You here? You, whom we supposed to be
asleep in your room hours ago, stealing into
your home like a thief in the night! Oh, Wat,
Wat! Why is this? What have we done that
you should bring this sorrow and shame on us?"

Walter only replied by an oath, and folding
his arms across his breast, looked doggedly at
his brother.

"Clem," whispered Penelope, "say no more
to him at present. The wretched boy is not
himself. You see he has added drinking to the
list of his vices. Let him get to rest now, and
to-morrow we can speak to him more calmly."

"Thank God," murmured Clement, "that my
mother is not here."

"Ah, Clem," said Penelope, with a sigh, "I
hardly dare to say what I suspect, but I greatly
fear that my poor mother has witnessed similar
scenes often before, when you and I supposed
her to be peacefully at rest. Heaven help her
—and us!"

During this whispered talk, Walter had stood
leaning against the wall, swaying to and fro,
and frowning and biting his white lips. Now
he looked up defiantly, and said: "Are we to
stay here all night? Or do you mean to allow
me to pass you, and go to bed?"

Without a word, Clement drew aside, and
Walter, with a visible effort, straightened
himself and walked to the stairs. He stumbled
and staggered as he began to mount them, and
Penelope covered her eyes with her hand, to
shut out the humiliating spectacle. They
heard him open the door of his chamber and
enter it.

"His own door was locked, you see, and he
had the key with him," said Penny. Clement
examined the street door. There was a latchkey
remaining in the lock outside, but, owing to
the inside fastenings having been secured,
Walter had not been able to gain access to the
house. Clement took possession of the latchkey,                                              made all secure once more, and then turned
and looked at his sister. Their eyes met, and
Penelope, with a sudden impulse, seized her
brother's hand and kissed it. "Oh, Clem, my
dearest brother, such a return for your generous
forbearance! Such a reward for your patient
striving to shield and save him!"

Clement wrung her hand hard, but his face
was still and stern: "Get to bed, dear," he
said. "Try to sleep, Penny. There is to-
morrow to come."

They parted and went to rest. All was again
silent in the little house, except the loud ticking
of a clock in the kitchen. But though
there was silence, there was not peace. Walter
had fallen almost immediately into a heavy
slumber, and his sister heard him breathing
stertorously as she lay in the chamber over his.
But Clement sat half dressed, as he was revolving
many thoughts in his mind, until daybreak;
and Penelope lay wakeful and anxious in her
bed, starting if a board creaked, straining her
ears to listen to every sound; and when at
length she fell into an uneasy sleep, it was
peopled with painful images.

A ray of bright sunshine falling on her face
awoke her in the morning, and she started up
with that vague feeling which most people have
experienced on awaking after some sorrow or
disaster; a consciousness of distress combined
with a lurking hope that it will prove to have
been all a dream.

It was no dream, however, as poor Penelope
acknowledged to herself presently. She dressed
quickly, and went down to the kitchen. It was yet
so early that the little servant had not arrived.
Penelope opened the shutters, lit a fire, and
began to prepare the breakfast. While she was
thus occupied, Clement joined her.

"My poor boy!" she cried, seeing his haggard
face, "you look as if you had been dead and
buried since yesterday."

"If it were not for you and mother, I should
say no matter how soon I am dead and buried,
Penny. It's weary work. Everything that I
set my heart on seems to crumble into dust."

He stood at the kitchen window, looking out
on to the dreary crockery-bestrewn field, with
its patches of rank grass, and its tall gibbet-
like posts, with their announcement respecting
"this eligible plot of building ground," blistering
in the sunshine. His sister was silent.
She knew that no words of hers would sweeten
the bitterness that was in his heart; but she
had faith in him, and knew that the natural
ebullition of hurt angry feeling would leave
him still brave, honest, and true-hearted at the
core. By-and-by, when Penny was staggering
under the weight of a great kettle she had
just filled and brought from the scullery, he
took it from her and placed it on the fire.
As he did so, his eyes fell on her hands,
discoloured, coarse, and dragged out of shape.

"Poor Penny," he murmured absently, "how
your hands are spoiled. They used to be so
white and pretty."

The words touched some little feminine
chord in her heart. Tears, that real deep grief
could rarely wring from her, sprang into her
eyes. She bent her head over the fire to hide
them, but they dropped and dropped more and
more thickly, until she covered her eyes with
her hands, and, sinking into a chair, sobbed
aloud. Her brother came to her, stroked her
hair, and spoke soothingly, but she continued
to weep for some time. At last the paroxysm
wore itself out, and she wiped her eyes and
composed her countenance.

"I hope you don't really suppose that I was
crying in that idiotic manner over the departed
beauty of my hands, eh, Clem? Because,
however appearances may be against me, I have
not yet reached that pitch of imbecility. But
what you said seemed just to—to bring all
kinds of troubles so vividly before my mind                                                     again, that—that——but I don't often indulge
you in this fashion, do I?"

"You're the best and bravest girl in the
world, Penny."

"No, I'm not; but I like to hear you say so.
Now, whilst we are waiting for the kettle to
boil, would you mind telling me, Clement, what