lose all rny pupils if it were known that I had
any engagement—you understand—that I had
anything to do with the Gardens. Parents are
so very prejudiced, you know; and people who
grumble at having to pay half a guinea a quarter,
make as much fuss about it as if they were
sending their young ones to the University of
Oxford."

"All right, my Trojan. By-by, Kafooze."
And Mr. M'Variety walked away. "Queer
little customer that," he mused; " who'd ever
have thought of his keeping a school, and
teaching the young idea how to shoot. I
wonder if he tells the young 'uns anything
about the stars. He's a good deal more
than three parts cracked is Kafooze; but he's
well up to his business, and is as worthy a little
soul as ever breathed. Curious, now, that man
believes in all the humbug he's paid five-and-
twenty shillings a week to cram down people's
throats. He believes in it as strongly as if he
got twenty pounds a week. He's not a bad
sort, and is worth every penny of his sal to me.
Egad! I'll put him down for a snuff-box some
of these fine days."

It was one of the most amiable traits in Mr.
M'Variety's character to be continually presenting
snuff-boxes to the persons in his employ.
There was scarcely a carpenter, a scene-painter,
a property-man, a lamplighter, or a fiddler in
his service, who had not been, at some period or
another, gratified with one of these tokens of
the manager's esteem and confidence. Mr.
M'Variety purchased them cheap, at the
pawnbroker's; and with the old inscriptions burnished
out (for it frequently happened that they had
done service previously, as gifts to deserving
employés) they looked quite beautiful. Indeed, it
was rumoured that, in this manner, the manager
had often to buy his own testimonials back
again. Times had never been so hard with Mr.
M'Variety as to render it impossible for him to
dispense at least two sets of these snuff-boxes
in the course of a season. Once, when business
was dreadfully bad, he had been forced to
come down to tortoiseshell; but the pull up of
a good benefit was speedily the means of the
precious metal asserting its accustomed sway.

A remarkable interview took place in the afternoon
between the countess and Lily. The
former had told her that she was to dine out
that evening with some gentlemen—the gentlemen
she had seen that forenoon, in fact—and
bade her get on her bonnet and shawl. They
would take a cab, she said, to the other side of
the water, and purchase some articles of dress;
for the dinner was to be a very grand one, and
she wished Lily to appear as smart as possible.

To the countess's astonishment—to her
simulated astonishment, perchance—the girl cast
herself at her feet, and, with passionate entreaties,
begged to be allowed to remain at home. And,
again, she implored her not to ask her the
reason of her reluctance to attend the dinner.
She would rather be beaten, locked up, starved,
than confess that reason.

She was sincere; although, Heaven knows,
she was interceding in her own despite, and
uttering entreaties against herself. She had
seen Edgar. She saw him: handsome, happy,
and splendid. She would have given the world
to be allowed to speak to him, to look him full
in the eyes, to touch his kid-gloved hand. To
sit by his side at dinner, to be in his company a
whole evening, to listen to his voice, to see him
eat and drink, would have been to her ineffable
bliss. But she dared not confront it. It would
be happiness leading only to her destruction,
and her death. If she saw him again, she must
once more fly, once more bury herself. She
felt that she loved him more than ever, and that
to give reins to her love was to court ruin, and
invite despair.

And Edgar Greyfaunt! Had he seen her?
Had he recognised her when she swooned.
Yes; the sultan's eyes had condescended to
light on the horse-rider's little drudge. He
had felt flattered and gratified when he was
aware of the influence his presence had
produced on her. He was gratified, but not grateful.
The girl's fainting away was naturally the
subject of conversation among the Pilgrims when
they had left the house. Sir William Long was
driving Greyfaunt in his cabriolet to town; and
the sultan did not long delay in hinting that he
knew something of the "little party" who had
been so suddenly the means of breaking up the
interview with the countess.

"I think I've made something like an impression
in that quarter," he remarked, with an
infinite fatuity of complacency.

Sir William Long repressed his first impulse,
which I am afraid was to lift up the cab apron
and fling Mr. Edgar Greyfaunt over one of the
big wheels upon the freshly macadamised
pavement of the Westminster-road.

"Indeed," he rejoined, biting his lip. " I
was not aware that you had ever seen Madame
Ernestine's daughter before."

"Madame Anybody's daughter," the young
man went on, carelessly. "She must be a kind
of foundling, I fancy. The little party and I
are old friends."

"Old friends?"-

"Yes. My aunt, Madame de Kergolay, picked
her up from some snuffy old priest in Paris,
whose niece she was said to be. You understand.
A priest's niece! Queer kind of
relationship, that. The aunt never turns up, somehow.
Stop, I think the little party was at some
school where they ill-treated her. Well, my
aunt, who was always picking up waifs and
strays of some sort—it didn't much matter
whether they were puppies, or cats, or children,
or china monsters—took a great fancy to this
little Lily. Yes; that was her name."

Sir William Long winced. He had another,
and stronger impulse: to shorten his whip and
lay the lash handsomely about the shoulders of
the Sultan Greyfaunt; but he controlled himself
again, and observed,

"A very pretty name, I think, Mr. Greyfaunt?"

"Not so pretty as Leopoldine. I knew a