shorthand writer at the trial, you may collect
materials for an indictment, and also feel the
pulse of the court; you can then confer upon
the evidence with some counsel better versed in
criminal law than myself. My advice is to sue
Thomas Hardie; and declare in Tort.

(Signed) "BARROW.

"N.B. — I have been thus particular, because
Hardie v. Hardie (if carried to a verdict) will
probably be a leading case."

"Who shall decide when counsel disagree?"
inquired Alfred, satirically.

"That depends on where they do it. If in
court, the judge. If here, the attorney."

"You appear sanguine, Mr. Compton," said
Alfred: "perhaps you would not mind advancing
me a little money. I've only a half-a-crown."

"It is all ready for you in this drawer," said
Compton, cheerfully. "See, thirty sovereigns.
Then you need not go to a bank."

"What, you thought I should borrow."

"Don't all my clients begin by bleeding me?
it is the rule of this office."

"Then why don't you give up business?"

"Because I bleed the opposite attorney's
client a little more than my own bleeds me.

He then made Alfred sign a promissory note
for the thirty pounds: advised him to keep
snug for one week more, and promised to write
to him in two days, and send Thomas Hardie's
answer. Alfred left his address, and went from
Mr. Compton a lighter man. Convinced of
his courage and prudence, he shifted one care
off his own shoulders: and thought of love
alone.

But, strange as it may appear, two cares are
sometimes better for a man than one. Alfred,
having now no worry to divert him from his
deeper anxiety, was all love and jealousy; and
quite overbalanced: the desire of his heart was
so strong, it overpowered alike his patience, and
his prudence. He jumped into a cab, and drove
to all the firemen's stations on the Surrey side of
the river, inquiring for Edward. At last he hit
upon the right one, and learned that Julia lived
in Pembroke-street; number unknown. He
drove home to his lodgings: bought some ready-made
clothes, and dressed like a gentleman;
then told the cabman to drive to Pembroke-street.
He knew he was acting imprudently;
but he could not help it. And besides, Mr.
Compton had now written to his uncle, and
begun the attack: that would surely intimidate
his enemies, and turn their thoughts to defence,
not to fresh offence. However, catching sight
of a gunsmith's shop on the way, he suddenly
resolved to arm himself on the bare chance of
an attack. He stopped the cab: went in and
bought a double-barrelled pistol, with powder-flask,
bullets, wads, and caps, complete. This
he loaded in the cab, and felt quite prudent after
it. The prudence of youth.

He paid off the cab in Pembroke-street, and
set about the task of discovering Julia. He inquired
at several houses, but was unsuccessful.
Then he walked slowly all down the street, looking
up at all the windows. And I think, if he
had done this the day before, he might have seen
her, or she him: she was so often at the window
now. But just then she had company to keep
her in order.

He was unlucky in another respect. Edward
came out of No. 66 and went up the street, when
he himself was going down it not so very many
yards off. If Alfred's face had only been turned
the other way, he would have seen Edward, and
all would have gone differently.

The stoutest hearts have their moments of
weakness and deep dejection. Few things are
more certain, and less realised by ordinary men,
than this; from Palissy fighting with Enamel to
Layard disinterring a city, this thing is so.

Unable to find Julia in the very street she inhabited,
Alfred felt weak against fate. He said
to himself, "If I find her, I shall perhaps wish I
had never sought her."

In his hour of dejection stern reason would be
heard, and asked him whether all Mrs. Archbold
had said could be pure invention; and he was
obliged to confess that was too unlikely. Then
he felt so sick at heart he was half minded to
turn and fly the street. But there was a large
yard close by him, entered by a broad and lofty
gateway cut through one of the houses. The
yard belonged to a dealer in hay: two empty
waggons were there, but no men visible, being
their dinner-time. Alfred slipped in here, and
sat down on the shaft of a waggon: and let his
courage ooze. He sighed, and sighed, and feared
to know his fate. And so he sat with his face in
his hands unmanned.

Presently a strain of music broke on his ear.
It seemed to come from the street. He raised
his head to listen. He coloured, his eyes sparkled;
he stole out on tiptoe with wondering, inquiring,
face into the street. Once there, he stood spellbound,
thrilling from his heart, that seemed now
on fire, to his fingers' ends. For a heavenly
voice was singing to the piano just above his
head; singing in earnest, making the very street
ring. Already listeners were gathering, and a
woman of the people said, "It's a soul singing
without a body." Amazing good things are said
in the streets. The voice was the voice of Julia.
The song was Aileen Aroon; the hymn of constancy.
So sudden and full was the bliss, which
poured into the long and sore tried listener at
this sudden answer to his fears, that tears of joy
trembled in his eyes. ''Wretch that I was to
doubt her," he said; and unable to contain his
longing, unable to wait and listen even to that
which had changed his grief and doubts into
rapture, he was at the door in a moment. A
servant opened it; "Miss Dodd?" he said, or
rather panted: "you need not announce me. I
am an old acquaintance." He could not bear
any one should see the meeting between him and
his beloved; he went up the steep and narrow
stair, guided by the hymn of constancy.