poor, but unknown to the rich. One of those lights which shine in the dark places of the earth, trying to make them luminous, but which, alas! too often perish in the attempt. That he left nothing behind him is not surprising; for not only was he charitable according to his means, but both he and his wife practised the strictest selfdenial in order that their alms might be the more abundant.

A life insurance of three thousand pounds was all which remained for the support of his widow and the education of his son. Lord Lynmouth behaved on the occasion with perfect consistency; was surprised to hear that George had insured his life, and supposed that with his low ideas and comfortable living he had saved a good deal. Acting upon this supposition, he took no more concern than to put a black band on his hat. Badly off indeed were Philip and his mother, but not friendless. Mrs. Leigh, determined to be independent, made no application for help to her husband's father, but resolved to support herself and her son with the help of the interest of the three thousand pounds. In order to do so the more easily, she determined to remove to Bedford. On the day before she left the Vicarage, which had for eleven years been to her the scene of unbroken happiness, while occupied with those thousand bitter thoughts which the loss of husband, home, and fortune must always occasion, there came to her an unexpected friend-Lady Dunsmore, a first cousin of her husband's, but much his senior, and known to Mrs. Leigh only by name. Her kindness was great, her sympathy deep. She would have helped them liberally; but a certain pride on Mrs. Leigh's part prevented her from distinctly stating the smallness of her means, or from accepting money at the hands of others. Lady Dunsmore did what she could; carried Philip and his mother off for a month to her beautiful Devonshire home, made them repeat the visit every year, and helped them by those thousand kindnesses which the rich can render to the poor.

At Bedford, Philip received a thoroughly good education at a small cost; and his mother eked out her small income by fancy-work, at which she was skilful. So time went by for six years, when death, which had already deprived Philip of one parent, took from him the other remaining one, and left him, a lad of sixteen, to face and fight the world. Seldom do misfortunes come singly. While Philip's mother lay yet unburied he found himself penniless, deprived of all the three thousand pounds, which by her jealous care yet remained untouched. She had been persuaded to sell out of the funds and place her money on other securities for the sake of a larger interest. The result was total loss. Philip's future lay in his own hands. He resolved to follow the independent course which his mother had always advised and practised.

He wrote to Lady Dunsmore, speaking only of his mother's death, not of his loss of all means, and at once sought some way of earning

his living-no easy matter at sixteen. The head-master of his school offered him a situation in it, and a small salary. This Philip was thankful to accept, and commenced at once to sell his mother's furniture, pay her small debts, and begin his new life. Lady Dunsmore wrote urging him to come to her; but, anxious to begin his work at once, and fearful that the easy life at Excombe would make the drudgery of a school more hard to bear, he sent her a refusal. But Lady Dunsmore was a woman of resolution; she had heard of Philip's double loss, and determined to force his relations to do something for him. Nor were her hopes groundless. Lord Lynmouth was dead; his son and successor inherited none of his father's more disagreeable qualities, and might be both willing and able to advance his young nephew. There were others, too, of his father's brothers and sisters who might be disposed to help Philip; so Lady Dunsmore started for Bedford, refused to listen to Philip's avowal of his wish to make his own way in the world, and brought him back, unwilling, yet unable to resist, a captive to Excombe. There he remained a yeara year of anxious expectation and disappointment. Lady Dunsmore's schemes failed utterly. Lord Lynmouth was willing to help, but could not exactly say how. The army was useless for a man without a shilling; for the navy he was too old. Lord Lynmouth's political interest had been expended on behalf of his younger son, and for a start in the colonies no one cared to advance sufficient money. In fact, the burden of providing for Philip was a ball which every one was more willing to throw to his neighbour than to keep himself. Lady Dunsmore shielded Philip as much as possible from the knowledge of this worse than indifference, but he was keen-sighted enough to see it plainly, and sensitive enough to feel it deeply. Lady Dunsmore would have taken the matter into her own hands had she possessed the power, but she did not; the cost of educating Philip for a profession was more than she could afford in justice to her own sons; she had but a life interest in the property, and her younger son was entirely dependent upon her. In this dilemma an offer of a clerkship in Somerset House came to hand. With some hesitation she mentioned it to Philip, and he decided at once on accepting it. Lady Dunsmore was, kind soul, bitterly disappointed. She was heartily fond of Philip, and had built her hopes concerning him high. But there was no help for it. Philip passed his examination, and entered on his new life just as the illness of her younger son made it necessary that she should accompany him abroad, so that, when Philip and I met, he had one friend abroad and I had not one. No one wanted us-no one cared for us; soon we became all in all to each other. In the years that we lived together I wanted neither father nor mother, brother nor sister. I had Philip, and he was sufficient for me. His was a very noble

nature. I never heard him say a hard word of his relations, nor cast any blame on their conduct. Never was man more free from the spirit of revenge; neither envy nor malice troubled him.

The first day we met we suited each other. Something in Philip's face told me that he would help my inexperience; so to him I applied for help in finding a lodging, telling him how ignorant I was of London and of London ways. It was after office hours, as we walked up the Strand together, that I made my request. He promised to show me a place, and asked how much I proposed to pay for my

rooms.

"I don't know," said I; "how much ought I to give? How much do you pay ?"

Philip coloured. "Not very much," he said; "but then I have nothing but my pay-no allowance, I mean."

"Nor have I. See here," I said, holding out the remaining change of my five-pound note, "this is all I have or am likely to have." "You will find it hard lines then," said Philip.

"Do you?"

"Yes, very."

