quiet nook in the conservatory behind the hall;
will you come with me?"

Mabel glanced at Lady Popham, but that
lady was occupied with a new arrival—a poet
who dated the decline of English poetry from
Chaucer, and was anxious to found a school
for the revival of the golden days of literature.
He had written some very pretty things, and
had had them printed in black letter. He had
brought with him a copy of his latest production
to present to Lady Popham, who inspected
it through her eye-glass. "Charming!" she
murmured. "I can't make out a word of it.
How quaint!"

"You would soon read it with a very little
practice," said the poet. "As a mere question
of beauty, it is vastly superior to our square
angular type."

"What's this word?" asked my lady.
"Chancery?"

"Oh no, not Chancery, certainly! By no
means. It is—let me—see, 'chauntynge.'
Chanting—singing, you know."

"To be sure! Chauntynge! Very quaint."

Seeing the old lady thus occupied, Mabel
ventured to glide away with Miss O'Brien.
But they had not gone many steps before Lady
Popham's shrill voice called to them to stop.
"Where are you going, you two?" she
screamed. "Now, Geraldine, that's your doing.
Méchante! Why are you picking my pocket of
Miss Bell in that manner?"

"Godmamma, I don't want to steal her;
only to borrow her for five minutes. May I
not?"

"Umph! It's uncommonly bad manners,
but I suppose you may. Bring her back
punctually, scioccherella!"

The two girls walked away together. They
descended the stairs and entered a little
conservatory opening from the hall. It was full of
perfume and colour, though the latter was
subdued by the faint light of a single alabaster
lamp that hung in the doorway.

"I was so glad to hear of your coming here,"
said Geraldine.

"I dare say you were surprised too, Miss
O'Brien. But I hope you will not think me
guilty of any disrespect to Lady Popham, when
I tell you that my great—nay, my only—
inducement to come was the prospect of seeing
you."

"Was it, indeed? And I wished to see you
so much! And to say a word about our friends
the Charlewoods."

It was the very subject on which Mabel had
desired to speak. She had been debating in her
own mind how she should introduce the topic,
and Geraldine broached it thus simply, and at
once.

"Oh, Miss O'Brien," said Mabel, "are they
in London? Are they doing well? I heard,
by an odd accident, something of Mr. Clement
Charlewood. But he was said to be quite
alone, and in great poverty. You, of course,
have heard all particulars respecting the family
whilst you were abroad with Augusta."

"Augusta! Don't talk to me of Augusta!
She is the most cold-hearted, selfish——Well,
perhaps it does not become me to speak of it,
but her indifference to her family disgusts me.
It was a very long time before I could prevail
on her to let me know their address in London.
I do not think she would have given it to me
at all, but for her husband. Malachi at last
laid positive commands on her; and then she
apologised for the vulgar neighbourhood in
which they were living! Is it not
incredible?"

"Then they are all in London?"

"Oh yes; all of them. I went to see Mrs.
Charlewood directly I got to town. There
were only she and Penelope at home. Both
looked worn, but Penny especially so. She
was pale and very thin, but as full of courage
and energy as ever."

"Are they—is Mr. Charlewood likely to do
well in his new engagement?"

"He? There can be no doubt of his doing
well anywhere, I should say. But there is
trouble about that wretched boy Walter. His
poor mother confided the whole story to me
when Penny was out of the room, engaged in
some household duties. Walter is clerk in a
West-End bank. His employers have been
for some time dissatisfied with his carelessness;
but the other day there was a serious inquiry
into some of his accounts. A sum of money
could not be accounted for. It was not a large
sum, but——"

"Good Heavens! You do not mean that
they suspected his honesty?"

"I cannot say that, exactly. Mrs. Charlewood
did not tell her story very clearly; and
she was crying very much, poor soul. But
the matter ended in Mr. M'Culloch being
spoken to. He is the head of the building firm
that employs Clement, and had given some
kind of guarantee to these banking people for
Walter. Clement managed to persuade him
that his brother had been merely guilty of
inaccuracy. The money was forthcoming, Walter
was sharply admonished, and the affair blew
over. But Mrs. Charlewood said they had
lived in constant dread and anxiety ever
since."

As Miss O'Brien spoke, the idea dawned on
Mabel's mind that her manner and language
were not those of a girl who had once been
Clement Charlewood's affianced wife. Could it
be that she should be on such terms of
unembarrassed friendship with the whole family,
if she had broken an engagement of marriage
with Clement on the score of his ruin and
poverty? While she was so thinking, Geraldine
said, abruptly, "I wonder what the truth was
about that money!"

"About the money?"

"The money that was missing at the bank.
I have a private theory of my own about the
matter, that I can't help believing to be the
true one."

Mabel turned pale, and looked at her
inquiringly.