who was one of the bridesmaids — cried a little
too, but in a modest undemonstrative manner,
and only as much as she thought becoming.

"My poor friend!" cried Miss Fluke, when
they had all got into the vestry — "my poor,
poor friend!" And she raised from her damp
pocket-handkerchief a face so inflamed with
weeping, and so red about the nose, as to
present a startling contrast with her white bonnet.

"Upon my word, Miss Fluke," said Geraldine
O'Brien, who was irritated by the despondent
moan that was being made over the bride, "I
don't see, myself, that Augusta is an object of
so much pity. Your deep compassion for her is
scarcely complimentary to my cousin Malachi."

"Ah!" rejoined Miss Fluke, with a choking
sniff, "to the worldly and the thoughtless the
ceremony we have just witnessed may not be so
impressive; but to the Christian mind there is a
deep solemnity in those awful words. My poor
dear friend!"

In brief, Miss Fluke was not to be consoled.
The party having returned to Bramley Manor,
and being seated at the glittering board,
Mr. Fluke—who had performed the ceremony
with the assistance of two other clergymen—
arose and uttered a grace before meat, which
was so lengthy and so solemn, and pronounced
with such a strenuous uplifting of the voice, as
to make everybody exquisitely uncomfortable,
and to cause the company to feel vaguely that
they had each and all done something to be
very much ashamed of. Not till then did Miss
Fluke begin to recover her spirits. Having joined
in the final Amen with great relish, she fell to eating
her breakfast with a cheerful countenance.

The banquet was over, the speeches were
made, the toasts drunk, and the bride and
bridegroom had departed for the Great Western
Railway station, en route for London and the
Continent. Walter, too, half hidden behind a
pile of fur rugs and a bundle of walking-sticks,
had taken a cab and driven away to another
station, in order to catch the train for Holyhead,
as his leave expired the following day,
and he must rejoin his regiment in Dublin.

Then Mr. Charlewood put his head out of the
door of his own private room which opened from
the hall, and called Clement to come and speak
with him. The old man's face — but recently
flushed and glowing with excitement and gratified
pride — seemed suddenly grown haggard.

"Is anything the matter, sir?" asked
Clement, anxiously.

"Hush! Shut the door, Clem. Look here;
this is not pleasant, is it?" And Mr. Charlewood
put a letter into his son's hand, and
watched his face while he read it.

"Good God! Benett and Benett!" said
Clement, looking up hastily, before he had read
two lines. Then he finished the letter in silence,
and laid it down on the table before his father.

"When did this come?" he asked.

"Not a quarter of an hour ago by the afternoon
delivery. I found it on my desk, here, as
I came back from putting Augusta into her
carriage. Thank God she was comfortably away
before I read it."

"Benett and Benett!" repeated Clement.
"A house that one would have said was as safe
as the Bank of England! It is terrible, father."

"It is bad, very bad, and we shall feel the
pinch of it just now, with those India contracts
on hand, and the strike amongst those fools of
navvies in the north, putting us to all kinds of
expense and botheration. But it might be
worse, eh, Clem? It might be worse." And
the old man looked at his son appealingly.

"Father," said Clement, resolutely, "it's no
use deceiving ourselves or each other. This is
a terribly bad business. If Benett and Benett
is gone, I don't know where to look with
confidence. Hinde is sure to follow: he can't keep
his head above water four-and-twenty hours
unsupported. I tell you what I must do. I
must go down to the telegraph-office and send
a message to Dublin to say that we must decline
the Ballyhacket and Dunscorthy contract. It is
not too late for that, though in another week it
would have been. We can't think of entering
into any new undertaking until things look
clearer. Send Stephens to the bank with a
cheque for whatever you have there at this
moment. It can't be much; but my belief is, you
have no time to lose. This is the beginning of
wide-spread trouble; I seem to see it all before
me like a map. I know how many houses were
propped up by Benett's. God bless you, father,
don't be cast down; perhaps I see things
blacker than they are, but it is best to face the
worst. You won't distress my mother and
Penny just now, of course. Good-bye, God
bless you!" Clement wrung his father's passive
hand, and darted away, leaving Mr. Charlewood
sitting with a white blank face gazing at
the open letter on the table before him.

END OP BOOK III.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I. ADIEUX TO KILCLARE.

THE theatrical season at Kilclare, which had
begun well, ended brilliantly. Mabel had
indeed created quite a sensation amongst the good
folks of that town and its neighbourhood.
Lady Pophain's hint about Miss Bell's benefit
held out too good a prospect of a crowded
and fashionable audience for Mr. Moffatt to
neglect it. The manager forthwith set about
negotiating with Mrs. Walton on the subject.
"I think," said he, patronisingly, "that as your
little niece has done so nicely in Ophelia, it
might be a good thing for her if I were to put
up her name for a benefit before the end of the
season. I like to encourage rising talent, and
she really has great promise. I should say that
in ten years' time or so she might positively do
something very good indeed."

Mrs. Walton took no notice of the flattering
hope thus held out, but went straight to the
point in her reply.

"I couldn't think of allowing you to
announce Miss Bell's benefit, Mr. Moffatt," said
she, "unless you gave her some pecuniary
advantage in it. There would certainly be a great
house, and I think it would be only fair that