anything, and it will be strange if he begins with what is dearer to me than all else.'

To Dick's mind this determination opened up a new phase of hope, and in some way, not perhaps to be logically demonstrated, but sufficiently clear for his purpose, reversed the decided refusal uttered a moment ago by Nellie's father. Under the circumstances, therefore, he felt justified in marking his approval of the step in the manner customary between lovers. This happily accomplished, he took his departure, Nellie promising to communicate to him at once the result of the interview with her father. On the whole, he was not disposed to despair of success even now. He had seen so many proofs of Mr. Carpenter's affection for his daughter that it would be hard, he argued, if she did not succeed in convincing that stubborn gentleman.

On looking at his watch Dick found that it was still barely six, just time for a stroll in the Park before dinner. He sauntered quietly into Kensington Gardens, and thence along the Row, greeting acquaintances as he passed, but stopping to speak to none. A slight revulsion of feeling had overtaken him. What, he thought, if Nellie's efforts should prove futile? Now, to do him justice, he was very much in love with that young lady, and would, I am convinced, have married her without a penny, had circumstances so willed it. But, unfortunately, the fact of her being the only daughter of a wealthy man placed responsibilities upon a would-be suitor which rendered such a course impossible.

Dick dined at his club, and afterwards smoked a cigar in the billiard-room; refusing, however, to take part in a game at pool. Subsequently he said good night, rather solemnly, to the other fellows, who, after his withdrawal, were unanimous in expressing the opinion that Dick, poor chappie, looked a trifle hipped.'

The object of their commiseration had meantime reached his chambers. As he mounted the stairs Big Ben boomed forth ten o'clock, an exceptionally early hour for Dick's return to quarters. To his surprise he found the outer door open; another proof, he muttered to himself, of the carelessness which characterised the elderly lady who in more senses than one 'did' for him.

Once within his sitting-room, he lit the lamp, and drew the curtains closely together. It was still much too early to think of bed, but a couple of hours might, he said to himself, be pleasantly passed over a novel and a pipe. To procure the former he crossed to a small table standing in the farther corner of the apartment. Beside it was a sofa, and on the sofa Dick, with an exclamation of astonishment, perceived that a girl lay fast asleep.

He recognised her at once. It was Nellie. What was she doing there?

Clearly the simplest manner of solving the question was to awaken her. And what more effectual method of achieving that could he adopt than by? But no. Until Dick was assured that the positions in which they formerly stood remained unchanged, to yield to such a temptation would be ungentlemanly—intolerable

even.

He laid his hand upon the sleeping girl's head, and pronounced her name. She awoke with a start, looking about vaguely, as if

doubtful as to where she was.

6

Dick,' she cried, her eyes falling upon her lover, 'what are you doing here?"

He laughed in reply. That's a riddle it would take a cleverer fellow than myself to solve. We must go back to the beginning of things for an answer.'

His words seemed to bring back to her the remembrance of what had happened. She rose, and stretching out both hands towards him said, a little tremulously, What will you think of me?'

'Ah,' said Dick, taking the small hands in his own and pressing them to his lips, if only there were time to tell you!'

6

She snatched them from his grasp and fell back a pace. For an instant there was silence, and then, forcing herself to speak calmly, she continued, 'I have seen papa.'

'Yes,' replied Dick, feeling that he had nothing better to say. 'And he refused his consent once for all. Oh, Dick!' she went on, the tears starting to her eyes, he said such cruel, unjust things of you.'

Dick smothered an oath. He had no difficulty in imagining the things Mr. Carpenter had said. He would have liked to assure Nellie then and there that they were utterly untrue, but the slight remnant of conscience he still retained somehow forbade that. Let it not be understood that Dick was worse than a hundred others. He had been lazy, extravagant, foolish, but never malicious, or, as things go nowadays, dishonourable. Yet he felt bound to confess that, from the parental point of view, he was hardly what might be termed an eligible son-in-law.

'And you?' he said at last.

'I!' cried Nellie. I answered that his suspicions were falseunjust; that he had no right to utter the things he did—no grounds for such accusations; and that, above all, I loved you, Dick, better than life itself.'

What could he reply? How refrain from taking her in his

arms and kissing away the tears which coursed down her cheeks? After all, he was but human.

