his horses on at a smart pace. Suddenly the
beautiful young lady stood up in the carriage,
balancing herself with difficulty, and exclaimed,
imperiously, "Jackson. Stop! stop! Do you
hear me? Where are you taking us to?
Penny, do you see this? We're getting into a
frightful neighbourhood. Stop this moment,
Jackson."

The man touched his hat, and glanced down
over his shoulder into the carriage, but without
slackening speed.

"I beg pardon, Miss Augusta," he said,
"but Mr. Clement ordered me to drive as quick
as possible to No. 23, New Bridge-street. Him
and the lame party went round afoot the short
way, to fetch Doctor Brett. We shall be there
in a moment, miss."

He spoke to the handsome lady, but looked
appealingly towards that other lady whom the
young girl had addressed as Miss Charlewood.

"It's quite right, Jackson," said the latter,
sharply." There's my brother with the child's
father and Mr. Brett at a door on the left-hand
side of the way. Pull up, man. Where are
your eyes? I could see the number, 23, half
a mile off."

In truth, the little steel-bright eyes looked as
if they had considerable seeing power. When
the carriage stopped, the lame man, shaking
violently, and in a state of uncontrollable
excitement, came forward to lift out his little girl.
But the surgeon put him gently aside, and took
the light form in his own arms. The child's
eyelids quivered, and she uttered a faint moan.
"Merciful Heaven!" cried Miss Augusta,
putting her fingers into her ears and closing her
eyes tightly. "This is too dreadful." And she
remained motionless, shutting out sight and
sound as much as possible.

"I suppose we can't do any good here,
Clem?" said Miss Charlewood, with an impatient
shrug.

"No; none whatever. You had better drive
home at once. My mother will be getting
uneasy."

"Won't you come with us?"

"I will only wait to hear Brett's report.
That lame man, the father, is too scared to be of
much use. It is a thousand pities that he didn't
let her go to the hospital. If anything happened
to myself, it is where I would beg to be taken
to."

"Do you think, Mr. Charlewood, it is a very
bad accident?" asked the young girl who had
held the child. The tears were running down
her face, and she was still trembling very
much.

"I hope not. I trust not," he answered,
advancing to the door of the carriage; "but I
will bring you a true report presently. You
are going to lunch with our people, are you
not? Home, Jackson!"

"Really," said Miss Charlewood, when the
carriage had quitted the stones, and was rolling
smoothly along a suburban road, bordered by
handsome villas, "really, I must appear a horrid
monster beside you two sensitive young ladies.
Mabel's sensibilities have quite overcome her,
and Augusta is only just not fainting."

The young girl whom she called Mabel
coloured deeply, and hastily dried her wet eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Penelope, that my nerves
are not made of cast iron, like yours," retorted
the fair Augusta, languidly; "but I confess I
have a horror of scenes, and I cannot help it.
It is far from pleasant to be so sensitive
as I am, I assure you; but I should hardly
suppose that you found it very agreeable to
have to penetrate into that abominable den.
Ugh! I felt quite sick."

"Abominable den? Oh, New Bridge-street.
Ah! it is coaly."

"Coaly! And the canal full of dead cats and
dogs! And the filthy people! And the foul
smells! I should not be at all surprised if I
were to have a fever. It was most
inconsiderate of Clement to make us go to such a
place in a broiling heat like this."

"Ye; and most inconsiderate and selfish in
the little girl," returned Miss Charlewood,
"not to choose a cool day on which to get
herself run over. But here we are at home, and
here is mamma flattening her nose against the
dining-room window. I suppose her sensitiveness
will take the form of scolding us all round
for having caused her paroxysms of anxiety by
our delay. Jump out, Mabel, my dear, I shall
put you in the van."

CHAPTER II. THE CHARLEWOODS.

THE Charlewoods were rich people. Very
rich people, even in that rich town. The firm
of Gandry and Charlewood, great builders and
contractors, was known all over the world.
Gandry had ceased to exist (at least, so far as
the business was concerned) years ago, having
been bought out by the junior partner; but his
name had never been cancelled from the firm.
Since his day, the tide of affairs had set steadily
in favour of old Luke Charlewood, and had
carried him on to fortune. He had been a very,
very poor man once, his father having been an
Irish labourer under a bricklayer; and there
were those who professed to remember Luke
himself, with a hod on his shoulder, working
hard for eighteenpence a day. Fiction or
fact, however, those days were long ago, and
were unknown to, or forgotten by, nearly all
who now came into communication with the
wealthy Mr. Charlewood. Such reminiscences
as I speak of were usually uttered in public-
house parlours of very humble pretensions,
where the poorer sort of tradesmen or artisans
congregated on Saturday evenings, to smoke
and drink, and discuss the state of the body
politic, or the affairs of their neighbours. The
distinction which unfortunately exists
between theory and practice was frequently
exemplified at these gatherings in a very
striking manner; it being observable that
those persons who had proved to be the most
incompetent and unsuccessful in their own
conduct of life, were ready, at a moment's notice,
with infallible methods for the improvement and