One a giant, and the other
Reared in lesser form,
Two broad mammoth-chested sages,
That have stood from primal ages,
To defy the storm.

Fronting it with gaunt and gnarled
Ribs of ruddy brown;
Sphinxes builded in the ocean,
On its everlasting motion
Looking sternly down.

QUITE ALONE.

BOOK THE SECOND: WOMANHOOD.
CHAPTER LII. STILL IN LUCK'S WAY.

LILY scarcely knew what to make of the new
humour of her tyrant. The woman's avowal
that she was her mother, and her claim upon
her for a daughter's obedience, came upon the
poor girl so suddenly and unexpectedly, that
she was quite dazed and stupified by the vague
conflicting thoughts which chased each other
through her brain, leaving no fixed or definite
impression behind. Why had she so long
forbidden Lily to regard her as her mother—dared
her to call her by that name? Why did she
make the avowal now, and claim, on the score
of filial duty, that obedience which she had
hitherto enforced by the terror of dreadful
words and savage threats? What did she
mean by speaking so savagely, and with so
much significant emphasis, of Lily as her
"legacy"? And then those terrible words
about her father! As Lily sat in her mother's
dressing-room at the circus, trying to beguile
the time with some purposeless piece of
embroidery, these distracting thoughts crowded
upon her palpitating brain, and filled her
trembling soul with a nameless terror.

She had had an impulse once or twice during
the afternoon to throw herself into her mother's
arms, and ask to be allowed to love her; but
each time when she was on the point of doing
so, she was repelled by a cold look or a harsh
word. Poor Lily's lonely heart so yearned for
something to love, so longed for some one to
return the affection which welled over and ran
to waste in her own desolate breast, that she
could have loved even this cold, remorseless
woman. Many and many a time when she was
Quite Alone, in her little bed at the Pension
Marcassin, she had tried to realise to herself
what it was to have a papa and a mamma. The
other girls talked about their papas and mammas,
and bragged about them: how rich their papas
were, how beautiful their mammas were, what
treats their papas and mammas gave them when
they went home for the holidays.

But Lily had no papa; none, at least, whom she
knew; no mamma, except the harsh cruel woman
who had brought her there, and left her among
strangers, without a kiss or a kind word. And
she was at times even doubtful about this woman,
who showed none of a mother's feelings, nothing
of a mother's love. Marygold had told her the
story of the babes in the wood, and of the cruel
uncle who deserted them and left them to die
in the pathless forest. Perhaps this woman,
who chid her, and railed at her, and dragged her
along so furiously, was a cruel aunt, who sought
to lose her, and leave her to die in that strange
city. And at such times, with such sad thoughts
throbbing in her bewildered brain, the lonely
child would hide her head under the bedclothes,
and shed bitter tears. She had been often told
that she was bad and obstinate and wicked.
And though she did not feel herself a bad wicked
girl, and tried to be good, she came to believe
that what the woman and Madame Marcassin
said of her must be true, and that it was because
she was a bad wicked girl that she had no papa
and mamma like the other girls. Many a night,
long after her companions had gone to sleep, she
lay awake, repeating her prayers over and over
again, asking God to make her good and give
her a kind papa and mamma; and, wearied out
at last, she would fall into a pleasant slumber, and
dream of the few kind faces that she had seen
and known, and hear again the few voices that
had spoken to her gently and kindly.

But now she had awakened from all her
dreams and all her hopes. Her father, she had
just been told, was a cheat, a scoundrel, and a
beggar; and her mother was the unloving
coldhearted fury, who was at that moment performing
for the amusement of a gaping crowd in the
circus at Ranelagh. Poor Lily had but one
refuge from the dark despair of the situation in
which she found herself, and that was in
thoughts of Edgar. They had met once again.
He had seen her, and in that one moment,
before she fainted, Lily saw that he recognised
her. She fondly fancied that the sudden flush
that came over his face betokened pleasure, and
her yearning heart beat with a trembling joy at
the thought. But sadness fell upon her again
when she reflected that she was the daughter
of a circus-rider, and he a rich high-born
gentleman. Oh, if she were only a fine lady,
and his equal!

Lily was startled from these distracting
reflections by a gentle knock at the dressing-room
door.

"Who is there?" she asked.

The door was opened gently, and a voice in
the passage said, timidly, "It's only me, my
dear."

It was the voice of the stars.

"Come in, Mr. Kafooze," said Lily; "there
is no one here but me. I am quite alone."

"Yes, my dear," said the astrologer, "I
knew that you were by yourself. I wouldn't
have ventured if your ma—if Madame Ernestine
—had been here. I don't think she likes me,
my dear. I—I said something to her to-day,
you know, when she came back for the whip.
It's very unlucky to go back for things that way,
my dear, and I couldn't help saying it. She's
a very extraordinary woman, your ma. I—I
really thought she would have horsewhipped
me."

"Won't you come in, Mr. Kafooze, and sit