promise that, should her first performance be
successful, he would forthwith engage her for
the remainder of the season.

"I can't guarantee business, you know, Mrs.
"Walton," said Mr. Barker, as he shook hands
with her. "I never do that to anybody. Miss
Bell must put her shoulder to the wheel, and be
content to get a little bit of fat occasionally."

Mrs. Walton promised that her niece would
not be exacting or troublesome, and that she
would swallow such choice morsels of fat as
came in her way, with all modesty and gratitude;
and then the good little woman betook
herself to the small house in the suburban
square, to convey the tidings to her niece.

And so the prospect opened out before Mabel
of professional advancement and success. She
might reasonably hope now to make her way.
There was much to be done, much to be
endured, no doubt; but the first step was taken,
and well taken. If Mr. Barker would but
engage her, at ever so humble a salary, she
might venture to send for her mother and
Dooley. The sum that now sufficed to keep the
two latter at Hazlehurst would serve to eke out
her own earnings into a fairly comfortable
subsistence for them all. They would be together.
Together! Was it strange that the joy of this
anticipation should be dashed by an unaccountable
sinking of the heart at the thought that
all ties between herself and Hammerham would
be finally broken by this removal of her mother
from the old cottage at Hazlehurst? "They
are broken already," said Mabel to herself—
"quite broken." But yet as long as Mrs.
Earnshaw should remain within three miles of
Bramley Manor—for it was, after all, of Bramley
Manor only, out of all the thousands of
houses in Hammerham, that she had been thinking
—so long there would seem to be a link of
communication between her and her old friends
there. "I should like just to know that he was
quite happy and contented," Mabel told
herself. She had been so ashamed of her first feeling
of pain and depression on the receipt of her
mother's news about Clement and Miss O'Brien,
that she had resolved to think upon the subject
frequently and courageously until all such
unworthy grudgings should have entirely passed
away. Whether any such fixed resolve on her
part were necessary to make her think of
Clement Charlewood, may, perhaps, be doubted;
but in her self-reproach it is certain that, far
from checking such thoughts, she encouraged
them. Mabel always pictured Clement as
happy and prosperous, surrounded by all the
luxuries of his wealthy home, employing the
energies of his mind in pursuits which he had
thoroughly at heart, riding through the green
suburban lanes around Hammerham with the
beautiful young Irish lady by his side.

Poor Clement! At the very moment that
Mabel's imagination was busied with these
rose-coloured pictures of his daily life, he was tearing
about Hammerham in hansom cabs, haunting
the telegraph-office, burrowing in heaps of
papers, plans, letters, circulars, contracts, or
threading the narrow dingy lanes in the immediate
neighbourhood of New Bridge street and
the canal wharves.

There were no more rides in the green
suburban lanes. Immediately after the wedding,
Mrs. Dawson and Geraldine had taken their
departure from Bramley Manor. There was no
evening music in the gorgeous drawing-room,
no afternoon croquet on the great smooth lawn,
no sound of silver laughter or glimmer of gay
dresses through the garden-walks. Least of
all was there any thought of love-making or the
joyousness of a happy wooer about Clement in
these days. A man, let him be ever so much in
love, cannot think about his affection as
constantly as a woman does. He cannot dedicate
every thought and action of his life to the one
divinity, as she can, offering up her whole being
at this paramount shrine, and mixing the
remembrance of her idol with every trivial as well
as solemn act of her daily existence, from the
bright ribbon twined amidst her hair to please
his eye, to the hushed prayer she breathes for
him to her God. Therefore Clement at this
time was assuredly thinking very much less of
Mabel than she of him. Down at the bottom
of his heart there was still the strong love,
obstinately persistent spite of all discouragements;
but his head was daily occupied with matters
in which this love had no part. And, as to
any second passion, any even slightest flirtation
with the brilliant Irish girl, we know that
the idea of such defection had never crossed
his mind. But Mabel did not know it, and
went on picturing all kinds of cloud-castles, of
which Clement and Miss O'Brien were the
happy tenants, and wishing all kinds of
magnanimous good wishes whereof they two were
the objects. And terribly vexed was Mabel to
find that she could not be as heartily delighted
at these bright visions as she ought to have
been; and severely did Mabel reproach herself
for not being more joyful in her friend's joy!

CHAPTER II. IN MERRION-SQUARE.

IN the narrative of all that had taken place
at Kilclare, which was copiously and faithfully
repeated to Mr. Earnshaw and Janet, of course
Alfred Trescott's violin solo, and the wonderful
impression it had made, was not forgotten.
Nor how Alfred had been sent for by the rich
Lady Popham of Cloncoolin, and had played to
her guests, and been praised, petted, and made
much of.

"I am glad of it, truly," said Uncle John.
"The fact is, young Trescott's playing is very
remarkable, and I was quite sure that it only
needed to be heard by competent judges to be
highly appreciated."

"Well, do you know, John, the lad behaved
so nicely at Kilclare—didn't he, Mabel?—and
was altogether so improved, that I have a much
better opinion of him than I had. Indeed,
I'm afraid I allowed myself to feel a great
prejudice against the poor boy," said kind Aunt
Mary, whose heart was full to overflowing of
the charity that thinketh no evil.

"It's to be hoped that his good fortune may