help me to help you. Now choose for yourself.
I give you till to-morrow to decide. But, you
know me, Corda; if I bid you good-bye here,
and leave you with the Bensas, it will be a good-
bye that may last your lifetime."

Mr. Trescott broke in excitedly:

"I won't have this, Alfred. It is cruel. You
are torturing the child to no purpose. She
cannot decide for herself. I—I must decide
for her, judge for her, and think of her future."

He limped about as his habit was when
strongly moved or irritated, and Corda looked
from her father to her brother with sad
perplexed eyes, blurred by tears.

Alfred ran up-stairs to his bedroom, whence
he presently returned with a gay silver-mounted
cane, and a pair of fresh delicate-hued gloves.
He had arranged his long hair picturesquely,
and had effaced in a great measure the traces of
anger and excitement from his countenance.
He passed through the small parlour in silence;
but when his hand was on the door Corda raised
her face, which had been hidden in her hands,
and said: " Alf dear, Miss Mabel is going to
London too, isn't she? Should I see her there?"

The varying hues of the sea, when the wild
wind drives the clouds above it, are not more
swift and startling in their changes than were
the expressions that flitted over Alfred's
handsome, evil young face, as his sister spoke. For
one instant he stood irresolute, his dark eyes
blazing, and his whole mien that of one who
was about to burst forth into some violent
ebullition of anger. But he restrained the impulse.
The straight dark brows drew together into a
black frown; the well-cut mouth writhed itself
into a sneer.

"Yes, Corda," he said, very slowly, and in a
soft sweet voice that was unnatural in its tone,
"yes; if that is an inducement, I think I can
promise that you shall see—Miss Mabel, if you
go to London."

When her brother had left the house, Corda
remained silent for some time, with her soft
brown curls bowed down upon her hands. Mr.
Trescott continued to move fretfully about the
room, now and again uttering ejaculations of
impatience and vexation. At length he took up
his pen, and seated himself again before his
music-paper.

Then Corda rose and crept up to him.

"Papa," she whispered, timidly.

"Well, my pet?"

"May I—will you let me do as I like?"

"I cannot promise that, my little girl. You
are not old enough to judge what is best for
you."

Corda was silent for a few minutes, and laid
a caressing hand on her father's shoulder.
Presently a hot tear fell on Mr. Trescott's hand
as he wrote; then another, and another. He
turned and looked at Corda. The sight of her
sorrow was unendurable to him.

"Why, my pretty, my gentle little girlie, you
mustn't fret! Don't cry, Corda; for God's
sake don't cry! I will—I——There, you shall
do anything you like, if you only will not fret."

She threw herself into her father's arms.

"Oh, papa dear, I am so sorry for Alf. Yes;
yes, I know that he is getting on well, and
all that. And, of course, he is quite sure to
succeed in London. Almost quite sure, if—if
he will practise a little more. But, papa, I
sometimes think that Alf wants somebody to
help him to be good, and to love him. You saw
that he was kind to me just now, although he
had been in one of his naughty passionate
moods the minute before."

"Kind to thee, my little lamb! Who could
be unkind to my Corda? But Alf doesn't treat
you well. Nor me either."

"I don't mind, papa—not for myself, that is.
I know he does not really mean it. And—
don't be angry with me, papa—but I think
sometimes that he sees you love me the best;
and he may fancy, you know, that nobody loves
him. And, papa, he is mamma's boy too, isn't
he? Poor mamma, who died when I was a tiny
baby! I never knew mamma; but, somehow, I
feel so sure that she would wish me to stay with
Alf, and to love him. Perhaps—don't be sorry,
dear, it's only perhaps, you know—I might not
live to grow very old. And if I died before
Alfred, I should like to tell mamma when I see
her in heaven, that I loved her boy, and stayed
with him to the last."

The sweet voice faltered, and the delicate
head drooped on her father's shoulder, and his
tears were mingled with hers.

Truly Miss Fluke had found Corda an
unpromising pupil, and had made many dismal
moans over her dark and unconverted state of
mind. But it may be—although the suggestion
is doubtless a bold one—that there is a higher
code of Christian ethics than even Miss Fluke's,
a code which finds some echo in every human
heart, and whose ruling law is Love.

When Alfred returned home that evening,
Corda, who had been sitting up for him in her
own little room, stole forth to tell him that
papa had consented to let her go with him to
London, and that she was very glad.

"The governor's come round to see which
side of his bread the butter lies, has he?" said
Alfred. "But, Corda, you shan't repent sticking
to me. You shall be made a singer yet, if
you've set your heart on it. I'll get you the
first masters in London, men who wouldn't hire
Bensa to play accompaniments for them. You
shall ride in your carriage, and splash Bensa
with the mud from its wheels, some day. By
G——you shall!"

"Hush, please, Alf dear! Thank you very
much; but I do think Mr. Bensa is very clever
and very kind, and I love him and Madame
Bensa very much. Only, of course, Alf, I love
you better, and so does papa."

It had been a struggle for the child to resign
the hope of a home with these kind people, and
the prospect of being thoroughly instructed in
the art she loved so well.

"But," said Corda, sagely to herself, as she
took off and neatly folded her poor garments
before going to rest, "being apprenticed to