rapidly, though she was still weak and helpless.
True to his promise to Mabel, and prompted,
besides, by a kindly interest in the child,
Clement Charlewood had sent to the house such
comforts and delicacies as might reasonably be
supposed to be beyond the culinary skill of
Mrs. Hutchins, and he had called himself at
No. 23, New Bridge-street, when business
brought him into the neighbourhood. This
was not seldom, for there were busy wharves
and counting-houses in close proximity to its
squalid dwellings, and not a little of the gold
that glittered profusely in the suburban villas
of Hammerham was dug out of these dingy
mines.

On one or two occasions when Clement paid
a hasty visit to the little invalid he had heard
from an upper chamber the sound of a violin
played with remarkable skill and power.
Clement had a great love of music, and some
knowledge of it. Hammerham people, indeed,
mostly pride themselves on their musical
knowledge. He was struck by the unexpected finish
of style of the unseen player, and asked Corda
if it were her father? But the child had
answered, "No. Papa can't play like that,
though it was papa who first taught Alfred."
Alfred, she explained, was her brother. Alfred
was a very clever brother, and she was very
fond of Alfred. He had a fine tone; didn't
Mr. Charlewood think so? Papa said Alfred
had a fine tone. Papa said Alfred ought to make
a great player. Only—and here Corda's voice
was lowered confidentially, and she looked very
serious—only he wouldn't practise. Not
regularly, that was to say. Sometimes he would take
a fit of industry, and practise ten hours a day for
a week. But he had promised her that he would
work steadily, and she was in daily expectation
of his beginning to do so in earnest. Did he,
then, do nothing for his living? Oh yes; Alfred
was engaged sometimes in the orchestra of the
theatre when any extra help was required. He
was engaged just now, for an opera company
was performing at the theatre, and Alfred
could take a first violin, whilst papa could only
play second. But papa was very clever too.
Mr. Charlewood mustn't suppose it was not
very difficult indeed to play a good second.

"I'm so thirsty, Mrs. Hutchins."

The little voice came faintly once more out
of the poor bed, and the bright feverish eyes
looked wistfully at a great earthenware pitcher
standing on the mantelpiece.

"Goodness sake, Cordelia," ejaculated Mrs.
Hutchins, petulantly, "I hear you. You've
said so ten times in a minute." Then glancing
at the patient face on the pillow, her heart was
softened, and she got up and poured out a
mugful of barley-water from the great pitcher.
Approaching the bed, she held the mug to the
child's lips while she swallowed a deep draught .

"Ah-h-h! That's good, ain't it ?" said
Mrs. Hutchins, sympathetically drawing a long
breath. Then she smoothed the child's hair
back from her heated forehead with a not
ungentle hand. But Corda shrank from its touch;
for her senses, always delicate in their perceptions,
even to fastidiousness, were far from
being blunted by illness. And it must be
confessed that, without being extraordinarily dainty,
one might have taken exception to Mrs.
Hutchins's hand. But, fortunately, the good
lady perceived nothing of the child's shrinking,
by reason of her having plunged again into the
perils which encompassed "Rosalba of Naples;
or, the Priest, the Page, and the Penitent."

"I wonder," said little Corda, after a pause,
restlessly turning her hot head on the pillow,
"I wonder what o'clock it is?"

Mrs. Hutchins followed Rosalba of Naples
into the "deepest dungeon below the castle
keep," and heard the massive doors locked on
her with a "fatal clash," before she answered
shortly, "Dunno, I'm sure."

"Because papa said he would come straight
home after he had done. It's 'Lucia,' to-night.
'Lucia' isn't a long opera. I should think
he'd be back by eleven; shouldn't you, Mrs.
Hutchins?"

Rosalba, having by this time got her body
half way through the narrow loophole looking
on to the moat (preparatory to escaping by
means of a rope ladder supplied by the page),
the situation was too critical to admit of Mrs.
Hutchins's having a scrap of attention to spare.
So she vaguely murmured, "All right, my
dear."

Down in the kitchen a clock was ticking
loudly, and some shrill crickets kept up a
piercing chorus on the hearth. Black-beetles,
fortunately, are silent creatures, or they might
have contributed a formidable addition to the
noises that fretted the sick child's nerves.
Waiting, waiting, waiting! How long the
time seemed!  Would her father never come
home? Suddenly it occurred to her to turn,
the importunate ticking of the kitchen clock to
account. She knew that there were sixty
seconds in a minute, and sixty minutes in an
hour. She would count the time by the beats
of the clock, and that would make it pass
quicker. Her father must be home by eleven.
She guessed it to be about ten, now. So, she
would count for an hour, and at the end of it
papa would be here. Tick-tack, tick-tack, one,
two, three, four—two, three—one, two—and the
small slight fingers that had been tapping on the
coverlet relaxed, and were still. The eyelids
quivered, drooped, and closed over the lustrous
hazel eyes. The breath came regularly from
between the parted lips—little Corda was fast
asleep.

Almost at the same moment Rosalba
succeeded, after various desperate struggles, in
wriggling through the loophole, and getting a
fair hold of the rope ladder. While she was
still "poised with one fairy foot upon its topmost
round," the number came to an abrupt
termination.

"Lord bless us!" cried Mrs. Hutchins,
impatiently, "to think of its leaving off at that
there interestin' pint! It's like as if they done
it a' purpose."