eight o'clock this evening. I cannot command
my hours, and that will be my only chance of
seeing you.
                                   "Yours always,
                                                          "C. C."

The day passed in unremitting anxious work
on Clement's part. The afternoon post brought
no relief to his mind. There came a telegraphic
message from the north of England, importing
that the strike amongst the railway navvies
still continued, that hitherto no arrangement
had been come to, and asking for instructions.
If the matter were not speedily settled and the
work resumed, it would be too late to fulfil the
contract within the specified time. Blow
followed blow, until Clement felt stunned and
dizzy.

"What does my father say, Stephens?" he
asked.

"I can't get anything out of the governor,
Mr. Clem," replied the old clerk, gloomily
shaking his head. "I don't like the look of
the governor, sir, at all. He's hit very hard,
indeed, is the governor. In seven-and-twenty
years, Mr. Clem, since before you were born,
I've never seen the governor anything like he
is now."

"If there were but myself to bear it,"
muttered Clement, passing his hand wearily over
his hot brow, "I should wish that the worst
would come without more delay." He remembered
the words afterwards with a sickening
pang, to think how little he anticipated what
that "worst" would be.

After dinner that evening, Clement left the
drawing-room, and was putting on his greatcoat
in the hall, when Penelope ran down-stairs
and beckoned him into a small sitting-room that
opened opposite to the dining-room.

"I want to speak to you, Clem," she said, in
a whisper. "Come here one moment. Where's
papa?"

"I left him in the dining-room. He seemed
to be asleep."

Penelope opened the dining-room door very
softly and looked in. Then she shut it again
as softly, and came and stood beside her brother.

"He is sitting quite still, with his head leaning
on his hands," she said; "but I don't think
he is asleep. The decanter by his elbow is
nearly empty. Oh, Clem, tell me truly, what is
the matter? I am not weak; I am not a child.
I will do whatever you request, but don't, for
Heaven's sake, keep me in the dark."

"Penny," said her brother, taking her hand,
"things are very bad with us. This smash of
Benett and Benett seems to have been but
the beginning of the end."

"Is it ruin, Clem?" she asked, keeping her
eyes steadily on his face.

"Not yet. It may be that we shall weather
the storm. But from day to day, from hour
to hour, there is no certainty. That is the
truth as far as I know it myself. These days,
since Benett's went, have seemed to me like
years."

She put her hand upon his arm. "Clement,
you are not going out again to-night?"

"I must go. I have promised. I will be
back by ten o'clock."

Still she held him. "I—I wish you need
not go," she said. "I feel so depressed, so
nervous. Not like me, is it? But I have an
unaccountable dread upon me that I cannot
describe."

"The natural result of all this strain and
suspense, my poor girl. You must be your
own brave self, Penny, for my mother's sake."

Penelope Charlewood shook her head and
shoulders as one who throws off a weight.

"There isn't trouble enough for you, Clem,"
she said, with a momentary spark of her old
keen spirit in her eyes, "not worry, not
anxiety enough for you, but / must make a
fool of myself. If it was of any use to say,
'Forgive me,' I'd say it. But it isn't. All I
can do is to conduct myself with as much of
your patient courage as I can imitate. God
bless you, Clem. You're the best son, the
dearest brother, the truest——there, there.
I'm not going to make an idiot of myself. I
shall be up when you come home, but I'll try
and get mamma to go to bed."

She dashed the tears from her eyes with the
gesture of one who was ashamed of their being
seen there, and with a parting pressure of her
brother's hand, ran swiftly up-stairs again.

Clement found Mrs. Saxelby awaiting him in
the well-known little parlour. The floor was
strewn with a litter of straw and torn scraps
of paper. A half-packed trunk stood open in
one corner of the room, and though the main
articles of furniture remained, such small
objects of ornament as had survived the old days
at Jessamine Cottage were gone.

"Dear Mr. Charlewood," cried the widow,
taking his hand, "it is good of you to come
to me. I began to fear I should not see you
again before I went away."

"You are going immediately?"

"Yes; I did not quite know how soon, when
I wrote that note to you yesterday. But I
have made up my mind to start to-morrow
morning, having heard that by so doing I shall
be able to leave Liverpool by the boat that
Captain Duff commands. He took Mabel over,
and was very kind to her, and it will be a
great comfort for me to be in his care. Good
Heavens!" she added, in a startled tone, as
the light fell fully on Clement's face, "what is
the matter? How shockingly ill you look!"

"I am not ill, only harassed. But never
mind me now. You sent for me to help you
in some way. What can I do for you?"

Then Mrs. Saxelby explained that she had
made up her mind to let the cottage, furnished
as it was, to Job Smith the gardener and his
wife. They had the chance of letting two
rooms to a permanent lodger, and were steady
respectable people. They would purchase the
furniture at a valuation. The old clergyman of
Hazlehurst had been very kind, and had helped
her. But there were two or three matters as