classes, unfortunately; and, I assure you, that
Arthur Skidley is looked upon very coolly by
the best men in his own rank."

"I didn't think you had so much class
prejudice, Clem."

"I hope I have no class prejudice, father.
But I know that Skidley and his associates are
no more to be accepted as specimens of English
gentlemen, than drunken Dicky Dawson, the
mason, is to be taken as a fair type of an
English artisan."

Mr. Charlewood emptied his glass in silence,
and then rose and walked to the fire, where he
stood with his back against the chimney-piece.
The autumn evenings were beginning to get
chilly, and there was a touch of frost in the
air, which made the fire blaze briskly.

"Well, Clem," said he, with a sharp glance
that recalled his daughter Penelope's glittering
eyes and shrewd expression: "since we seem to
be in the lecturing line to-night, let me say
that I hope and suppose it is all nonsense what
Penny said about you and little Earnshaw."

"Oh, you did hear it then, sir?"

"Why, I heard something. Penny used
some French word or other, but I believe I
made out the meaning."

"Well, sir?" said Clement, rising also, and
standing opposite to his father on the hearth-rug.

"Well, that's all, Clement. I hope and
suppose it is all nonsense."

"I don't quite understand why you should
hope it, father; but I can truly say that I
never thought of Miss Earnshaw in that way.
She is almost a child compared to me. The
idea is absurd. At the same time, I beg you
to understand that I am not binding myself in
the least degree to any prescribed course of
conduct in the matter."

"Of course, of course, Clem. I'm not
meaning to dictate to you, my boy."

"I cannot understand what objection you
could have to Miss Earnshaw, supposing—but
it's altogether preposterous. Chattering girl's
folly of my sister's."

"No objection in the world to Mabel Earnshaw
—as Mabel Earnshaw, Clem. She's a nice
bright well-behaved little girl, and as good as
gold. But it isn't the sort of connexion I dream
of for you, my boy. Money is not to be despised,
but I waive money—we are not beggars.
What I hope," said Mr. Charlewood, pausing
with his hand on the door; "what I hope
you'll look for, is family, Clem. You know my
history. I have raised myself a good many
degrees in the world, and I should like to set
my son after me, a few rounds higher on the
ladder." With those words, Mr. Charlewood
walked out of the dining-room without giving
Clement an opportunity to reply.

The young man threw himself into a large
arm-chair by the fire, and shading his eyes with
his hand, fell into a deep meditation until the
servant came to ask if he would go up-stairs
to take coffee, or whether it should be brought
to him in the dining-room?

"I'll go up to the ladies," said Clement,
rousing himself with a start. "I've nearly
sat the fire out here." Then when the man
had left the room again, he passed his hand over
his forehead, with a half laugh, "Tut," he
muttered, "what a fool I am! It's preposterous,
and out of the question. Confound all silly
chattering tongues! By Jove, if such a thing
were to happen, they might thank themselves
for it. I swear, it never entered my head
before. But it's altogether absurd. Quite
absurd." And Clement walked up-stairs,
humming an air with somewhat defiant cheerfulness.

CHAPTER VlII.  DOOLEY AT TEA.

MABEL had no opportunity for some time of
repeating her visit to little Corda; for Mr.
Saxelby fell ill, and was obliged to remain at home.
Enforced idleness is irksome to most men,
but to Mr. Saxelby it was positive torment.
And it was by no means a pleasant time for those
on whom the duty of nursing him devolved.
Mr. Saxelby could scarcely endure to lose sight
of his wife for an instant. If she quitted his room
he would ask where she was, and why she did
not return, eight or ten times in the course of
as many minutes. And he would take neither
food nor medicine except from her hands.

On Mabel, therefore, fell the government
of the house, and the care of her little brother.
This last was no tax on her patience or good
will, for she loved the little fellow dearly. The
child was a fair pretty boy of nearly four years
old. Somewhat delicate and frail in body, but
with an active intelligence that was ever eager
to learn. He looked upon "sister Tibby"—so
he called her—as an inexhaustible encyclopædia
of information. He was christened Julian, but
had translated that appellation in his baby fashion
into "Dooley," by which name he was habitually
called at home.

Mabel was sitting at tea one evening with the
child (having sent up a tray to the sick-room),
when some one rang the house-bell, and after a
few minutes the door of the sitting-room was
gently opened, and a figure stood on the threshold.
It was already dusk, though not late,
and the fire-light did not sufiice to show the
visitor's face distinctly.

"Who is it?" asked Mabel. But almost
as she spoke she recognised Clement Charlewood,
and rose to greet him. "I are having
tea," observed Dooley, for the benefit of all whom
it might concern, "b'own tea."

"Good evening, Miss Earnshaw. Our people
sent yesterday to ask for Mr. Saxelby; and as
I was coming into the neighbourhood of Fitz-
Henry-road, I said I would call myself and
inquire." This was true in the letter, but not in
the spirit; since it was to no member of his
family that Clement had announced his intention
of visiting Jessamine Cottage, but only to the
servant charged with making the daily inquiries.
"I'm going myself, James," he said, briefly. And
James, though glad enough to be relieved of
his duty, had doubtless canvassed his young
master's decision in the servants' hall with
judicial impartiality.