dinner, were the result of a warm discussion held
the night before between Mr. and Mrs. Smiles.

"I have planned it all," she said. "It is what
you call the small end of the wedge. It will
help the girls to know some nice men, which
God knows they want. Life isn't ledgers and
accounts, Mr. Smiles, after all; and Mrs.
Withers, the confectioner, says she knows they
have asked the colonel and his wife. We must go."

"Folly, folly," said Mr. Smiles, shortly.
"Your head's always running upon that. Now,
are you fit company for the colonel's wife, or
Mrs. Plumtre up at the Grange—who will be
there too—or can you hold your own on the
subjects they know? You'll only sit there looking
like a fool, and they'll cut you the next day."

'"And if they do, I hope you'll have the
spirit to give it to 'em at the bank. You can
make them feel it there. No, no; we'll do very
well."

"There again," said he, "that fellow will
come bothering for money, and think he has a
right to get some, because he gave us a wretched
dinner. He's worrying my life out."

"There again!" said she, rolling on her seat
like a huge porpoise. "And why not help the
Tilneys? I have laid it all out, I tell you.
They'll make nice friends and companions for
the girls, introjuice them, and get a match for
'em."

Mrs. Smiles, having a weight of tongue and
of person—which, someway, does give an
influence in a social commonwealth prevailed.
They were to go and dine, and the letter was sent.

       CHAPTER XV. A PARTY.

MR, NORBURY was to dine also—not Mrs.
Norbury, whom no one dreamed of asking; for as
children were always adhering to her, more or
less, like shell-fish to a rock, it seemed impossible
to ask that faithful "slaving" woman to go up
and "dress" for a party, or to be taken down to
dinner. What a squalor was in that house,
what a battle going on—not day by day, but
hour by hour—against inconvenience and
trouble of all kinds, may be conceived. When
it was stayed or repaired in one quarter, it broke
out in another; when they had finished at one
side, they had to move over to the other and
begin again. That long family of children had
to be "patched up" like an old roof. The work
was never ending; the wonder was, how it was
done, or where the material was got with which
it was done. But a "will," and a faithful,
undying zeal that never sleeps, or even nods, is
worth time, clothes, money, and meat and drink.

The canon was sitting in his normal attitude in
his shirt-sleeves, with the violin not very far
away, and "the wife," with a mollusc adhering to
her, "darning," working, and now literally
"piecing" a little shoe—a task that would
have seemed hopeless to a skilled shoemaker.
Before an hour she would have accomplished
it. He was in one of his hopeless moods.

"I don't know what's to become of me," he
said. "It is like walking out into a bog. Even
at knocking the balls about I am getting to be
no good. A common lad got five shillings
out of me last night. I may as well give up at
once as go on; it will be cheaper in the end."
And he began to whistle dismally.

Before the mother could answer, cries and
even howls were heard from an adjoining room,
where a crowd had gathered and upset a
wash-hand-stand, and, with the fatal stupidity of their
class, had proclaimed their misfortune to the
world. She had to dart away to restore order,
and Mr. Norbury was left alone. His eyes fell
vacantly on the violin, and, still "honing" over
his sorrows, he began to tune it on his knee,
and had presently glided into a "stiff" variation
on "De Beriot's fifth air," which he went
over half a dozen times. After many repetitions
and a growing facility in execution, he had quite
forgotten his misfortunes; and as he began it for
the seventh time, he threw back his head and
said aloud, "Faith, I'll play this for them at
our next Philharmonic."

Suddenly came a light step. He looked up
(he was in the midst of the groaning, squealing,
pork-killing variation produced by playing three
notes at a time) and saw Ada—Miss Millwood.
He became conscious of his rough chin and
collarless throat and shirt-sleeves, and fled. Mrs.
Norbury, with a worn look, well balanced with
a baby hung before her, in front of whose person
she managed to ply her fingers, came down to
her. No wonder she was glad to see her, for Ada
was a ministering angel to that squalid family.
She brought with her light and air and cleanliness;
and the children, hearing her sweet voice
(or perhaps the scouts, who were always on
duty, hanging out of the windows, had passed the
word on), would have poured down and mobbed
her, but that their father, on his road to
shaving, had promptly shut to the little gate
that was at the top of the stairs.

The two ladies talked together a long time.
Ada's low, soft voice filled the room with a
sweeter music than that of Mr. Norbury's
violin. She gave her friend such comfort as
was to be found in the common platitudes of
comfort, but with her they were not platitudes,
but substantial comfort.

"You know," said she, "we have all troubles
of our own, and must have them. Dear
Mr. Tilney has his—I have mine. Life wouldn't
be life without them."

Then the two women opened their confidences,
and Mrs. Norbury, with that fulness of detail
and colour which reaches almost to gossip, told
the story of their griefs—what they feared, and
what they had not to hope, and especially that
late passage with the dreaded Black Dick.

"Joey does everything for the best, and thinks
of us all in everything he does. Often and
often he has brought us home a dinner out of
his little game of billiards. But, dear Miss
Millwood, I am trembling and trembling to
think of this business. Joey doesn't see it as I
do. But Doctor Topham, I know, doesn't like
him, and when he comes back—oh, Miss
Millwood, I fear——"