don't know about that. There's plenty of time
yet."

"I shall speak to Mr. Trescott, your father,
myself," said Bensa, very quietly. "I have a
little word to say to him about Corda."

The child's face was radiant with pleasure
as she looked up at the singing-master,
but it was obvious that her brother's
unsympathising manner damped her; she watched
him furtively, and stole up close to his side,
and apart from the others, as though to
disclaim any separation from him.

"I should like to learn, Alf, if papa liked—
and you," she added, the last two words quickly
and in an under tone.

Her brother did not answer her, but, turning
to Mrs. Walton, said, with the faintest
possible tinge of colour in his clear dark cheek,
"Miss—Miss Mabel is not at home, I
suppose?"

"Yes; but very busy. She has had to study
four new parts this week, and a rehearsal every
day. They don't let her be out of the bill one
night. However, it's all for the best, of course.
And she is so happy just now, expecting her
mother and the little boy."

"Expecting Mrs. Saxelby?"

"Yes; that is to say, hoping that she will
come out here. Nothing is settled yet, though."

"Good day, Mrs. Walton. Good day, sir.
I must be going. I, too, am so busy just now,
I don't know which way to turn. Put on your
things, pussy-cat; I'm going home, and will
take you with me." Alfred spoke hurriedly,
and waited with an impatient frown and
compressed lips whilst the child put on her shabby
scanty mantle and hat.

"You must have a warmer winter cloak,
Corda dear," said Polly, wrapping the child up
with kind motherly fingers, and quietly slipping
a little knitted shawl round her slender throat
as she spoke. " I shall ask your papa to get
you one, when I see him."

"Oh no, Madame Bensa, please. Indeed I—
I don't want it; papa will be sure to buy me
what I want, or—or Alfred," said the child,
with a burning blush and a pained uneasy glance
at her brother.

"Nonsense, Corda. Gentlemen never think
of these things. I shall tell Mr.Trescott that
you must be taken great care of, because Mr.
Bensa says that you have quite a valuable little
gold and diamond musical-box inside that small
white throat of yours. There, give baby a kiss,
and don't let her pull your curls out by the roots;
she means it well, but I'm quite aware it is
not agreeable, although she is my baby."

Alfred with difficulty repressed his ill humour
and impatience until they had left the house;
but the moment he got the child into the street
he seized her hand roughly, and, pulling her
along to keep pace with his rapid stride, said,
with sudden harshness, "What the devil's the
meaning of this singing foolery? How long
has it been going on? Who began it? D—n
it, can't you speak?"

It was, in truth, not easy for Corda to speak,
but she made shift to answer, breathlessly,
"Please don't be angry, Alf. I didn't think it
was wrong. Papa always said that I should
learn singing some day, and Mr. Bensa said I
had a good voice, and he made me sing the
scales two or three times, and—and—oh, I
can't go quite so fast, please, dear Alf."

He slackened his pace very slightly, still holding
her by the wrist. "And when's this woman
coming?" he asked, looking down at his sister
with his sidelong glittering glance.

"What woman, Alf?"

"Confound it all, you can be sharp enough
sometimes. Mabel's mother, Mrs. Saxelby.
I suppose you hear all they say?"

"Oh, not directly, I think, Alf. But indeed
I don't know any more than Mrs. Walton told
you."

"You're a little humbug."

"Oh, Alf, I'm not a humbug; I'm not.
And you know better, and it's cruel to say so."

"None of your cheek. I won't stand it.
You learn nice behaviour at that house
altogether. What do you mean by sneaking and
whining to Madame Bensa that you haven't
clothes to keep you warm?"

"Oh, Alf!"

"You do whine; and it's a nice reproach to
your father, whom you say you're so fond of.
And to me! But what do you care? So long
as you can snivel and curry favour, no matter
what impudence you subject us to. Yah!
I'm disgusted with your selfishness."

He loosed her little gloveless hand as he
spoke, and pushed her from him roughly.

"Oh, Alf! oh, Alf!" The cry seemed to
come from the bottom of the little creature's
heart, but she uttered no defence, and made no
further answer; but as she pressed onward by
his side, almost running to keep up with him
as he strode recklessly through the crowded
thoroughfares, the tears flowed unrestrainedly
down the pale face, half hidden in the shadow
of her shabby sunburnt hat.

CHAPTER IV. EVIL DAYS IN HAMMERHAM.

THE Hutchinses, in their kitchen in New
Bridge-street, Mrs. Hatchett, in her genteel
educational establishment at Eastfield, the
Reverend Decimus Fluke, in the course of his busy
round of daily occupations, the mild old clergyman,
in his quiet study at Hazlehurst, even
Job Smith, digging amongst the cabbages, had
all heard rumours of money troubles and
disaster impending over wealthy houses, and
involving the ruin of poorer ones. Throughout
Hammerham, and for miles around it, such
rumours circulated.

In drawing-rooms, rich with gold and velvet;
in dingy counting-houses whence the gold
and velvet came; in marts where busy
merchants met, and talked with bated breath and
mysterious half-words and nods about the
"ugly look of things over yonder;" behind
long rows of factory-windows jarring and
trembling to the whirr of the unresting wheels;
in poor, brick-paved courts, where women