It was true, that he did really know a good
many particulars about the Charlewood family
through Walter. That poor boy's friend, the
Honourable Arthur Skidley, was a thoroughly
black sheep. He was the younger son of a
very worthy nobleman, whose limited means
were quite inadequate to supply his extravagances.
Already his sister's portion had been
pinched to pay his debts, and his father had
made some personal sacrifices to the same end.
Mr. Arthur Skidley held a commission in a
regiment of foot, and was stationed in
Hammerham. Walter's weakness for "swells," and
"tip-top family," and such-like dreary
delusions, had led him to hover round Arthur
Skidley as a moth flutters round the flame of a
candle. And Walter had singed his wings
severely. In fact, he was deeply in debt to his
dear friend Arthur, even his very liberal allowance
not having nearly sufficed to pay his
gambling losses. Instead of having the courage to
speak to his father, and face his anger at once,
he went on in the hope of retrieving himself, and
of course sank deeper and deeper in that slough
of despond. Young Trescott, wary as a fox, and
keen as a hawk, had read the whole history at a
glance. He could present an agreeable exterior
when he chose. Then, too, his singular beauty
of face and figure prepossessed most people in
his favour. Altogether, he was not unpopular
at such places as Plumtree's, though Skidley
had at first tried to stare him down, but that
attempt had proved a signal failure—he might
as well have tried to stare down a rattlesnake.

Alfred Trescott had taken a bitter aversion to
Clement Charlewood. There was between them
an antagonism of character almost similar in its
nature to the chemical repulsion which certain
substances exercise towards each other. With
Walter, the case was different. Alfred sneered
at him behind his back for his weakness and
gullibility, but he rather liked him on the whole,
and. would, perhaps, have been even capable of
doing him a kindness, had such kindness been
possible without the least self-sacrifice on his
own part.

The Trescotts had got back to the subject
of Miss Earnshaw's letter, when Mrs. Hutcluns
returned from her evening lecture, and entered
the kitchen laden with good books, and bringing
a gust of freezing outer air with her as she
opened the door. The expression of Mrs.
Hutchins's face was not such as to counteract the
chill of the cold air that accompanied her
entrance. She looked solemnly, sternly, at the
heap of manuscript music still lying on the
table; and, raising her eyes to the ceiling, sighed.
Her presence put a stop to the discussion,
and soon after her return, Corda was sent to
bed. Mr. Trescott carried his music paper to
his own room, saying he must sit up to finish
some band parts that were wanted for the next
evening; and Alfred put the latch-key into his
pocket, and betook himself to some congenial
society.

"What's up now, I wonder!" mentally ejaculated
Mrs. Hutchins, when she was left alone.

"We're mighty close all of a sudden. The
very minute I come in they was all as mum as
anythink."

And then Mrs. Hutchins proceeded to make
a careful search in every corner of the kitchen;
turning over the books that lay on the dresser,
examining every scrap of paper, even peeping
into a leathern tobacco-pouch of Mr. Trescott's,
which had been left on the chimney-piece.  As
she put it down again, her eye was caught by
an envelope lying singed among the ashes
underneath the grate. She pounced on it, and,
holding it close to the candle, examined it
carefully. It was directed to——Trescott, Esq.,
23, New-bridge-street, Hammerham. The
postmark was much defaced, that corner of the
letter having been scorched a good deal.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Hutchins succeeded in
reading E, and the final letters, L D.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, with a cunning smile,
"Eastfield, eh? It's that there Miss Hernshaw
I'll lay anythink! What can she be
writing to Trescott about? I've a good mind
to mention it to Miss Fluke, and see if I can't
get summat out of her."

Strengthened by this virtuous resolution,
Mrs. Hutchins partook, with a good appetite, of
a hearty supper of bread and cheese, and went
to rest.

CHAPTER V.     A DAY AT EASTFIELD.

"ONE, two, three, four, five, six; one, two,
three, four, five, six. Third finger on C. Two,
three, thumb under, four, five, six—six is the
octave above, Miss Dobbin."

The wretched, ill-used, jingling old pianoforte
was giving forth spasmodic discords under
the unskilful fingers of a pale fat little girl, and
Mabel sat beside her, with burning head and
quivering nerves, engaged in that most wearing
of drudgeries, an attempt to convey an idea of
tune and rhythm to an utterly dull and
obtuse ear.

Surely, of all kinds of teaching, giving music-
lessons is the most exhausting to the nervous
system. The horrible apprehension and
anticipation of the wrong note before it is played,
and then the more horrible jar when it does
come, must be torment to a delicate ear.
And then, in a school, the distracting monotony
of repetition, the grinding out of the same
dreary tune, over and over again, by one dull
child after another!

"Six: is the octave above, Miss Dobbin," said
Mabel, wearily. "But, that will do. Your half-
hour is over."

As Miss Dobbin rolled heavily off the music-
stool, the parlour door was thrown open, and
the servant-girl held out two letters between
her outstretched finger and thumb, which she
had carefully covered with her checked apron.

"Miss Hernshaw. Arternoon deliv'ry. This
here's from your mother, miss; I dunno' th'
other," said the girl, examining the direction.

"Thank you, Susan," said Mabel, taking the
letters quietly.

When she had got them in her hand, her