knows that my brother has been placed in his
present position at the bank on M'Culloch's
recommendation and guarantee, and reckons
on my desire to screen Walter to seal my
mouth."

"It is monstrous!" burst forth Penelope,
with flashing eyes. "Monstrous and cruel,
and wicked—yes, wicked—that you should
bear this! Tell Mr. M'Culloch the truth,
Clement; tell him that the transactions
mentioned in these vile letters are your brother's,
and that you have never in your life——"

"Hush, Penny; hush, my dear. Think of
what my saying so would involve."

"It would involve justice being done to you,
and that would be a righteous thing."

"Justice to me? Ah, Penny, it is my turn
now to preach faith and patience. It is enough
that M'Culloch, being an honest, upright man,
despises these calumnies. But for Watty
—poor, weak, misguided boy—I must keep him
safe and clear if possible. Only a fortnight ago
when I remonstrated with him about something
I had heard, and spoke vaguely of the risk he
ran of offending his employers if his conduct
were known, he interrupted me with one of his
wild fits of childish temper. 'If any blame is
thrown on me by them,' he said, 'if I am
lectured, or held up as an example, or taken to
task like a servant, by Heaven! I'll leave the
place that moment, and never set foot within
the bank doors again.' Then he raved on
about his being a gentleman, and how hard his
fate was in being brought down so low, and
finally he began to cry—began to cry and
whimper, Penny, like a girl, until, I swear to
you, the pain and shame of seeing him were
almost more than I could bear."

Penelope set her lips together grimly.

"I think," said she, "I could have borne
that, better than I can bear some other things.
Let him leave the bank, as he has left two
situations already. We have done all we can.
He is a mass of selfishness. He has cut
himself adrift from our home, although he well
knows that poor mamma——"

The mention of her mother seemed to check
her, and she stopped short.

Clement took his sister's arm which she
had withdrawn from his, and pressed it gently
to his side. "Penny," said he, "do you
know, dear, I am going to confide to you
what I have never yet told to any human
being."

Her face flushed, and she looked at him
quickly, but in silence.

"I hope," proceeded Clement, "that I should
have tried to do my duty by poor Watty in any
case; but—on the day that—that he died, he
said to me, as though there were a knowledge
of what was to come upon his mind, 'Clem,
you'll stand by Watty? Poor Watty; you
will stand by him? Don't forsake him, my
boy.' I gave my father my word, and so help
me God, I will keep it."

The brother and sister walked side by side
towards their home, where, through the gathering
dusk, Mrs. Charlewood's face in its doleful
frame of widow's weeds was peering from
the window. The tears streamed down
Penelope's wan cheeks, as she raised herself to
kiss her brother.

"God bless you, Clem," she whispered.
"I have faith, and I'll never despond nor
despair about you. The devil's a mighty clever
fellow, but, thank God, he's not quite clever
enough, my dear."

CHAPTER II. CLEMENT CUTS AN OLD
              ACQUAINTANCE.

CLEMENT CHARLEWOOD walking back to his
office in the summer twilight, and following a
route that would take him past his brother's
lodging, revolved many painful thoughts in his
mind. And, strange to say, these painful
thoughts were in no way connected with the
subject of his recent conversation with his
sister.

What impenetrable mysteries, and
storehouses of strange secrets, are we human
creatures to one another! The tongue and the eye
at best translate our thought but imperfectly;
but when these are silent—when the spirit
is busy within the still locked chambers of
the brain—what cunning sorcery shall draw
forth its secret? What human soul—nearest
and dearest though it be—shall fathom those
dark recesses, and see and know us as we
are?

If Penelope Charlewood had been asked to
guess the subject of her brother's meditations
during his walk to the City, she would undoubtedly
have said, "He is thinking of Walter, and
of those wicked letters." Very certainly she
would have had no suspicion that Clement's
brain was haunted by the vision of a huge red
and yellow poster, whereon gigantic letters
flamed in gaudy colours. And yet it was of
this poster, and of the performance at the Royal
Thespian Theatre, that Clement was thinking
as he walked along. It was now three weeks
since he had seen Miss M. A. Bell announced
to play Juliet. It was the only intimation he
had had of Mabel's being in London. How,
indeed, could he have had any news of her, save
such news as he might share with all the world?
He walked on, down Pentonville-hill, and past
the hoardings where the many-coloured bills
flaunted their tidings on the eye. "Romeo and
Juliet! Romeo and Juliet! Romeo and Juliet!"
Clement had, perhaps, not been to a theatre
half a dozen times in his life, but he had been a
great reader and lover of Shakespeare, and a
wondering speculation stole into his mind as
to how Mabel, his Mabel—(but no! that was
all over)—would interpret the character of the
love-lorn Juliet. How she, so proud, so cold,
and so unmoved in her maiden dignity, would
utter the passionate vows, and caressing tender
phrases, of the poet's creation;—that dazzling
southern lily, with one bright bitter tear in its
perfumed heart. For an instant the temptation
crossed his mind to go and see her, himself