a new planet had swam into the ken of
playgoers. Now will you come to me on Thursday
after the play? You shan't be lionized (more
than a charming girl must be prepared to endure
everywhere), because almost everybody else will
be a lion too. I have an assembly of artists
and authors, and clever people of all kinds, who
honour my house every Thursday evening. I
know I ought to have called on Mrs. Saxelby,
and would have done so, but your Cerberus at
the stage door wouldn't give me your address,
so I send this to the theatre. I shall positively
await your reply with trembling anxiety. With
my sincerest admiration, believe me to be, my
dear Miss Bell,

"Your faithful servant,

"LAURA POPHAM."

Mabel had read thus far with a resolve to
decline the invitation. Her mother looked
over at her wistfully. "What do you think,
love?" she asked.

The answer was on Mabel's lips, when she
perceived that on the fourth side of the sheet
of paper there was a postscript. "I hold
out as a bait the fact that my god-daughter,
Geraldine O'Brien, will be in town and at my
house on Thursday. She has just come home
from foreign parts.—L. P."

"Well, Mabel?" said Mrs. Saxelby.

"Dear mamma, to tell the truth, I was
just about to to say 'No' very decisively.
But——"

"Why 'no,' Mabel? Why 'no very de-
cisively?'"

"I said there was a 'but' mamma. We will
discuss it by-and-by. What do you think?"

Mrs. Saxelby wished to go, and wished to be
persuaded to do as she liked. Nothing ruffled
Mrs. Saxelby's smooth temper more than having
to make it apparent that she was following her
own good will and pleasure in trifling matters.
There was no set purpose of deceit in this,
either. She would acknowledge having
enjoyed such and such things, but could rarely
be induced to confess beforehand that she
desired them. "We will speak of it by-and-
by, as you say," she replied, plaintively. "I
will do as you wish, my dear child, but I
don't know how my throat may be by
Thursday."

Corda spent a day of seemingly unalloyed
enjoyment. Dooley had imbibed the notion
that she was delicate and must be cared for;
and he displayed his manliness and gallantry
in various well-meant attentions, which,
however, were occasionally of an embarrassing
nature. For example, he insisted on carving
her meat for her at dinner, as was done for
himself when he was sick. He hacked the
roast mutton with his little blunt silver knife,
and heaped the salt in an avalanche on the side
of her plate.

"'Oo must have some pork wine," pronounced
Dooley, magisterially. " / had pork wine when
I was ill. Tibby gave it me in a 'poon. It's
nasty. 'Oo must have some."

Then he brought the kitten up-stairs for his
guest to see, and conscientiously explained to
her why, though he liked that pussy-kitten, he
could not regard her with the same affection
that he had bestowed on the old one at
Hazlehurst.

"Yes, Dooley dear," said Corda, gently
stroking the little animal that purred aloud in
the enjoyment of her soft touch. "Yes; I
think I should love the 'sorry one' best,
too."

When the time drew near for Mabel to go
to the theatre, she asked Corda if she should
set her down anywhere, or how she should
send her home. "Oh no, thank you," replied
the child. "We live a long way off, across
Blackfriars-bridge. Papa will call for me at
six o'clock."

"Who brought you here, my dear?" asked
Mrs. Saxelby.

Corda blushed scarlet. " I promised not to
tell, ma'am."

"Not to tell? How extraordinary!"

"It was a very kind person indeed; but he
made me promise not to tell. I don't know
why. But I did promise, so I ought not to
tell, ought I?"

Mrs. Saxelby and Mabel of course refrained
from any further question on the subject,
though the former was very curious about it.
Mabel had her own solution of the mystery.
She guessed that Alfred had brought his sister
to Highgate himself, and had put this
prohibition on the child, in order to avoid even the
suspicion of wishing to force himself on Mrs.
Saxelby and her daughter. The supposition,
placed him in a favourable light, and softened
Mabel's heart towards him more than she had
once thought possible.

Mr. Trescott came punctually to claim his
little girl. He waited in the hall, and declined
to come in, as he was pressed for time, and must
be in the orchestra of the theatre at which he
was engaged before seven. Corda said
"farewell" with shy heartfelt thanks, expressed and
understood.

"You must come again and play with Dooley,
my dear," said Mrs. Saxelby.

"An' I will wheel 'oo yound de garden in my
barrow!" shouted that young gentleman. The
barrow in question was about a foot long. But
Dooley spoke in perfect good faith.

"You must come and stay a week with us,
Corda," said Mabel. "The fresh air and the
flowers will do you good."

"Oh, thank you so very much, dear darling
Miss Mabel; but I can't do that."

"Can't do it, Corda? You like being here,
and you have plenty of time."

"It is like heaven here, I think," returned
the child. " It would be beautiful, but I can't,
indeed. I must stay as much as I can with—
them. Perhaps, you know, I may not have so
very much time after all."

When Corda was gone, Mrs. Saxelby
returned to the subject of Lady Popham's note.
"Do as you please, Mabel. I will make any effort