my head. I think that I promised to call for my
mother in Mayfair. I think, my dear, that you
had better go there yourself and accompany her
home. You need say nothing in Augusta's
presence about this business. Only break it to
mother on your way back. I shall have Walter
on my hands."

So it was settled between them; and Clement
betook himself to his office with a heavy heart.

Penelope's task was in truth a most painful
one. Her brother had urged her to spare their
mother as much as might be, and indeed she
herself desired to be merciful if it were in any
way possible to be so. But strong indignation
fought with pity in her breast, and it required
all her self-command to avoid reproaching her
mother for the part she had played. The only
vent she allowed to her feelings, however, was
to abuse Walter, and this she did in no
measured terms. Poor Mrs. Charlewood wept and
moaned, and hid her face in her handkerchief,
and confessed her own fault, and tried to
palliate Walter's, all in a very piteous and humble
manner.

"Don't ask pardon of me, mamma," said
Penelope. " It is Clement, your good, true,
noble son Clement, that you should ask forgiveness
of. Or, at least— I— I— don't quite mean
that you should ask forgiveness, mamma, but
Walter—Walter ought to go down on his knees
in the dust at his brother's feet. Thankless,
hopeless, heartless wretch that he is!"

"0h, Penny, Penny! Don't ye, my love.
Don't ye say so!"

"But I must say so. It was not enough to
disgrace us all by his conduct at the bank; not
enough to drain his brother's pocket of every
penny he had to pay his vile debts; not enough
to pursue his own selfish course without one
instant's thought or regard for his family; but
when all was generously forgiven, when Clement
had screened him, and saved him, and brought
him home, and Walter had given his solemn
word of honour— his honour!— to reform, and
reward his brother's kindness and affection, he
gets a false key to the door, and comes stealing
into the house like a thief—yes, like a thief in
the night— and acts a base, contemptible lie
through every hour of the twenty-four."

And still Mrs. Charlewood sobbed and
moaned, and cried plaintively, " Don't ye,
Penny. Oh, don't ye say so, my love!" over and
over again.

As the time drew near for Clement's return,
the mother and daughter grew quieter, and sat
silently listening, full of nervous anxiety, for
the expected footsteps. The unfinished street
they dwelt in was seldom disturbed by the
noise of wheels, and very few foot passengers
frequented it. Clement's quick decided tread
could be heard distinctly on the gravel. The
sun began to sink, and burnished the parlour
window where Mrs. Charlewood and her
daughter sat, making the former shrink, and
shade her tear-swollen eyes.

"They're late," she said, almost in a whisper.

"Not very, mamma," replied Penelope,
instinctively adopting the same subdued tone.
"I have known them to be a full half hour later
than this."

Slowly the half hour went by, and Penelope
was compelled to acknowledge that her brothers
were now behind their usual time of reaching
home. " Clem has the agreeable task to go
through of telling a few stern truths to Mr.
Walter Charlewood. That is detaining him.
Poor Clem!"

Mrs. Charlewood's lips framed " Don't ye, my
dear," but she uttered no sound. At length a
noise of footsteps was heard approaching. They
listened. Nearer and nearer came the tread.

"There's only one person!" exclaimed Mrs.
Charlewood, trembling violently. " Only one!"

Penelope started up and ran to the street
door.

Clement stood there alone. Penelope turned
deadly pale at sight of his face. " Where's
Walter?" she asked, with a strained assumption
of her old hard manner, though her voice shook.
"I suppose he refuses to return home at all
now. That is the latest thing!"

Clement came into the passage and closed
the door behind him. " Walter is not at the
bank," he said; " has not been there all day. I
have made inquiries at every place I could think
of where they were likely to know anything of
him. I went to his old lodgings near the
Strand. All in vain. I do not know where
he is."

"Clement!"

"Hush! Is mother there? I am going out
again to search for him. But I thought I
would come home first, or you would both be
so alarmed at my prolonged absence."

The brother and sister entered the parlour
together, and confronted Mrs. Charlewood
standing opposite to the door. She was not
crying now. Her face looked stern, almost
menacing, as she fixed her eyes upon Clement.

"Where's my boy?" she asked, harshly.

"Mother dear, I have been seeking for him.
He is playing us some trick. He will come
home to-night—-"

"Find my boy, Clement. Bring me my boy.
Whatever he may be to others he's the child of
my bosom, my latest born, the darling of your
dead father. If any 'arm befals him, you're
answerable. Your cruelty has driven him away.
Find my boy, I say, or woe be to you."

She seized her son's shoulder roughly as she
spoke. Clement took her hand and passed one
arm gently round her. "Mother, dear mother,"
he. said, soothingly, "try to calm yourself.
There is no cause for fear, please God. I will
not rest night or day until I bring you your
boy again."

The poor woman melted into tears, and fell
sobbing on his breast. " Oh, forgive me, my
son, my own good son," she cried; " I'm a
foolish, wicked woman to speak so to you.
But oh, Clem, you'll find my boy, won't you?
You will bring me my boy."

Clement went forth again, and returned late
at night, still without his brother. He had not