the open window, and the delicate feminine
figure that rose quietly to welcome him, he was
struck by the beauty and harmony of the picture,
and made an involuntary comparison in his mind
between it and his mother's drawing-room at
Bramley Manor, which was by no means favourable
to the latter.

Mrs. Saxelby was a still pretty woman, with
a fair smooth skin, and aquiline profile. She
held out her hand with a gracious smile in
greeting to Clement.

Mabel threw off her bonnet, and, kneeling at
her mother's side, began to tell of the accident,
and how frightened they had all been at first,
and how kindly Mr. Charlewood had given
orders for the poor child's comfort. "Oh,
mamma," she cried, winding up her somewhat
confused recital, "she was such a sweet-
looking little creature. I should so like—if I
might—to call and ask if I could do anything
for her."

"Really," said Clement, quickly, "you
mustn't think of it. It wouldn't do at all."
Then, checking himself, he turned to Mrs.
Saxelby with a half apologetic manner. "I beg
your pardon, Mrs. Saxelby," he said; "but I
assure you the place is not the sort of place for
Miss Earnshaw to visit, nor are the people the
sort of people for Miss Earnshaw to come in
contact with. She could do them no good. I
will answer for every necessary care being taken
of the little girl."

"Dear Mabel is apt to be a little impulsive,"
said Mrs. Saxelby, stroking her daughter's hair.

"Mamma, the child's father, Mr. Trescott, is
a musician who plays in the orchestra of the
theatre," said Mabel, in a low distinct tone.

There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Saxelby's
netting had fallen from her hand on to the floor,
and had apparently become entangled, for she
stooped over it for some seconds without speaking.
"How can you persist, Mabel?" she said,
still busy with her netting. "You know Mr.
Saxelby wouldn't hear of it."

Mabel rose from her knees. "I think it would .
be right to go and see if I could do the little
girl any good," she said, "and I don't suppose,
mamma, that you think her father must be
wicked because he plays in a theatre."  With
that she locked her lips into a peculiarly scornful
curve, which they had a natural capacity for
quickly assuming, and walked out of the open
French window into the garden without a glance
at Clement.

"I'm afraid," he said, following with his eyes
the flutter of Mabel's dress as she slowly paced
down the long narrow grass-plat—"I'm afraid
Miss Earnshaw is a little displeased with me for
venturing to oppose her philanthropic
intentions."

"Oh, you must not take offence at her manner,
Mr. Charlewood. She is but a child. I shall
give her a lecture by-and-by."

"Offence! No indeed. I admire the generous
feeling that prompts her. But do you know,
Mrs. Saxelby, she seems to me to have some
particular tenderness for these theatre people."

How singularly unmanageable Mrs. Saxelby's
netting was this afternoon! It had again got
itself into a condition which necessitated her
stooping over it.

Clement lingered a little, hat in hand. "I
must be going," he said, with a glance towards
the garden. "Will you say good-bye for me to
Miss Earnshaw? and," he added with a smile,
"beg her not to think me altogether wanting in
Christian charity."

But, as he spoke, Mabel returned, and, going
up to him, quietly held out her hand. " Good-
bye," she said, " and thank you once more."

"Don't thank me, please, but tell me you
forgive me."

"I forgive you," she said, with naïve gravity,
"because you do not know any better."

"You are tremendously uncompromising,
Miss Earnshaw, " but I am glad to be forgiven
by you on any terms. Good-bye. And trust
me the pretty little girl shall be well looked
after."

"Mamma," said Mabel, when the sound of
Clement Charlewood's footsteps had died away
along the quiet road, "don't be angry with me.
But I cannot bear to hear those things said
without protest. It seems like—like bearing
false witness."

Her mother drew the girl's head down, and
kissed her silently. The autumn twilight
seemed to have filled the room all at once, and
she could not see Mabel's face distinctly, but, as
she pressed her lips against her child's soft
cheek, she felt that it was wet with tears.

CHAPTER IV. NUMBER TWENTY-THREE, NEW
BRIDGE-STREET.

"I'M so thirsty."

Poor little Corda Trescott had said these words
in a weak plaintive voice four or five times one
night before a tall bony woman, who was sitting
at the head of the child's bed, roused herself.
The woman's gown was dirty, and her sandy
hair was rough and unkempt, and she wore
it twisted into a meagre wisp, and fastened with
a big imitation tortoiseshell comb at the back
of her head. She had a glaring red glass brooch
at her throat, but no collar; gilt earrings in her
ears; and held in her unwashed hands a soiled
number of some red-hot romance which was
then in course of publication for the sum of
one halfpenny weekly.

This was Mrs. Hutchins, the landlady of the
house in which the Trescotts lodged, and to
whose care the child was necessarily confided
during her father's nightly absence at the
theatre.

Mr. Hutchins was a hard-working carpenter
who earned decent wages. And as they were a
childless couple, and as Mrs. Hutchins's
domestic duties were consequently not of a nature
to absorb her whole time and attention, she
was in the habit of letting the two rooms on her
first floor and a garret at the top of the house.

More than a week had passed since the
accident, and little Corda Trescott was mending