but presently a long thin hand was thrust out
from behind some one in the front rank, and
laid down a trifling stake.  Mabel silently pressed
her husband's arm, admonishing him to watch,
and in another moment they saw rise up over
the shoulder of a smiling florid German burgher
a face that seemed like one looming up out of
those depths, the entrance to which bore the
terrible inscription, "Abandon hope, all ye who
enter here!"  It was a face almost perfect in
the harmonious beauty of its outline, but covered
with a death-like pallor, and so thin that the
jaw and the cheek-bones were sharply defined
beneath the skin.  The large dark eyes glittered
restlessly in their hollow sockets, and the straight
black brows above them were permanently
contracted, as though with ceaseless pain.
It was a dreadful face—dreadful in its haggard
youth, dreadful in the settled malignity of
its expression.  Mabel shuddered and shrank
back; but Alfred did not see her, neither
did the rest take any heed of him.  They
were all too much absorbed in the changes
of the game to pay any attention to each
other.

"Let us get away from this place," whispered
Mabel; "I feel as though I could not
breathe here."

They walked home together almost in silence.
Mabel was trembling greatly, and the tears
were in her eyes.  Clement made inquiries of
the people about the place whether they knew
or had ever seen such a person as he described.
Oh yes, they had seen him; knew him quite
well.  He was often there.  Did not stay there
always.  They thought he went to other
gambling-places when he left theirs.  He was a
desperate and inveterate gamester.  Poor?
Yes, he was poor.  It was not exactly the way
to grow rich to play as he played.  He was an
artist—a violinist.  He sometimes boasted that
he had been a great famous player once in
England, but who could tell?  He was quite young
still, and great artists were not made in a day.
Still it was certain that he could play well yet,
when he chose.  Sometimes, when he was
absolutely penniless, he would obtain permission to
play in the public room of some hotel, and he
always got money.  Once they had offered him
an engagement in the local band.  He accepted
for a time, but he could not keep the situation.
He was terribly fierce and wild sometimes,
almost mad, they thought, and nothing could
keep him from the green table.  Every
farthing that he could get went there.  They
supposed he would put a pistol to his head
some day.  Herr Gott!  Such things had
happened.  Clement, returning to his wife
with this news, found her weeping and still
greatly agitated.

"My dearest," he said, "do not let this
distress you so much.  It is sad, it is
terrible.  But, after all, I do not suppose
that any one could have predicted a brighter
ending to such a career as this wretched young
man's."

"No, no, dear Clement, it is not that.  But
when I think of all that that sweet, loving
little heart suffered, of how she clung to him,
and hoped for him, and loved him to the
last!  Ah, Corda, poor, patient, gentle little
Corda!"

He soothed her, and held her fondly in
his arms, and by-and-by they sat calmly,
looking out on to the silver moonlight edging
the black masses of foliage beneath their
window.

"Do you remember, Clement," said Mabel,
leaning her head upon her husband's shoulder
—"do you remember when that dear little
one was dying, and held our hands clasped
together in her own, how she prophesied that
we should one day be married to each other,
and should think of little Corda, and be
glad to know that we had been kind to her,
and that she—poor darling—had been very
grateful?"

"Yes; and, my Mabel, she said another
truth—that we should be happy, because we
loved each other."

"I remember her very words.  'I think
nothing is so happy as really loving,' she said;
'nothing is so happy as really loving.'"

END OF MABEL'S PROGRESS.

On Thursday, 12th December, will be published
                                THE
EXTRA DOUBLE NUMBER FOR CHRISTMAS,
                 BY CHARLES DICKENS
                  AND WILKIE COLLINS.

             A NEW SERIAL STORY,
               BY WILKIE COLLINS,
          Will shortly appear in these pages.

                Now ready, in 3 vols., post 8vo,
                    MABEL'S PROGRESS,
                             A NOVEL.
  By the Author of "AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE."
          CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

The Right of Translating Articles from ALL THE YEAR ROUND is reserved by the Authors.