were remarkable for the noble expression of
their faces, the extreme neatness of their dress,
and the cleanliness of their persons. Most of
them had fair hair, and their countenances bore
the stamp of calm resignation. The best
opportunity of seeing the aspect of the masses who
died on the field, was when they lay stretched
beside the trenches which were destined to be
their final resting-place. So far were their faces
from presenting the livid appearance and the
expression of despair which painters are in the
habit of producing in pictures of battle-fields,
that a spectator could hardly help calling to the
burying parties to wait a little before covering
them up. They were so like Life.

             HALF A MILLION OF MONEY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "BARBARA'S HISTORY."

CHAPTER LXX. MR. GREATOREX IN SEARCH OF
                    AN INVESTMENT.

WHILE Saxon and his friend were yachting
and fighting, and London was yet full to
overflowing, and Francesco Secondo was still, to all
appearance, firmly seated on his throne, Mr.
Laurence Greatorex bent his steps one brilliant
July morning in the direction of Chancery-lane,
and paid a visit to William Trefalden.

He had experienced some little difficulty in
making up his mind to this step; for it was an
exceedingly disagreeable one, and required no
small amount of effort in its accomplishment.
He had seen and avoided the lawyer often
enough during the last two or three months;
but he had never spoken to him since that affair
of the stopped cheque. His intention had been
never to exchange civil speech or salutation
with William Trefalden again; but to hate him
heartily, and manifest his hatred openly, all the
days of his life. And he would have done this
uncompromisingly, if his regard for Saxon had
not come in the way. But he liked that young
fellow with a genuine liking (just as he hated
the lawyer with a genuine hatred), and, cost
what it might, he was determined to serve him.
So, having thought over their last conversation
that conversation which took place in the
train, between Portsmouth and London; having
looked in vain for the registration of any
company which seemed likely to be the one referred
to; having examined no end of reports,
prospectuses, lists of directors, and the like, he
resolved, despite his animosity and his reluctance,
to see William Trefalden face to face, and try
what could be learned in an interview.

Perhaps, even in the very suspicion which
prompted him to look after Saxon's interests,
despite Saxon's own unwillingness to have them
looked after, there may have been a lurking hope,
a half-formed anticipation of something like
vengeance. If William Trefalden was not acting
quite fairly on Saxon Trefalden's behalf, if there
should prove to be knavery or laxity in some
particular of these unknown transactions, would
it not be quite as sweet to expose the defrauder
as to assist the defrauded?

Laurence Greatorex did not plainly tell
himself that he was actuated by a double motive in
what he was about to do. Men of his stamp
are not given to analysing their own thoughts
and feelings. Keen sighted enough to detect
the hidden motives of others, they prefer to
make the best of themselves, and habitually
look at their own acts from the most favourable
point of view. So the banker, having made up
his mind to accept the disagreeable side of his
present undertaking, complacently ignored that
which might possibly turn out to be quite the
reverse, and persuaded himself, as he walked up
Fleet-street, that he was doing something almost
heroic in the cause of friendship.

He sent in his card, and was shown at once
to William Trefalden's private room.

"Good morning, Mr. Trefalden," said he,
with that noisy affectation of ease that Sir
Charles Burgoyne so especially disliked; "you
are surprised to see me here, I don't doubt."

But William Trefalden, who would have
manifested no surprise had Laurence Greatorex
walked into his room in lawn sleeves and a
mitre, only bowed, pointed to a seat, and
replied:

"Not at all. I am happy to see you, Mr.
Greatorex."

"Thanks." And the banker sat down, and
placed his hat on the table. "Any news from
Norway?"

"From my cousin Saxon? No. At present
not any."

"Really?"

"I do not expect him to write to me."

"Not at all?"

"Why, no or, at all events, not more than
once during his absence. We have exchanged
no promises on the score of correspondence;
and I am no friend to letter-writing, unless on
business."

"You are quite right, Mr. Trefalden. Mere
letter-writing is well enough for school-girls and
sweethearts; but it is a delusion and a snare to
those who have real work on their hands. One
only needs to look at a shelf of Horace Walpole's
Correspondence to know that the man was an
idler and a trifler all his life."

Mr. Trefalden smiled a polite assent.

"But I am not here this morning to discourse
on the evils of pen and ink," said Greatorex.
"I have come, Mr. Trefalden, to ask your
advice."

"You shall be welcome to the best that my
experience can offer," replied the lawyer.

"Much obliged. Before going any further,
however, I must take you a little way into my
confidence."

Mr. Trefalden bowed.

"You must know that I have a little private
property. Not much—only a few thousands;
but, little as it is, it is my own; and is not
invested in the business.

Mr. Trefalden was all attention.

"It is not invested in the business," repeated
the banker; " and I do not choose that it should
be. I want to keep it apart—snug—safe—