In fact, the second part was beginning, and
Ragwitz Bêla was now giving his great Hungarian
solo, Verbocsy Czárdás, in which he first
"agonised," and swung, and shocked, and
wailed, and quivered through a "largo
appassionato," and presently was plucking, and
tearing, and mangling his strings (as though they
had been his own hair) through ten terrible
spasms, called "variations." He worried his
violin as though it were a rat; he seemed to long
to bring his teeth into play, and to work at it
with that extra power. He dug his fingers into
its bowels, and seemed to root and tear at its
heart. He made it yell and groan; and, at the
end of each variation, tucked it violently under
his arm, as it were to smother it up like a child,
and mopped his face and hands in moist
exhaustion. This was Ragwitz Bêla and his solo,
which at last happily ended.

Later on, Mr. Romaine was looking with
interest on his pleasant little missionary. Said
he to her, with a sort of low plaintive music he
would throw into his voice; "I have a rude
log-house of my own, rude and unfurnished as myself.
Civilised people call it Chamber. There I can
be as lonely and as savage as I like. Sometimes
the Charitable come and see me, and relieve my
wants. I have curiosities to show—something
that would amuse. At least, people tell me so.
I could get your friend Miss Manuel to come,
and if you would care to meet her there
tomorrow evening, say at five——"

But Mrs. Fermor shrunk away from this
scheme. Alarm came into her face. Mr.
Romaine was hurrying on too fast, and this was
being too bold. She answered coldly, and yet
with agitation:

"No, no. I never go anywhere in that way.
Don't ask me, please. No, I am very sorry."

She seemed to awake suddenly. All the new
Missionary Ordination had gone for nothing.
Mr. Romaine did not relish any plan of his
being rejected; so he rose hastily, and flung
himself on his feet. "Very well," he said.
"With all my heart. I am sorry. But it can't
be helped." He stalked away to the door. ("He
is a dangerous person," thought Mrs. Fermor,
looking after him in dread.) At the door he
passed Miss Manuel.

"Poor Romaine!" she said. "Keep up your
heart. Things will go better another time, and
in another direction. But recollect, I warned
you! You think a little too highly of yourself!"

"I shall not go with you to supper to-night,"
he said, "At least, I have half determined not to.
But it is not over yet, that little business."

Lady Laura Fermor had sat unto the end—
would have sat had it been hours longer. Faithful
captain! She had ceased to suffer pain. A sort of
dull numbness came on. You would have said she
was enjoying pleasure, for she hung out mechanical
smiles, like Signs, at regular intervals. And she
found her reward. For the youth, Lord Spendlesham,
whose father was happily dead (within three
months, but the boy had really shown feeling in
keeping himself retired so long), was there in
decent black gloves, and had actually got to a
chair beside Blanche. He was rich, empty, vain,
and foolish—a combination of good qualities that
Lady Laura always admired.

At the end of Lord Putnenham's musical
party, Miss Manuel was at the door, on the
inside, and people, as they passed, had little flying
"chats," each no longer than ten seconds. That
night she was to have one of her compact little
suppers, and she was enrolling a few. Young
Brett, with confidence and the brightness of hope
on his little forehead, posted past her. There
was meaning in his eyes. She was talking with
Westley Kerr, an agreeable man, when Young
Brett said, meaningly, as he passed, and with
secret mystery:

"Bangor House, Beaumaris—all right, Miss
Manuel!" and she smiled to him that he was
right.

But the next instant a face was put round the
door from the outside—Major Carter's face, but
so drawn and contorted, so contracted with fury,
terror, and wonder, that Miss Manuel hardly
knew it. It was laid against the sill of the door
and came close to hers.

"Take care," he said. And though the voice
was low and hoarse, he wore the old trained
smile. "Take care, I warn you! What you
are doing is dangerous. I tell you in time, take
care, or——"

"Take care!" said Lord Putnenham's cheery
voice, "what is Miss Manuel to take care of,
Carter?"

"Of the draught, my lord," said Major Carter,
pleasantly. "Standing in these doorways is a
little perilous. I give warning in time always."

A flash of fire passed from Miss Manuel's
eyes direct to his face. "I have a strong
constitution," she said, "and fear nothing!"

EARTH.
IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER II.

ON the 24th of May, 1863, Herr Otto
Lidenbrock, Professor at the Johannæum of
Hamburg, hurried home to No. 19, Königstrasse,
with a precious acquisition under his arm—a
marvellous old volume, the Heims-Kringla, or
Chronicle of Norwegian Princes who reigned in
Iceland, by Snorre Turlesou, the famous
Icelandic author of the twelfth century.

While displaying this treasure to his nephew
Axel, there dropped out of it a slip of
parchment inscribed with Runic characters. The
Runic being changed for Roman letters, a series
of unintelligible words was the result, which
evidently formed a cryptogram or intelligence
conveyed in a secret form. The author of the
cryptogram was probably some former possessor
of the book; and on one corner of the fly-leaf
was discovered in Runic letters the name of Arne
Saknussem, a learned Icelandic alchemist and
traveller who flourished in the middle of the
sixteenth century.