Great trouble. Come at once." And it was
dated 10.50 P.M. that same evening.

"Poor boy, poor boy! How awfully sudden,"
said my lady, wiping the ready tears from
her eyes.

Geraldine O'Brien had sunk into a chair, and
sat silent, covering her face with her hands.

"It is a terrible shock for Malachi and
Augusta on their wedding tour," observed Mrs.
Dawson, in an aggrieved voice. "I hope and
trust Mr. Charlewood had made all the
testamentary arrangements that he explained to me
his intention of doing."

Presently Colonel Rose returned, and the
other men dropped in one by one, and stood
awkwardly at the door.

"He will be better directly, Lady Popham,"
said the colonel. "Don't alarm yourself. It's
lucky, as things have turned out, that I happened
to be here, for Charlewood tells me that his
father is dying, and he must start for home at
once, and I can give him his leave without
more ado. I'll take him with me in my
carriage, and see that he's got ready to start by
the first train. I hope he may find things
better than he fears."

The colonel took his leave, and departed with
Walter Charlewood, who sent in a message to
Lady Popham expressing his farewell to her,
and excuses for not seeing her again.

The deaf dowager made many inquiries of
Arthur Skidley, as the latter attended her to her
carriage.

"This young man is not the eldest son,
then?" said the dowager.

"No; but he's his father's favourite, and
old Charlewood is one of those iniquitously rich
fellows who'll cut up handsomely enough for
them all."

"And those sort of people can always leave
their property as they like."

"Charlewood can leave his just as he likes."

"Poor young man! Tell him, Mr. Skidley,
how distressed we were about him."

Alfred Trescott and Carlo Bensa walked part
of the way towards their respective homes
together, the former smoking a cigar, and
carrying under one arm the Guarnerius, which
he told Lady Popham, enthusiastically, should
never quit his side.

"Deuced wet blanket that message coming
just then, when everything was going so well,
wasn't it?" said Alfred.

"Very wet blanket for the poor young man,
the soldier," returned his companion.

"Oh yes; but of course he'd have had to
get it, anyhow. That couldn't be helped;
whereas, without my having any concern in the
matter, / came in for a share in the nuisance,
don't you see?"

"I see. Oh yes, I see."

"Well, you ain't over and above enthusiastic,
Bensa"," resumed Alfred, after they had
walked some yards in silence. "You haven't
said a word about the concert or about my
playing. One would fancy you weren't best
pleased at my success!"

They had now arrived at a street lamp, the
light from which fell full upon Alfred's face.
The Italian stopped short and looked at him.

"I think you have great success," he said.
"Very great success. To say the truth, I was
thinking of what you call the wet blanket. I
am sorry. My wife's cousin knows these
people well. She will be grieved. But you
have great success; very great success. Good
night. This is my way home. Oh yes, without
doubt, great success." And Carlo Bensa
walked rapidly away.

"Little sneak!" sneered Alfred, jerking away
the end of his cigar, and stopping under the
lamp-post to take out and light another.
"Little sneak! He's jealous. So my friend,
the hodman's father, is dropping off the hooks.
Well, the hodman 'll have all the bricks and
mortar to himself now." Suddenly a thought
appeared to strike him, and his handsome face
darkened into a black frown. "Yes," he
muttered, "I was a fool not to think of that
before. The chances are he won't stick to it
now he can do as he likes, but still — I'll
see her to-morrow. Coming with all this fuss,
and praise, and success fresh on me — and
Bensa, whether he likes it or not, can't but say
that I made a great hit she'll acknowledge,
at all events, that I'm in earnest, and
disinterested, and all that."

BOOK ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE Art of book-illustration is, just now,
passing through a curious phase. When George
Cruikshank, or Hablot Brown, two artists
whose names are here associated solely for
chronological reasons, had to make the
illustrations to a work of fiction, it would seem to
have been their practice to select as subjects
all the most dramatic situations, whether of
a comic or tragic sort, which were treated of in
the narrative. On the one hand, violent encounters,
terrible accidents, exciting adventures,
crises through which the characters described
in the book were compelled to pass; on the other,
situations characterised by their extreme
absurdity, in which the persons represented were
shown in a ridiculous light, or exhibited under
laughable circumstances — these were almost
invariably the themes chosen for illustration.
Their ambition appears to have been
to put the more remarkable scenes described by
the author, before the reader's eyes, rather than
to display their own artistic powers.

But this principle has got to be now
regarded as antiquated and obsolete. Our
modern men appear to occupy themselves less
with the thing to be done than with the manner
of doing it. Their ambition seems to be confined
to the desire of producing a beautiful work of
art. The modern illustrator, when a book is put
into his hands, proposes to himself — judging by
results — rather to produce a set of drawings
which shall redound to his own credit, than to
help the author whose work he illustrates, to