He was pleased to see the child, but yet there
was a pain in it too.

"We don't live in this street, but close by.
That house is where the gentleman—the dog's
master—lodges. And who do you think is his
landlady, Mr. Charlewood? You'll never guess,
I'm sure. Mrs. Hutchins! She and her
husband have come to live in London."

Clement was less surprised than Corda had
expected. "And do you know, Corda," said
he, smiling, "that you have narrowly escaped
seeing another old friend of yours? Now I
challenge you to guess who it was." Corda's
face grew burning red, and she cast down her
eyes.

"I know," she said, in a whisper. "Yes,
I saw her with you. It was Miss Fluke. I
hid till she had gone away. I hope it wasn't
wrong. Lately I feel so frightened, and my
heart beats so when any one talks loud to me,
or—or—goes on like Miss Fluke. But I know
she means to be kind."

Clement was in no mood to blame Corda's
avoidance of Miss Fluke with great severity.

"Good-bye, Corda," he said, taking both the
child's hands in one of his. "Or stay, shall I
give you into your friend's charge, or shall I
take you home myself?"

Corda hesitated for a moment. Then she
said: "It would save him the trouble, if you
wouldn't mind."

"Not at all, Corda. Kind Fate has ordained
that I shall be a squire of dames to-day; but,
thank Heaven, there are dames and dames, eh,
Corda?"

The child ran on in advance, and said a few
words to the hatchet-faced old man. He
slightly touched his hat to Clement as the latter
passed, and then went into the house, calling his
dog in after him. Clement was struck by the
oddity of the old man's appearance. He was
shabby and grotesque, and yet the manner in
which he had saluted Clement had been that of
a gentleman. Altogether, he seemed to belong
to a class of which Clement had no knowledge.

"What is your friend, Corda?" he asked of
the little girl.

"He is a second old man, Mr. Charlewood,"
replied Corda, innocently.

"A second old man!"

"Yes; he used to be a first old man in
Ireland. He is very kind in reality, though he
may seem cross at first, when you don't know
him."

"Oh, he is a stage performer," said Clement,
on whom the little girl's meaning had flashed
suddenly.

"Yes; but we are nearly at home," cried
Corda, eagerly, "and I haven't told you about
my seeing Miss Mabel. I went to her house at
Highgate, and stayed the day. And I am to
go again. And they were so kind to me. And
Dooley is very well and strong now. And, oh,
Mr. Charlewood, isn't Miss Mabel sweet? When
she smiles, I think she is like a picture. Don't
you?"
Clement made some inarticulate sound, that
Corda accepted as an affirmative. "I shall tell
her," she went on—"I shall tell her that I have
seen you. You and she are my two best friends.
I'm so glad! I always think of you when I
am with Miss Mabel."

"No need to trouble her about me, Corda.
She would not care—we never see—I have no
opportunity of seeing Miss Earnshaw now. Is
this your house? Good-bye, Corda."

"Good-bye, and thank you so very much,"
replied the child, in a subdued manner. Her
quick sensibility had detected that something
had jarred on Clement's feelings. She had not
entered the sitting-room many minutes, when
her father came in from the street.

"Got back all safe, little one?" said he.

"Yes, papa dear. Where's Alf?"

"He won't be home to dinner, nor perhaps
to-night. I have just left him, and he asked
me to answer a note for him. It's from the
music-publisher that Lady Popham wished to
consult about Alf. Alf said the note was in the
pocket of the old coat he wears at home. You'll
find it in his room. Bring it down, my darling."

Corda, delighted to be of use, ran up-stairs,
and, taking the coat from the chair on which it
lay, put her hand into the breast-pocket. The
lining was torn, and Corda's slender fingers
slipped down, not into the pocket, but between
the cloth and the lining. She felt a paper and
pulled it out. "I suppose this is the right
one," said she to herself, and unfolded it to
assure herself that it was so. The child had
not read ten words before she became deadly
white. Her hands and her whole frame
trembled violently. She stood rooted to the ground,
with her bright eyes distended and fixed upon
the paper. Mr. Trescott, meanwhile, was
drumming irritably with his fingers on the table
down-stairs.

"Corda!" he called at length, standing at
the foot of the stairs. "Corda, are you coming?"
Then he limped up to Alfred's room. As Corda
heard his footstep approaching, she thrust the
paper into the breast of her frock, and seeing
her white face in the glass, she rubbed the pale
cheeks roughly and hastily with her hands, to
bring the colour back.

"My child, what in the name of fate are you
doing? Where is this note?" asked Mr. Trescott,
impatiently.

"I can't find it, papa."

Corda's voice was husky, and she panted for
breath as though she had been running quickly.

"Can't find it? Nonsense! Here it is in
the outside pocket, the very first thing I come
to! You are not apt to be so stupid, little one."

"Papa, I'm so—so tired—and I feel—
giddy."

He caught her in his arms as she reeled
forward. He laid her tenderly on the bed, called
for assistance, cried over her, kissed her, and
reproached her, all in a breath.

"Come here," he said to the servant who ran
up-stairs at his loud vehement call. "Come
here and undress her. Put her into the bed,
quick, quick. But gently, gently. Don't be