so often spoken to you before. I cannot have
this going on, unless—unless you wish to turn
me mad. I have said, again and again, Ross
shall not come here, and that you are not to see
him."

"And do I see him?" she asked, coldly.

"Do you," he repeated, "do you make
appointments with him? No matter. That all
must end now. Or if you choose to defy me
openly, and do what you wish yourself, it would
be more honourable and straightforward to tell
me so plainly. Otherwise, it will be my duty
to watch you—to have you watched narrowly—
and see that my wishes are carried out."

She coloured, and her eyes flashed.

''Since you have lost all confidence in me,
I decline to say what I shall do. As you have
announced that I am to be spied on, I scorn to
justify myself. The whole is a mystery to me.
I did indeed think that, after all, your old love,
which endured so much, would have endured
such a thing as this. But it is better we should
understand each other, I feel myself innocent,
and shall take no pains to satisfy unjust
suspicions."

She left the room, and entered her carriage,
leaving him in a torrent of grief, wonder, and
stupefaction. But in a moment he had roused
himself.

"I accept what she proposes," he said. "I
have been a dupe once; she shall not find me
one again. And after her cruel treachery,
too!"

Mrs. Tillotson drove away.  As she was
passing through one of the quieter squares, she
saw a walking-stick waving at her eagerly, and
recognised Mr. Tilney, very bright and got
up in a showy morning dress. She stopped,
and he came to the window.

"So glad to have met you," he said, leaning
his arms on the window, with his stick soldier-wise
across his chest as if it was a shield.

"So like a Providence, you know. But these
things are all in the hollow of his hand—not a
sparrow, you know. You must come,
positively, and it's a charity, too."

"What is it, dear father?" she said, quite
accustomed to this elliptical style of communication.

"Just close by here—two doors off, I may
say. Amelia Bellman, quite a lady, only
reduced to give lessons, I remember long ago
at the palace, as nice a woman as you could
pick out of the street—any street. A Miss
Clifford—Ida Clifford—was just in the same—
a charming thing, only it was broken up. When
the Dook, you know——But I will come. A
charity. She has taught the girls, and they
are bringing young McKerchier and the others.
Just take two tickets and drop in for half an
hour. Do us a charity. A poor girl is quite
desponding; for, to tell you the truth, the
tickets have not gone off yet, and the rooms in
advance before the doors opened; so, positively,
unless we can put together our seven and
sixpences, the whole thing will become very
awkward indeed—for me, indeed."

Mrs. Tillotson had her purse out in a moment.
She never could refuse Mr. Tilney's requests.
Besides, she was fond of music. She opened
the door and he got in. They drove aside of
the square—round—and were set down at the
concert-room's door. A modest little placard,
in red letters, announced " MISS AMELIA
BELLMAN'S MATINÉE, under distinguished patronage."
But there was no crush. A few dropped
in. Miss Bellman gave lessons to a few genteel
people about Mr.Tilney's neighbourhood, and
indeed there was more gentility than skill in
her teaching. Herbesthal, a fair London pianist,
had promised to play a couple of pieces, and Miss
Shulbrick, the well-known contralto, to sing.
Still her little hall was a hopeless and desponding
sight. The audience were so scattered it
depressed the hearts of the pianist and contralto.
The Tilneys had all come, and Mr. McKerchier,
who yawned without concealment through the
performance, and pronounced the whole thing
"the greatest rot going;" though, at the same
time, it is a fact that he did not discharge his
little liability for the ticket, which fell upon the
Tilney family. Miss Bellman's papa, an ancient
singing-master of repute, but long since turned
out into a paddock, had put on harness again
for his daughter's benefit, and consented to give
The Death of Nelson, after the declamatory
model of the late Mr. Braham. This old gentleman
accompanied himself, and turning his back
on his piano, leaned over confidentially to the
audience, to tell the story of the great naval
engagement as if over the side of a vessel.
Although it was very long, the scanty audience
—out of pity and sympathy for the unhappy
beneficiaire—stayed out the whole programme
with surprising endurance. The pianist gave a
couple of little " things" of his own.

The Grasshopper, Op. 6. . .)
Icicles .................................)   Herbesthal.

Wonderful little bits of piano pantomime, where
the trained ear could distinctly hear chirruping,
and where, in the second piece, long sustained
notes like a bell were intended to convey the
idea of the cold "monotonous" icicle—and after
this the audience rose to go.

It was late and had grown dark. Mrs. Tillotson
had sat with her friends, listless and absent.
This was not the music for her. Once, indeed,
at Mr. Bellman's blinking eyes, and face
stretched away from his piano, as he told of
England's generous admission that every man
on that day had done his " dee-yewty," she
could not forbear smiling. As the lamps
were "turned down," and Miss Shulbrick was
singing the Children's Grave, somewhere down
towards her waist-buckle, Mrs. Tillotson, sinking
back in her seat with a sigh of weariness,
heard a whisper at her ear. There were several
empty benches behind her, and a gentleman
had just come in and placed himself close to
her. She turned round with a start.

"Why do you persecute me in this way?"
she said, agitated. " Go away, I entreat. You
are bringing ruin and misery upon me."