How it was I cannot tell, but in a very short time Philip and I knew all that each could tell the other of his former life and present circumstances, and so strangely were we of accord that that very evening saw me an inmate of his lodgings. They were small, and bare, even to my eyes long accustomed to the black unloveliness of school rooms and school dormitories; small but not dingy, for Philip loved to see things fresh and clean, and managed to have, even in London, some faint likeness of the sweet, flower-scented freshness of a country home. So we two cast in our lots together; our pay was barely sufficient, with the utmost economy, to provide the necessaries of life; of luxuries for some time we never even dreamed. Our lives were queer enough; we possessed one show coat a piece, a shilling each paid for our daily dinner, sometimes even less had to serve; we had never a sixpence to spare and never a friend to help us. Had Lady Dunsmore known of this, her ready help would have been at Philip's command; but she was away, and he never let her know of it. Alone and unaided we fought our way, and made of every want and every care but a bond to knit us the more strongly together.

Sunday was the only break in the unbroken round of our days. Sunday, on which nearly every man has some friend's house where he may go, found us as lonely as ever. No one bid us come to them. By degrees we learned to spend Sunday after a fashion of our own, and soon it became a delight. Our way was this: in the morning we went to St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey, for Philip had a wonderful passion for cathedral music; then, carrying our dinners, for we could not afford to do otherwise, we started off for a walk, no matter where,

so we could exchange houses and streets for fields and trees, far out into green lanes and quiet villages; then, in some still hidden nook, we would eat our dinner and smoke our pipes-a Sunday treat never indulged in but then. How many summer hours, I wonder, have Philip and I lain on our backs and gazed into the sky through the summer green of the trees, talking of all things under heaven, or silently watching the sailing clouds! Philip was a good talker, earnest and keen; he never spoke at random. Sometimes we would. enter some village church, and wonder at the queer singing, the varied congregation, the quiet service, and the sleepy after-dinner sermon, so different to the heat and fashion of London churches. Then home again when night fell, wearied yet refreshed, to face another week of work and want, heat, glare, and crush.

CHAPTER III.

OUR LIVES.

"Even in the city's throng

I feel the freshness of the streams,

That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams."-LONGFELLOW.

So accustomed did we grow to the bareness of our lives, that even the wish for pleasures beyond our reach seldom troubled us. Coats and hats were our chief difficulty. We must be at least decently, if not well dressed, to go to the office. Many a long consultation have these things caused us. In ordinary matters, by care and contrivance, we could manage; for extraordinary ones we were quite unprepared; and such a one came to pass after Philip and I had lived for two years together. I fell ill, and had to see a doctor every day for a fortnight. All day long, while Philip was perforce away, did I lie and wonder how that doctor was to be paid. I could see no way. We had no means of paying him-what should we do? It was some weeks before I said anything to Philip about this. He had laid by money to pay for a new suit of summer clothes, he had expended the whole of this on me, for wine was necessary, according to the doctor, if I ever wished to get strong again; so I shrank from laying this new burden on Philip. When at last I spoke of it, he said, with a curious smile, that Mr. Brown's bill was paid, but he would not tell me how. "The money was my own," said he; "how inquisitive you have grown." Some weeks afterwards I went to the pocket of his coat (we always wore old coats of an evening), which was hanging up in his room, in search of something. In turning out the pocket I found a pawnticket. Philip had pawned his dress suit of clothes to pay my doctor's bill.

After this we saw that something must be done. After much consideration and many thoughts, we determined on what that something

should be. Philip was a good caricaturist; he could sketch every incident which we saw on our way through the streets to the very life so Philip tried the comic papers. As for me, I was bitten with the verse-making mania usual at my age; I had also a knack of storytelling, and burned for fame as an essayist. Our trial was hard and long, but successful, in a very small way at first, for it was not very remunerative at its commencement.

It was the summer after I had been ill, one hot July day, that coming home after Philip, for I had been detained some time at the office, I found him standing with a letter in his hand, and the contents of his purse spread out on the table before him.

"Here is a letter from Lady Dunsmore," he said. "She is at Excombe again, and wants me to go down for a fortnight. I could manage very well but for the money: two pounds twelve shillings won't buy me a coat and take me to Devonshire-will it, old fellow ? so it's no use thinking of it;" and he gathered up the money and dropped it into his purse with a sigh. I saw that he was much disappointed. The long, hot summer was very wearying in London, and Philip had always a wild longing for Dartmoor breezes in August. I turned the matter over a hundred times in my mind. All at once I thought of Philip's dress suit (we had redeemed it long since): the thought was a happy one; could not I do for Philip what he had once done for me? Yes, I could. My only possessions of value were my watch, a gold one which had been my mother's, and a diamond ring of my father's. They should take Philip to Devonshire; and so they did, and seldom have I felt such a hearty satisfaction as when I saw him set off for Excombe.

And now I come to a phase in my own life which I hate to dwell on, which I would gladly slur or pass over altogether, but which I must relate for this reason: I fear that in much which follows I may seem in some way superior to Philip, a sort of Mentor who from a raised platform of righteousness spoke advice and sometimes disapproval on acts of his, which were undoubtedly foolish. But such I never was. His Mentor, indeed! Philip was never in need of such. That I was, let the following words testify.

Rather more than three years after Philip's visit to Excombe, when pounds, shillings, and pence had become a smaller consideration to us, there rose among the clerks in our office a fashion of being friendly with actresses. Not exalted tragedians or first-class performers, but such small trifles as ballet-girls, or those who act the parts of pert lady's maids and so on. Going one night with Philip to the Haymarket, where a corps de ballet was performing, I was attracted by girl with long fair hair. At once I was smitten; I too would have a mad admiration for an actress. I went again, and a third time, admired her more than ever, burned to make myself known to her.