"My dear Miss Earnshaw!" cried Geraldine,
impulsively taking her by the hand and kissing
her forehead, "I came to see you to do a kindness
to a person that I've a considerable regard
for, and that's myself. Sure, why wouldn't we
like each other on our own account? I never
make friends by proxy, and I don't believe you
do either!"

"Thanks," said Mabel, smiling; and the
thought in her mind, as she looked at the
winning face blooming out under the shadow of the
riding-hat, was, "She is very sweet. It is quite
natural he should love her."

"Now, I hope you'll let me come and see
you again — may I? — and make Mrs. Saxelby's
acquaintance. Signor Bensa told us you were
expecting your mamma."

"I hope mamma will be here to-morrow or
the next day, at latest."

"Well, good-bye. I mustn't let my idleness
steal any minutes from your industry. Oh, and
I had nearly forgot to deliver my message!
Godmamma — Lady Popham — sends you many
kind compliments, and she hopes you will not
fail to let her know when your benefit is coming
off at the theatre, because she means to be
present, and to give as many of her friends as she
can muster the great pleasure of seeing you
too."

"She is very good. I will let her know if
such a thing comes off."

Mabel spoke more heartily than she had yet
done. The frank recognition of her professional
position was agreeable to her, and Miss O'Brien's
manner was perfect; equally free from any
attempt at patronage, and the still more offensive
affectation of condescending familiarity.

"Oh, of course it will come off! You're
making wonderful progress in public favour
here, Miss Earnshaw. I could tell you heaps
of fine things that I hear said about you, only
I'm a little afraid of you, do you know?"

"Afraid of me?" Mabel looked up with such
undisguised child-like wonder in her eyes, that
Geraldine burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"Oh," she said, archly, "you needn't look so
astonished, as if nobody ever was afraid of you
before! You've just a quiet way of icing
yourself at a minute's notice, that is quite
enough to terrify hot-headed Irish folks like me.
I'm sorry you can't be at this famous concert
to-night; but I know you'll be acting, Mr.
Alfred Trescott told us so."

"Did he?"

"Yes: by the way, what has Lady Popham's
protégé done to offend Mr. Clement Charlewood?"

Mabel felt the blood rush to her face.

"To offend Mr. Clement Charlewood?"

"Yes; I don't mean to tell tales out of
school, but the other day, when Clement was at
Cloncoolin, he spoke very severely of young
Trescott to my lady. I think, if there's any
misunderstanding between them, you might,
perhaps, put it right with a word or two."

"I put it right! Oh, Miss O'Brien, it is out
of the question. I don't even understand——"

The two girls were now at the street door,
and the old groom, perceiving his mistress,
cantered briskly up from the other end of the
square.

"Well," said Geraldine, "perhaps I had
better have held my tongue; but I hope, at
least, I have done no mischief. Good-bye, Miss
Earnshaw. Pray don't remain one moment at
the door."

Miss O'Brien sprang into her saddle and rode
off, waving her hand to Mabel as she went. As
soon as she had disappeared, the latter ran into
the parlour again, shut the door, and sat down
at the table leaning her head upon her hands.
Clement had been to Cloncoolin! Been so near
to her, and had made no sign. Was this the
true, constant friendship he had promised?
Why, too, did this girl speak to her of Alfred
Trescott, and suggest the possibility of her—
Mabel's — interference between young Trescott
and Clement Charlewood? What did it all
mean? She longed to sit still and solitary, and
to think of it all, and to fix Geraldine O'Brien's
words and looks in her memory; and to picture
her with Clement; and – but some one tapped
at the parlour door, and Catty put her head in
and begged Miss Mabel to go to "the misthress."
And then Aunt Mary had a great many things
to say about the week's business, and consultations
about a dress for "Viola" were held,
and there were two new parts to study, and, in
short, the old necessity for sternly refusing
to indulge private and personal feelings, in
presence of the great duties of life and of art,
showed itself to Mabel unmistakably under
manifold aspects. She answered a few
questions — which they all had too much delicacy to
make importunate — put by her aunt and cousins
about her recent visitor, and then set herself
steadily to her work. The hill was getting
steeper and steeper as she mounted, and there
on the summit above her head bloomed the
singing-tree, and talked the fairy bird, and
flowed the golden water. "If it were only for
myself," said Mabel, "I must stop and look
back, and listen to the voices. But mamma,
and Dooley — little Dooley! The sweet, loving,
fatherless little fellow!" And then the young
head bent itself again resolutely to the task
before it.

"I shall rest and look back, by-and-by,"
she said. "By-and-by."

CHAPTER VI. LADY POPHAM'S CONCERT.

THE assemblage of persons who filled Lady
Popham's drawing-room in Merrion-square on
that same Tuesday evening on which Clement
Charlewood was tramping homeward from Hazlehurst
with a heavy heart, and drawing nearer
and nearer to the angry flare on the night sky
over Hammerham, was composed of members of
the most brilliant and fashionable society then
in Dublin. Silks rustled, jewels sparkled, delicate
perfumes filled the air. There was a liberal
sprinkling of bright uniforms amongst the
audience, for Walter Charlewoood had worked
zealously amongst his brother-officers, in obedience