the last address I heard of their being at.
That's all I can do. I suppose Mrs. Walton is
still in the York circuit."

"Umph!'' said Alfred, with a dry mocking
laugh, "I wonder what my high polite friend
Mr. Clement Charlewood would say if he knew.
His folks all go to old Fluke's shop, and fall
into sky-blue convulsions at the very mention
of a theatre. I pick up a lot about them from
that young ass, Walter."

"What should Mr. Clement Charlewood say
if he knew? What is it to him?" asked Mr.
Trescott.

"Why, I should think it wouldn't suit his
stuck-up airs to have a wife whose relations
went cadging about the country, as the Waltons
did when we first knew them."

"A wife?"

Alfred nodded emphatically. "I ain't going
to spin a yarn as long as my arm to explain
it, governor; but I have good reason to
believe that it's a case of unmitigated spoons with
my friend the hodman."

Corda was listening attentively. She asked
with flushed cheeks and eager eyes: "Is Mr.
Charlewood going to marry Miss Mabel, Alf'?"

"I don't know, pussy-cat," rejoined her
brother, carelessly. "But look here, young
'un; just you keep your little tongue between
your little teeth. Don't chatter to the fair Mrs.
H., or to anyone, about what I may say before
you."

"I never talk to Mrs. Hutchins," said
Corda, with a mortified expression of countenance;
"and I'm sure I would never chatter
about what you say, to anybody. But I should
like Mr. Charlewood and Miss Earnshaw to be
married! They're both so nice and kind.
Wouldn't it be beautiful, papa?"

"Perhaps it might, darling. But we know
nothing about the matter."

Alfred laughed provokingly, and nodded
again.

"Well," said he, "I don't care a rap for the
whole boiling. They may all go to the devil,
head-foremost, for me!"

"I do care," said Mr. Trescott, nursing his
lame leg, and beating the sound foot upon the
ground rapidly, "I do care."

"That's a blessing for all parties," said
Alfred; " but if you take that family under your
patronage, you'll have your hands full. Walter
is playing a nice little game with Skidley.
Those chaps at the barracks are settling his
business as clean as a whistle. Ha! ha! ha!
'Pon my soul, it was as good as a play to see
'em the other night at Plumtree's! That fool
Wat Charlewood thinks he can play billiards.
Lord, how they gammoned him! Old Charlewood
will have to stump up to some tune, if
Master Wat goes on much longer. Skidley's
got lots of his I.O.U.s. So's Fitzmaurice."

"Set of scoundrels!" muttered Mr. Trescott
between his teeth.

"Well, pretty well for that," said Alfred,
"but they can't do me."

"Ah, Alf, Alf," said his father, with a sigh,
"I wish to Heaven you would give up that sort
of thing altogether!"

Alfred shrugged his shoulders impatiently,
but made no reply. Then there was a long
silence amongst the three. A silence broken
only by the loud ticking of that clock which
Corda had listened to so many nights in her
sick-bed.

"I spoke to Copestake yesterday morning
about the close of the season," said Mr. Trescott
at length. Copestake was the manager of
the Hammerham theatre.

"Well?" said Alfred.

"Well, he don't see any chance of going on
much after Easter; and it falls early this year.
He wouldn't re-open till September. I don't
quite know what to do."

"What to do? Why, we can't afford a six
months' vacation. We must cut it, as soon as
we get a chance."

"I was thinking, Alf, whether we mightn't
manage to hang on about the neighbourhood
without going quite away. In a musical place
like this, there are always chances of something
to do. And I have a few pupils already. And
there are people's concerts, round about. And
perhaps I could get a little copying to do, and so
eke it out till next season. I think it's so much
better to take root in a place if possible. So
much better for her," he added, glancing down
at Corda. (His face always softened when he
looked at his little girl, but now it grew sad as
well.)

"Ah, you'll find that won't pay, governor.
No; better cut it. I would write to old
Moffatt at once, if I was you, and go to Ireland, bag
and baggage."

He had no strong desire to " take root," as
his father phrased it. Alfred Trescott never
cared to remain long in one place. He was
conscious of possessing very considerable
musical powers; and many of those who heard the
lad play in his early youth, still maintain that
he had gifts which might have gained him an
European reputation; but they perished, for
want of the one talisman that alone can ensure
success—industry. It was strange to listen to
the tones breathing exquisite tenderness and
feeling which his bow produced, and then to
hear himself the next moment uttering hard
insolent cynicisms that chilled the heart. He
could make his violin discourse eloquently and
pathetically, carrying one's very soul aloft,
as it seemed, on the soaring sounds. But the
music ceased, and the musician remained cold,
selfish, cruel, and cunning; sneering at sentiment,
and denying goodness. Nevertheless, he
was possessed at times by a feverish ambition,
and indulged in wild dreams of brilliant success,
and of all the sweets that such success can
bring. Then he would delude himself into
thinking that in a new place, among strangers,
and surrounded by other scenes, he could, as he
phrased it, "make a fresh start," and work his
way upward. But the fresh start must have been
within him; and no outward circumstances or
surroundings could avail him anything.