related to her childish days when she lived in her
father's house on the canal wharf, and played
see-saw on a stack of fragrant pine planks in the
timber-yard — were cut short by her catching
Penelope's glittering eye fixed upon her in
decided disapproval. The poor lady stopped
in some confusion, and added abruptly, "I mean
to say, I've always understood it was a 'orrid
part of the town."

"Yes," said Miss Charlewood, "you should
have seen Augusta's horror at having only to
drive through it. I wonder why people live in
New Bridge-street!"

"I scarcely think you do wonder, Penny,"
said her brother. "They live there because they
can't afford to live in a better place."

"But then," said Mabel, timidly, "if these
people are so poor, will they be able to—I
mean, won't this accident be a a terrible
expense to them?"

"Oh, I don't think they are in destitution.
The father — he told me his name is Trescott—
has a weekly engagement to play in the orchestra
of the theatre."

At the word Mrs. Charlewood raised her
eyebrows and shut her eyes, shaking her head
slightly from side to side, and uttering a stifled
moan, under cover of which demonstration
Clement added hurriedly, in a low voice, meant
only for Mabel's ear, "I have begged Brett to
pay her every attention, and have desired the
woman with whom they lodge to see that she
wants for nothing. You know I feel in a
measure responsible, though really the accident
was in no way Jackson's fault."

"It is very good of you," said Mabel,
softly.

Mrs. Charlewood, finding that Clement had
been saying something that she could not catch,
stopped midway in another moan, and opened
her eyes. "Ah, dear me!" she said. "What a
sad thing! How dreadful for the little girl to
be mixed up with such people. Think, only
think, of her poor soul."

"No doubt that is the thing to do, mamma,"
remarked her eldest daughter; "but I think
Clement has been so absurd as to think of her
poor body first. Perhaps one might be weak
enough to like that best, oneself, if one's collarbone
were broken."

She had partly heard, and wholly understood,
Clement's whispered speech. Few things said
or done in Penelope Charlewood's presence
escaped her observation.

Mabel rose and drew the light cape of her
simple muslin dress round her shoulders.
"You're not going, my dear?" said Mrs.
Charlewood.

"Not going, Mabel?" echoed Penelope.

Mabel was a great favourite at Bramley Manor.
Even Miss Charlewood had been known on
several occasions to speak with unalloyed praise
of Mabel Earnshaw. None the less did she make
sharp stinging speeches to her face. But these
Miss Charlewood lavished on friend and foe
with absolute impartiality.

"Yes, if you please, Mrs. Charlewood," said
Mabel. "I promised mamma to go home
directly after lunch."

"Oh, but, my dear, we'll send and tell your
mamma, if you'll stay. Mr. Charlewood will be
disappointed not to see you when he comes in."

"Thank you, but I don't think he will care
very much," said Mabel, smiling. "Besides, I
promised."

"Never mind — "  Mrs. Charlewood was
beginning; but Penelope interrupted her.

"Never mind, mamma? I'm astonished
at you. A promise is a promise. Think of
Mabel's poor soul!" Whereupon Mrs. Charlewood
said no further word.

"If you don't mind walking, I will see you
to your own door, Miss Earnshaw," said
Clement, rising too. "I have business that will
take me to Fitzhenry's-road."

So Miss Earnshaw went her way accompanied
by Mr. Clement Charlewood. They passed
out of the hall door together on to the drive,
and Penelope, watching them from the dining-
room, heard through the open window Mabel's
sweet voice saying, as she shyly took
Clement's offered arm: "Don't you think
Christian charity is a very, very rare thing, Mr.
Charlewood?"

THE FIFTH OF MARCH IN DUBLIN.

I HAD been absent from Dublin on leave,
during the whole month of February. When I
left the city, on the 27th of January, the Fenian
conspiracy would have seemed to an ordinary
observer utterly collapsed. Arrests were
occasionally made, but were chiefly confined to
Americanised Celts. If these men had been
born in Ireland, the soil and climate of
America had a strange effect upon their
constitution. They were tall, pale-faced, and
bearded — in every respect presenting the
appearance of the genuine article. My duty
brought me into contact with many of these
prisoners, and I found that for one who came
from New York, three came from Massachusetts.
They seemed to me to court arrest,
for they were singularly rude and insolent,
swaggering through the streets, jostling the
passers-by, and walking at a rapid pace
three or four abreast when the footpath was
crowded during the fashionable hours for
promenading or shopping. I remarked that several
wore large stars of silver on their left breasts:
ugly ornaments enough; for they were, in all
respects, like pieces of block tin. All had hats,
a compound between the "pot hat" and the
"Jerry." All, too, had loose overcoats of
different shades of grey.

When many were seen together, it
became plain that their dress was a kind of
uniform. Nothing was found upon these men when
searched. Documents they would not carry;
revolvers and ammunition were thrown into the
river before the police could seize them at the
quays. On the American Celts money was
lound in abundance; the street-rowdies of