apologise. I don't want you to go back. It's
nothing to me. Only I'm rather curious to know
what you do mean to do. Your prospects appear
a little hazy."

"When I left home, I didn't intend to run
away altogether. I only wanted to avoid Clem.
Then, as I walked on, and began to think of it
all, I resolved not to go to the bank. I knew
Clem would seek for me there first thing.
Then, gradually, by little and little, the idea
came into my head that I would not go home
any more. I wandered about all day until I
was sick for want of food, and then I went into
a chop-house, where —— "

"Where you chanced to find me. You
couldn't have lighted on anybody more sure
to keep the secret of your whereabouts. I
wouldn't tell your brother where to find you
to save him from being burnt alive."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I believe he'd be glad to
know."

"How you hate Clem! " exclaimed Walter,
looking with something like fear at the
handsome face before him.

"Humph! There's not much love lost
between us. But what do you intend to do?
You haven't yet unfolded your plans for the
future. This is a charming place, no doubt,
but you can't stay here for ever. And, even
if you could, there would be something to pay,
and as I can't go on lending you money, and
as you appear to have none of your own —— "

Walter had been drinking the vile brandy
before him at intervals, and his mood had
gradually changed from despondency to a feverish
excitement. His face became flushed, and his
speech thick.

"I shall go to Australia," he said, looking
up defiantly. " To Australia.  That's the
country. I shan't always be the poor unlucky
devil you see before you, Trescott. I shall make
my way there, mark my words. I shall come
back, some day, a rich man, and then see what
Penny will say to me! Aha? In Australia I
shall have a clear field. No one will know
anything about me. I shall take another name.
No black looks, no lectures, no — I shall be a
man there!"

"But how are you to get there? What's
the use of talking such infernal nonsense?"
cried Alfred, irritably. He had been able to
contemplate poor Walter's misery with great
equanimity, but this sanguine mood exhausted
his patience at once.

"I shall go in an emigrant ship," said
Walter, looking at him with blinking eyes.
"I've been hanging about the docks all day.
I picked up a great deal of information. I've
got my watch and chain — they cost fifty guineas
—and one ring that I carry in my waistcoat-
pocket. I shall sell them for — what they'll
fetch. Plenty to take me — to — Australia. You
shall be paid, sir, the trifling loan——" His
heavy head fell forward as he spoke. He
recovered himself for a moment, nodded again,
and then with an effort rolled off his chair, and
flinging himself on the wretched bed, appeared
to fall instantly into a dead sleep.

Alfred stood looking at him for a moment.
"Australia," he muttered, contemptuously.
"Aye, you're cut out for an Australian life!
poor, weak, childish creature! I know what
it will be. You'll hang about here, shilly-shally,
wasting hour after hour, and coming to no
conclusion until every penny's gone of the money
your watch brings, and then you'll have to crawl
back and lick your brother's shoes in the dust.
Damn it! If I had the money I would ship
him off myself, if it was only that that sneaking
arrogant cur shouldn't have the triumph of
crowing over him and getting him back!"
He closed the door quietly behind him, and
went down-stairs. In the bar he stopped for
a moment to say to a woman who sat there,
"You won't allow the young gentleman
upstairs to be disturbed, if you please. He is
not quite well, and, if anybody should come to
see him — it isn't likely — you had better — yes,
I think you had better say he is not here."

CHAPTER VII. STORM.

THINGS were not going altogether well with
Mr. Alfred Trescott. The prospect of his
début seemed further off than ever, and he had
almost quarrelled witli his patroness, on the
score of an offer she had made to pay for a
year's study for him at one of the great foreign
conservatories of music. This offer Alfred had
indignantly rejected, and had irritated "my
lady" into one of her brief fiery fits of anger.
But this he had cunningly contrived not only
to soothe, but to convert into increased
sympathy with, and admiration for, his sensitive
genius. It was the more easy to do this, in
that Lady Popham had undergone a good deal
of mortification before so far abandoning her
expressed opinion that Alfred was already a
finished artist, as to entertain the idea of sending
him abroad for a further course of study.
It was not, therefore, difficult to strengthen her
in her original conviction that Alfred Trescott
was a great violinist, that Lady Popham was a
great connoisseur, and that the musical critics
of London were great bunglers. Still, things
were not going altogether well with Mr. Alfred
Trescott. Since he had been in London, his
secret conviction of his own incompleteness as
an artist — almost deadened by the brilliancy of
his Irish triumphs — had revived again; and
great as he pretended his disappointment to be,
and loudly as he continued to deplore the
postponement of his appearance in the metropolis,
it is certain that he would have felt very grave
and anxious doubts as to the result, had the
chance been offered him of an immediate trial.
For — from various causes — he was now even
less prepared for such a trial than he had been
in Dublin. His hand was losing steadiness,
his intonation was becoming occasionally uncertain,
and, from the absolute cessation of any,
practice whatever, his passage playing was more
unsatisfactory than ever. That his musical