donkey still perseveringly mowed down the
rank grass with his strong crunching teeth; a
caravan of children was stumbling homeward
over the desert waste, the leaders in front
carrying babies, and the smallest bringing up the
rear with tottering footsteps, much impeded by
the fragments of broken crockery, and
imperiously shouted to by a shrewish, hungry,
little girl in the van to "come a—a—an!"
To these cries the little ones responded
by piteous, long-drawn wails and boo-hoos
that gradually died away in the distance. It
was not a cheerful scene, and its sights and
sounds seemed to be reflected in Clement's
face.

And it is possible that he may have got some
unconscious impression of its dreariness,
although, in fact, his thoughts were busy with
far other things.

"Will you come out into the wilderness and
have a cigar, Clem?" said Penelope, when tea
was over.

"I've smoked my allowance for to-day,
Penny. Don't assail my virtuous resolutions."

"No, I won't," said Penny, decisively. " If
a man makes a promise to himself he ought
to stick to it; but you may come into the
wilderness for a quarter of an hour. We shall
be within sight of the parlour window, if
mamma should want us. Are you tired,
though?"

"Not I, dear; and you look as if a breath of
air would do you good. Get your hat on,
Penny."

The brother and sister walked out together
and passed through the small back yard into
the waste ground which Penelope styled the
wilderness. For a few minutes they walked
on in silence, arm in arm. At length Penelope
spoke: "You know our compact, Clem.
I can't do anything for you, nor be much, but I
claim my share of the suffering. You are
dejected and out of sorts. What is the
matter?"

"Penny, when you claim your share, as you
call it, of the suffering, there might something
be said of your being and doing too; but
perhaps there need no words about all that
between you and me. I am ready to tell
you, but I don't feel quite sure that I ought
to add to your burthens by teasing you
about——"

"There, stop! That's so like a man. They
think they can do everything themselves, fight
and battle, and then brush off the dust
handsomely, and come home smug and smiling to
the women-folks, saying, "There, don't distress
yourself, my love; I've chopped off arms and
legs in every direction, and borne the heat and
burthen of the day, but here is a diamond necklace,
or a new bright saucepan, or something
adapted to your capacity."

Clement smiled sadly.

"I'm afraid you don't get even the bright
saucepan, Penny," said he. His sister pressed
his arm with the hand that rested on it.

"Don't mind me, Clem, I must say my say;
but it does seem to me that women are so often
expected to be like the image of the Madonna
that Browning wrote of:

     Our lady borne smiling and smart,
     With a pink gauze gown, all spangles,
     And seven swords stuck in her heart.

Now I can bear the swords, if I may but
abjure the smiles and the spangles. What is the
matter?"

"I have seen," he replied, very slowly,
"another——"

"Not another of those letters, Clem?"

"Yes, dear; another of those letters."

"My God!"

"Mr. M'Culloch called me into his private
office when I went there this morning, and
put it into my hands."

"Oh, Clement! Oh, my dear brother!"

"M'Culloch has shown me every one of these
infamous letters from the first. He says it is
out of the question that they should make
the smallest impression on him, that he treats
all anonymous communications with contempt,
and that his confidence in me is unshaken.
Nothing could be better than the way M'Culloch
has behaved. All his desire is, he says,
that the miscreant who is endeavouring to
stab me in the dark should be discovered and
punished. He begged me again to-day to
search my memory well, to try and find some
clue to this mystery. But it is in vain. I have
thought and thought; but who is there in all
the world who can hate me so bitterly as to do
me this iniquitous wrong?"

"Of course M'Culloch cannot believe these
lies. Who could believe them that knows
you? After all, why should you grieve. Clem?
The villain's aim is foiled. He cannot hurt
you."

"No, thank God, I hope he cannot. I
believe he cannot. But yet, if you knew the
anguish of mind I endure sometimes! There is
a subtle, devilish ingenuity in these letters that
fills me with amazement."

A brooding, anxious frown settled on
Penelope's pale face.

"What was in this last letter, Clement?" she
asked, in a low voice.

"Oh, the same old strings harped upon. My
extravagance, my untrustworthiness, my want
of honour, my passion for gambling in all its
forms. The same aspersions cast on the
memory of him who is gone from us. All our
great speculations were but the reckless
ventures of unprincipled gamesters. And—and
—the great calamity of our lives is described as
the voluntary escape of a cowardly criminal who
finds detection imminent."

Penelope's face was already pale, but it grew
death-like as she listened, and a faint, sick feeling
caused her to lean heavily for a moment on
her brother's arm.

"And then the wicked craft of attributing
to me all poor Walter's follies and faults
blackened into crimes. The writer evidently