Laying down the story, she refreshed herself
with a copious draught from the earthen
pitcher.

"Very good barley-water," said Mrs. Hutchins,
"though it might ha' been better for a sup o'
sherry in it. I s'pose they dussn't put it, 'cos
of fever. Uncommon kind of young Charlewood
to be so attentive to Cordelia, and send
things a'most every day. I never knowed the
fam'ly was renounced"—Mrs. Hutchins probably
meant renowned—"for troubling theirselves
too much about other folk's wants. Old
Luke's a hard old file. That's about what he
is."

Mrs. Hutchins pursued her meditations half
aloud before an oval looking-glass hanging over
the chimney-piece, which so defied all the
recognised laws of gravity and perspective in
the reflected image of the room which it
presented, as to cause an instant sensation of
seasickness in any unaccustomed beholder.

"Ah! she's a nice little creetur," Mrs.
Hutchins went on, "but spiled. Trescott's too
uppish by half. I can't think why them sort
of people should give theirselves airs. But
they mostly do. Young Alfred's the flower of
the flock, for my money. He do so remind me
of Sir Leonardo Gonzaga of the Sable Plume.
Just the pictur of Leonardo he is, accordin' to
my fancy. Only he's younger, and his hair
ain't quite coal-black; and he don't flash so
continual with his eyes, as Leonardo do."

Mrs. Hutchins was beginning to doze, with
her arms folded on the table, and her hair in
dangerous proximity to the flame of the candle,
when the turning of a latch-key in the house
door, and the sound of voices, roused her. She
jumped up with a start, and hurried down-stairs,
arriving in the kitchen as Mr. Trescott and his
son, a lad of eighteen, entered it. Each
carried in his hand one of those queer coffin-shaped
boxes known as violin cases. The dress of
both was poor. But while the father's attire
made no pretence of smartness, but expressed
a sort of resigned and conscious shabbiness, the
son's was indicative in twenty ways of an
attempt at fashion and rakishness. Alfred Trescott
was a remarkably handsome young fellow. His
hair was allowed to grow long, and was put
carelessly behind his ears, in foreign fashion.
His pale face and regular features were illumined
by a pair of magnificent dark eyes, shaded by
long lashes that many a reigning belle might
have envied. These eyelashes gave a look of
almost feminine softness to the eyes beneath
them. But when you met their gaze full—
which was not often, for they shifted restlessly
from moment to moment—you perceived that
there was nothing soft in the expression of the
eyes themselves, but, on the contrary, a sinister
watchful look, that seemed to hint at mingled
ferocity and deceit.

"How's Corda?" asked Mr. Trescott,
limping into the kitchen.

"Ah, how's the poor little kid?" said Alfred.

"Well, she's asleep now, Mr. Trescott. I've
a' been with her all the blessed evening," said
Mrs. Hutchins, assuming (somewhat unnecessarily)
an air of fatigue and exhaustion. "And
Hutchins, he's been in bed these two hours. So
be so good as not to make no more noise than
you can help on going up-stairs, Mr. Alfred;
for Hutchins he has to be up at his work by five
to-morrow, and if he don't get his rest reg'lar
he's good for nothing."

"All serene, Mrs. H.," rejoined Alfred,
carelessly; and he proceeded to strike a match
wherewith to light a short scientifically blackened
pipe, which he drew from his pocket.

"Alf," said his father, speaking in jerks, and
with a nervous twitching manner, "I wish you
wouldn't smoke now; your tobacco is fearfully
strong, and the smell of it penetrates all through
the house. I know Corda doesn't like it, and
I don't believe it's good for her."

"Does she say so?" asked Alf, poking out,
with the unburnt end of his lucifer-match, a
straggling black-beetle left behind by its
retreating comrades in a chink of the hearth-
stone.

"Say so? Of course not. What does she
ever say, with herself for its subject? But you
might have a little consideration for her in her
feverish state, without her entreating it."

"Ah!" returned the young man, coolly taking
a long slow pull at the black pipe, "just so.
Only, you have heard from Mrs. H. that Corda
is fast asleep; consequently, sir, this baccy will
please me and do her no harm."

While Mrs. Hutchins spread the supper-table
in the untidy kitchen, setting forth cold meat,
bread, and beer, Mr. Trescott took a candle
and stole softly up-stairs to the room where
Corda lay still sleeping. Shading the light
with his hand, he stood by the bedside, and
watched for a minute or two the sweet delicate
face flushed with slumber, and the gold-brown
curls tossed in disorder over the coarse pillow.
Some sense of her father's silent presence must
have awakened the child, for though he neither
spoke nor moved, she opened her eyes, and held
out her arms to embrace him with a little gasp
of pleasure.

"Papa!"

"My pet," said Mr. Trescott, "I have
disturbed you."

"No, papa. I haven't been asleep a single
minute. I was counting the clock, and that
made me drowsy."

"Counting the clock, Corda?"

Mr. Trescott's face twitched as with some
painful thought, and he limped uneasily once or
twice up and down the room. "I'm afraid, my
little one," he said, coming back to the bed,
"I am terribly afraid that you are unhappy
whilst I am out. What can I do, Corda? I
must go."

"I know, papa."

"Isn't that woman kind and attentive to you
when I am away?"

"Quite kind, papa. She gives me a drink,
and moves me in bed whenever I ask her. I
don't want her to talk to me. It don't amuse
me, papa. I would rather lie and think."