the idea that the heavens must surely rain
broken pottery in the neighbourhood of De
Montfort Villas. A costermonger's donkey was
cautiously picking his way amongst the
potsherds, and browsing on the soot-encrusted herbage.
Two ragged men lay basking in the
sunshine, at the extremity of the waste ground,
hard by a tall post which bore the announcement
that "This eligible piece of land was to be let
for building purposes." All these details were
visible from the back windows of No. 9, De
Montfort Villas. It was the only completed
house of the row, and looked as though it had
been just baked and turned out, slightly underdone,
from some colossal oven. It is hard to
say why number nine should have been completed
before number one; or, indeed, why this especial
house should have been number nine at all, seeing
that there were to be but six houses in the
row. But so it was. And at the door of the
house distinguished for some inscrutable reason
as number nine, the young man whom we saw
contemplating the rainbow-hued poster, stopped.
He opened it with a latch-key and went in.
The inside of the little house was clean and
fresh, but wore the same aspect of underdone
newness as the outside. The young man hung
his hat upon a hook in the passage, and entered
a little back parlour. The room is tenanted by
two ladies. Both look up as he enters. Surely
we know those faces, spite of the change that
the last few months have made in each. That
of the elder lady is still round and plump, but
it bears traces of trouble on its formerly placid
surface. The mouth is drawn, and quivers
nervously in any surprise or emotion; and the
eyes are sunken, and their orbits swollen with
much crying. The younger woman is thin, and
very pale, but as she raises her head from
her work, there is no mistaking that resolute
projecting chin, those steel-bright glittering
eyes.

"You're home early, Clem," says Penelope
Charlewood, for she it is. The rich, trailing,
silken robes, and massive, costly ornaments that
distinguished her attire in the old prosperous
days, have been exchanged for a plain, almost
coarse, black gown, neat and whole, but
ill-fitting, and evidently home-made. The delicate
white collar and cuffs at her throat and wrists
are the only remnants of luxury in her attire;
and her hands, busy with some needlework of
the most uncompromisingly ugly and useful
kind, show traces of hard labour. Penelope
had had handsome, fair hands, almost her only
beauty. From the very beginning of their
poverty, she had exposed them unflinchingly to
the roughest business she could find for them
to do. Her mother had once or twice
remonstrated with her, and urged the needlessness of
such disfigurement. But Penelope had answered
stoutly, "Never mind, mamma! If my hands
are as white as Clem's, I shall be quite satisfied.
To tell truth, I did think a good deal of those
paws of mine. They were pretty, you know.
I might have caught myself shrinking from
doing something or other to help Clem some
fine morning, if I had allowed myself to care
about the colour of my hands. Think of that!
So I just resolved to spoil their beauty at once,
and have done with it."

"You're home early, Clem," said she once
more, as her brother threw himself wearily into
a chair, commanding a full view of the building-ground
and the donkey.

"Yes, dear; but I intend to go back again to
the office for an hour or two to-night. There
will be some foreign letters to answer by this
mail."

"'Ow tired you look, Clement," said Mrs.
Charlewood, anxiously. "It's 'ot, ain't it?"

"No, mother—yes, I mean it is, rather."

Penelope rose quietly, and went into the
little kitchen to prepare tea. They had a
servant, but her abilities did not extend to the
adequate preparation of the simplest meal.
Indeed, I doubt whether Penelope, in her
jealous devotion to her brother, would have
consented to resign that office to the most
accomplished cordon bleu.

As soon as her daughter had left the room,
Mrs. Charlewood drew near to Clement, and
asked in a suppressed voice, "'Ave you seen
Watty to-day, love?"

"Not to-day, mother; but I will try to find
him as I go back to the office. Don't fret,
dear mother, don't fret." The tears were in
Mrs. Charlewood's eyes.

"No, Clem, no, I won't. God knows I'm
thankful to him every day and every hour,
for 'aving you and Penny; but you know
Watty's my child too, and I feel it 'ard
sometimes to see him so seldom. Don't be angry
with me, my boy; I can't help it."

"Angry, dear mother!"

"No, love, no. There! I knew you
wouldn't be angry; but Penny is, sometimes."

"Penny has trials too, mother, and bears them
bravely."

"Yes, to be sure, Clem, I know she does;
and as to a good daughter——Well, there,
I'm sure I never thought it was in Penny to be
so kind and considerate as she is to me. And
she's never sharp with me now—almost never;
only she—she's 'ard sometimes on Watty. If
he did get tired of living 'ere with us, and
found it dull, and went into lodgings of his own
in a livelier situation, why, law! I'm sure it
was very natural."

There was a short pause.

"At all events, mother," said Clement, kissing
her, "it is done, and we can't alter it.
We must make the best and not the worst of
poor Walter's doings."

Presently, Penelope came back with the teapot
in her hand, and the servant followed bearing
a tray laden with cups and saucers. The
mother, her son, and daughter took their meal
together quietly, but without gloom; only
Clement's unusual silence and absence of mind
did not escape his sister's quick eye. No shade
of manner in those she loved easily escaped her
keen observation. The sun sank lower; the
ragged men had arisen and were gone; the