perfect. But might not her best and most
generous qualities be worked upon to her own
detriment? How was her clear youth a match
for the dark cunning of one so unscrupulous
as Alfred Trescott? Had he not himself, he,
Clement, had he not been witness how the very
unselfishness and unsuspecting nobility of nature
that he so loved had led her to take this fatally
mistaken step which it seemed was destined to
lead her on to unimagined ruin and disaster?

"I wish to God," moaned Clement, clasping
his hot head between his hands, "that she had
never gone to the music meeting—never seen
that child, never made the acquaintance of that
accursed family! Would to God, would to
God that she had never known them!"

By degrees came the thought, what was he to
do in the matter? What step did it first
behove him to take to ascertain the truth of this
rumour, and to avert its fulfilment should it
prove well founded? Clement had given Mabel
his solemn assurance that let the result of his
suit to her be what it would, he should ever be
her true and faithful friend, holding himself
bound to serve and aid her at all times, to the
utmost of his power, and Clement Charlewood
was accustomed to attach to his words the full
and simple meaning that they would honestly
bear, and to avoid rhetorical flourishes or vague
exaggerations in his speech. When, therefore,
he wrenched his mind away from the
contemplation of his own sufferings, and began to
consider what it were best for him to do, he had
this promise steadily in his remembrance, and
was resolved to keep it to the letter. His first
idea was naturally to have recourse to Mrs.
Saxelby. But on further reflection he
abandoned that project for the present. His
experience of the pretty gentle widow had taught
him that, although she would accept his advice
with the most flattering reliance on his
judgment, and a profusion of graceful
acknowledgments, she would certainly never have
resolution to act upon it, if to act involved any
vigorous exertion of her own will, or any
prolonged opposition to the will of others.

"If she knows this wretched rumour,"
argued Clement, "I am too late to do any good
with her. If she does not know it, it would be
cruel and useless to reveal it to her."

What could he do? To see Mabel herself
was out of the question. In the first place,
the subject was one on which he felt it would be
almost impossible for him to speak to her; and,
in the next place, he was firmly resolved, with
all the force of his manhood, not to be tempted
by the sight of her into any present renewal of
his suit. He had promised to be her friend,
and he would be so. But, although he could
act on her behalf as a loving brother might do,
he knew that he could not so master himself in
her presence as to speak to her face to face with
weight or calmness. What could he do?
What could he do? He sat motionless at his
desk, with his eyes so riveted on Mr. Jones's
letter, that the confidential clerk, who
presently opened the door of the private room,
idly wondered what important communication
it might be that Mr. Clement was poring on so
intently.

"What is it, Stephens?" asked Clement,
looking up with a start.

"I beg pardon, Mr. Clement; isn't the
governor here?"

"No: my father is gone into the country for
the day. Do you want him?"

"Why, yes; I did want him. But, perhaps,
you can tell me, sir, how is it settled about
sending some one to see the chief engineer
about the extension of the Dublin and
Ballyhacket branch line to Dunscorthy? Mr.
Charlewood said that some confidential person
must run across for a couple of days and see
how the thing looks. There's nobody fit for it
but myself, and I really don't see how I can
manage it just now."

Stephens was a trusted and influential
personage, and his word went for a good deal in
the doings of Gandry and Charlewood.

Clement looked vacantly at him for a moment,
and then, suddenly jumping up, exclaimed:
"It's all right, Stephens; I'll go myself."

"Will you, sir?" said Stephens, with an
unmistakable look of relief. It was no
unprecedented thing for young Charlewood to
undertake similar missions. "But," added the
clerk, doubtfully, "it'll have to be done at once,
sir, whoever goes."

"I will start this evening. I shall get the
night mail to Holyhead, and be in Dublin
tomorrow."

"That'll be famous, Mr. Clement. I'll
telegraph to the chief engineer to say you'll meet
him yourself."

"All right, Stephens. And be good enough
to have a hansom sent for at once. I shall
barely have time to put a few things into my
portmanteau and drive down to the station
before the express goes."

"You don't let the grass grow under your
feet, Mr. Clem," said the old clerk, approvingly,
as he left the room.

"Yes, yes: that is my best course, and best
chance," said Clement to himself. "I will see
this old lady, and ascertain the real grounds she
has for her supposition regarding Mabel. Miss
O'Brien speaks highly of her kind heart. She
will pardon me when I confide to her the
terrible danger that threatens my—my dear
friend. At all events, I cannot sit here inactive.
Something I must do, or I should go mad."

The spruce hansom—and in Hammerham the
hansom cabs are peculiarly spruce—rattled up
to the door, and Clement jumped briskly in.

"Oh, by-the-by, Stephens," he called out,
as he shut the folding-doors of the vehicle,
"just tell my father, will you, that I—I
haven't had time to answer Mr. Jones's letter
after all."

CHAPTER XII. LADY POPHAM AT HOME.

THE afternoon sun was already low, and was
glancing brightly between the massive tree-boles,
and shedding a soft green light through the