"Well, don't think, but sleep now, Corda.
You'll soon be strong again, and able to go
out with me."

"Does—does Alf know I'm awake?" asked
the child, wistfully.

"l think not, my darling. Mrs. Hutchins
said you were asleep when we came in."

"Do you think he would mind coming to kiss
me and say 'good night,' if he did know I was
awake, papa?"

Mr. Trescott went to the head of the stairs
and called to his son. "Your sister wants to
say good night to you."

Alter a minute's pause, Alfred, muttering
something which perhaps it was as well that the
pipe between his teeth rendered unintelligible,
came slowly up the stairs.

"Well, young 'un," he said, bending over his
sister, " what's the latest intelligence? How
are the breakages progressing?"

"Oh, my bone's coming all mended, Alf. Mr.
Brett said so," answered Corda, smiling up into
his face. Then, as he stooped to kiss her, the
strong odour of the tobacco made her turn her
head away with a little choking cough.

"What the deuce is up now?" asked Alfred,
dropping the hand she had put into his.

"I couldn't help coughing a little, Alf dear.
You smell of smoke so."

"It's a way I have, child, when I've been
smoking. That's not a very brilliant discovery
of yours."

He spoke in a dry sullen tone, and was turning
to go, when his sister caught his sleeve and
drew him to her.

"I know you can't help it, dear. And I don't
mind it a bit, generally. Not a bit," she added,
with a quiet old-fashioned air of experienced
wisdom, "except when you do it too much for
your health. Excess—si—sive" (Corda found
the long word a little unmanageable, but
surmounted the difficulty with dignity), "excessive
smoking is very injurious indeed to young
people, Mr. Brett says."

Alfred's ill humour was not proof against the
child's caressing touch, nor the earnest loving
look in the clear eyes she raised to his.

"Mr. Brett's an old woman," he replied,
with a laugh. "You may tell him I say so.
There, there! Never mind. Don't look shocked!
As to you, you're an old woman too—the most
respectably venerable partygoing—and I'll turn
over your words of wisdom in my mind. Good
night, pussy-cat!"

"Thank you, Alf dear!" returned Corda.
For pussy-cat was her brother's highest term of
endearment. She listened to the retreating
footsteps of her father and brother as they
resounded on the uncarpeted stairs, and turned
her head on her pillow to sleep, with a grateful
smile on her face.

"The young 'un's getting on like a house
a-fire," said Alfred, when he and his father were
seated at their supper, and Mrs. Hutchins had
retired to bed. "It won't be long now before
she's all right again."

"I don't know," returned his father. "I
don't know. She's delicate, and will need care
for a long time to come. Still, she is much
better, certainly."

"It's been a jolly expensive game, this,"
remarked Alfred. " I hope she don't mean to get
run over often."

"Good God, Alfred!" ejaculated Mr.
Trescott. "Why do you talk in that way? I
suppose you do, in your heart, care for your
sister!"

"Care for her? You know I care for her.
She's a first-rate little article is poor pussy-cat.
All the same, I take the liberty of repeating
that this accident has been a jolly expensive
game."

"Mr. Charlewood has made himself responsible
for the doctor's bill," said Trescott, contemplating
the dirty tablecloth, and crumbling a
piece of bread in his fingers.

"Damn Mr. Charlewood," said Alfred,
fiercely. "What the devil should we take his
charity for? A purse-proud upstart. I'm sick
of Mr. Charlewood."

"Charity? Who spoke of charity? He
says he considers himself responsible, and so do
I. If any serious injury had happened to
Corda I'd have made him smart for it."

"Bosh!" responded the son, briefly.

"What I say may or may not be bosh, but
I'll tell you what is bosh, and that is your giving
yourself airs to Charlewood whenever you come
across him. I know, as well as you do, that
he's like all these Hammerham people—that he
thinks money is the be-all and the end-all of
creation—and that he has no more notion of the
respect due to Art and Artists than one of his
father's navvies. But he has been kind—yes,
he has been kind—to Corda, and why quarrel
with him?"

"I don't want to quarrel with him," said the
young man, rising and taking up a tin candle-
stick, wherein about an inch of attenuated tallow
candle was embedded in a thick roll of
newspaper. "I don't want to, and I don't mean to
quarrel with him, if he keeps a civil tongue in
his head. But let him beware of such impertinent
nonsense as inquiring if I'm industrious—
faugh!—and if I mean to follow music as a
profession, and if I wouldn't like some regular
employment. He shall not come the high and
mighty over me, a confounded hodman!"

Forgetful or unmindful of Mrs. Hutchins's
caution, Alfred Trescott tramped noisily up to
his bedchamber at the top of the house, where
the deep snores of Mr. Hutchins in the adjoining
room would have sufficed to assure him
(had he felt any anxiety on the subject) that his
landlord was enjoying that repose which awaits
the just man, especially after twelve hours' hard
work.

Mr Trescott sat for nearly an hour brooding
by himself in the dreary kitchen. He did not
utter his cogitations aloud; but the latter
portion of them, put into words, might have
run somewhat after this fashion: "I cannot
think who it is that young girl reminds me of.
Her face was familiar to me when I first saw her