prospects brighter than he could have hoped—
and yet, and yet! How very strange that
she had not written lately, unless, indeed,
she had been completely absorbed by
ministering to the trouble round her. Walter
could easily picture to himself the comfort
she must have been to all, in the midst of
the desolation which had fallen upon that
hitherto prosperous house; he recollected
how, even in the midst of her own deep
sorrow, she had been able, at the time of her
father's death, to rouse her mother from the
lethargic state of grief into which she had
fallen; and if Marian could do that then,
while her own heart was bleeding, how
much more would she be able to bestir
herself now, when neither for the dead, nor for
those left behind, had she anything but a
kindly interest? And might not this sad
event prove a useful lesson to her; might
it not prove the one thing needful to render
her a perfect character, showing her, as it
would, that there are worse misfortunes
than poverty, and that grief can slip in
behind the shields of wealth and position, and
abase the heads of their possessors to the
dust? That longing for money and worship
of position was the only blot in Marian's
character, as seen by Walter Joyce's eyes,
and if this accident led to its eradication, it
would not have been without its beneficent
purpose.

He rose from the bed, and felt his way
towards his dressing-table. As he was
groping for the matches, his hand fell upon
an unopened letter. From Marian, without
a doubt; he felt his heart throbbing; at once
he struck a light and looked hurriedly for
the familiar writing. No, not from Marian!
Totally unlike her square neatly written
notes; a large blue letter, directed in a
straggling hand, and awkwardly folded.
Though Joyce was disappointed and vexed
for an instant, he quickly recovered
himself, and he took the letter up and smiled at
it pleasantly, for he had recognised the
style and the writing, and he knew that it
had come from old Jack Byrne.

Thus it ran:

"London, Thursday.

"My Dear Boy. You'll wonder I haven't
answered that capital letter you sent me,
giving a description of Westhope and its
people, and your life there. You'll wonder,
because you are young; when you're as old
as I am you won't wonder at anything,
except when you sometimes find a man tell
the truth; but you shouldn't wonder then,
because it would only be an accident.  l am
very glad that you seem to be so comfortable
among the swells, but I never had
much fear about it. I know them, root and
branch, the whole lot, though I'm only an
old bird-stuffer; but I'm like Ulysses, I've
seen men and cities, and used my eyes—
used 'em so much that, by Jove, I don't
think they'll last me much longer—at least
for the fine work in my business. What
was I saying? Oh, I see; I know the
swells, and I know that if they see a man
respect himself they always respect him.
All of 'em, sir; don't make any mistake
about it. All of 'em, the most ineffable
transparencies, who think you're sewn up
and stuffed in quite a different way from
themselves, the kindly noodles, and the
clever people—for there are clever people,
a few, even among swells—all like to see a
man respect himself. You'll have found
out by this time, if you did not know it
before, that Lord Hetherington is one of the
kindly noodles, and one of the best of 'em.
He can't help believing in his blood, and
his lineage, and his descent from those
bloodthirsty, ignorant, old ruffians of the
middle ages, whose only good was that they
killed other bloodthirsty, ignorant, old
ruffians, and he can't help being a fool, that
being the penalty which a man generally
has to pay for being able to boast of his
descent; but he is harmless and kind-
hearted. How goes on the book? Take
my advice, and make it light and
anecdotical. Boil down those old chronicles and
parchments of the great West family, and
serve them up in a soufflet. And don't let
your heavy pedagogical style be seen in the
dish! If you do, everybody will know at
once that my lord has had nothing to do
with the book on the title-page of which his
name figures. I suppose it wouldn't do to
put in any bad spelling, would it? That
would be immensely reassuring to all who
know Lord Hetherington, as to the real
authorship.

"And my lady, how is that grande dame?
I've grinned a hundred times, thinking over
your face of indignation and disgust at the
manner in which she received you that day
we went to call on their magnificences at
the Clarendon, with a view to your engagement!
How does she treat you now?
Has she ordered you to black her boots yet,
or to wash her lap-dog, or to take your
meals with her lady's maid? Or, more
likely still, has she never taken any notice
at all of you, having no idea of your
existence, beyond the fact that there is a
writing-machine—you—in the library, as
there is a churn in the dairy and a mangle
in the laundry! And does this behaviour
gird you, and do you growl inwardly about