of the big square pews of the parish church as of trying to make herself at home in her front parlour.

Her thin, sour, suspicious-looking face has more colour than usual this afternoon, her black satin cap-ribbons flutter over the tea-tray, she grows confused over the sugar, and forgets that Julian, her eldest son, likes a double quantity of cream. Julian reminds her quietly, and she all but empties the cream-jug into his cup, a proceeding noticed by the others without a shade of dis

content.

Even Elizabeth, who is eight years older than her brother, has no thought of doing anything but help to spoil him. It only seems natural to them all that Julian, who is so handsome and so gentlemanlike, and so much admired everywhere, should be treated with practical admiration at home. Julian never appears to presume upon this feeling, but it is open to question whether they ever give him fair opportunity.

Even Joshua Serlcote, stiff, prim old martinet that he was, had a secret pride in this son of his. Joshua was a man well to do in the world. The well-stocked jeweller's shop in the Corn Market of Lyme-St.- Mary's had been established by his great-grandfather, and the Serlcotes had always held their heads higher than any other tradespeople in the somewhat exclusive little town. Yet there was a line drawn, and he knew it, and had never made any attempt to overstep it in his own person; but he could not help exulting a little when Julian, atat one-and-twenty, came back from a two years' sojourn in London and Paris, and took his place on the other side of the line quite naturally.

Whitehouse, the principal lawyer, Dr. Sargent, who was the mayor that year, and Mark Oakley, who was the son of a rich brewer, knew quite well that young Serlcote had been away for what his father termed improvement; or in other terms that he had been giving his services in large establishments for the sake of gaining an extended knowledge of business; but it was also patent to them that he had gained knowledge of other things not connected with business, and that in consequence of this knowledge, and his mode of communicating it, he was decidedly an acquisition to the somewhat show" society of LymeSt.-Mary's.

66

He had been at home about a year on this November afternoon, a year during which life had been made very pleasant to him. It was supposed that he was in the shop gradually learning to take his father's place, and occasionally during the forenoon he might be found there; but no stranger who saw him standing about chatting pleasantly and confidently with people who hardly knew whether to regard themselves as customers or visitors, and who felt a certain delicacy in asking for anything they might happen to want, could possibly have supposed that his connection with trade was other than the unpleasant fiction that Julian himself considered it to be.

If the afternoon was bright and tempting there was usually an outdoor engagement to be suddenly remembered a drive in Whitehouse's waggonette,

a boating expedition on the Trent with Oakley and his sisters; or in summer time a picnic or a cricket-match, or, what was more to his taste, a croquet party. Of his evenings he seldom had any account to give, but he had a latch-key, and often went in so late that there was no one to be interested in his accounts.

Of course, there was business to be done in the shop, and Joshua Serlcote was quite the right man to see that it was neither left undone nor done badly. It was well for him, and he knew that it was well, that he had Martin Brooke to trust to. Martin was his wife's nephew-a homeless, penniless, unattractive lad of nineteen or thereabouts. The word "unattractive," however, had better be qualified at once. Martin had strong attractions for his quick-sighted uncle; steadiness, punctuality, a habit of silence, and other businesslike qualities were not too common, as Joshua

knew.

It was quite possible that Martin had merits less stern and more graceful, but these had little chance of coming to the surface of that commonplace, monotonous daily life of his. And there was no one to look below the surface; hardly any to take a careful look at that. The lad had failings, but no one to excuse them. He had virtues, but, seen through the depressing medium of indifference, they appeared very small.

Martin, like everybody else about the place, is in a state of expectancy this afternoon. It is not more than three weeks since Joshua Serlcote received a letter from a small town in Northumberland containing the news of his sister's death, and enclosing an appeal written by her to him only a few days before that event.

It was over twenty years since any communication had passed between them, but time had not frozen his memories of the kindly, gentle girl, whose only unforgivable sin had been that she had chosen to marry a poor man-an artist named Herbert Dyne, who, with no capital except his brains and his brush, had yet been courageous enough to take to himself a wife.

He had never repented, nor had she. They had suffered, but they had loved-loved with a love that would have made a harder life than theirs worth living. It was now about five years since his death. From that time until the beginning of her own last illness Mrs. Dyne had supported herself and her daughter by keeping a school.

It was this daughter of Herbert and Elizabeth Dyne who was expected at No. 17, Corn Market, Lyme-St.-Mary's, in the county of Trentfordshire. All through the dull wintry day-nay, all through the week-a curious sense of anticipation had made itself felt, curious in many ways.

