skipping about amongst the audience, and
expatiating volubly upon the exquisite
performance they had just listened to. In short,
Alfred Trescott drank deep of the sweet
intoxicating draught of public flattery that night.
At the conclusion of the concert, Lady Popham
retained a select number of her most favoured
friends to supper; and when the main stream of
company had found its way down-stairs, and had
departed with much shouting of amateur link-

men, and clapping to of carriage steps, and
rumbling of wheels, the privileged guests were
shown into the dining-room, brilliant with a
profusion of lights, and gay with hothouse
flowers, where a very substantial repast awaited
them. Alfred Trescott was there, of course,
and Carlo Bensa, of whose steady unobtrusive
services as accompanyist and conductor, my
lady made ample acknowledgment. An invitation
to remain and sup had also been given to
Madame Boschka, but that lady had excused
herself, on the ground that she had to start
early the following morning on a professional
tour through "Hireland" (that being, it seems,
Wallachian for the Emerald Isle), and had
majestically departed, wrapped in furs by the hands of
her assiduous attendant. There remained,
besides Alfred and Bensa, Mrs. Dawson, Geraldine
O'Brien, a very deaf dowager with two pale
daughters, Arthur Skidley, Walter Charlewood,
two or three young officers whom he had pressed
into the service, and the colonel commanding
Walter's regiment. Colonel Rose was an old
Indian officer, tall, dry, and brown, and had been
especially invited to join what Lady Popham
delighted to call her "artist's petit souper," on
the strength of his playing the flute and being
a great amateur of music. The supper
progressed merrily. As the champagne began to
exhilarate the party, compliments more and
more flattering, and predictions of future glory,
flew about Alfred Trescott's delighted ears.
He was to be the Paganini of the day, he was to
charm the metropolis and amaze the country.
In the middle of the feast, a servant brought in
a large mysterious packet and laid it before my
lady. The brisk old woman rose up in her
place, and calling on the company to charge
their glasses, made a speech proposing the health
of her young friend Alfred Trescott, whose
genius had that evening entranced them all.
The proceeding was a rather prononcé one, and
one or two of the guests looked a little
astonished at my lady's eloquence. But she had
long ceased to regard any such astonishment,
and, indeed, perhaps delighted to provoke it.
The queer little body took a great pride in what
she considered anti-English demonstrations of
this kind, although in the important matters of
life — such, for example, as a matrimonial alliance
for any of her relatives — she would have
displayed as insular a contempt for the foreigner
as any blue-blooded Anglo-Norman of them all.
Walter Charlewood, who was seated next to the
deaf dowager, had the honour of repeating my
lady's speech to her, word for word as it was
spoken. He was beaming with pleasure; for
the deaf dowager was an earl's widow, and
Walter overheard her say to her neighbour on
the other side — as it is possible she intended
he should hear, for the wealth of Gandry and
Charlewood was not unknown in that part of
the world, and the two pale daughters had been
out five seasons — that that young man,
Skidley's friend, was exceedingly "good style."
Then the mysterious packet was opened, and
found to contain a very fine Guarnerius violin,
which Lady Popham, with her own generous
little hand, presented to Alfred Trescott. The
enthusiasm was at its height, when the door was
opened hastily, and my lady's butler, a staid,
responsible man, came behind Walter Charlewood's
chair, and whispered in his ear with a
disturbed countenance.

"For me? Are you sure?" said Walter,
rising and turning pale.

"Quite sure, sir. Your servant sent him on
here from the barracks."

Young Charlewood left the room, muttering
some confused and unintelligible apology to his
hostess, and Lady Popham turned anxiously to
the butler, who still lingered in the room.

"What is it, Mitchell? Anything the
matter?"

"It's a telegraphic message from England,
my lady. Coming so late, and all, I'm afraid
there's bad news."

The sound of a heavy fall in the entrance-
hall outside the dining-room made every one
start to their feet and hurry to the door.
Colonel Rose, prompt and cool, headed the
party, and almost before they had seen what
was the matter, he had raised Walter Charlewood
in his arms, and laid him on a large settee
that stood in the hall.

"He has fainted," said Colonel Rose. "Don't
crowd round him. One of you boys loosen his
neckcloth whilst I hold up his head."

"Where's my maid? Get some eau-de-
Cologne! Take him into my own room. Send
somebody for a doctor!" screamed Lady
Popham, excitedly. "Can't I do anything for
him?"

"Nothing at all, but be quiet. You'd better
go back to the dining-room, and take the other
women with you," said Colonel Rose,
unceremoniously. "He'll be all right in a few
minutes."

Lady Popham obeyed immediately. ''You're
quite right, Colonel," she said, hurrying off.
"We're doing no good here. Poor boy!" she
added, when she and her female guests had
returned to the dining-room. "He has had some
terrible shock. What can it be?"

"His father is dying," said Mrs. Dawson,
"and he is sent for to go home instantly. Here
is the telegram."

Mrs. Dawson, with characteristic caution and
coolness, had picked up the telegraphic despatch
from the ground where Walter had let it fall
when he swooned. The message ran thus:

"From John Stephens, Hammerham, to
Walter Charlewood,—th Regiment of Foot,
Dublin. Your father not expected to recover.