the City for some little time."

"I am greatly afraid, my dear Vane," said Mr. Delabole, firmly, but with perfect calmness, "that that cannot be."

"Cannot be !" repeated Vane, starting from his chair. "And why not ?"

"Because," said Delabole, still calmly, "because the business of the office will not permit it."

"Business of the office be d-d!" said Vane, savagely. "What business is there that presses for which I am specially required ?"

"A little matter involving peculiar nicety of handling," said Mr. Delabole, rising from his seat. "No one there," he continued, closing the door after he had opened it suddenly and looked out. "It is well to be particular both as regards eyeshot and ear-shot in these matters," he added, poking the escutcheon of the lock over the keyhole with his stick. "I see from the letter you sent me that our further application to Sir Geoffry Heriot has been. fruitless and that he still refuses to sign the deed."

"I am perfectly certain of it," retorted Delabole.

"You must bring some very special influence to bear upon me," said Vane, with a sneer.

I intend to."

May I ask what it is ?"

"If you do, I answer you plainly. The loss of Mrs. Bendixen and her sixty thousand pounds."

"You overrate your influence in that quarter, my good sir," said Philip Vane, with a sigh of relief.

"It is not my influence, my good sir, but the influence of the law; the influence of the parish register of Chepstow Church, of Margaret Pierrepoint, your wife, the actress whom you went down to see by stealth at Wexeter, and whom I went down to see too; whose life I have tracked backward and forward, and whose life's history I have at my tongue's end. Do you wish further personal evidences ? Shall I ring the bell for Gillman, whom I employed to work the case out for me, or do you acknowledge the authenticity of my information?"

"I acknowledge it," said Philip Vane, faintly," and will do what you require."

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'Exactly," said Mr. Delabole, cheerfully. "We will discuss the matter later. Now, if you please, I will look through the minutes and see what has been going on while I have been away. Mr. Packham," he called out, putting his head into the outer office, "be good enough to bring the current minute-book."

The clerk speedily came with the minutebook and read out many entries to Delabole. But Philip Vane did not pay much attention to that proceeding. He was entirely engrossed in thinking over what Doctor Asprey had said to him that morning.

JUST PUBLISHED, THE EXTRA DOUBLE NUMBER FOR CHRISTMAS, 1871,

ENTITLED

SLAVES OF THE LAMP. Now ready, price 5s. 6d., bound in green cloth, THE SIXTH VOLUME

OF THE NEW SERIES OF

ALL THE YEAR ROUND.

To be had of all Booksellers.

VOL. VII.

163

sun, dreamed by the fireside, prayed, laughed, wept, talked, mused. And at last, when she had explored every outlet of her life to its extreme limits, and wrought herself up to a very high pitch of nervous fancy, Aunt Martha, who had been quietly observing her, spoke. It was now quite time that she should give up her childish freedom, and settle down into a useful, wellconducted young woman. On that occasion May had burst into passionate tears. The humdrum life that she was dreading had overtaken her. Time would not spare her to her dear wild life. On receiving her lecture she had disappeared instantly, and for the day. But in the evening she had presented herself in the parlour, tidy in person, serious, and ashamed. She was going to do all and be all that was expected of her.

So now May, being twenty years old, and having been for three years labouring earnestly to tame herself and walk in quiet ways, may be fairly said to have sown her wild oats. She wore housewifely clothing and smooth hair. She had put aside romances, and plays, and poems, and set herself to apply to graver studies. She took to making pastry, and spent a considerable time at her spinning - wheel. She relinquished her idea that an excessive joy was the object of life, and prayed night and morning to be delivered from her wild dreams and fancies. She even thought of a likely spot for her grave, and wondered if it could be possible she should live to be as old as Aunt Martha; and then perhaps live longer still. In the mean time she was good to her poor neighbours, and as helpful as she was able, and she kept up her intercourse with the animals and birds. When she went out of a morning to the sunny side of the ruin, and nestling in the ivy, stretched out a hand and made a cooing sound, then they all came round her, rabbits, and pheasants, and dogs, and ducks, and geese, and chickens, the calf, and the donkey, and the jackdaws from the belfry. Tame and wild they clustered about her, and fed at her feet, or out of her hand. But she petted them now as a superior being, not as formerly when she was only their companion and playfellow. The enactment of this scene was the one folly of her day, all the rest of the time being spent in serious behaviour and steady occupation. She was as staid and demure as any one could wish, or as any one could regret to see her. Miss Martha beheld the wholesome change

in the girl, but thought all the time that the change was a little too extreme. Yet how was this to be avoided? What ought a young girl to be? Miss Martha looked back into her own youth, and sought in vain for any experience of her own which might apply to her niece. Miss Martha had never been imaginative. Where one young thing lives entirely with elder people, in an atmosphere at once antiquated and still, romantic and wild, it is likely that the young spirit will be either too much oppressed or too much emancipated. Miss Martha did not quite see this, but she knew that a little change was sometimes wholesome for young people, and she wished that May had a little change.