It may be said-sadly enough, if you think of it-that not one inmate of that house thought with any pleasure of the coming stranger; so completely a stranger that even her age had to be guessed. The dying mother had not thought of anything so unimportant as that when she had written to plead for a home for her child. That was the word she had used, "my child." Later on in the letter she had called her Agnes, and

Agnes herself had written one or two brief, quiet, simply-expressed notes to her uncle, who had imagined therefrom that she was probably some fifteen or sixteen years old. That was all that was known of her.

The household at No. 17 was in nowise a demonstrative one. Hardly any member of it knew the real opinion of another on this important matter. From the beginning the utmost reserve had been used. The four younger childrenFanny, Ellen, John, and Sam-had wondered, but only in whisper when they were alone, whether they would have to call the stranger cousin." Even Hannah, the talkative maid-servant, who had helped Miss Serlcote to prepare the room that was to be devoted to the use of the new inmate, had felt that discretion had to be used in asking questions. Perhaps it was because of this outward repression that the inner current of expectation had become so strong.

Probably Julian was troubled less than any one else by his anticipations. One thing was certain, she would not interfere with him in any way. His sisters had never interfered; why should she? It might be that she would prove an acquisition. If she should be very pretty, or musical, or lively, or even stylish-looking, an evening at home might seem less intolerably slow than such evenings had usually seemed hitherto. These and similar vague speculations had passed once or twice rapidly through his mind, but they had not been strong enough to prepare the way for disappoint

ment.

Martin, being a young man of fewer external resources, had naturally given more time to internal surmisings. Imagine him standing there behind the long counter, a youth under twenty, rather short in figure, somewhat clumsily built, but well and carefully dressed. This was usual with him. It had not occurred to him to bestow any extra care on his dress because of the expected addition to his uncle's family. His hair, which was of that indefinite colour which no one ever knows how to name, being neither light nor dark, nor brown nor red, was yet very nice hair in its way. It always looked soft and bright and well cared for. His complexion was of a type not so difficult to classify, being decidedly a bad one, but his eyes went far to redeem any defect of that kind. If you had looked into Martin Brooke's eyes once you could hardly help wishing to look into them again. They were rather large, and of a bright blue-grey, but it was the expression, not the size nor the colour, that attracted you. You saw a real human soul in them, and a gentle, kindly, unselfish soul it was, but somewhat sad withal if you had sufficient acquaintance with sadness to be able to discern in it such an uninteresting person as the young man behind the counter of a jeweller's shop.

It was such a handsome shop that I need hardly apologise for taking the most exclusively high-bred reader into it. All round, from the floor to the lofty ceiling, there was a glitter of pretty things, gold and silver, gilding, glass and polished mahogany; and all these things were reflected from such a number of cunningly-inserted mirrors

that a sense of bewilderment was apt to seize certain of Mr. Serlcote's more countrified customers. They remembered the time when the business was conducted in a place about a quarter the size, the door of which had stood at the top of four steps. This, however, had been when Julian had been quite a little boy. Most of the improvements had been made since his return from Paris.

If

There was no flaring of gas. The farther end of the shop was almost in darkness, and it was a very subdued light that descended upon the heads of Martin Brooke and Ben Chadwick. Ben was the younger apprentice, a lazy, mischievous, incomprehensible youth, who seemed to have been sent into the world for no other purpose than the inscrutable one of making Joshua Serlcote ceaselessly, unreasonably, and causelessly angry. Ben spoke, or rather muttered, his muttering was an offence; silence was an offence still greater, and his smile was simply unpardonable. Joshua had been known more than once to turn red with anger because Ben blushed. Ben was not blushing for nothing. Some sense of hidden guilt was at the bottom of such impudence and shamefacedness as that.

Martin and Ben stood there, one on either side, quite silently. It was supposed that Ben was rubbing something with washleather; Martin was for once making no pretence of doing anything. His uncle and Julian had disappeared when the tea-table bell rang at five o'clock, agreeing as they went into the house that they would go up as far as the station together to meet the seven o'clock train. It would suit Julian's convenience to do so. The station was on the road to Buxton Grove, where he had an engagement for the evening.

There was no sound anywhere, within or without, when suddenly the rattle of wheels broke the silence. This was unusual in the Corn Market, especially after dark, so unusual that Martin felt a curious suggestion of palpitation, and even Ben's colour changed to a dark crimson as he looked up. Nearer the sound came and yet nearer, then it stopped just outside. It was too late for a carriage customer. Martin flying forward decided hastily that the cabman was a fool for not knowing where the private entrance was. He looked rather desperate as he flung the shop door wide open, but he edged himself behind it very deferentially, not to say timidly. A tall young lady in deep mourning entered, lifted a heavy black veil, and looked round with an appealing, bewildered look that restored Martin's presence of mind at once.