Presently she became quieter. And now,' she whispered, 'that I have come, you will not send me away. Dick, I have sacrificed everything for you. I have promised to be your wife, and not even my father shall force me to break that pledge.'

He felt her tremble in his arms. The girl's pure young soul had been laid bare, and the thought of her perfect trust almost overwhelmed him. How should he act? He knew well that once married to Nellie, Mr. Carpenter's forgiveness was but a question of time. Of this there was not the shadow of a doubt in his mind. And besides, he loved her dearly-so dearly that he was prepared to cut away from him the past and begin a new and better life with her. Nor should it be thought that this was merely a passing fancy. With Nellie to sustain him, Dick would have been a new man.

That was the

If only she had trusted him less implicitly. torturing thought. Had she doubted ever so little, had she expressed the slightest scruple, how eagerly he would have striven to overcome it! But such absolute belief in himself-this it was that touched him.

It was hard; but, as I have said, Dick had not quite lost all claim to the title of gentleman; and he felt that there was no help for it! Nellie,' he said at length, it cannot be; you must return home.'

If he had dealt her a blow, the expression on the girl's face could not have been more terrible. Even her lips seemed to blanch as she disengaged herself from her lover's embrace, and without a word turned from him.

Presently she took the shawl which lay on the sofa and began to wind it round her. 'Yes,' she said in a tone that went like a knife to Dick's heart, it is time I went home.'

6

He moved a step towards her; but with a gesture she waved him away. 'Nellie,' he cried, 'cannot you understand that it is because I prize your love more dearly than my own happiness that I say so? Oh, darling, if you would but believe that!'

'You are right,' she answered more gently. "I begin to see that. But it is not easy at first. Come, you must do me one more kindness. I cannot go alone.'

He offered his arm, which she took, and together they went downstairs. When they reached the Strand, Dick hailed a cab, ordering the driver to proceed to within a short distance of Mr. Carpenter's residence. In less than half an hour afterwards the two were standing at the door.

'Nellie,' said Dick, with his hand upon the knocker, some day you will know what it has cost me to let you go. Your father has forbidden me to enter his house. Perhaps he was right. Yet if I know myself, the day is not far distant when he will be proud to welcome me back. I have something worth working for now.' He stooped and, holding her face between his hands, kissed the cold lips that made no effort to evade his own. Good-bye, dear,' he said; 'I shall come back soon to claim another.'

But, alas for the frailty of human purpose! it was the last time Dick ever kissed Nellie Carpenter.

T. MALCOLM WATSON,

476

A Mystery Indeed.

I.

A GREAT sorrow had come into my life. There is nothing remarkable in that. What heart can be found without its bitterness? But wherein my sorrow differed from most was this, that it was all concentrated in one blow, as if in compensation for the unbroken happiness which had preceded it. For me there had been one day-one long cloudless day—followed by night which I know can never give place to day again, until the eternal day dawns.

But I am not about to write my own story—it will never be written. Yet but for my own story I should not have the other to tell. I came across some lines the other day that exactly express my case, and its relation to that of another.

'Once I sat on a crimson throne,

And I held the world in fee.
Below me I heard my brothers moan,
And I bent me down to see;
Lovingly bent and looked at them,
But I had no inward pain.

I sat in the heart of my ruby gem,
Like the rainbow without the rain.

My throne is vanished; helpless I lie
At the foot of its broken stair;
And the sorrows of all humanity

Through my heart make a thoroughfare.'

It was this sympathy, born in the darkness of my own despair, which brought me into close relations with Elsa Coningham, and thus gave me the weird experience I am about to narrate.

It was at Zermatt that I first met her. She was staying with her husband and little son at the same hotel as myself. I had come there to chaperon my niece, Rhoda Thompson, who was an enthusiastic climber, and had with her made most of the ascents at all possible to women. Mr. Coningham was a member of the Alpine Club, and chose to express admiration of our exploits. We were thrown a good deal together, for we not only made the same party in several expeditions, but, when we were confined to our hotel by the weather, Mr. Coningham would read aloud to us all together, or with his boy between his knees tell one story after another of lively adventure.

At these times Elsa (as I learned to call her) would appear