Thus she had not given an absolute denial when Sir John had expressed a wish to see May at Camlough. She had conveyed the idea to the gentleman that, if the ladies of his family exerted themselves properly, she would not insist that the thing could not be done. May, on hearing of the matter, had looked a little frightened, and had said, very gravely, "I think I would rather not go." Yet a certain controlled excitement of expectation had evidently hung about her since.

On the day when Katherine came from Camlough to seek her, May, as it happened, was busy in the kitchen. Bridget was out for a holiday, and Miss Martha had stepped down to the meadow with old Nanny to hold counsel over a sickly cow. The sun was hot and strong, the yellow blind in the kitchen was down, and the window open. There was a pot of lavender and sweet marjoram on the window-sill, and the fire winked under the saucepans. The walls were glittering with tin implements, and in the middle of the red-tiled floor sat May, shelling peas into an earthen dish. She was smooth and neat, and looked suitable to the time and place in her apron and green gingham gown.

From fifteen to twenty May had gained in beauty. She was not of more than middle height, her figure full yet slender, and replete with all womanly curves and fair lines. Her features were hardly so much regular as harmonious, large enough for dignity, yet small enough for feminine grace. Her eyes had still that brownpurple hue which Paul Finiston had thought so lovely, still those circling tinges of shadow which had charmed the old monk. Her hair was black, with a tinge of brown in it, her complexion of a creamy fairness, which made the darkness of her eyes very

deep and striking, and a blush upon her face very perceptible and beautiful. Her mouth was, perhaps, the jewel of her face. Most lips can express joy in smiles and trouble in heaviness. It is a rarer thing to see a mouth which shows involuntarily all the subtle shades of feeling that hover between pleasure and pain, all the flickerings of fancy, perhaps the nervousness and steadfastness of a difficult courage. When you knew May awhile, you forgot about the redness of her lips and the loveliness of their curves. You thought more about their thousand unuttered revelations.

"What an odd, ridiculous place!" cried Katherine, as she and her cavalier rode up to the gate of Monasterlea. And there was more here to discern of grandness and quaintness than Miss Archbold could take note of in a week. An artist would have seen it in a glance. But Katherine was not an artist, and saw something very unfinished in the majestic ruin with the homely cottage in its arms; the picturesque confusion of crosses and rose-gardens, blooming hedges and black archways; the acres of mounded graveyard upon one side, and upon the other and further away, the cornfields and the sweet farm-lands. It is true she had seen the place long ago, but she had not then thought it so exceedingly inelegant.

"It is fine!" cried Christopher, with a touch of that enthusiasm which Katherine had never felt, but immediately relapsed into a strain which pleased her better. "You beautified the whole place when you visited it years ago," he said, raving rapturously as he received her into his arms from her saddle.

The door of Miss Martha's dwelling stood open, and the blinds were all down to keep out the heat. There was no one about, and it suited Miss Archbold's humour at the moment, rather to walk in without ceremony, than to stand knocking at the door. Meeting no one, she proceeded to explore the house, looking into rooms left and right, and perfectly unconcerned as to how the dwellers in the cottage might approve of her intrusion. A sweet mocking laugh from the passage came floating over her pea-pods and her dishes to May, who looked up with notice of something unusual in the house. And there stood Katherine and her lover in the doorway.

As May arose, with quickened eye and colour, in a pretty confusion to meet her, it must be confessed that Katherine received a shock. She had not counted on

finding anything so lovely here; did not want anything so lovely at Camlough. But a moment passed, and the whisper of vanity had soothed and appeased her. She was more beautiful by far even than this; so much so, that there never could be rivalry between herself and this mountain-reared maiden. And in some sense the whisper spoke truth. As a mere piece of flesh and blood, as a statue of perfection to be measured and criticised, she was a handsomer creature than May.

"You have not forgotten me ?" she said, smiling, and holding out both her pretty hands, while the folds of her riding-habit fell away from them, making graceful drapery all round her on the floor.

"No, indeed," said May, stepping forward to take the hands.

"This is not my first visit to Monasterlea," said Katherine, tenderly, “and I have very good reason to remember the first."

"She is changed," thought May, triumphantly. "And how beautiful she is! Now I should like to go to Camlough."

"Your aunt has promised you to us," said Katherine, “and I have come to know when we may expect you." And all the while Miss Archbold was wondering how May would look if she were not dressed like a housemaid.

"But she cannot have much wardrobe

here," she calculated, "and we shall get her as she is."

"Aunt Martha is in the meadow," said May. "Shall we go out and meet her? It is a pretty walk."

Christopher, Miss Mourne; Miss Mourne, Mr. Lee," said Katherine, and the three young people stepped out into the sunshine. And then May remembered that she had heard that Miss Archbold was engaged to be married to a wealthy young gentleman who was staying at the house. This was the second young gentleman whom May had ever spoken to, and naturally she compared him with the first. Mr. Lee was amiable and manly-looking enough, but he had not the countenance and bearing of Paul.

Miss Martha was still engaged in her conference with Nanny over the cow, when she saw the three young figures bearing down upon her from the gate into the fields.

"Ah, this is very pleasant; Miss Archbold herself," said Miss Martha. "May shall certainly go; it will do her a world of good. And I declare there is the pedlar coming across the hill. Nanny, run and