you; besides, I am really busy, and anxious
about my début. But the child, it would be
such a joy to her to see you. She is very lonely
for hours together, poor pussy-cat."

Mabel's heart melted directly. "Oh, let her
come," she said. "I shall like to look on her
sweet little face again."

"And—pardon me, one instant—your address?
They refuse to give it at the stage door,
you know."

"Mamma and I are living at Desmond Lodge,
Highgate." Then she said "Good night," and
was gone.

Betty on their way home in the fly retailed
all Mrs. Hutchins's gossip to her young
mistress. At first the latter was a very inattentive
listener, but the mention of Clement's name
roused her.

"Mr. Charlewood in London?" she said, with
involuntary eagerness.

"Yes, miss, and ever so poor; and he's living
by hisself, and going on awful. Anyhow, that's
what that woman said, miss."

"She is a gossiping, untruthful person,
Betty. You must take no heed of what she
says."

"No more I doesn't, miss. I thought as
how she were a lying, for all it comed out so
slippy."

A few days later, Corda Trescott appeared
one morning at Desmond Lodge, Highgate.
The maid-servant who answered the bell found
the child alone at the gate. She asked timidly
for Miss Bell, and was shown into the garden at
the back of the house, where Mabel, and her
mother, and Dooley were assembled. Mabel
was walking up and down with a book in her
hand. She was studying Beatrice, which was
to be her next part. Corda advanced on to the
lawn, and then stood still, too diffident to make
her presence known. Mabel, turning in her
walk, saw the patient little figure, and ran to
welcome her. The child clung to her with a
low cry: "Oh, Miss Mabel, I'm so glad!" Then
Dooley marched up to them with a wooden
spade over his shoulder, and his nose and chin,
out of shelter of the brim of his straw hat,
burnt chocolate colour. He put his small paw
into Corda's hand patronisingly.

"'Oo is glad to see Tibby, isn't 'oo?" said
he, comprehending that Corda's tears were not
tears of sorrow.

By-and-by, when Corda had shaken hands
with Mrs. Saxelby, and was seated on a garden-
chair making a long daisy chain for Dooley,
Mabel, observing the little girl closely, was
pained to see how thin and pale she was, and
how she flushed and trembled at the least
word. "You have been growing very fast,
Corda," said Mabel; "almost too fast for your
strength, I'm afraid. I declare you are as
tall as I am."

Corda smiled shyly. "Not quite, am I?
But indeed I am very well; only I don't feel
extremely strong, you know."

"I'm 'trong," observed Dooley, tugging at
the garden-chair. " I can tip 'oo yight up."

"Be quiet, Julian. Is that the way you
behave to a lady, sir? And how is the voice,
Corda?"

The child's bright hazel eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, I think it's quite well, thank you, Miss
Mabel; but they won't let me sing. Sometimes
I do long to sing."

"Why do they not let you sing, dear?"

"Because sometimes it makes me cough a
little. Only a very little, though."

Mabel said no more, but she watched Corda
anxiously when the child was not observing her.
Corda's hat was quite new, and so were her
boots, and the little silk mantle that she wore.
Her frock was shabby, and considerably too
short for her. Mabel's womanly observation
taught her that only such articles as could be
bought ready-made were fresh and bright, and
she drew the conclusion that Corda had been
hastily rigged out for this visit.

"Here's something for you to see. An
invitation, Mabel!" cried Mrs. Saxelby, suddenly.
That lady was seated in an easy-chair under a tree
on the lawn, opening letters. One of the first
results of the young actress's sudden leap into
notoriety had been to make her a mark for the
pursuit of a host of odd people whose existence
she had never dreamed of. Lion hunters,
begging-letter writers, anonymous critics,
enthusiastic admirers, saintly persons with an
irrepressible desire for her conversion,
enterprising tradesmen, unappreciated authors, and
stage-struck aspirants thirsting for public
favour. The pile of letters left for Miss M. A.
Bell at the stage door of the Royal Thespian
Theatre were bewildering in their number and
the heterogeneous character of their contents:
and after a few trials Mabel found that she
must give up all attempt to read and reply to
them all. It became Mrs. Saxelby's daily
employment to open and sift this mass of
correspondence, reserving for Mabel's perusal only
such grains of wheat as were discoverable in
the heaps of worthless chaff.

"An invitation, Mabel. And such a singular
little note! I can scarcely decipher it."

Mrs. Saxelby handed to her daughter a tinted
envelope of the newest pattern and fashion,
sealed with an enormous coat-of-arms. The
envelope contained a formal card of invitation to
a conversazione at Lady Popham's house, and a
note in her ladyship's queer cramped characters.
"There is a card for me also," said Mrs.
Saxelby.

Mabel read the note with some difficulty. It
ran thus:

"My dear Miss Bell. I hope you will
dispense with my presenting compliments, or
anything of that sort, because really, after
witnessing your most exquisite performance of
Juliet the other night, it is quite impossible for
me to bridle my enthusiasm sufficiently to third-
person you. Enchanting! Quite enchanting!
Such a finish, such a grace! I had the pleasure
of witnessing your début at Kilclare, and take
some credit to myself for discovering then that