that the morning slipped away with wonderful
rapidity. Dooley did the honours of the garden
and, half shyly half proudly, showed Jack the
arable land set apart for him, and the garden-
tools wherewith to cultivate it.

"I tell you what, Dooley," said Jack,
contemplating the little bed of earth with a gravity
that delighted the child, who watched him
furtively with sidelong wistful looks, " I tell you
what, this is a light soil, I fancy, and we must
grow mustard-and-cress on it. That's the crop
adapted to flourish here, you may depend."

Then the invalid menagerie was passed in
review, and marvels in the way of surgery were
effected. Jack produced a colour-box from the
valise, and touched up horses, lions, camels,
and cows, in a very striking manner. Dooley's
favourite white charger was ornamented with
sky-blue eyes and a rose-coloured mane and
tail; and Dooley himself—in his zealous co-
operation— bedaubed his hands and pinafore
with all the hues of the rainbow.

At dinner, Jack announced his intention of
calling on his new friend and patron that
evening.

"And I shall have to go and stay at his
place for a day or so," said he. " The old
gentleman took a wonderful fancy to me, and made
me promise to be his guest if ever I came to
London. Only, when you were kind enough
to write and say that you expected me to make
your house my home—- "

"Most happy," murmured Mrs. Saxelby.

"Though it seems almost a shame to quarter
myself in this way—- "

"Why, Jack!" exclaimed Mabel, with
heightened colour, " what are you talking
about? "We were ' kind enough,' and ' a
shame to quarter yourself '! I didn't think you
could have been so unkind. Where should
Aunt Mary's son be at home if not here? Aunt
Mary, who fed me and clothed me and
sheltered me when I was a helpless fatherless little
child!"

Mrs. Saxelby put her handkerchief to her
eyes.

" I beg your pardon, Mabel," said Jack,
simply.

Dooley had laid down his little knife and
fork, and was contemplating the scene
attentively.

"Dive him a tiss, Tibby," said he, softly.
"Dack is sorry, isn't 'oo, Dack?"

Mabel smilingly bent forward and kissed her
cousin's forehead; and Dooley resumed his
dinner with a good appetite.

"And where does this gentleman live,
Jack?" asked Mabel.

"Why— it's the oddest coincidence in the
world—but he must be a neighbour of yours."

"A neighbour of ours? Really!"

"Yes; stay, here is his address. The
Hawthorns, Desmond-lane, Highgate."

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Saxelby, " that is the pretty
house over the way, Mabel. I know it well. I
used to see a tall thin man with iron-grey hair
going down the lane towards London punctually
at nine o'clock every morning. But latterly I
have missed him."

"Yes; because he has been in Dublin on
business. But he was to be in England again
by this time."

"And his name, Jack? You have not told
us his name."

"His name," said Jack, putting his note-
book back into his pocket, " is M'Culloch."

CHAPTER II. SEEKING.

PENELOPE had been stirring so early that it
was not yet eight o'clock when Clement went
up to his brother's room, resolved to break to
him the project of sending him abroad, and
prepared for a very painful interview. He
knocked at the door. There was no answer,
and trying the handle it yielded at his touch,
and he entered. The room was empty. The
bed had been slept in, but was now untenanted,
and some of Walter's clothes were scattered
about the floor. Clement ran down-stairs again
hastily.

"Penny!" he cried, " Penny, Walter is
gone."

"Gone! Where?"

"He is not in his room. The bed is empty,
and the door open. Come and see!"

They searched through the house—not a long
process at De Montfort villas— but no Walter
was to be found. And, finally, the little
servant-of-all-work, with the rapid intelligence
peculiar to her class, volunteered the statement
that she thought Mr. Walter must be gone to
the bank, for that she had see'd him a-walking
down the road to the place where the 'buses
went from as she was a-coming to her work
that morning.

"Why in the world did you not say so at
once, Ann?" demanded Miss Charlewood,
sharply.

To which query Ann's only response was a
grimace compounded of a grin and a gasp, and
expressive of such utter vacuity of mind that
Penelope felt it to be useless to say more to
her.

"It is odd, his going off in that manner!"
said Clement. " It makes me uneasy."

"My impression is," observed Penny, " that
on awaking this morning, and remembering the
scene of last night, he felt so thoroughly
ashamed of himself, and so afraid to face you,
that he stole away, with the idea of avoiding an
interview until your anger should have cooled a
little. He'll sneak home this evening after
banking hours, you may depend upon it."

After some discussion, they agreed that it
must be as Penelope supposed, although neither
of them could shake off a lurking anxiety which
each endeavoured to conceal from the other.

"I will call at the bank for him on my way
home," said Clement.

"For my part," said his sister, "I dread
seeing mamma. What are we to say to her?
And she must know the truth, must she not?"

"Oh, Penny, you remind me well—this
wretchedness has driven everything else out of